t day my brother's angling excursions became more
frequent--but he seldom returned with a full basket. He often spoke to
me of Helen, but I always replied carelessly, and changed the topic of
conversation to something else, yet when alone, I was in continual
torment from my thoughts. I endeavored to console myself with the
reflection that Helen's love was plighted to me, and that she would
not change, yet my thoughts were continually recurring to my brother's
great advantages over me in every respect, not only in fortune but in
personal appearance; and I had already, in my suspicions, placed him
in the light of a rival for the hand of Helen. I knew his high-minded
and honorable disposition too well to fancy for a moment that he would
attempt her ruin; and I also knew that there was nothing in the
inferior station of Helen's family that would prevent him from seeking
her hand in marriage, if she had compelled his love.

All that followed might perhaps have been prevented had I at first
told my brother frankly of my love for Helen; but a foolish desire to
prove her love for me, and a certain feeling of self-respect kept me
silent.

It was not a long time before I either saw, or fancied I saw, a change
in the manner of Helen toward me--the thought was torture. I was for
days undecided how to act, but at length determined to learn the true
state of things. I knew my brother was often at the parsonage, and I
trembled for the result.

"Helen," I asked her, "is not my brother a frequent visitor here?"

It was twilight, but I thought I observed a heightened color in her
cheek.

"Yes, he has been here several times since his return."

"Dear Helen, answer me frankly, has he ever spoken to you of love?"

She hesitated, but at length replied,

"He has."

"And did you not tell him your vows were plighted to another?"

"My father entered the room before I made any reply at all."

"Helen, do you love me now the same as ever you have done?"

"You have my plighted word, William." Yet there was something
bordering on coldness even in the sweet accents with which she spoke;
the nice instinct of love detects each gradation of feeling with an
unerring certainty. I was not satisfied, and when I left her, I was
more unhappy than ever. I longed to speak to my brother on the
subject, yet some indescribable feeling prevented me; and I allowed
the days to glide away, growing more and more troubled in mind as they
passed by.

I wa