I remained silent, with a listless, dreamy recollection of pleasure; my thoughts still chiming to the delicious melody of that unique and delightful poem. After awhile, I raised my eyes and fixed them upon a picture, on the opposite wall – a portrait, which I had not before noticed particularly.

"That is a very lovely face, Mrs. Allen," I remarked. "Is it the likeness of any one of your family?"

"No," she replied; "the original was not even a relative, but was the dearest and most intimate friend of my early life. Pray tell me what you read in her face."

" I should say that the lady possessed great sweetness and pliancy of disposition; a thoughtful, but not by any means a powerful mind. I should say that she was exceedingly sensitive, capable of intense suffering, but quite incapable of defending herself from wrong, or even of resenting it with much spirit."

"You are quite right," said my friend, "you have read her character very clearly. Ah, poor girl, she had a sad history of her own Should you like to hear it'!"

"Oh, by all means!" was my reply.

My friend laid aside her work; and, fixing her eyes on the picture for a moment, began her simple narrative, which I will endeavor to give in her own words, as near as I can remember.

After leaving school, my friend and I, as might have been expected, kept up a brisk and voluminous correspondence. For the first year, our letters were filled with those little nothings, descriptions of parties, dresses, rides, and rambles; all the small events and innocent gayeties which form the life of young girls who are just going into society; but after that, they gradually grew more thoughtful and confidential. I believe that I was first in love and engaged; but being rather careful and sensitive, said as little as possible, even to her, on my heart affairs. But Laura was one to whom sympathy was a very necessity, air, life. First came significant hints shout a certain young lawyer, who had lately settled at R –; then followed glowing descriptions of his superb figure, his splendidly handsome face; and enthusiastic praises of his genius, his acquirements, and the quiet elegance of his manner. His attentions to her were gratefully chronicled, and all his little compliments minutely, yet modestly reported. At first, it was "Mr. Kingsbury;" but after a little while, it was "Arthur Kingsbury;" and in a very short time, it was "dear Arthur." They were engaged. Ah, then, what letters she wrote! How full of sentiment, happiness, gratitude, love – no, love is a feeble word – adoration. She absolutely worshipped her handsome and gifted lover – an homage most sweet and delightful to the interesting idol, doubtless, but which it was unworthy weakness in her to yield. Thus she continued to write for nearly a year, and then her letters suddenly ceased altogether. About that time, I was married. 1 wrote to Laura, reminding her of an old promise to be my bridesmaid. I only received, in reply, a few hurried lines from Mrs. Ellerton, stating that her daughter could not possibly attend the wedding, as she was considerably out of health; but that she sent her "dearest love" and "fondest wishes."

On my return from our bridal tour, I wrote again to Laura, intreating her to write and relieve my great anxiety,. She did write, at last; and such a letter! It was sad and touching beyond description. It was blotted with tears – was itself like the long, low sob of' a broken heart. Her lover had left her; was already married to another! and yet there was no bitterness, no harsh resentment in her feeling toward him. But stay, I have that letter in. my writing-desk. Here it is. After making the announcement I have mentioned, she writes thus: –

"I heard, for some time, hints and whispers concerning Arthur's attentions to Miss Earle, a lady of high connections and considerable fortune, who was visiting in our village; but I could not believe that his heart was turned from me, until he himself came to me, and requested to be released from the engagement; telling me that he had been mistaken in thinking that he loved me as deeply as he might love. He begged me to forgive him for all the pain he had caused me; and I have done so, even as I hope to be forgiven for my own errors and sins.

"I can never think, as others think, that Arthur has been influenced by mercenary motives. Miss Earle, though not very young nor beautiful, is intellectual and highly accomplished; and you know that I am neither. Oh! how vain and presuming I have been ever to believe that he could love me, a simple village girl; he, with his glorious genius, his noble presence, and all his rare attainments. Oh, Alice, sometimes comes the bitter, bitter thought that he divined my interest in him, at the first, and was led, by generous pity, to ask me for the love which he knew in his soul was his already!

