| asked me very seriously the other day if I did vain; dear little soul, I know every change of her not consider the keeping of a journal a sad waste blessed old face by heart! At last she managed of time. I smiled, for I thought of the piles of with wonderful cleverness to come to the subject. journals I had written; and in a very unteacher- "I called at Mr. Murray's yesterday," she said; like manner, began to excuse the waste of time, then paused. Mr. Murray is my lawyer, and she by the pleasure it yielded. How her sensible had already told me of her visit to him so often little face expressed wonder to hear me talk such since the day before, that I felt certain the cause heresy in the presence of the "first division of the of her discomfort was connected with him. I first class!" And she reminded me, in a tone in knew it could not be respecting my own affairs, which reproach seemed struggling with respect, for her account of my business arrangements that the enjoyment of trifles was anything but were favourable,-my school has never been so beneficial, adding that the pleasure a pursuit large as it is at present, nor my payments so reguyielded should not blind us as to its utility or use- lar-she had deposited with him carefully all our lessness. How I longed to draw the pretty little little savings, so far all was fair and straight, arguer to me, and, by laughs and caresses, charm therefore I rested my head against the side of her away much of this cold reasoning and rigid duty-chair, waiting patiently for her confidence. At last binding-but what use?-the dear little soul is out it came, when she found there was no help better fitted for her vocation as she is. This or avoidance. matter-of-fact nature enables her to endure much more than I can, and to undertake difficulties in life, the mere thinking of which causes my poor heart, weakened by indulgence, to start back with affright. However, to the argument. I found the little philosopher had the advantage of me, and, with the quickness that is in blessed mercy rouchsafed to poor logicians like myself, dreamers who go through life without understanding what the word utility means,-I thought suddenly of a passage in the Spectator, which brought me off with flying colours, and I should not be surprised to see my pretty, cold little Yankee girl commence journalizing herself. Addison, in one of his papers, in which occurs the passage referred to, after recommending his readers to keep a journal, says: This kind of self-examination would give them a true state of themselves, and incline them to consider seriously what they are about. One day would rectify the omissions of another, and make a man weigh all those indifferent actions, which, though they are easily forgotten, must certainly be accounted for." Cousin Katie, dear old soul! went to town yesterday to execute numberless commissions. When she returned in the evening, I saw that something was on her mind, which even the praises of the children, the teachers and myself lavished upon her, for her kind attention to our requests, failed to relieve. "What can it be?" I asked myself, but I resolved to let her alone until she should feel disposed to communicate the cause of her anxiety. I always take to myself the hour immediately after dinner, which I devote to quiet reflection and reading: my study adjoins the school-room, where the girls, with the assistant teachers, are also reading and taking that rest of mind and body necessary after the morning's mental exertion, and preparatory to the hour's romp and walk in the close of the afternoon. When this hour of relaxation came around to-day, Cousin Katie tapped at my door, and asked if she might talk with me a little while. I closed the school-room door, and made my kind, innocent-hearted cousin take the fauteuil to rest those little active limbs that had been padding about since sunrise, seeing to "the baked and the boiled," as Bettina says, of my menage. How Could I live without Cousin Katie? As she seated herself, I could not help noticing her anxious face, and I exclaimed to myself, "Now comes the secret!" She tried to hide her anxiety, but all in "Who do you think I found with him?" she asked hurriedly, and, without waiting for an answer, she continued: “Do you remember Charles Milman?-I beg his pardon, Mr. Milman, but he called me 'Cousin Katie' with such old-fashioned earnestness, I came very near forgetting he was not the Charlie Milman of days gone by, that I used to pet and love so dearly. He has lately come from England, and intends to live here; he has with him his little daughter and a ward, a Miss Warford, to whom Mr. Murray told me privately he might after a time be married-Charles, I mean. Unforeseen business of importance takes him back to Europe immediately, and he will be gone some months-maybe a year. He stayed only a little while after I came into the office, and when he left, Mr. Murray told me Mr. Milman had called to ask him to obtain a place in your esta blishment for his child and ward. He said that after Mr. Milman's return from Europe, Miss Warford would take charge of his house, and of course wish to have little Miss Milman with them, but for the present Mr. Milman would like to have them reside with you. Mr. Murray will come to-morrow to see you, and I promised to tell you, that