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It was on a pleasant sunny morning toward Christmas
that Max, having performed his father's business in New
York, again returned to the Lock.

The young man was weary and exhausted, but more
weary in heart than body. That ever present thought
which he had carried away with him had paled his cheek,
and filled his large blue eyes with settled abiding gloom.
Never for an hour had the image of Alice left his heart—
of Alice to whom he was now nothing—of Alice forever
lost to him. He could have endured all the spites of fortune
he thought, had this one arrow not been buried in
his breast. He never knew how much he loved her until
he had lost her, he now felt; never had his heart been so
overcome, so absorbed by gloomy and despairing thoughts.

The sunshine, sparkling on the bright snow, was black—
the sky, so clear and pure, was but a “pestilent congregation
of vapors;” from all things the light and joy of life
had passed and gone. No more love, no more happiness,
never more lightness of the eye or heart. All that was
over now.

The Doctor and Mrs. Courtlandt had driven over that
morning to see Miss Emberton, a servant said, and would
spend the day at the Glades. Max sat down motioning
to the servant to leave him. That name had opened his
wounds anew, and now hatred was added to his other
mental excitement. That abhorred rival had for a time
vanished from his mind—from his heart so overwhelmed
with one thought, that Alice could not be his own;—she
had preferred that man, she had slighted him, she had

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laughed at his verses, had met with contemptuous calmness
his love and affliction; it was on his despair that he
had fed, not his hatred. Now the name of his rival
aroused this new hell in him, and for a time he suffered
a new torment of jealousy and rage.

All things, however, spend themselves in time—love,
hatred, jealousy, despair;—otherwise the over-fraught
heart would break. After an hour's gloomy silence the
young man rose and looked around him wearily. Then
he collected his thoughts; he would go at once and make
arrangements for his meeting with Mr. Emberton; that
at least should not be neglected or deferred.

He took from his pocket the bracelet he had selected
for her, and looked at it long and in silence. A sigh
which sounded like a sob, shook for a moment his breast
and agitated his nervous lips.

“I will go and see her for the last time,” he murmured,
“yes, yes! I will go and feed on my own heart. Nothing
worse than I have felt can touch me now!”

He mounted and set forward rapidly toward the Parsonage,
as though he feared his own resolution. Covering
his face with one hand he cast not a single glance
upon any thing around him; he knew that however
beautiful the fair sunlight might be, however grand the
mountain heights, however calm the white silent landscape,
they could bring no light, or calmness to his heart.
Still these objects had their usual effect; he felt their
influence spite of his incredulity. When he arrived at the
Parsonage he was more subdued, and even found himself
smiling mournfully at his own wretchedness.

On a mossy rock, which the snow had disappeared from,
at the distance of two hundred yards from the house,
Max saw Alice seated and busily engaged at some work.
He dismounted, tied his bridle to a bough of one of the
waving evergreens, and approached her. The young
girl's back was turned to him, and so completely had the

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soft snow muffled the hoof-strokes of his horse that she
had not heard them, and was plainly not aware of his
approach.

Alice was clad with her usual simplicity and taste, and
was singing lowly to herself, while busily plying her
needle. The song was thoughtful but very sweet and
musical, and her pure clear voice, gave to it an inexpressible
charm. Max thought that he had never seen a
more angelic vision, a more radiant embodiment of purity,
and youth, and innocence; the very sunlight seemed to
linger on the beloved head, bent down so earnestly; and
when the feeling words of her song floated to him like the
low warble of a bird—those feeling words of Motherwell:


“Oh, dear, dear Jeannie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music of your tongue—”
when Max caught the dying fall of the exquisite music,
and the more exquisite words, his very heart was melted
within him, and two large tears gathered in his eyes and
rolled down his cheeks.

“Alice,” he said softly, “that is a pretty song.”

The young girl started, and turned round. A deep
blush suffused her face at sight of her cousin, and she
half rose.

“Do not mind me, cousin Alice,” said Max, passing
his hand over his brow, “sit down.”

“I did not know you had returned,” said Alice in a low
voice, and glancing timidly at the young man.

“I only got back an hour or two ago,” said Max.

Alice stole a pitying look at him.

“I am afraid you will be surprised to hear what has
happened in your absence,” she murmured, with some
agitation.

“What has happened?” echoed Max.

Alice turned away. Oh, how can I tell him, thought

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she; he certainly loves Caroline, and her marriage will
distress him dreadfully.

“You said something had happened, cousin Alice,”
said Max, pressing one hand on his throbbing heart, and
with the other taking the hand of the young girl.

“Yes,” murmured Alice.

Max's brow flushed, and his lips trembled.

“What mean you?” he said.

“It will distress you to hear it.”

“I am used to distress,” said the young man, raising
his head with gloomy calmness, “it will prove no new
guest with me.”