"Dear Alice, do not think hard of him How could he give his hand to me when there was one he so much preferred. He looked sadly troubled at that last interview, I saw it, and pressed my hand hard against my heart, to keep down the sobs and shrieks with which it seemed almost bursting. I did not reproach him. I did not even weep; and though I was quite still and silent, I gave him my hand kindly, as he rose to go, and tried to smile on him as he looked back at me for the last time.

"I remember nothing of what passed after that, for some days. Dear mother tells me that she found me sitting by the table, cold and white as marble, and utterly insensible. I believe I had something like a brain fever; but I was not conscious of much suffering. Now I am better, much better – almost well, indeed, though my kind friends are yet troubled by my colorless cheek and languid step. During the day, I try to be cheerful and courageous, for dear mother's sake; but at night, oh, Alice, at night, I often lie awake through long hours, dreadful hours, and weep in my lonely sorrow, till my very heart seems dissolved in tears. Then, I sometimes reach up my clasped hands, and cry, through the darkness, 'Oh, Father in heaven, have mercy! Bind up my wounded heart, and fill it with thy love!' Then I pray for him – pray that his life may be rich in love and crowned with blessings; and so I always grow calm and fall asleep.

"But the day of Arthur's marriage – ah, I must unlearn my heart that trick of calling him Arthur – I mean Mr. Kingsbury's marriage, I could not conceal my unhappiness. I was weak, despairing, almost wild; and I could find no rest, but in the arms of my mother, pressed close against her heart, with her dear hand laid on my hot brow, or tenderly wiping away the tears which gushed forth irrepressibly and incessantly. When we knew that the hour had gone by, dear mother prayed in a low, fervent voice, that divine strength might be given to her child to overcome that love which had been to her a snare and a temptation, and had now become a sin. When she ceased, I lifted up my head calmly, feeling that God's peace had descended to my heart.

"Now, dear Alice, do not be troubled for me, All will yet be well. I need only patience, and trust in the goodness of our Father, who knoweth what is best for us."

As you may suppose, I shed many a tear over this touching letter from poor Laura I could but wonder, however, that she bore her trial so well; clingingly dependent, fond, and devoted as I knew her to be. I think I was right in ascribing much of her strength to the calm, sustaining affection of her mother.

My husband and I both wrote to Mrs. Ellerton and Laura, inviting them to spend the winter with us, amid all the fresh glories and new dignities of young housekeeping. Mrs. Ellerton replied at once, accepting the invitation for her daughter; but stating that, as she had near relatives in P---. she should not be able to make her home at our house. They came on together, however, and we had a pleasant little visit from Mrs. Ellerton, who was a woman of strong, yet beautiful character.

Laura was, indeed, changed; so much sunshine had faded from her face. Then she had grown exceedingly delicate, pale, quiet; yet, 'perhaps, more lovely than ever – a sort of moonlight beauty. When we were alone together, I found that she, unlike her former self, carefully avoided all reference to Kings-bury; and as I, for my part, heartily despised and detested the man, his name was never mentioned between us.

We had a very pleasant winter. Laura gradually regained much of her old serene cheerfulness, and endeared herself greatly to our hearts. Ah, her music! I never can forget it. Her playing was very fine; but her singing, of Scotch songs and old ballads especially, was something peculiarly and indescribably delightful. There was one who was greatly charmed and won by it, and by the sweet singer herself. This was Mr. Hamilton, a constant visitor at our house – a distant relative, but a near friend of my husband. He had been for some years the congressional representative from our district; and was a man of worth and influence, as well as of distinction. He was about thirty-five, and had never been married.

