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“Certainly, Mr. Delafield,” cried Maria Osgood, “you have outdone your own outdoings.”

“If I have been so fortunate as to please here, then I am rewarded indeed,” said the youth, with a bow and an expression that rendered it a little doubtful to which of the ladies the compliment was addressed. At this instant, George Morton approached them.

“Mr. Delafield, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Morton,” said Maria, glancing her eye at the former in a manner that he understood.

“I have great pleasure in taking Mr. Morton by the hand,” said Seymour, “if he will excuse the want of ceremony in this company. The lesson that you gave to me yesterday, sir, will not soon be forgotten.”

“In what manner, sir?” inquired George, with a little embarrassment and a conscious blush.

“In teaching me, among others, Mr. Morton, the difference between active and passive humanity– between that which is satisfied with feeling, and that which prompts to serve.”

To this unexpected compliment young Morton could do no more than bow in silence, for it was too flattering for a reply–and too true to deny. As Delafield turned his eye, at a little loss to know whether to be pleased or not with his own humility, he met a look from Charlotte that more than rewarded him for the effort. It was a mild, benevolent, pure glance, that spoke admiration and heartfelt pleasure. He forgot his solo, and the expected compliments; and, for the rest of the evening, that thrilling expression floated in his brain, and was present to his thoughts; it was worth a thousand of the studied glances that were continually aimed at him from all sides of the room, and with every variety of eye–from the piercing black, to the ogling gray. It was a look that came directly from, and went to, the heart. If young ladies always knew how nicely nature has qualified the other sex to judge of their actions, what multitudes of astonishingly expressive glances, and artfully contrived gestures and movements, would sink down into looks, that indicated feelings and motives, that were adapted to the occasion! What trouble in creating incidents that might draw out charms would be avoided! And, in short, how much extra labour, both of body and mind, would be spared!

This agreeable contemplation of Mr. Delafield was soon interrupted by the cheerful voice of Maria Osgood, who cried–

“Bless me, George, you really do look ill.”

“It is seldom that I have much health to boast of,” replied the youth, in a feeble voice, and with a still feebler smile.

“But,” said Maria, without reflecting, “you look worse than usual.”

There was so much truth in this remark, that the young man could only smile in silence, while Seymour, surveying the very plain exterior of his new acquaintance, turned his eyes with additional satisfaction towards a mirror that reflected his own form from head to feet.

“You will not attempt the flute to-night, George?” said Charlotte.

“I believe I must, or not fulfil my engagement to Mrs. Osgood.”

“Surely,” continued Charlotte, in a low tone to her friend, “George had better not play, looking so ill as he does.”

“Certainly not; besides, his performance would not shine after that of Mr. Delafield.”

Seymour overheard this speech, which was really intended only for the ear of Charlotte, and he was instantly seized with an unaccountable desire to hear the flute of Mr. Morton. Seymour was conscious that he played well, and could he have forgotten the indifference that Miss Henly exhibited to his performance, would have been abundantly flattered with the encomiums that were lavished on his skill.

A request from the mistress of the mansion now compelled George to make his appearance among the musicians, and in a few minutes his flute was heard alone. There was a vacancy in the looks of Charlotte, during the scientific execution of the different individuals who had been labouring at the several instruments in the course of the evening, that denoted a total indifference to the display. But, the moment that George was called on to take his part in the entertainment, this restlessness disappeared, and was succeeded by an expression of intense interest and deep anxiety. The melody of George was simple and plaintive; he aimed at no extraordinary exhibition of skill, and it was difficult to compare his music with that of Seymour. The latter, however, studied the countenance of the young lady near him as the best index to their comparative merit, and he was soon able to read his own want of success. For the first few minutes, anxiety was the principal expression portrayed in her lovely face, but it was soon succeeded by a deep and powerful emotion. There is something contagious in the natural expression of our passions, that insensibly enlists the sympathies of the beholder–and Seymour felt a soft melancholy stealing over him as he gazed, that was but a faint reflection of the tenderness excited in the breast of Charlotte, while she listened to sounds that penetrated to her very soul. There is no mistaking the effect of music that depends only on its melody. Its appeal to the heart is direct end unequivocal, and nothing but callous indifference can resist its power. The most profound silence pervaded the apartment, and George was enabled to finish his piece with a spirit that increased with the attention. As the last breathing notes died on the ear, Delafield turned to meet those eyes which had already secured an unconscious victory, and saw them moistened with a lustre that added to their natural softness. Beauty in tears is proverbially irresistible–and the youth, bending forward, said in a voice that was modulated to the stillness of the room–