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For a few moments Jane did not reply. She feared to utter any form of words that would mislead. At length she said, modestly,

“I try to subdue in me what is evil, or that which seems to me to act in opposition to good principles.”

Before Walter Gray, pleased with the answer, could frame in his mind a fitting reply, Charles Wilton, with Cara Linton on his arm, was thrown in front of them.

“Has Walter been edifying you with one of the Psalms of David, Miss Emory?” said Wilton, gaily. “One would think so from his solemn face, and the demure, thoughtful expression of yours.”

Neither Walter nor his fair companion were what is called quick-witted; and both were so checked in their thoughts and feelings that neither could, on the moment, fitly reply.

“O, I see how it is,” the gay young man continued. “He has been reading you some of his moral homilies, and you are tired to death. Well, you must bear with him, Miss Emory, he will learn better after awhile.” And the young man and his thoughtless companion turned laughing away.

For a few moments the disturbed thoughts of Walter and his fair friend, trembled upon the surface of their feelings, and then all was again as tranquil as the bosom of a quiet lake.

Enough has now been said, to give a fair idea of the ends which the two young men, we have introduced, set before them upon entering life. Let us now proceed to trace the effects of these ends; effects, which, as a necessary consequence, involved others as much as themselves.

CHAPTER II.

“Well, Gray, the business is all settled,” said Wilton, one day, coming into the office of the individual he addressed so familiarly.

“What business, Charles?”

“Why, I’ve won the rich and beautiful Miss Linton. Last night I told my story, and was referred to the old man, of course. I have just seen him, and he says I am welcome to the hand of his daughter. Now, is not that a long stride up the ladder! The most beautiful and attractive woman in the city for a wife, and an old daddy in law as rich as Croesus!”

“You are what some would call a lucky dog,” said Wilton, with a smile.

“And yet there is no luck in it. ‘Faint heart, they say, ‘never won fair lady.’ I knew half-a-dozen clever fellows who were looking to Miss Linton’s hand; but while they hesitated, I stepped boldly up and carried off the prize. Let me alone, Walter. I’ll work my way through the world.”

“And I, too, have been doing something in that line.”

“You? Why, Walter, you confound me! I never dreamed that you would have the courage to make love to a woman.”

“Wiser ones than you are mistaken, sometimes.”

“No doubt of it. But who is the fair lady?”

“Can you not guess?”

“Jane Emory?”

“Of course. She is the most sensible women it has yet been my fortune to meet.”

“Has the best common sense, I suppose?”

“Exactly.”

“You are a genius, Walter. When you die, I expect you will leave a clause in your will, to the effect that the undertaker shall be a man of good, plain, common sense. O dear! What a dull life you will lead! Darby and Joan!”

“You are still a trifler with serious matters, Charles. But time will sober you, I trust, and do it before such a change will come too late.”

“How much is old Emory worth, Walter?” Wilton asked, without regarding the last remark of his friend.

“I am sure I do not know. Not a great deal, I suppose.”

“You don’t know?”

“No; how should I?”

“Well, you are a queer one! It is time that you did then, let me tell you.”

“Why so?”

“In the name of sense, Walter, what are you going to marry his daughter for.”

“Because I love her.”

“Pah! I know how much of that sort of thing appertains to the business.”

“Charles!”

“Don’t look so utterly dumfounded, friend Walter.”