After a month or two, it became quite obvious that dear Laura had made a deep impression on the heart of our honorable friend. The doctor and I were duly delighted; Mrs. Ellerton seemed pleased, and Laura, apparently, was not displeased, though she gave no evidence of, being seriously impressed in her turn. Yet when she found that she was indeed loved, truly, generously, and tenderly, by Mr. Hamilton, her heart, so lately wounded and humiliated, very naturally went out toward him, in a glad, affectionate gratitude, which was almost love. But hers was a truthful and honorable nature; and, withdrawing the hand which she had yielded in the first impulse of her kindly feeling, and modestly casting down her eyes, she told him all the sad story of her love and her sorrow. When this was finished, she said, in a low, trembling voice:

"So it is, dear friend, that love seems to have withered, died in ray heart; so it is that I can only give you a tender and devoted friendship. And oh! what a return were this for your beautiful and noble love, with all its fervency and concentration."

Mr. Hamilton rose, and walked up and down the room several times, with a troubled brow. He had hoped for something better than this – for the fresh, impassioned love; the virgin trust; the early warmth and devotion of that pure young being. But presently, he paused, and looked toward Laura. She was sitting by the table, her head supported by her hand, her eyes concealed by the white, slender angers; but ho saw that her cheek paled and flushed, and her lips quivered incessantly. He drew near; and gently lifting that fair hand, and gazing down into those eyes, those mild and earnest eyes, said, "And so, you have suffered, dear Laura; are still sorrowful. Ah, then, more than ever do you need such tenderness and' devotion as l can give you. If it is not mine to console you, let me, at least, drink part of your bitter cup; if I may not give you happiness, let me. share in your sorrows."

The generous feeling, the "loving kindness" of these words quite overcame Laura with gratitude and admiration. She rose impulsively, yet timidly,' o meet his extended arms; and smiling and weeping alternately, leaned against his breast, feeling that she had there found protection, security – her rest.

On the anniversary of my own marriage, there was a second wedding in our house – Laura Ellerton to Augustus Hamilton.

This union proved a happy one – quietly and soberly happy. Laura was a good wife; neat, careful, cheerful, and equable in temper; and Hamilton was altogether the husband so generous a lover promised to be.

During the third year of her wedded life, Mrs. Hamilton suffered a great bereavement in the death of her noble mother. But there was given to her a sweet consoler – a dear little babe, whose loveliness and infant smiles had power to charm trouble from all her thoughts. She named this son – who proved an only child – Philip, for her own father, whom she pleasantly, though imperfectly remembered. When this boy was about nine years of age, Mr., Hamilton died, very suddenly, from a disease of the heart. My husband was called to him about midnight, and by daybreak he was dead. The doctor said that he suffered much, and was scarcely conscious until just at the last, when he asked for his « dear little boy," kissed the frightened and weeping child very tenderly; kissed and blessed his "gentle wife," his "sweet Laura," and drew her fair head down on his bosom, and died.

Laura was a sincere, though not a passionate and despairing mourner. She had never loved her husband passionately," but she had loved him with a true and ever-growing affection, and grieved long and deeply for his loss.

From that time, she gave herself up with singular devotion, to the care and education of her darling son, of whom she had been left sole guardian. And Philip was no common boy. With rare beauty, and a delicate, nervous organization, I think he was the most wondrously precocious child I have ever known. He scarcely seemed a child; he bad few of the habits, and little or no taste for the usual sports of children.: Studious, poetical, and strangely serious, he cared for nothing but books, music, and the society of his mother. His love for his beautiful mother was a deep, absorbing sentiment – the one only love of his life. He shrank from all boyish associates, and rough, out-door exercises, suited to his age and sex, and sought only to sit by her side and pore over his books, hour after hour; to listen to her singing in the evening, and to accompany her in her short strolls and unfrequent drives.

As a matter of course, the boy grew up nervous, painfully sensitive, and delicate to fragility; and though, very lovely and interesting, one could not look upon his pale, poetic face, or gaze once into his large, dark eyes, so absolutely luminous with soul, without sad, foreboding thoughts. The angel of sorrow seemed to have set his seal on that high, White forehead – smooth and childish forehead though it was.

At the early age of fourteen, Philip Hamilton, after passing a brilliant examination, entered college, at New Haven.

