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"Did she tell you that I gave her money?"

asked Alice.

"No," replied Tom, blushing scarlet at the thought of his mother's falsehood; "but I know you did; I am sure of it. Pray tell me how much it was, so that I may repay you."

"Oh, not much, a mere trifle," answered Alice, unwilling to tell him.

"More in my eyes than all the gold in California," exclaimed Tom.

"But then you know I owe you a large sum still for my portrait," remonstrated she, “and you have your rent to pay next week; your mother told me so."

"Rent to pay next week! my mother told you so!" said Tom, slowly repeating her words, as he began to see the full extent of the old woman's perfidiousness. "Rent to pay next week! It was paid last week, she knows it; paid in her presence; good God! good God! that such generous goodness should be so deceived. I blush with shame," continued he, addressing Alice," that so disgraceful a deception should have been practised upon you. We do not want the money, I assure you; that is, at all events, we have no immediate need of it. I cannot keep it, indeed I cannot,"

seeing that Alice hesitated to take it; "allow me to return it to you."

Alice saw that she would best consult his feelings by accepting the money, so she told him the amount; which Tom repaid her, and with an expression of sincere gratitude bade her farewell.

For some time after the young artist's departure, Alice sat musing over the varied events of the past day. In fancy, she watched Tom on his road homewards. She envied the joy he felt that the ill-gotten money had been returned. She saw his heart beat with the self-approval of a clear conscience. Her mind, like a pure spirit, hovered over him, shedding the sunlight of contentment and happiness on his footsteps. She saw him with his gentle hand tenderly comforting the sick woman. She saw him raise the pillow under her head, and tread soft and lightly that his step might not disturb her. She saw that no bitterness, no reproach, stained his heart. No, all was fair and bright, with a quiet, steady joy that his conscience was once again free. But she read there, also, the record of toilsome days and sleepless nights of hunger and cold, of uncomplaining independence, struggling nobly with poverty. All this she saw; and what else beside? Were not these virtues enough for

one single mind? No, there was another virtue there, hidden down so deep in the heart—a virtue so shy and so modest that 'twere difficult to tell its kind and nature. And yet, though retiring, it was strong and vigorous, for it shook the heart violently; and when it shook the heart the cheeks grew pale and red by turns. Perhaps its very timidity attracted her. She watched it with eager eyes when it heaved and swelled, as though it would burst from its confinement. Alice saw that it was fair and beautiful, and, forgetting all else beside, thought anxiously of the sweet prisoner alone. And when it struggled and heaved, she felt that her own heart struggled and heaved in sympathy. Oh, Love! thou timid spirit, canst thou conceal thyself from thyself?—vain attempt. When thou hidest thy single self in two separate bosoms, does not each part of thy divided self know where the other part is dwelling?

When Alice Littleton knelt that night by her bedside, and asked God to bless all her friends, she hesitated, for a name, or rather a memory, arose to her lips, which had not hitherto been there. Her tongue stopped in uncertainty; but her heart boldly prayed God to bless and prosper Thomas Wilson.


URING several chapters we have altogether lost sight of Henry Mansfield. The narrative will now follow his for

tunes again. Of late, as before mentioned, he had become a frequent visitor at Littleton's house, and enjoyed many opportunities of seeing Alice, both in her father's society and alone. But his presence, which had once afforded her so much pleasure, she now began to shun and avoid. It is true, Alice so far subdued her feelings, that, to an ordinary observer, her demeanour towards Mansfield would have appeared unchanged. She met him with the same smile of welcome as heretofore; but even that was cause of uneasiness to her. Her conscience charged her with double dealing, with flattering hopes in Mansfield which she was bound in honour to dispel. She felt as though she were deceiving him and deceiving her father. The latter was, to be sure, blinded to the real state of his daughter's affections, not by her, but by

himself. Mansfield, however, who took every pains, in the refined and delicate manner natural to him, to show her marked attention, was not so easily deceived. His quick eye had detected that her friendliness and affability towards him sprang from the politeness and gentleness of her disposition, which prompted her with the desire to please all around her. He knew that coy maidenhood bashfully avoids the object of its love, and that the unreserved openness which Alice manifested on all occasions proved her indifference to his person. When he clasped her hand at meeting or parting, he knew that the long, slender fingers were glad to be free again, and sometimes he fancied they struggled slightly, as if impatient at his grasp. Nor had the pallor which sometimes overspread her cheek escaped him, nor yet the sudden flush at other times, when nothing had occurred to colour it. To Mansfield's conversation she paid apparently the same attention as hitherto; but he often saw that although her eyes waited on him, they conveyed no impression to her mind. Her thoughts had wandered away to somewhat which interested her more deeply; and Mansfield saw, or thought he saw, the road they had taken, and half suspected where the treasure lay over which her heart brooded. It occasioned him very little uneasiness

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