you might think about it.” All this Cousin Katie said in quick, hurried tones, without once looking at me. Much, much she knew of the past, but not all,-yet enough to make her fear giving me pain by her communica tion. A request from the school-room, about the seleotion of a reading-book for one of the younger girls, interrupted us, and Cousin Katie gladly seized upon it as an excuse for departure. After the book was selected, and some little conversation with the teachers and girls, I told them I would not be able to join them in their afternoon walk, as I had some writing to attend to;-and here I am with my table and chair before the window, at times attending to the games of those graceful groups of merry-hearted, affectionate girls, who prefer walking and playing in the grounds to taking the promised walk through the woods without me; and then, again, with thoughts busy in the past, which make me walk rapidly to and fro, as if restlessness of body would give peace of mind. Dear Cousin Katie knew well she would give pain when she asked the simple question of, " Did I remember Charles Milman?" Remember him!-although I have been the wife and am now the widow of another, never for one instant has he been absent from my thoughts for years. In vain have I struggled! Duty-pride-all were overcome; the clear, beaming eye dimmed with tears, and trembling, reproachful lips of my youth's companion would come before me in the midst of gaiety or grief, and sadden every burst of laughter, and deepen every sob of sorrow,-and now, when I thought I had taught myself calmness when I hoped that I had expiated by severe trouble my past misdoings,-this question and communication of Cousin Katie's proves that my fancied calmness is a mere show, and my expiation not half over. I forget those laughing girls that are grouped beneath my window, and as I recline in my high chair, with my hand before my eyes, driving back the bitter tears that memory causes to well up, fancy pictures to me a scene of past years. Time is annihilated,-again I am a girl, and by the side of the spring in the adjoining woods I am standing, looking at Charles Milman for the last time, and sobbing heart-broken on his shoulder. me. caprice and obstinacy, and would have wished to make her think Charles as cold and unloving as I tried in my anger to persuade myself he was. At the commencement, she endeavoured to soften me, but in vain; I had never yielded, never would, and when, with proud, haughty bearing, I stood at the altar as the bride of another, defying happiness, she said nothing, but wept sad, bitter tears. I soon, however, discovered the mistake I had made, and when my anger left me, remorse and hopeless love rendered my life miserable. The world looked on me with envious eyes, and thought that one upon whom a doting father and husband bestowed every care and attention, and who was decked out so gaily, and seemed so brilliant, surely could not have a cause for sorrow. What a heavy heart I carried within me! Then did Cousin Katie show herself to be a true comforter; she did not upbraid me for the past, telling me I had made my own wretchedCharles and I had lived together from baby-ness, but she cleared away the thorns of the prehood. He had been my father's ward, and at the sent, and magnified every blessing bestowed upon time my memory recalled, he had completed his education, and, in accordance with his father's will, was leaving for Liverpool, to enter the business establishment of which his father had been a leading partner. This first parting caused us great agony. Such vows of fidelity and constancy we made as we secretly engaged ourselves to each other! I had no mother to direct me, only Cousin Katie to confide in, who was nobody so far as authority was concerned-everything where care and kindness were needed. My father we knew would object to any engagement, on account of my age, for I was a mere child; then, moreover, even if there had been no objection, there was a romance about the secresy of it that charmed us. We separated; both fondly picturing forth the time when he should be a man, and return to make me "his little wife." A few years rolled by, and brought me to womanhood, spoiled and self-willed; for I was pretty, and as my father was reputed wealthy, society kindly called me a belle. I flirted, waltzed, and dashed away to my silly heart's content; but to my credit be it told, at the bottom of that heart lay untouched, undimmed, all the wild worship of my childhood for Charles Milman. But prosperity and success made me imperious and exacting. Unluckily some little misunderstanding occurred between Charles and myself, and our separation rendered it difficult to adjust this "trifle light as air." I was impetuous, headstrong; he calm, conscious of meaning no wrong, and quietly waiting for my better judgment to teach me my error, trusting-fatal confidence! -in my love for him. In a fit of anger, maddened by his coolness, I broke our secret engagement, and a few months after, was standing at the altar, promising a love I could not feel, to a man nearly as old as my father, whom I had encouraged and accepted in a moment of desperation, when I cared not what misery I inflicted on myself. A younger man I could not have married, but my quiet, old husband exacted nothing but respect from