Ah, then, how sad and lonely became the life of his poor mother. She had, literally, no one near her to love. My own duties and cares confined me almost entirely at home, and Laura was never greatly given to visiting; so we were not together as much as I now feel that we should have been

One day – I shall never forget that time of surprise and bewilderment – I went over to Laura's, taking my work-, thinking to spend the day with her, hoping thus to renew our old intimacy. I was shown into the parlor, where I found my friend, seated on the same sofa with a tall and handsome stranger; a man of about forty-five, I should say. This person's face, even at the first glance, struck me as peculiar. It was faultlessly, coldly regular. The lips were full and warm, yet not pliable; but firm-set, as by the force of a strong will. His eyes were blue, yet looked intensely dark, from a certain sternness of expression, and the shadowing of the thick, black eyelashes and projecting brows.

With a flushed cheek and an agitated manner, Laura presented this gentleman as Mr. Kingsbury. I might have known it was him! He rose, and bowed courteously; almost transfixing me with a keen, searching look from out his ambushed eyes. I found him rather interesting in conversation; yet there was a sort of imperiousness in his manner, and a superciliousness in his voice, which disturbed and annoyed toe; and, after a little talk with Laura, constrained on both sides, I took leave – Laura, for the first time, not urging me to stay.

On my return home, I ascertained, from my husband, that Mr. Kingsbury had lately returned from Europe, where he had been spending s number of years, with his family; that he had lost his wife and only son, in Italy; and was now living, very modestly, in our city, on the small remains of his fortune, with his daughter, Miss Antoinette, a showy and handsome, but a very heartless young lady, as it afterwards proved.

A few days after my inopportune call, I again met Mr. Kingsbury, who was then walking out, with Laura leaning on his arm. They did not at first perceive the doctor and me. They were strolling along very slowly; the gentleman looking down and talking earnestly, while Laura looked up with a most confiding expression of face. I thought that I never had seen her look- so handsome and happy. Oh, this first love!

Thus matters went on, till Laura and that old lover of hers – thus returned, after so many years, to his allegiance – became almost inseparable; thus went on, until, one Sabbath morning, in our church, the proud and stately Arthur Kingsbury was wedded to the gentle and still beautiful widow of Augusts Hamilton.

For the next year, I saw less than ever of my early friend, as neither the doctor nor myself were at all pleased with her lordly husband, who seemed, on his part, to regard us with distrust, if not posited dislike. I heard, however, from time to time, painful rumors that Laura's second marriage had not proved so happy as she had probably hoped. Mr. Kingsbury, it was said, was a stern and exacting, yet careless. and neglectful husband; and Miss Antoinette was far from affectionate or respectful toward her stepmother.

But Laura told nothing of these things, even to me, to whom the paling of her cheek and the wanness of her smile betrayed that all was not well in her home and in her heart.

But with the second year of her second union, there came a new and terrible sorrow to poor Laura – a sorrow which she could not hide. Her son Philip, her beautiful and gifted boy, was brought home from college insane!

Yes, his peculiar habits of study; his devouring passion for acquirement; his intense absorption and tireless application, robbing him of sleep and wholesome exercise, had at last done their work- – unstrung his nerves and disordered. his brain.

The poor boy's case was not pronounced utterly hopeless; he had intervals of perfect sanity, though his frenzy was very violent at times. It happened, unfortunately, that he took, from the first, a terrible dislike to his stepfather, who was weak and hard enough to return this hatred with interest. Toward his mother, Philip was always gentle and tractable when his stepfather was not by; but not even her presence could repress the jealous rage and defiant scorn which the sight of her husband excited.

Mr. Kingsbury, with the petty malice of a mean spirit, resented these ravings of insanity; and, in his cruel heart, resolved to punish the poor, crazed boy. To this end, he dismissed my husband, and employed a physician of the old school – a stanch advocate of the horrible system for curing insanity with bolts and bars, chains and scourging. I have been told that Laura went down on her knees to her husband, begging that her dear boy might not be confined in the rough, straight-waistcoat prepared for him; that no chain or cord might touch his delicate limbs; that he should not be humiliated by a blow. She was by when that darling son was first struck by her unfeeling husband. That blow was the death-blow to her own poor heart! She sprang forward, and caught the uplifted arm of the angry man; then suddenly reeled and fell; and, as she fell, a small, crimson stream oozed from her lips. She had ruptured a blood-vessel!

