e only wonder is, that they
were not foreseen. Wise maxims, some of the garnered grains of our
fathers' experiences, are scattered through the books we read, and daily
fall from the lips of teachers and friends; maxims which, if observed,
would lead us to honor and happiness. But who gives them heed? Who makes
them the rule of his conduct?

We might wonder less at the blind infatuation with which so many press
onward in a course that all the wisdom of the past, as well as all the
reason of the present, condemns, if it were possible to rub out our
actions, as a child rubs from his slate a wrong sum, and begin the work
of life over again. But this cannot be. We weave hourly the web that is
to bind us in the future. Our to-days hold the fate of our to-morrows.
What we do is done for ever, and in some degree will affect us
throughout infinite ages.

"Poor Delia Floyd!" My thought had turned to her as I lay awake,
long after the small hours of the morning, busy with incidents and
reflections which had completely banished sleep from my eyes. In the
strong pity of my heart, I spoke the words aloud.

"What of her?" said Constance, in a tone of surprise. And so intruding
thought had kept her awake also!

"Nothing more than usual," I answered. "But I cannot sleep for thinking
of her unhappy state, and what she might have been, if obeying her own
heart's right impulses, and the reason God gave her, she had accepted
a true man, instead of a specious villain for her husband. The scene in
Ivy Cottage to-night stands in most remarkable contrast with some things
I witnessed at the Allen House before she went out thence a wretched
woman for life. She staked everything on a desperate venture, and has
lost. God pity her! for there is no help in any human arm. To think of
what she is, and what she might have been, is enough to veil her reason
in midnight darkness."

"Amen! God pity her!" said Constance. "For truly there is no help for
her in mortal arm."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The conduct of Mr. Wallingford, in regard to the estate which had
fallen into his hands, rather puzzled Dewey. He had anticipated an early
notification to remove, and, true to his character, had determined
to annoy the new owner by vexatious delays. But after the passage of
several weeks, in which came to him no intimation that he must give up
the possession of his elegant home, he began to wonder what it could
mean.

One day, not long after the convers