“I saw your look of concern when he met Miss Weston-”

She looked wonderingly in his face.

“You feared for him, and her then.  That was natural.  I see beyond, and that no harm will come from any attachment that may arise.  I hope to see them often together.”

“Mr. Wyman, if I did not know you, I should sometimes fear your doctrines.”

“I have no doctrines.”

“Well, theories then.”

“No theories either.  I follow nature, and leave her to perfect all things.  Sometimes you think I am not sufficiently active; that I sit an idle looker on.

“What! do you know my every thought-everything that passes through my mind?” she asked, a a little agitated.

“Nearly all, or rather that which goes with your states of progression.”

She was vexed a little, but as the lesser ever turns to the greater, the earth to the sun for light,—­so she, despite difference of temperament and mental expansion, was inclined to rest on his judgment.

“This pure girl will give him a deeper faith in woman, unconsciously to herself, and he will become a better man; therefore fear not when you see them together, that he will lose his love for his wife.  Yes, she will do him good, as you, Florence, are every day benefiting me.”

“Do I?  Do I make you better?” she asked in a quick, nervous way; and her soul flooded her soft, brown eyes.

“You do, Florence, and make me stronger every day; while your deepening womanhood is my daily enjoyment.  You give me an opportunity to know myself, and that there are many holy relations between men and women beside the conjugal.”

Mrs. Foster lost no time in informing the people of L—­of the movements of Mr. Deane.  She well knew there were persons who would circulate the report, and that it would finally reach his wife, even though she was several miles away.  The report was, that Mr. Deane had brought a young lady to the sea-shore, and was seen walking with her every day and evening, and that they both were greatly enamoured with each other.

Strange to say, Mrs. Deane, weary and sad, left her parents and returned to her home just before her husband’s letter reached its destination, and just in time to hear the narration of his strange conduct.

Howard gone, no one knew where, save from the vague and scandalous report of a few busy tongues; no letter telling where he was, and her soul sank, and all its good resolves faded away.  When she left her parents that morning, she fully resolved to meet him with all the love of her heart, for she had found that love beneath the rubbish of doubt and jealousy that had for a time concealed it.  It was not strange, therefore, that all the fond trust died out when she realized that he had gone, and the bitter waters returned stronger and deeper over her hope.

Shall we ever reach a world where we shall not have to plod through so much doubt and misgiving, and where our real feelings will be better understood?