Intense was the struggle that went on in the mind of Margaret Hubert.  But it was of no avail; she loved Clinton with a wild intensity that was only the more fervid from its hopelessness.  But pride and a determined will concealed what neither could destroy.

At last the wedding night of Lizzy Edgar arrived, and a large company assembled to witness the holy rite that was to be performed, and to celebrate the occasion with appropriate festivities.  Margaret, when the morning of that day broke coldly and drearily upon her, felt so sad at heart that she wept, and, weeping, wished that she could die.  There had been full time for reflection since, by her own acts, she had repulsed one in whom her heart felt a deep interest, and repulsed him with such imprudent force that he never returned to her again.  Suffering had chastened her spirit, although it could not still the throbbings of pain.  As the time approached when she must stand beside her friend and listen to vows of perpetual love that she would have given all the world, were it in her possession, to hear as her own, she felt that she was about entering upon a trial for which her strength would be little more than adequate.

But there was no retreat now.  The ordeal had to be passed through.  At last the time of trial came, and she descended with her friend, and stood up with her before the minister of God, who was to say the fitting words and receive the solemn vows required in the marriage covenant.  From the time Margaret took her place on the floor, she felt her power over herself failing.  Most earnestly did she struggle for calmness and self-control, but the very fear that inspired this struggle made it ineffectual.  When the minister in a deeply impressive voice, said, “I pronounce you husband and wife,” her eyes grew dim, and her limbs trembled and failed; she sunk forward, and was only kept from falling by the arm of the minister, which was extended in time to save her.

Twenty years have passed since that unhappy evening, and Margaret Hubert is yet unmarried.  It was long before she could quench the fire that had burned so fiercely in her heart.  When it did go out, the desolate hearth it left remained ever after cold and dark.

FOLLOWING THE FASHIONS.

“WHAT is this?” asked Henry Grove of his sister Mary, lifting, as he spoke, a print from the centre-table.

“A fashion plate,” was the quiet reply.

“A fashion plate?  What in the name of wonder, are you doing with a fashion plate?”

“To see what the fashions are.”

“And what then?”

“To follow them, of course.”

“Mary, is it possible you are so weak?  I thought better of my sister.”

“Explain yourself, Mr. Censor,” replied Mary with an arch look, and a manner perfectly self-possessed.

“There is nothing I despise so much as a heartless woman of fashion.”