nearest and dearest relative, called her North again, and when our story opens she was in the bosom of his home, a member of his family.  He loved her deeply, yet she felt like an alien—­his wife had not welcomed her as a sister should.  Mary Clinton’s heart went out toward’s Alice, her eldest niece, a beautiful and loving creature just springing into womanhood.  But the fair girl was gay and thoughtless, flattered and caressed by everybody.  She knew sadness only by the name.  She had no dream that she could impart a deep joy, by giving forth her young heart’s love to the desolate stranger.

The hour had grown late, very late, and Mary Clinton still leaned her head upon the table buried in thoughts, when the bounding step of Alice outside the door aroused her from her revery.  She listened, almost hoping to see her friendly face peeping in, but wearied with the enjoyment of the evening, the fair young belle hastened on to her chamber, and her aunt heard the door close.  Rising from her seat at the table, Miss Clinton approached a window, and threw back the curtains that the midnight air might steal coolingly over her brow.  Her eye fell upon the rich bracelet that clasped her arm, a gift of her brother, and then with a sad smile, she surveyed the pure dress of delicate white she wore.  “Ah!” she sighed, “I am robed for a scene of gayety, but how sad the heart that beats beneath this boddice!  How glad I was to escape from the company; loneliness in the crowd is so sad a feeling.”  At that moment the door of her room opened, and Alice came laughing in, her glowing face all bright and careless.

“Oh!  Aunt Mary,” she exclaimed, “do help me!  I cannot unclasp my necklace, and my patience has all oozed out at the tips of my fingers.  There! you have unfastened it already.  Well!  I believe I never will be good for anything!” And Alice laughed as heartily, as if the idea was charming.  “When did you leave the parlours, Aunt Mary?  I never missed you at all.  Father said you left early, when I met him just now on the stairs.”

“I did leave early,” replied Miss Clinton.  “I chanced to feel like being entirely alone, so I sought my own apartment.”

“Have you been reading, aunt?  I should think you would feel lonely!”

“I read very little,” was the reply, in a sad tone.  No remark was made on her loneliness.

“It seems so strange to me, Aunt Mary, that you are so fond of being alone.  I like company so much,” said Alice, looking in her quiet face.  “But I must go,” she added; she paused a moment, then pressed an affectionate kiss upon her aunt’s cheek, and whispered a soft “good night.”  Miss Clinton cast both arms around her, and drew her to her heart, with an eagerness that surprised Alice.  Twice she kissed her, then hastily released her as if her feeling had gone forth before she was aware of it.  Alice stood still before her a moment, and her careless eyes took a deeply searching expression as they dwelt upon the