listened to him attentively,
sadly; but vainly Herbert strove to instil in him a portion of that
heavenly love which was to him the main-spring of his life. Arthur loved
with an intensity, which utterly prevented his looking up to heaven as
the goal, to reach which all earthly toil was welcome; and still not
even to Herbert did he breathe one syllable of the fire that was
inwardly consuming him. Had he been any one but Herbert Hamilton, the
unhappy young man would have sought and found relief in his confidence;
but not to the brother of the being he loved, oh, not to him--he could
not, dared not.

"Herbert," he would say, in a voice hoarse with contending feelings,
"did I dare betray the secret of this tortured heart, the true cause of
my misery, you would pity, even if you condemned me; but ask it not--ask
it not, it shall never pass my lips; one thing only I beseech you, and I
do so from the regard you have ever seemed to feel for me. However you
may hear my character traduced, my very conduct may confirm every evil
report, yet believe them not; I may be miserable, imprudent, mad, but
never, never believe the name of Arthur Myrvin is stained with vice or
guilt. Herbert, promise me this, and come what may, one friend, at
least, is mine."

Herbert gazed on him with doubt, astonishment, and sorrow, yet an
irresistible impulse urged him to promise all he asked, and Myrvin
looked relieved; but painfully he felt, though he noticed it not to his
friend, that the manner of Mr. Hamilton towards him was changed;
cordiality and kindness had given place to coldness and reserve.

The whirl of a gay and happy London season had produced no change in the
outward appearance and demeanour of Emmeline Hamilton. It had not been
to her the ordeal it had been to her sister. She came forth from the gay
world the same pure, innocent being as she had entered it. Admired she
was by all with whom she was associated, but her smile was not sought
for, her conversation not courted, as had been Caroline's, therefore her
temptations had not been so great, but she was universally beloved.

Her mother sometimes wondered that Emmeline, keenly susceptible as she
was to every other emotion, should still remain so insensible to
anything resembling love. "She is indeed still the same innocent and
darling child," she thought, and rested in pleased and satisfied
security. She little knew, penetrating even as she was, that those young
affections were alre