"Mamma, are you angry?"

"My child! my own dear daughter!" sobbed Emma, as she caressed the bright head pillowed on her breast. "Have I done wrong, mamma?"

"Your father," whispered Emma- "he will think so.” "I know he will, mamma; what are we to do?"

"Have you searched well your heart, my 'Rina? Are you sure you can endure all worldly trials with him whom you have chosen ? "

'Rina hid her face, and her mother drew her in a closer embrace.

"And are you certain of his love?"

"Yes, yes, mamma!"

"Oh, may he ever love you!" cried Emma.

"Advise me, dear mamma; in all things I will act as you direct."

"Listen, my 'Rina: you are young-too young to marry at present. Go forth into the world for a few years, and let him do the same; and when you have both attained a position that will bar your door against poverty, then wed." "We shall not heed poverty, mamma. I shall be happy

to endure all with him."

"You are a woman," said Emma sadly, "and a woman has fortitude to sustain much for the man whom she loves; she will meet every vicissitude, and bear up against all changes of fortune. How much will the husband suffer for his wife? Oh, 'Rina ! men are fickle and selfish, and the rude blasts of adversity soon uproot their affections."

"But Paul Grahame is not like other men," urged 'Rina, "he is so noble and good."

"Be counselled, dearest; pause for a year or two-put his devotion to that proof. If he be sincere, and prize the heart he has won, he'll bide his time patiently, and wait your father's free consent to your union.'

"Mamma, I will be strong-I will obey your wishes." "That's my brave 'Rina !"

The sisters' benefit-night terminated their engagement in Mrs. Godfrey's theatre. It was a sorrowful night to 'Rina.

The play had been "The Hunchback ;" the farce, "Mr. and Mrs. White." Clotilda, who was beloved for her gentle manners, had many farewells to make among the people attached to the theatre. In her hands she had several parcels containing little gifts, which, accompanied with kind words, she presented to the call-boy, her dresser, and others, -one package alone remained.

"Where is Aspinall?" asked Clotilda of the call-boy. "In the property-room, miss," replied he.

"Thank you!"—and Clo' hurried to a room crammed with banners, shields, masks, swords, tables, chairs, sofas, and other stage properties.

Aspinall was seated on the ground amid a heap of rags. "Whatever are you doing?" inquired Clo', regarding the man's employment with a look of surprise.

"Eh, miss?" said he, looking up and pausing in his task. "What are you doing?" repeated she.

"Makin' a babby," replied the property-man; "missus are so precious stingy I can get nout out on her; so I's fust to tie up a bundle of rags for Mr. White to carry on. Ah, miss! I hopes they'll do no sich shabby things in Lunnon; an' I trusts whenever you plays Mrs. White you'll have a respectable hoffspring, an', as somebody says, chew up (eschew, he meant to say) all sich mak-shifts as stuffed hinfants."

"Indeed I will, Aspinall," said Clo', half inclined to laugh. "Here is a small remembrance from my sister and myself," proceeded she, handing him the paper parcel.

"Good lor', miss! 'tain't possible as you're recollected poor me! my goodness!"

"Good-bye, Aspinall."

"I's hear by the noospapers how you gets on," said he. "Good luck go with you!"

Clotilda then hurried away to make other adieus.

'Rina and Paul Grahame are sitting side by side in the green-room, all the actors are engaged in the farce, and Julius is settling accounts with Mrs. Godfrey, as he purposes leaving Manchester the next morning, for Birmingham, where he and Emma are engaged, Mrs. Godfrey having refused to retain their services; the six weeks' notice being mutually dispensed with.

"At length the hour of parting has arrived, dear 'Rina,"

1

said Paul with a tremulous voice, "and now I feel more than ever how fondly and tenderly I love you. Will this hand that is now locked in mine-this hand, the pressure of which sends a thrill of joy through my veins-will it ever again be clasped by mine?"

"Yes, yes, Paul; do not doubt it!" cried 'Rina, earnestly.

"I am filled with sad and melancholy forebodings," proceeded the artist. "Remember, 'Rina, remember that mine is no common love; it is one that will strengthen with my years, for you are hallowed in the deepest recesses of my soul."

Paul wiped the cold dew from his brow, and his pale face became paler.