After this, Laura was very ill for some weeks; and though she so far recovered as to be able to walk about her room, and even to ride out occasionally, she never was well again.

In his seasons of sanity, Philip was always at her side; and never was there a more tender 'and assiduous nurse. When his fits of frenzy came on, he would be taken from her and confined in a small, scantily furnished room, in a remote wing of the large house, and she would see and know no more of him for some days. But, his wild cries would sometimes reach her in the still night-hours, while her troubled heart was keeping the vigils of its sorrow; but she dared not stir, or weep aloud, for fear she should disturb the soulless slumberer at her side.

Most fortunately, Philip had no distinct recollection of what passed in his periods of insanity; and, when himself, was courteous in his manner toward Mr., Kingsbury and his daughter; and yet one might observe an instinctive and involuntary shrinking from them both at all times.

As Laura drooped and failed, I visited her more frequently, and spent many hours in her sick-room. I saw that Philip clung to her more and more closely as it became evident, even to him, that she was about to leave us. It was touching to witness the intense, anguished solicitude of his deep, idolatrous love. And, oh, it was affecting beyond description, to see the poor boy, as his sudden frenzy came on, torn from the very bedside of his dying mother, and remanded to his cheerless, solitary confinement.

At her pleading request, my husband attended Mrs. Kingsbury as her physician. He saw at once that her fate was sealed, that she was dying; and though he visited her constantly and gave her medicine, week after week and month after month, he felt that all was of no avail, and this he frankly told her. She received the sad intelligence with meek resignation, though she grieved much at the thought of leaving her poor, afflicted boy to the utter desolation and pecunar sorrow of his lot.

I well remember the last dread hour – the death- bed scene. It was just at midnight that she died. I had been with her all the afternoon and evening. Doctor Allen came in about ten o'clock, and was immediately struck by the change which had taken place in the sufferer. I had thought her asleep, but he pronounced her insensible. In this state she remained for more than an hour longer; then she revived, and seemed quite herself. In a low tone, she asked for her husband. Mr. Kingsbury came forward, and took her band in his. Laura raised to his face a timid, appealing look, as she said, "Dear Arthur, if I have not been in all things a loving and obedient wife, say you forgive me, before I go."

"Oh, Laura," he murmured, " it is for you to forgive. Tell me that I have your pardon for all – all."

Her answer was to press the hand she held against her heart, while the tears slid slowly from 'her half- closed eyelids. Mr. Kingsbury turned away, and eat down, at a little distance, hiding his face in his handkerchief. I think he felt then; I even think he wept some.

Laura lay for some, time with her eyes closed, and quite still; then she looked up, and spoke one word, very distinctly –"Philip."

The boy, who had been kneeling at the foot of the bed, weeping silently, rose,. came to his mother's side, and bent over her, sobbing aloud. She wound her arms round his neck, and kissed him many, many times; but said, calmly, "Philip, my child, my dear, dear boy, I must go from you; God calls me, and I must go, though my very soul seems cleft in twain by this parting."

"Oh, mother, mother!" he cried, "do not leave me alone! I cannot, will not live without your love!"

"My dear son," she murmured, "we may not be altogether separated. If it is permitted, I will come to you, and be often with you; will watch over

Mr. Kingsbury, we took Philip home with us, to be for a time as one of our own.

Mr. Kiugsbury was not appointed the guardian of Philip. Laura left in any care a long letter, commending the unfortunate lad to the affection and guardianship of the only brother of his father, Dr. Hamilton, a wealthy old bachelor, and a distinguished physician of New York.

