d saw
Albert approaching. In a moment they were in each other's arms, and
mingled tears. They soon returned to Raymond's where they conversed
largely on present affairs.

"I have discoursed with my father on the subject," said Albert; "I have
urged him with every possible argument, to relinquish his determination
to keep you and Alida separate. I fear, however, he is inflexible."

"To endeavour to assuage the grief which rent Alida's bosom was my next
object, and in this I trust I have not been unsuccessful. You will see
her this evening, and will find her more calm and resigned. You,
Theodore, must exert your fortitude. The ways of Heaven are inscrutable,
but they are right. We must acquiesce in its dealings; we cannot alter
its decrees. Resignation to its will, whether merciful or afflictive, is
one of those eminent virtues which adorn the good man's character, and
will ever find a brilliant reward in the regions of unsullied
happiness."

Albert told Theodore that circumstances compelled him that day to return
to the city. "I would advise you," said he, "to remain here until your
affair comes to some final issue. It must, I think, ere long, be
terminated. Perhaps you and my sister may yet be happy."

Theodore feelingly expressed his gratitude to Albert. He found in him
that disinterested friendship which his early youth had experienced.
Albert the same day departed for New-York.

The shades of night came on almost insensibly, as Theodore was anxiously
expecting Alida. He anticipated the consolation her presence would
bestow. Albert had told him she was more composed. The evening passed
on, but she came not.

Raymond assured him she would soon be there. He paced the room, and then
walked out on the way whither she was expected to come. He hesitated
some time whether to advance or return. It was possible, though not
probable, that she might have come some other way. He hastened back to
the house of his friend; she had not arrived.

"Something extraordinary," said Mrs. Raymond, "has undoubtedly prevented
her coming. Perhaps she is ill." Theodore shuddered at the suggestion.
He looked at his watch: it was past twelve o'clock. Again he hastily
sallied out and took the road to her father's. The night was exceedingly
dark, being illuminated only by the feeble glimmering of the twinkling
stars. When he came within sight of the house, and as he drew near, no
lights were visible, all was still and silent. He entered the