"Should you break faith with me, 'Rina

Why, oh why, do you doubt my faith?" asked she. "I know the glitter that will surround you; I know the temptations that will beset your path."

"Your suspicions are ungenerous. I am not one to be dazzled by show," replied 'Rina. "Oh, Paul," she resumed, "why do you thus persist in tormenting yourself and me?"

"Because I fear that your love does not equal mine," replied he excitedly; "because I feel that you will rise. I shall stand alone in the world should you forsake me, 'Rina; I could not brook indifference where I expect truth and faith."

'Rina looked up, startled by her lover's hollow voice.
"You will write to me every day?" inquired he.

"Every day," replied 'Rina; "and you will let me hear all about the pictures you are painting, and how your health is, for mamma is quite anxious about your cough; she thinks you neglect attending to your doctor's directions."

Well, well! I will be more careful for the future," said Paul, faintly smiling.

At this moment Julius and Clotilda entered the green

room.

"Have you bidden all your friends farewell?" asked Julius, addressing 'Rina.

"Yes, father," replied she.

"Come, then, bid Mr. Grahame good-bye," continued

Julius, briskly, "and let us hurry home; at six in the morning we are to start."

"You accompany your daughters as far as Birmingham ?" said Paul, assuming an indifferent tone and manner.

Yes; it was my intention to have gone on to London with them."

"What prevents you from so doing?" asked Paul.
"A king," responded Julius promptly.

Paul looked puzzled.

"Arthur King, Esquire, lessee of the Theatre Royal, Birmingham-in which theatre I am bound to be at rehearsal by eleven to-morrow. Now do you perceive? Ha, ha! good-bye! good-bye!"

Two hands were clasped together that lingered in their trembling grasp. 'Rina durst not trust her tongue to speak the word 'farewell.""

Paul bent his head and whispered in her ear

"Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again."

Nay," said Clotilda, interposing and drawing her sister "nay, Mr. Grahame

away,

"We make woe wanton with this fond delay;
Once more, adieu! the rest let sorrow say.""

On the following morning the train bore Julius's family from the dull town of high chimneys. Paul Grahame stood on the platform, and watched till the long line of carriages had faded in the distance; then, with a bowed head and aching heart, he returned to his solitary home. Paul was indeed alone in the world: his father, who had been a cotton merchant, was ruined by the treachery of his partner in New Orleans; and Mr. Grahame, unable to bear up against his misfortunes, committed suicide, leaving his wife and son to battle with those trials which he himself had not the courage to confront. Paul was called from his studies to labour for his mother. Bread he must work for now, not ambition; therefore he became a scene-painter. The young man knew that he was sacrificing his talents, but grim necessity commanded such sacrifice; so, with a cheerful

spirit, he toiled in his new profession till his mother died. Paul then would have quitted the theatre, and devoted himself to his easel, had not love stolen into his breast. To be near 'Rina, to be able to see her, and oftentimes to speak to her, became his ruling desire; so he continued to labour in the scene-loft, thus forcing his ambition to succumb to affection.

CHAPTER XX.

THE family reached Birmingham, where they had to divide. Then came the sad scene of parting. To Emma, the separation from her daughters was a terrible grief; for they were her solace-her pride and joy-the beings through whom she derived all the happiness of her life, and without whom the world would seem a blank. True, she had other children, but sons could never fill the place of daughters in Emma's heart; for she was the essence of that feminine sensibility which requires the sympathy and companionship of women soft and gentle as herself. With Julius the case was altogether different that he loved his daughters was most certain; but his attachment was mixed up with calculations and ambitious longings, therefore deficient in all those material points which constitute pure and devoted affection. His was indeed a hard, worldly nature, selfish and cold.

It would be an especial benefit to society, and to women in particular, if such men as Julius remained bachelors throughout their selfish existence. Heaven help the woman who marries such a man! for, in so doing, she bids an eternal adieu to every happiness on this side the grave. No matter what she gives up, or how numerous may be her acts of self-denial, he will not love himself a jot the less, or care the more for her. Wrapped in self-worship, he takes all, and gives little; he claims as his peculiar right every sacrifice his wife can make. She is his creature, subservient to his whims, from whom he ever exacts obedient services.