hand from the alderman’s grasp.  “Will you not permit me at least to thank you?” said Mr. Edgerton, in a wounded tone.  Young Sherwood had not the slightest intention of offending him, and wished to hasten away only to escape observation.  Now, however, with his usual generosity, he forgot his own inclinations, and permitted himself to be overwhelmed with expressions of heartfelt gratitude.  He suddenly checked the alderman’s torrent of eloquence by requesting an introduction to his daughter, who stood in the shadow of a pillar awaiting her father.  May Edgerton’s one little sentence of earnest thanks, speaking through every feature, was more grateful to the young student than all her father’s words.  One mutual glance made them friends in more than name.  Now many an evening found Marion Sherwood whiling away a student’s idle hours in the luxuriant drawing-room of Mr. Edgerton.  May and he together read their favorite poets and the old classic writers, his daring mind stored with philosophy, guiding her wild imagination, her gentle goodness beguiling his holder thoughts into the paths of virtue.  O, it was blissful thus to mingle their day-dreams, encircling themselves in rainbows of hope and stars lit by each other’s eyes, all breathing upon them beauty and blessings.  May had already wreathed the unknown fireman in all the attributes of virtue and of manliness; happy was she to find them realized in Marion.  And he, when sitting in the shadows of the old marble pile, gazing up at the brilliant sky, had pictured a being beautiful and good, whose soul could comprehend the yearnings of his own, and this he found in May.  Thus their two souls grew together, until their thoughts, their hopes, their very lives seemed one.

When Marion Sherwood requested of Mr. Edgerton the hand of his daughter, and learned that she was not free, at least until she had met a certain gentleman who was every day expected, his soul recoiled with a sudden sting; he had so leaned upon this staff of happiness, and now it bent like a fragile reed.  May laughed in scorn that she should prefer any one to Marion, but he learned that the stranger was talented, handsome, wealthy, everything that a lady would desire in her favored suitor.  If he did not release her, she was not free, and could he be adamant to the captivating charms of guileless, spiritual, beautiful May!

Scarcely had a day passed after Marion—­whom May and her father knew only as one of Nature’s noblemen—­had learned this wretched news which sank into his heart like a poisoned dagger, when the vessel arrived which bore Walter Cunningham, his mother and step-father from France.  A few miserable days passed—­miserable they were to May and Marion, and the evening was appointed when Cunningham and his parents should call at the alderman’s and May’s fate, in part, at least, be decided.  Marion also was to be there.  He arrived early, unknowing even the name of his rival.  He concealed himself among the flowers in the conservatory, pacing up and down the fragrant, embowered walks with hasty step and anxious heart.  How fondly memory roved back over the jewelled past, glistening with departed joys; how fearfully imagination strove to penetrate the gloomy future; how tremblingly did he await the bursting storm of the blackened present.