Herberts, might still have formed a connecting link between the parties, but few things are more contagious than the defection of friends (by courtesy so called); and Mrs. Page became suddenly afflicted with that defect of the visual organs, which the learned term myopy, and which, in the vernacular, is best known by the term shortness of sight. Availing herself of this conveniently assumed infirmity, Mrs. Page, with admirable effrontery, passed a whole evening in Mrs. Sidney's society, without evincing the slightest symptom of recognition.

Helen Page, however, "faithful found among the faithless," still continued to foist her society on us, always contriving (by that strange instinct with which idle people seem endowed) to fix on our busiest hours for her visitations. One morning in particular, as Viola and I were sitting together, both vainly striving to persuade ourselves that we were as happy in each other's society, as we were wont to be in by-gone days, Helen Page bounded into the room, her broad, good-humoured face beaming with intelligence (an expression it rarely wore), and pausing not to make the common salutation, with which civilized people are wont to accost each other, plunged at once, after the approved epic style, into the middle of her story.

"Well, my dear," she exclaimed to Viola, "I

have such a piece of news for you,-you'll be so surprised; I can hardly believe it myself. But not to keep you longer in suspense, I am going to be married."

"I sincerely congratulate you, Helen," said Viola affectionately.

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Ah, but I see, my dear, that you are dying to know the name of my future 'je vous le donne en

trois ;' guess, you can't!

Herbert is the man."

Well, then, Frank

"You are jesting now, Helen.”

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Indeed, then," replied Miss Page, “I should be very sorry to think it a jest, and yet it really was the drollest thing imaginable. You must know we had a small party the other evening (mamma would, I am sure, have asked you, only some of the Herberts were with us, and it would, perhaps, have been a little awkward for you to meet); well, I was dancing with Mr. Herbert,-with Frank, I mean (of course I shall always call him Frank now)—and the conversation happening to turn on marriage, he said, 'Now, Miss Page, no one will give me credit for the assertion, yet I am myself quite a marrying man, only I am so unfortunate, I can't get any one to have me.'

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Perhaps," I answered, "you never tried."

"Oh,'" he replied, "I fear it is quite a hopeless case; if you will only believe me, I am very much

in love with you, yet were I to propose, you would of course reject me.'"

"How do you know that?" I asked, "I am sure I never told you so."

"What!'" he exclaimed, "do you really mean it? will you have me, Miss Page?'"

"Can you doubt it, Mr. Herbert?" I replied, "and so the affair ended; before the end of the quadrille, I had referred him to mamma; he called the next day (you can't think how my heart beat), but it all went off very smoothly, every thing is settled, and we are to be married almost directly. But the most comical part of the affair is, that Frank declares he began the conversation in pure fun, and had not the remotest idea I should take him at his word. Yet, after all, depend upon it, we shall be quite as happy as though we had gone on sighing and languishing through a whole season, varying the pastime with little interludes of coquetry on my part, and heroics on his; of stormy partings, and reconciliatory meetings. I hate your

never ending, still beginning,' Durandarte-like courtships. I am always for things done off hand."

Having thus frankly discussed her future prospects, Miss Page took her leave; but notwithstanding these confident anticipations of felicity, her's was, I believe, any thing but a happy union. After a brief career of profuse extravagance and

thoughtless dissipation, Mrs. Frank Herbert threw What became of her afterwards I never knew. Poor thing! her faults were rather those of the head than the heart. She was forsaken, ere she in her turn forsook.

herself out of the pale of society.

AMPLY did Viola redeem the promise she had once made me, for she yielded not supinely to her grief, but strove, with all the energy of her powerful mind, to rouse herself to action. Far from indulging in vain regrets, she shunned the solitude that had once been dear to her. Diligently, too, did she apply herself to the study of fresh sciences; and if for one moment the book were suffered to