the beautiful, self-willed girl, upon whom he delighted to lavish every luxurious gift his immense fortune could procure. Cousin Katie, who had nursed me in childhood, and had always borne patiently all my petulance and waywardness, had been the confidant of my love for Charles; of our quarrel she knew little; for in truth, at times, I felt ashamed of my tyrannical I often heard of Charles, through my father, who had never known my engagement to him. About two years after my marriage, while I was occupied in nursing my husband in a sickness from which he never recovered, I received the news of Charles's marriage. This caused me bitter anguish and floods of tears; but Cousin Katie, who was always by my side with words of consolation, managed adroitly to let me know he had married from feelings of pity, not love, a cousin who was suffering from a secret attachment for him, and, that at the time of their marriage, she was almost dying with consumption. Three years after saw me a widow and fatherless, and almost penniless; for my poor father left but a pittance to me, having met with business difficulties, which shortened his life, and my husband's tedious illness caused his affairs to be so seriously entangled, that but a small sum remained for me after their adjustment. For four years had I performed the duty of nurse to my husband, who was rendered querulous and impatient by sickness; but I never repined, and swept aside every tear, with the hope that this was expiatory. After my affairs were settled, I invested part of my little capital in my father's country seat, and opened a boarding-school. Cousin Katie came to live with me and preside over my domestic affairs. Five years have I been engaged in my new vocation; and although I feared, from my former habits of life, these duties would be irksome, I have found them, on the contrary, interesting. I have felt calmer and tasted more true happiness than at any other season of my life since my childhood; for unto me has been given, "Made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice." But, now that I have attained this state of resigned calmness, I am called upon again to suffer. Charles is a widower. His poor wife died a year or two after their marriage, leaving an infant daughter, and this time he will marry not from sympathy alone, but love. Such is man they so easily forget-so soon change. When married, I was a wayward, headstrong girl, and acted under the influence of temper and a reck less, childish spirit of resentment, never dreaming of the suffering that would ensue. But, now that I am a woman, my heart, through all reverses, | accompaniment, she placed herself in my seat at still remains true to the objects of my early love. the piano, and accompanied in a brilliant style. Nothing could tempt me to marry again. But We spent the rest of the morning in singing shame on me for these thoughts!—I must become together. Her style is equal to any prima donna strong and calm. He fancies me changed as he I have ever heard,-polished, and her intonation is;-let me be so. pure and round. They are with me-Charles's child and future bride. Mr. Murray brought them, not Charles, as I feared. Miss Warford is to be a parlour boarder, not subjected to school discipline. Little Bessie is a charming child, about six or seven years of age; very interesting to me of course. She is the image of her father, has the same wavy, clustering dark hair, deep, beaming eyes, and trembling, beautifully-formed mouth. How I cling to the child, and already she seems to love me. Last night she fell asleep in my lap after tea, and when the servant came to put her to bed, she cried to sleep with her new mamma, as she calls me, and on my bosom did she sweetly sleep all night. They have been with me a week. Charles sailed for Europe the day they came. Miss Warford is a cold, stately girl, apparently about nineteen. She would be beautiful, if her face did not wear such an anxious, painful expression. She seems suffering from some hidden trouble. She is tall, having a fine figure, a great quantity of dark hair, and a clear, classical outline of feature. She of course suffers from her separation from Charles. I remember when I suffered from the same cause, and feel a sympathy for her; but she repels all sympathy. In vain have I sought to make myself companionable; she seems most at ease when alone; but often, when she glides in silently to the dining-room when we are at our meals, her face looks swollen, and her full, dark eyes seem dimmed with tears. Helen Warford's character is an enigma to me. Nearly two months has she been with me, and I am no nearer her heart than I was at the beginning. I hoped to find an avenue in talking of Charles, but she listens with languor, sometimes with impatience. Can she know of our former intercourse? Impossible! When she receives letters-which I suppose are from Charles-they cause her much unhappiness. Were he to die while away, I think it would kill her; and yet, with all this devotion to him, it does not extend to my pet Bessie. She pays her but little and sometimes no attention; indeed, she seems wearied with her and all the children. Some trouble is on this girl's mind, independent of Charles's absence;-I cannot help thinking so. What can it be? I almost forget the anguish I suffered at the