Within a fortnight after this letter was forwarded, Dr. Hamilton arrived m P, and came directly to our house. We were all charmed with him. I never saw a more benevolent face; and his manner was unequaled for courteous kindliness, Philip, though naturally reserved, was won by it at once; and I saw, with inexpressible pleasure, that the good man seemed disposed, from the first, to take his afflicted ward home to his heart, and to make' him the object of all his love and care.

Philip's property was found to be in a sad condition, and many weeks were spent in business arrangements. The Kingsburys, of course, left his house, which was let to a good tenant. The furniture was sold, principally; but those articles most sacred from dear associations, were confided to my care. That portrait was Philip's parting gift to me. He had an admirable miniature of his mother, which he wore next his heart always.

During this time, Philip was but once insane, and that for only a few hours. How different was his treatment from what it had formerly been. He was now watched over, but not constrained; his poor burning head was constantly bathed; he was spoken to kindly, and ministered to patiently, and no one testified any fear of him.

It was with real sorrow that we parted from the dear boy, at last; yet we knew that it was best he should go from us.

In the course of a month, we received a very kind letter from Dr. Hamilton. He was about to sail for Europe, with Philip, where they might spend some years, for the pleasure, instruction, and perfect restoration of the young man.

After this, Philip wrote to us occasionally from various parts of Europe. His letters were .exceedingly interesting, and cheerful in tone; but, as he was painfully sensitive in regard to his peculiar mental disease, we could learn nothing in particular about his health, though he always said he was well. Finally, from some cause or other, he ceased to write, and we heard no more from him.

As many as seven years from the time of Laura's death, I was spending some weeks of the winter with a friend in New York. One night, we all attended one of the upper-ten parties – an immense affair. Early in the evening, I heard many comments on the beauty and talent of a young English lady, who was then playing for us; and, with some difficulty, made my way toward the piano, to catch a glimpse of the performer. She was, indeed, lovely; with a fair, mild face, and a full, yet graceful figure – a true little English woman, sweet and healthful. Rut I did not observe her closely then, for my attention was riveted to the face of a gentleman who was standing at her side, turning the leaves of the music for her. I thought I had never seen so noble, so spiritually beautiful a countenance. It was the face of a stranger, surely; and yet there was something familiar, something dear, something which stirred my heart, in it Presently, the young man happened to look round and meet my' eye. He started, and took a step toward me, as though he would speak; then hesitated, as I did not advance, and regained his place by the piano. 1 turned; and, passing through room after room, at last found myself alone in the cool and quiet conservatory; and here I sat myself to the work of remembering when and where I had ever met that face. But in vain; I was completely bewildered. Suddenly, I heard a quick step', looked round, and the stranger was at my side!

"Mrs. Allen, dear Mrs. Allen!" he said, extending his hand.

I took it, mechanically; looking sadly puzzled, I suppose.

"Is it possible that you do not recollect me?" he said, with a sort of mournful smile.

Oh, that smile! how it brought her back – poor Laura! – and then I knew her son!

"Philip Hamilton!" I cried; "my dear boy!" and, forgetting that he had grown to be a young man, a tall and elegant young man, I flung my arms about his neck, and kissed him repeatedly.

Then we sat down, and had a good long talk by ourselves. Philip told me that, on his complete restoration to health, he had studied medicine, with the intention of devoting himself exclusively to the treatment of insanity; that, having acquired his profession, he had now returned to his native land to carry out 'this philanthropic purpose. He said that he had married in England, ',and begged leave to present his young wife, whom, he raid, he had first loved for her name, which was Laura. I bowed a pleased assent; and he darted off; to return in a moment with the charming pianist leaning on his arm.

Mrs. Hamilton was very affectionate in her greeting; and, among other pleasant things which she said, told me that Philip had promised her a visit to P---------- early in the spring.

"Yes," added Philip, "we are all coming then. Uncle Richard often speaks of the doctor, and still oftener of the doctor's wife."

"Then your good uncle is still living," I remarked.

"Yes; and long may he be spared to us! I know not how we could live without the dear old man –Heaven bless him!"

And, in my deep heart, I responded – "The dear old man – Heaven bless him!"

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