One brother was yet left, and she was taken to his home, for he was
a wealthy merchant. But there seemed a coldness in his splendid
house, a coldness in his wife's heart. Sick in body and in mind, the
bereft one resolved to travel South, and visit among her relations,
hoping to awaken her interest in life, which had lain dormant
through grief. She went to that sunny region, and while there,
became acquainted with a man of fine intellect and fascinating
manners, who won her affections, and afterwards proved unworthy of
her. Again the beauty of her life was darkened, and with a weary
heart she wore out the tedious years of her joyless existence. She
was an angel of charity to the poor and suffering. She grew lovelier
through sorrow. A desire to see her brother, her nearest and dearest
relative, called her North again, and when our story opens she was
in the bosom of his home, a member of his family. He loved her
deeply, yet she felt like an alien--his wife had not welcomed her as
a sister should. Mary Clinton's heart went out toward's Alice, her
eldest niece, a beautiful and loving creature just springing into
womanhood. But the fair girl was gay and thoughtless, flattered and
caressed by everybody. She knew sadness only by the name. She had no
dream that she could impart a deep joy, by giving forth her young
heart's love to the desolate stranger.

The hour had grown late, very late, and Mary Clinton still leaned
her head upon the table buried in thoughts, when the bounding step
of Alice outside the door aroused her from her revery. She listened,
almost hoping to see her friendly face peeping in, but wearied with
the enjoyment of the evening, the fair young belle hastened on to
her chamber, and her aunt heard the door close. Rising from her seat
at the table, Miss Clinton approached a window, and threw back the
curtains that the midnight air might steal coolingly over her brow.