prospect of her marriage with Charles, in the interest I take in her strange character. She is a woman of superior attainments. At my little réunion last week we had some foreigners, and during the evening I heard her conversing in French, Spanish, and Italian, alternately, and with the fluency almost of the foreigners themselves. I have discovered a new accomplishment in Charles's future wife. She is a finished musician. I have never heard such a voice. I was looking over some operas the other day in the music-room, after I had finished giving some lessons to the girls, and was trying one part of a difficult duo, when she, having just entered, took up the other part, and as I met with some difficulty in the "You must have paid a great deal of attention to music," I said, after we had sung for three hours uninterruptedly. This innocent remark of mine revived all her former reserve, which the music seemed to have softened. She replied coldly in the affirmative, turned from the piano, and left the room, as if unpleasant recollections had been recalled. Strange girl!-three months has she been with us, and has never touched a piano before. The next day she desired me to order a piano for her own room. As I had directions from Mr. Murray to gratify her in everything, I instantly sent to town for one, which arrived this afternoon, and as I write, I hear her preluding and pouring out cadenzas and roulades with perfect ease. Her voice seems inexhaustible in richness and power. But all this beautiful music she seems determined to keep to herself, and there is such a quiet dignity and reserve in her manner, that I cannot approach her in any way. Cousin Katie says she has been disappointed in love, and will marry Charles only for a protector; but poor Katie will never in her mind permit Charles to be happy in any marriage. Heaven grant him all happiness, is my constant prayer. His little Bessie is still my pet and darling, my hourly companion. Dear child! I could not love her better if she were really my own. I am completely mystified-but I will commence at the beginning. An opera troupe came to town last week,-quite a novel affair. A few days after their opening, Miss Warford came to me, and said, "This opera corps is really a fine one. The prima donna and primo uomo are celebrated singers. Do you never go?" "Often," I replied," whenever there is anything worth seeing. I like my little musicians to hear good music when they can. I will commission Monsieur Dériot, our music-master, to take a box for us; will you accompany us, Miss Helen?" "I am very desirous to do so," she answered; "it was the hope of your chaperoning me that made me mention it to you." 66 Monsieur Dériot procured a box for me; and, night before last, we drove to town, to see the play,"-Cousin Katie, Miss Warford, and myself, with five of my eldest girls, and Monsieur Dériot with his pretty little Neapolitan wife. We of course arrived quite early, as people always do who seldom indulge in such amusements. Before the overture commenced, Monsieur Dériot leaned over to Nannie Morris, saying, "Mademoiselle, my wife can tell you an interesting romance about this prima donna and tenore." Nannie, who is very romantic, eagerly applied to the Madame, who was on the front seat, for the delicious bit of romantic gossip. Madame Dériot willingly entered into the whole affair. The primo uomo was from Naples. She knew him when he was a boy. He was a great singer, very handsome,-an Apollo, to use her expression,-Alessandro Stivelli by name; but with his beauty and talent he was also very inconstant and dissipated. The prima donna was also a Neapolitan, a Signorita Amalie Larini, and had loved Stivelli for years. They had made their debut together, and their mutual friends hoped he would marry her. Indeed, at first he seemed quite disposed to flirt with her; but receiving an engagement in London, he left her for a year or more, and never seemed to remember she was in existence. Poor Amalie pined and fretted; and at last, when she heard that Alessandro had eloped with a young English lady of rank and fortune, she fell sick, and came near dying; but, when almost at her last moments, he suddenly returned, and she recovered. "Will he marry her?" asked Nannie. "I hope so," said Madame Dériot," and so does his mother, who has always taken care of Amalie. He has accepted engagements to sing with her here in the States, and in Havana, and his mother hopes Amalie's gentleness will win him." But," said Lucy Reeve, another one of my pupils, "you did not tell us about his English lady-love." "Oh," replied the Madame, "that was a slander. He has never intended to marry any one, and I believe in his heart he loves only Amalie.” Is she pretty?" inquired Nannie. "Lovely, petite, and gentle; and she warbles like a nightingale. He tells his mother, to tease her, he would love Amalie to distraction if she had contr'alto notes;-her voice is a delicate pure soprano." to me, Just then the overture commenced, and the girls were all attention. Cousin Katie, who sat behind with Monsieur Dériot, hastily whispered "Miss Warford looks as though she was fainting-give her my salts;" and dear Katie plunged into her deep pocket for the old-fashioned, heavy bottle she always carried with her, though never afflicted with nervous excitement herself. I