ES,
DON'T MENTION IT,
THE HEIRESS,

THE BOOK OF MEMORY.

CHAPTER I.

"THERE is a book of record in your mind, Edwin," said an old man to
his young friend, "a book of record, in which every act of your life
is noted down. Each morning a blank page is turned, on which the
day's history is written in lines that cannot be effaced. This book
of record is your memory; and, according to what it bears, will your
future life be happy or miserable. An act done, is done forever;
for, the time in which it is done, in passing, passes to return no
more. The history is written and sealed up. Nothing can ever blot it
out. You may repent of evil, and put away the purpose of evil from
your heart; but you cannot, by any repentance, bring back the time
that is gone, nor alter the writing on the page of memory. Ah! my
young friend, if I could only erase some pages in the book of my
memory, that almost daily open themselves before the eyes of my
mind, how thankful I would be! But this I cannot do. There are acts
of my life for which repentance only avails as a process of
purification and preparation for a better state in the future; it in
no way repairs wrong done to others. Keep the pages of your memory
free from blots, Edwin. Guard the hand writing there as you value
your best and highest interests!"

Edwin Florence listened, but only half comprehended what was said by
his aged friend. An hour afterwards he was sitting by the side of a
maiden, her hand in his, and her eyes looking tenderly upon his
face. She was not beautiful in the sense that the world regards
beauty. Yet, no one could be with her an hour without perceiving the
higher and truer beauty of a pure and lovely spirit. It was this
real beauty of character which had attracted Edwin Florence; and the
young girl's heart had gone forth to meet the tender of affection
with an impulse of gladness.

"You love me, Edith?" said Edwin, in a low voice, as he bent nearer,
and touched her pure forehead with his lips.

"As my life," replied the maiden, and her eyes were full of love as
she spoke.

Again the young man kissed her.

In low voices, leaning towards each other until the breath of each
was warm on the other's cheek, they sat conversing for a long time.
Then they separated; and both were happy. How sweet were the
maiden's dreams that night, for, in every picture that wandering
fancy drew, was the image of her lover!

Daily thus they met for a long