and. But--you know already how
suddenly Harry moved to New York that autumn, and also how you
wondered we did not correspond.

"And what of George Stephenson? Ha! ha! I always laugh when I think of
him--_do you_, dear? What did _we_ think of him, _mon ami_, till we
discovered one day, much to our amaze, that he was engaged to us both.

"Never shall I forget that tableau we presented--being our own
spectators--when, with your head resting on my knee in the old
summer-house, you, with trembling lips, told me of that delightful
youth! and of your future prospects; and how, when you approached the
interesting climax, I joined in with you and told _my_ story, too; and
how, instead of our becoming sworn foes from that hour, two more
loving and light-hearted beings seldom took pen in hand, than we, when
we wrote that joint letter, and saved George from the fate of
bigamists! Well, there was _never_ a more captivating youth than
he--at least we must _say_ so, to save ourselves from the obloquy of
falling in love with such a _scamp_! Who'd have thought it? those very
stories of his early life, and sorrows which drew such earnest tears
from _my_ eyes. I suppose you, too, have wept upon his shoulder as he
told them. Ah, me!

"Then there was the poet, Earnest Ward. I tolerated _him_ because his
father was a college friend of my paternal, who wished us always to
show him kindness, and make the orphan feel himself not quite so
friendless. But you cannot believe that _I_ loved _him_. Poor fellow!
he is dead now. He never seemed destined to a long life to me; the
fact is, he did not possess _energy_ enough to keep him alive. And he
was eternally railing against Fate and his poverty, which no man who
wishes to gain favor in _my_ eyes must indulge in. His talents _were
not_ of that order which commands the ear of the public--and yet he
seemed to think so, and in that thought centered all his hope. There
was nothing practical about Ernest. He belonged to that miserable
class of beings, (how many of them we see about us,) who are aptly
described as having lost _their way_ in the great roads of life,
having early groped blindly past the stations they were designed to
fill. Ernest had a good deal of fancy and ingenuity--more than should
have been lavished on newspaper enigmas, and verses descriptive of the
color of my hair and eyes; he might have made a capital manufacturer,
or designer of toys. He was made, I am convinced, for some such