Alice turned away with her eyes full of tears.

“How can I tell you?” she said, without looking at him.

Max felt his heart grow as chill as though it were surrounded
suddenly by ice.

“Speak,” he said, coldly.

But recollecting himself he turned away, and said in a
low, suffocating voice:

“Do not mind me—speak; tell me all, as though I
were an indifferent person. I can bear it—yes, yes; I
can bear it.”

For a moment his voice died away in his throat. He
continued:

“I have borne much; I can bear this also, doubtless,
though it goes near to tear my heart-strings—what I
think, nay, know. Why conceal it now, Alice? 'tis a lost
labor! Think you I saw nothing all these weary days—
think you I could fail to see? But do not misunderstand
me! I blame no one—no one! My wretchedness is of
my own making. Why did I love so; why stake all my
heart and life upon this chance!—to lose it!”

The young man's head sank down, and covering his
face with his hands, he tried to strangle in its passage
the passionate sob which shook his bosom.

“Cousin Max,” said Alice, “I pity you from the

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bottom of my heart. I can't tell you how distressed I am
at your grief,” she added, wiping away her tears.

Max turned away.

“Pity me!” he said, “you pity me—great God, she
pities me!”

Alice looked startled.

“What do you mean, cousin?” she said, “indeed I do
sincerely feel for you.”

“Away with your pity!” said the young man, rising
with bloodshot eyes. But sinking back he muttered:

“Forgive me, cousin; I am not well. Bear with me—
my brain is hurt.”

Alice took his hand with a radiant blush.

“I pitied you because I loved you,” she said, in a faltering
voice.

“Loved me?”

“Yes—loved you—very much; as my cousin,” stammered
Alice.

He turned away, and by a powerful effort controlled
his agitation.

“You were speaking of what had happened in my absence,”
he said, in a low, gloomy tone, “tell me all.”

“It will distress you.”

“No—no.”

“I fear it will.”

“Speak, cousin Alice.

“You know we shall have a wedding here soon, then?”
said Alice, calmly. “If you will make me speak, I must.
You knew that?”

“I guessed as much,” said Max, in the same low voice.

“All look forward to it soon.”

“Do they?” said the young man, averting his face.

Alice thought she had overrated the affection Max felt
for Caroline, so calmly were these words uttered; and
this idea we are bound to say made her heart leap.

“It will be a very merry wedding, considering that

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father is a minister,” she said, with a laugh of affected
cheerfulness.

“Will it?”

“It should be a happy time.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Emberton has much improved already.”

“Has he?” murmured the young man, his long hair
vailing his face.

“And he is much more of a man than before.”

“Is he?”

“Don't you think him intelligent? I do, cousin.”

“Do you?”

“And handsome; is he not?”

“Very.”

“Then he has a good heart.”

“I suppose you think so.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Naturally.”

“Why naturally of course, cousin,” said Alice, “and
I ought to assuredly.”

“Assuredly.”

“You speak very strangely, cousin,” said Alice, blushing.

“I am sorry I displease you.”

“Oh, you do not displease me—you displease me! Nobody
thinks I am worth it. But really I am somewhat
put out at Mr. Emberton's selection.”

“Put out?”

“Yes; he is a man of taste.

“Of great taste.”

“Of intelligence, too.”

“Yes; of intelligence.”

“Well,” said Alice, attempting to laugh, “he should
have exercised those qualities in his selection of a wife.”

Max turned with gloomy astonishment toward his
cousin.

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“He has thought best, however, to mortify me by following
his own judgment, in choosing—”

Max half rose.

“In choosing? What do you mean, Alice!”

“In choosing Caroline!” said Alice.

“Caroline!” cried Max.

“Of course.”

“Caroline! not you!”

“Me, indeed; is it possible you thought all this time
that I—”

Alice stopped, blushing deeply.

Max could hardly believe his ears; he looked around
incredulous.

“Caroline!” he repeated.

“Yes—certainly—”

“Robert Emberton!”

“Certainly; they are to be married before New Year.”

“Not you, Alice!” cried the young man, devouring
her face with his passionate glances.

Alice blushed more deeply.

“How could you imagine such a thing?” she murmured.

“And that silk was not for Robert Emberton? That
waistcoat!”

“Here it is. I have just sewn on the last button,”
said Alice, holding up the waistcoat, with a faint laugh,
“I will not say who it is intended for, until you tell me
for whom you bought the bracelet—it is not a gentleman's
ornament, you know.”

Max with radiant countenance drew out the bracelet
and clasped it on her wrist.

“For you!” he said, “oh, heaven is my witness I
would clasp my heart thus were it in my power!”

“Was it for me?” murmured Alice, smiling and blushing,
with averted face.

“And the waistcoat!”

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