turned around hastily, and was struck with alarm at Miss Warford's countenance. Her lips were bloodless, and her face almost rigid. "Are you sick?" I asked. "Very!" she gasped. "Take me away;-this heat is intolerable. O God, let me die!" We hastily removed her from the box, and I accompanied her home, leaving Cousin Katie and Monsieur and Madame Dériot to take care of the girls, who seemed so distressed at the prospect of returning, that I could not find it in my heart to take them away from the unheard opera. All the way as we drove home Miss Warford spoke not a word, but every little while gasped as if for breath. I had her taken to her room, where, after resting awhile as if half-dead, she expressed a desire to speak with me. I leaned over her, and she said, "I would be quite alone; excuse my abruptness and the trouble I have occasioned you, I beg of you. Do not fear to leave me; I am much better, and if I need assistance, I will ring." I left her; but, several times during the evening, I went to her door, when she assured me, without opening it, that she felt quite restored; and when the girls returned about eleven, they were astounded to hear her piano rolling out deep, solemn voluntaries. "Pity Miss Warford could not have deferred her fainting fit to a more convenient season," said Grace Foster, a brusque, abrupt Kentucky girl, "so that Mamma Meta could have heard the Larini and Stivelli." Then they all joined in chorus to tell how | lovely the gentle, love-stricken prima donna was, and how "bewitchingly hateful"-to use their true school-girl's expression-the Stivelli was;so handsome and so haughty; never noticing an encore, and in the tender passages scarcely regarding the Larini's beseeching looks. The night-bell had to be rung three times before we could produce anything like a becoming quiet and order in my little family, so excited were these young creatures. "It's plain to be seen, young ladies," said Cousin Katie, out of all patience, “that it would not do to take you often to the opera." "Take us oftener, dear Cousin Katie," lisped out the merry Sallie Foster, Grace's younger sister, "and you will see how fashionably inditlerent we will grow. It is because we are not used to it that we make such an uproar." Quiet at last reigned over my little household, but in Helen Warford's room rest came not. It adjoined mine; and during the night I heard her suppressed sobs and impatient, restless walking. This morning she asked permission, or, rather, informed me through her servant that she would be obliged to me for the carriage, as she wished to see Mr. Murray. About an hour afterwards, I met her on the stairway, cloaked, bonneted, and closely veiled. "Would it not be better to send for Mr. Murray?" I said, after exchanging the morning courtesies. "You must require rest after your nervous attack." "The air and drive will do me good, thank you," she replied, in a hoarse, trembling voice, and hastily bade me good morning. It is now after nightfall, and she has not yet returned. The carriage came back immediately, and my coachman brought me a message from Miss Warford, saying she would remain with Mr. Murray to dine. This is something new. How can she dine with Mr. Murray, in his old-bachelor situation?-go with him to his hotel? I confess I feel both uneasy and curious. She has been placed in a measure under my charge, but at the same time Mr. Murray gave me most delicately to understand that she was her own mistress, and merely stayed with me because she had no female relative in this country to remain with during Mr. Milman's absence. I wish Charles would return, for Helen Warford is a constant cause of annoyance to me. To-day would have passed delightfully, had it not been for my anxiety with regard to her. I exempted the first division of my first class from their lessons, on account of their last night's unusual dissipation; and as they are my peculiar charges, we spent the schoolhours together in my room, reading the old Essayists. I selected Addison's papers in the Spectator, on Paradise Lost, as best calculated to quiet their little heads, and the whole morning, from nine until three, passed as a half hour, in reading these papers and parts of that divine poem. After dinner they prepared their studies for tomorrow, and we closed the day with music. broke up at nine in the evening, as I requested them to retire early, that they might make up for lost rest. I do wish Helen Warford would return; —it is near midnight, and no news from her yet. We This morning a note was brought very early. It should have reached me last night. It was from Helen. "I am sorry, my dear madam," she wrote, "to be the cause of so much uneasiness as The other guardian wrote that Stivelli could be silenced by money, and a divorce obtained by a sacrifice of a portion of Helen's estate. Maddened by this news, Helen told Mr. Milman that if he found Stivelli base enough to make these arrange ments she would gladly consent to a divorce though still wildly in love with him. "Yesterday," said Mr. Murray, "I received letters from Mr. Milman, announcing the ap proaching conclusion of the affair. He had seen Stivelli, and had, by the payment of large sums of money, obtained his consent to the divorce. Mr. Milman is now only awaiting the final settle ment of the business to return. No