and deeply joyful than his own young spirit had even been.  Both relapsed into the eloquent silence of absorbing thought.  It was evident from the softened and meditative cast of Alfred’s features, that his bitterness had given way to the true tenderness of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in his mind all that had been advanced by his grandfather, and he dwelt upon every point with candour and serious reflection.  A strong impression was made upon him, but he was entirely silent in regard to it,—­he waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the better resolutions that were formed, not without effort, in his mind.  He felt a conviction that a change from selfishness to angelic charity might be accomplished, if he were but willing to co-operate with his Maker,—­the conception of universal love slowly dawned upon his soul, now turned heavenward for light,—­his duties as a responsible being came before him, and a sigh of reproach was given to the past.  Then golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze, and it was with a severe pang he thought of losing his, hold upon the dear domains of idle fancy,—­he had so revelled for hours and hours, in intoxicating dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty.  He felt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from dwelling upon it.  The evening air was refreshing after the warm sunset, but old Mr. Monmouth would not trust himself to bear it.  Alfred went into the house with him, and made a brief call, then left, and wended his way a short distance to his own home, which was a very elegant mansion, surrounded by every mark of luxury and taste.  He immediately sought his chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his mother had given him when a child,—­he turned over its leaves, and his eyes fell upon the one hundred and nineteenth psalm, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light upon my path.  I have sworn, and I will perform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgments.”  He read on, and the exceeding beauty and touching power of the Holy Word had never so deeply affected him,—­he wept, and all that was harsh in his nature melted,—­he prayed, and the angels of God approached, filling his uplifted soul with heavenly strength.  Sweet was the thrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that hitherto restless spirit—­quiet and blest the peace that hushed him to deep, invigorating slumber.  Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are apt to fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth.  He so feared that he would fall back into his former states of feeling, that he guarded himself like an anchorite.  For three months he abstained from going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment he deprived himself of.  He threw aside all books but scientific and religious ones; even poetry he shut his ears against, lest it might beguile him again to his dreamy, but selfish musings.  No doubt this severe discipline was very useful to him at the time, in strengthening him against the besetting faults