he was at a loss how to make her comprehend the new relations into which he had grown,—­to explain that he was practically as poor as when he first came to the city.  How could he assure her of his desire to end the engagement in marriage, if he spoke of postponement now that he had an income beyond his first expectations?  Imperceptibly to himself, his letters became more like intellectual conversations, or essays, rather,—­pleasant enough in themselves, but far different from the simple and fervent epistles he wrote while the memory of Alice was fresher. She felt this, although she had not reasoned upon it, and her sensitive womanly heart was full of vague forebodings.

Would he confess to himself, that, as he looked at her cherished picture, another face, with a more brilliant air and a more dazzling beauty, came between him and the silent image before him?  Dared he to think, that, in his frequent visits to Miss Sandford, the ties which bound him to his betrothed were daily weakening?—­that he found a charm in the very caprices and waywardness of the new love, which the unvarying constancy and placid affection of the old had never created?  The one put her heart unreservedly into his keeping; she knew nothing of concealment, and he read her as he would an unsophisticated child; there was not a nook or cranny in her heart, he thought, that he had not explored.  The other was full of surprises; she had as many phases as an April day; and from mere curiosity, if from no other motive, Greenleaf was piqued to follow on to understand her real character.  The apprehensions he felt at first wore away; he became accustomed to her measured sentences and her apparently artificial manner.  What seemed affectation now became a natural expression.  The secret influence she exerted increased, and, at length, possessed him wholly while in her company.  It drew him as the moon draws the tides, silently, unconsciously, but with a power he could not resist.  It was only when he was away from her that he could reason himself into a belief in his independence.

Greenleaf and Easelmann were at Nahant at the close of the season.  A few straggling visitors only remained; the fashionable world had returned to the city.  The friends wandered over the rocky peninsula, walked the long beach that leads to the main land, sketched the sea from the shore, and the shore from the sea, and watched and transferred the changing phases of Nature in sunshine and in storm.  They were fortunate enough to see one magnificent tempest, by which the ocean was lashed into fury, breaking in thunder over the rugged coast-line, and dashing spray sheer over the huge back of Egg Rock.

Miss Sandford’s threat was carried into execution; the family came to the hotel, and, for a week, Greenleaf and his friend were most devoted in their attentions.  Marcia was charmed with their sketches, and, with a tact as delicate as it is rare, gave them time for their cherished pursuits, and planned excursions only for their unemployed hours.  They collected colored mosses, star-fish, and other marine curiosities; they sailed, fished, scampered over the rocks, drove over the beach at twilight, sang, danced, and bowled.  And when weary of active amusement, they reclined on the grass and listened to the melancholy rote of the sea,—­the steady pulsations of its mighty heart.