"You will not; I know human nature too well."

"But, aunt, I am convinced that slavery is wrong; all the arguments which you have just repeated as given you by Mr. Laurens, long since convinced me that slavery was an enormity."

"People unconnected with the institution may reason very well upon its atrocity, but give them a plantation well stocked with slaves, and see what will become of their abolitionism."

"You are too severe, aunt; some born amid slavery, and educated with all the associations of the accursed system clinging to them, have adopted the theories of the abolitionists and carried them into execution."

"Yes, a few who have become fanatics by listening to monomaniasts. These, however, are rare exceptions."

Eleanor, thinking it useless to continue the discussion, reverted to the lady's history, and asked,

"Have you been happy, aunt?"

Miss Merton sighed, smiled, and shook her head.

"I have not. I have enjoyed the blessings of independence, I have been absolute sovereign, but I should have been happier with the love of husband and children."

"But suppose, aunt," asked Eleanor, anxiously, "that you had been surrounded by people of education and refinement, should you not have been happy unmarried?"

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"I think not. Even then my heart would have felt the void which is ever the attendant of those living in the unnatural state of celibacy. The heart is so constituted that it demands the intimate relations ordained by the Creator. Eleanor, I know that you have resolved to live single, but I advise you to marry, even if you must acknowledge your husband as lord."

"But suppose, aunt, that you had had some great object in view, to which you had devoted all the energies of your mind, should you not then have been happy unmarried?"

"No. I have had a great object, that of governing well my numerous slaves; but, in my hours of cessation from labor, I have longed for the love and sympathy of kindred hearts."

Eleanor was troubled, but her thoughts were soon hovering around her own home, and her former resolutions remained unshaken.

"Who would marry," she mentally asked, "and be the slave of one's husband. Better be

like my aunt than my mother."

"I do not mean, child," said Miss Merton, divining Eleanor's thoughts, "that you would do

well to marry any one. All the misery of married life arises from uncongeniality; people are not suitably matched. Let a fashionable belle marry a serious, high-minded clergyman; let a literary lady marry a dunce; let a refined aristocrat marry an unpolished rustic; and great, very great will be the ensuing wretchedness. Marry the right one, and happiness will be the result." Eleanor was unconvinced, but she ventured to say no more. She saw plainly that her aunt was an unhappy, disappointed woman.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Light the nuptial torch,

And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits
The youth and maiden."

BRYANT.

ELEANOR'S attention was suddenly diverted from the new scenes in which she was moving, by the reception of a letter, signed "Marian Harwood." It read thus.

"Will you, dear Eleanor, own as your sister, one who was married, à la Gretna Green?' After your departure, I was sad and lonely, as you may imagine. The house seemed like a tomb, except when we had visiters in the evening. I endured it with tolerable firmness, till papa gravely informed me of his wish that I should receive the addresses of Mr. Smith, a plain, stupid, troublesome bore, who possessed only the recommendation of wealth. I told papa that I should never marry any other than Frank. He was angry, and I firm. After this, I was never allowed to walk unattended. I was continually followed by one of the servants. I became fairly

enraged. If my father had not persecuted me till I was half frantic, I would have taken your advice, and persuaded Frank to wait awhile in hope of more favorable circumstances. But I would not be watched like a slave or a maniac. I therefore sent a note to Frank, stating that I was ready for flight if he would form the plan. Unmaidenly, you will say. But, Eleanor, he had again and again entreated me to elope, so that I was only answering him, and not proposing the deed myself. Frank immediately proceeded to make preparations for housekeeping. When all was ready, he sent me a note, saying that if I would be at the foot of the garden at early dawn the next day, he would guaranty my escape. Papa, as you remember, does not rise early. The next morning I was equipped long before light. I crept down stairs with my shoes in my hand. Not daring to unlock the door, because of the noise which would ensue, I descended into the cellar, and escaped by the window. Will you believe that I was in agony all this time? Not, I assure you, through fear of detection, but I was overpowered by the thought of my altered. prospects. A few months since, I had fancied myself a happy bride, married publicly in my father's halls, and going in triumph to my new home. Now I was stealing from the roof which