ward world and think that fate keeps her deadliest arrow in store. It is the Rebeccas not the Rowenas who go forth in the solitude of the heart. How often amid those who seem in our masquerade world to be clothed with smiles, and who hold no discourse save on "familiar matter of to-day," should we find one whose suffering might startle us—
"Could we put aside
The mask and mantle that is worn by pride."
How different too would the real character be from that which is assumed; how little often do the most intimate know of each other. But the difference that the stranger might discover is nothing to that which we trace in ourselves. The burning climate of the south leaves its darkness on the cheek—the trying air of the world leaves a yet deeper darkness on the heart. To the generous, the affectionate, and the high-minded these lessons are taught more bitterly than to the calmer, colder, and more selfish temperament. But to those who sprang forth into life—love in the heart, and that heart on the lips, harsh is the teaching of experience. How has the eager kindness been repaid by ingratitude; affection has been bestowed and neglected—trust repaid by treachery, and last and worst complained, by whom have we been beloved, even as we have loved!
H 3
