from the future. It was as if the gates of life had been twice closed upon her; not that, for a moment, she regretted her refusal; never again could Norbourne Courtenaye be what he had been to her; but never could she feel for another what she had felt for him; so young, and yet with all the sweetest hopes of life a blank: she hoped, she feared, she wished for nothing. It was in vain that she made an effort to talk; her companion's gaiety only oppressed her. Henrietta saw that any attempt to lead the conversation to the point she wished, would be in vain; she was, therefore, obliged to do what, to a woman, is especially disagreeable, to begin upon her subject at once. She hesitated; for her own heart told her, that where the lover fails, no third party ever succeeds.
"My dear Ethel," said she, "tell me the truth; what did Mr. Courtenaye say to you last night? Moonlight and sentiment always go together."
"Don't be witty now," exclaimed Ethel, "I cannot bear it; be serious, and I will not
