qualities have charmed your affections.  You see him casting from him the best friends he has ever had, because he feels condemned of ingratitude in their society.  He is going forth on the voyage of life, alone, you weep as any sister would, to see him thus.  I do not blame him for loving you; but I do censure him in the highest degree, for endeavoring to win more than a sister’s regard from you, in return; it was selfish and dishonorable.  More than all, I blame myself for not foreseeing this.  You said yesterday, you could not bear the thought of being separated from Arthur.  You do not know your own heart, many a woman does not, until time has been her teacher; let it be yours.  Cousin Janet has thus advised you; be guided by us, and leave this thing to rest for a while; you will have reason to rejoice in having done so.  Would you leave me for Walter, Alice?”

“No, mother.  How could you ask me?”

“Then trust me; I would not answer for your uncle’s safety were we to speak to him on this subject.  How cruel to pain him, when a few months may restore us to the hopes and happiness which have been ours!  Do what is right, and leave the future to God.”

“But how can I write to Arthur, when I know I am not treating him as I would wish him to treat me?”

“Write as you always have; your letters have never been very sentimental.  Arthur says you write on all subjects but the one nearest his heart.  If you had loved him as I thought you did, you never would have allowed another to usurp his place.  But we cannot help the past.  Now dear child, compose yourself; I am fatigued, but cannot sleep until you do.”

Alice, restless for a while, at last fell asleep, but it was not the rest that brings refreshment and repose.  Her mother watched her, as with her hand now pressed on her brow, now thrown on the pillow, she slept.  Her mind, overtaxed, tried even in sleep to release itself of its burden.  The wish to please, and the effort to do right, was too much for her sensitive frame.  It was like the traveler unaccustomed to fatigue and change, forced to commence a journey, unassured of his way, and ignorant of his destination.

Her mother watched her—­a deep hue was settled under her eyelashes, the veins in her temple were fearfully distinct, and a small crimson spot rested on her cheek.  She watched her, by the moonlight that glanced over every part of the room.  She listened to her heavy breathing, and lightly touched her dry and crimson lips.  She stroked the long luxuriant curls, that appeared to her darker than they ever had before.  She closed the nearest window, lest there should be something borne on the breath of night, to disturb the rest of the beloved one.  But, mother! it will not do; the curse of God is still abroad in the world, the curse on sin.  It falls, like a blighting dew, on the loveliest and dearest to our hearts.  It is by our side and in our path.  It is among the gay, the rich, the proud, and the gifted of the earth; among the poor, the despised, the desolate and forsaken.  It darkens the way of the monarch and the cottager, of the maiden and the mother, of the master and the slave.  Alas! since it poisoned the flowers in Eden, and turned the children of God from its fair walks, it is abroad in the world—­the curse of God on sin.