of the city, and was warm in his commendations of the Theatre.  My heart often misgave me as I perused his letters, and I mentally wondered where all this was to end?  After a two-years’ absence, he returned to spend a few weeks at home in Littleton, but he seemed so unlike my former friend, that I could hardly feel at ease in his society.  He never once alluded to any incidents of our school days, as he used formerly so frequently to do, and objects of former interest possessed none for him now.  He called Littleton a “terribly stupid place,” and seemed anxiously to look forward to his return to Boston.  “Surely,” said I to him one evening as we were engaged in conversation, “Littleton must still contain one attraction for you yet.”  He appeared not to comprehend my meaning, but I well knew his ignorance was only feigned.  But when he saw that I was not to be put off in that way, he said with a tone of assumed indifference, “O! if it is Belinda Merril you are talking about, I have to say that she is no longer an object of interest to me.”  “Is it possible, Arthur,” said I, “that you mean what you say; surely an absence of two years has not caused you to forget the love you have borne Miss Merril from childhood.  I am very much surprised to hear you speak in this manner.”  A flush of anger, at my plain reply, rose to his cheek, and he answered in a tone of displeasure:  “I may as well tell you first as last, my ideas have undergone a change.  I did once think I loved Belinda Merril, but that was before I had seen the world, and now the idea to me is absurd of introducing this awkward country girl as my wife among my acquaintances in the city of Boston.  I once had a sort of liking for the girl, but I care no longer for her, and the sooner I break with her the better, and I guess she won’t break her heart about me.”  “I hope not indeed,” I replied, “but I must be allowed to say that I consider your conduct unmanly and dishonourable, and I would advise you, before proceeding further, to pause and reflect whether it is really your heart which dictates your actions, or only a foolish fancy.”  Knowing how deeply Miss Merril was attached to Arthur, I hoped he would reconsider the matter, and I said as much to him; but all I could say was of no avail, and that very evening he called and, requesting an interview with his betrothed, informed her that, as his sentiments toward her had changed, he presumed she would be willing to release him from their former engagement.  Instantly Miss Merril drew from her finger the ring he had placed there two years before, and said, as she placed it in his hand, “I have long been sensible of the change in your sentiments, and am truly glad that you have at last spoken plainly.  From this hour you may consider yourself entirely free, and you have my best wishes for your future happiness and prosperity,” and, bidding him a kind good-evening, the young lady left the apartment.  Her spirit was deeply wounded, but she possessed too