nd us living histories of
human passion and emotion that would awaken up our most active
sympathies. All this, however, is hidden from our eyes. And it is
only, in most instances, when the present becomes the past, that we
are permitted to lift the veil, and look at the reality beneath."

We were sitting near a window overlooking one of the principal
streets of our city, and a slight noise without, at this time,
attracted our attention.

"There she is again. Poor Flora! How my heart aches for you!" my
companion suddenly ejaculated, in a tone of deep sympathy, after
gazing into the street for a moment or two.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Do you see that poor creature, slowly moving along just opposite?"

"Yes."

"Twenty years ago, there was not a gayer girl in the city; nor one
more truly beloved by all."

"She?"

"Yes. Nor one of fairer hopes."

"Hope has indeed sadly mocked her!" said I, giving almost
involuntary utterance to the thought that instantly passed through
my mind. Just then I caught a glimpse of her face, that was partly
turned towards us. Though marked by disease and sorrow, it was yet
no common face. It still bore traces of womanly beauty, that no eye
could mistake.

"Poor Flora! what a history of disappointed hopes and crushed
affections is thine! What a lesson for the young, the thoughtless,
the innocent!" the old man said, as he retired from the window.

"Who is she?" I asked, after a brief pause.

"You have seen that beautiful old mansion that stands in--street,
just above--?"

"Yes."

"It is now used as an extensive boarding-house; but in my younger
days, it was one of the most princely establishments in the city. It
then stood alone, and had attached to it beautifully laid-out
grounds, stocked with the rarest and richest plants, all in the
highest state of cultivation. No American workman could produce
furniture good enough for its aristocratic owner. Every thing was
bought in Paris, and upon the most extensive scale. And truly, the
internal arrangement of Mr. T--'s dwelling was magnificent, almost
beyond comparison at the time."

"And was that the daughter of Mr. T--?" I asked, in surprise.

"Yes, that was Flora T--," the old man said, in a voice that had
in it an expression of sad feeling, evidently conjured up by the
reminiscence.

"You knew her in her better days?"

"As well as I knew my own sister. She was one of the gentlest of her
sex. No one could meet her without lovi