sooner had Stivelli obtained his share of the money, than he sailed for America with his vagabond troupe, and yesterday, just as I was coming out here to tell Miss Helen how satisfactorily the whole affair had been arranged, I received a note from her, begging me to write to Mr. Milman that it was unnecessary to proceed any further in the business; that her husband was in America, and had entirely con vinced her of the truth of his love for her, and had fully cleared away all her doubts of his sin cerity. This note was signed Helen Stivelli. I went to the hotel where these Italians are staying, and, sure enough, found her there with this mus tachioed singing fellow. They had just been remarried, for Stivelli had told her of the divorce, but in such a manner as to make her believe he had been injured and oppressed." "Where did she meet with Stivelli ?" I asked, "At the house of some Frenchman," said Mr. Murray. "Mons. Dériot?" was my eager inquiry. "That's the name," replied Mr. Murray. "She had heard that his wife knew Stivelli, and she went, I suppose, to seek some information of him. While there, Stivelli accidentally entered, she told me in her half wild explanation, which I could scarcely understand, and the whole affair was concluded." "Foolish, infatuated girl!" he exclaimed; " she has thrown herself away on that vagabond singer, and God knows what is to become of her. Her guardians spent thousands of her fine fortune to release her from the effects of her first impru- | dence, and now she has undone all. Yesterday the priest married them, and she is as safe in this Stivelli's clutches as law can bind her." In this manner he raved for some time, but at last I managed to gather the story by bits and fragments. Helen Warford was left an orphan at an early age. Being a wealthy heiress, every care of course was taken with her education, and being also a girl of excellent abilities, she was, when the left school two years since, a very fascinating, accomplished woman. She went to reside with one of her guardians, whose wife was a silly woman of fashion. By some unfortunate chance she was thrown with this Stivelli. He was the great tenore at the time in London, and the fashionable world was raving about him. Helen had always been remarkable for her musical aptitude and fine voice; she was the prima donna of her circle, and with Stivelli sang at their private musicales. She became infatuated with his beauty and voice; he, I suppose, with her fine fortune; and from singing love to each other they began talking it, and ended the matter by an elopement. They were pursued and overtaken, but not until after the marriage ceremony. Unfortunately, Mr. Milman was travelling on the continent at that time and her other guardian, under whose roof she had first met with Stivelli, and who felt himself to blame, being a very passionate man, instantly took her from Stivelli, and carried her back to London. The excitement she had endured brought on severe illness, she became delirious, and for some weeks her life was deepaired of: Stivelli being terrified with the threats I have just read in the morning's paper the and anger of Helen's friends, took a hasty depar- announcement of the departure of the whole Ita ture for Italy before she recovered. In the mean lian troupe for Havana, en route for Naples, and in time Mr. Milman returned to England. When the list of passengers is Signor Stivelli and lady. Helen had sufficiently recovered to see him,—she | An accompanying paragraph speaks of the dan having heard of Stivelli's abrupt departure, which gerous state of the prima donna Larini's health. appeared like desertion of her, besought of him She ruptured a blood vessel at her last appearance, to take her away from the scene of her disap- and the paper very coolly says: "The troupe will pointment and mortification. Mr. Milman had be forced to find another donna, for Larini is ab been intending to return to America to reside, for most too delicate, even when in health, to support some time, but Helen's wild, despairing entreaties properly Stivelli's magnificent voice." Poor Amato be removed to a place where she would be lie! thy race is nearly run-two victims has this unlikely to have anything remind her of her mad heartless Stivelli sacrificed to his vanity. Helen folly, hastened the fulfilment of this intention. Warford may yet be cast aside as Larini now is. They had no sooner arrived in this country than I did not see Helen before her departure,—she they received letters from Europe, which had expressed no desire for it. Our intercourse, even been written immediately after their departure, when she was under my roof, was so slight, that informing them that Stivelli was using means I suppose she parted from me with little or no to establish claims on Helen's property. Then regret. Mr. Milman will return in the next it was that Mr. Milman concluded to place her with packet. me, while he returned to Europe to see Stivelli. I then related to Mr. Murray the scene at the opera, which cleared the only confused part of the story. This is a most unfortunate affair, and before two days will be the town talk;-anything but agreeable to me as the head of a large boarding-school. But no blame can be attached to me. She was entirely beyond my control in every way, infatuated girl! |