"Let me go," cried Helen, struggling to release the hand which he had taken, and springing from her rocky seat. "It is not right to talk to me in this manner, and I will not hear you. It is false to Mittie, and insulting to me."

"I should be false to Mittie should I pretend to love her now, when my whole heart and soul are yours," exclaimed the young man, vehemently. "I can no more resist the impulse that draws me to you, than I can stay the beatings of this wildly throbbing heart. Love, Helen, cannot be forced, neither can it be restrained."

"I know nothing of love," cried Helen, pressing on her homeward path, with a terror she dared not betray, "nor do I wish to know—but one thing I do know—I feel nothing but dread in your presence. You make me wretched and miserable. I am sure if you have the feelings of a gentleman you will leave me after telling you this."

"The more you urge me to flee, the more firmly am I rooted to your side. You do not know your own heart, Helen. You are so young and guileless. It is not dread of me, but your sister's displeasure that makes you tremble with fear. You cannot fear me, Helen—you must, you will, you shall love me."

Helen was now wrought up to a pitch of excitement and terror that was perfectly uncontrollable. Every word uttered by Clinton seemed burned in—on her brain, not her heart, and she pressed both hands on her forehead, as if to put out the flame.

"Oh! that Arthur Hazleton were here," she exclaimed, "he would protect me."

"No danger shall reach you while I am near you, Helen," cried Clinton, again endeavoring to take her hand in his—but Helen darted into a side path and ran as fleetly and wildly as when she believed the glittering, fiery-eyed viper was pursuing her. Sometimes she caught hold of the slender trunk of a tree to give her a quicker momentum, and sometimes she sprang over brooklets, which, in a calmer moment, she would have deemed impossible. She felt that Clinton had slackened his pursuit as she drew near her home, but she never paused till she found herself in her own chamber, where, sinking into a chair, she burst into a passion of tears such as she had never wept before. Shame, dread, resentment, fear—all pressed so crushingly upon her, her soul was bowed even to the dust. The future lowered so darkly before her. Mittie—she could not help looking upon her as a kind of avenging spirit—that would forever haunt her.

While she was in this state of ungovernable emotion, Mittie came in, with a face as white and rigid as marble, and stood directly in front of her.

"Why have you fled from Clinton so?" she cried, in a strange, harsh tone. "Tell me, for I will know. Tell me, for I have a right to know."

Helen tried to speak, but her breathless lips sought in vain to utter a sound. There was a bright, red spot in the centre of both cheeks, but the rest of her face was as colorless as Mittie's.

"Speak," cried Mittie, stamping her foot, with an imperious gesture, "and tell me the truth, or you had better never have been born."

"Ask me nothing," she said at length, recovering breath to answer, "for the truth will only make you wretched."

"What has he said to you?" repeated Mittie, seizing the arm of Helen with a force of which she was not aware. "Have you dared to let him talk to you about love?"

"Alas! I want not his love. I believe him not," cried Helen; "and, oh! Mittie, trust him not. Think of him no more. He does not love you—is not worthy of you."

Mittie tossed Helen's arm from her with a violence that made her writhe with pain—while her eyes flashed with the bale-fires of passion.

"How dare you tell me such a falsehood?" she exclaimed, "you little, artful, consummate hypocrite. He never told you this. You have been trying to supplant me from the moment of your arrival, trying to make yourself appear a victim, a saint—a martyr to a sister's jealous and exciting temper. I have seen it all. I have watched the whole, day after day. I have seen you stealing off to Miss Thusa's—pretending to love that horrible old woman—only that you might have clandestine meetings with Clinton. And now you are seeking to shake my confidence in his faith and truth, that you may alienate him more completely from me."

"Oh! Mittie—don't," cried Helen, "don't for Heaven's sake, talk so dreadfully. You don't mean what you say. You don't know what you are doing."

"I tell you I do know—and you shall know to your cost, you little wolf in lamb's clothing," cried Mittie, growing more and more frantic as she yielded to the violence of her passions. "It was not enough, was it, to wind yourself round the young doctor with your subtle, childish ways, till you have made a fool of him with all his wisdom, treating him with a forwardness and familiarity that ought to make you blush at the remembrance—but you must come between me and the only being this side of Heaven I ever cared for? Take care of yourself; get out of my way, for I am growing mad. The sight of you makes me a maniac."

Helen was indeed terrified at an exhibition of temper so unparalleled. She rose, though her limbs trembled so she could scarcely walk, and took two or three steps towards the door.

"Where are you going?" exclaimed Mittie.

"You told me to leave you," said Helen, faintly, "and indeed I cannot stay—I ought not to stay, and hear such false and cruel things. I will not stay," she exclaimed, with a sudden and startling flash of indignation; "I will not stay to be so insulted and trampled on. Let me pass."

"You shall not go to Clinton."

"Let me pass, I say," cried Helen, with a wild vehemence, that contrasted fearfully with her usual gentleness. "I am afraid of you, with such daggers in your tongue."

She rushed passed Mittie, flew down stairs, into the sitting room, in the presence of her father, step-mother, and Clinton, who was sitting as if perfectly unconscious of the tempest he had roused.

"Father, father," she exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms. "Oh, father."

Nothing could be more startling than her appearance. The bright spot on her cheek was now deepened to purple, and her eyes had a strange, feverish lustre.

"Why, what is the meaning of this?" cried Mr. Gleason, turning in alarm to his wife.

"Something must have terrified her—only feel of her hands, they are as cold as ice; and look at her cheeks."

"She seems ill, very ill," observed Clinton, rising, much agitated; "shall I go for a physician?"

"I fear Doctor Hazleton is not yet returned," said Mrs. Gleason, anxiously. "I think she is indeed ill—alarmingly so."

"No, no," cried Helen, clinging closer to her father, "don't send for Doctor Hazleton—anybody in the world but him. I cannot see him."

"How strange," exclaimed Mr. Gleason, "she must be getting delirious. You had better carry her up stairs," added he, turning to his wife, "and do something to relieve her, while I go for some medical advice. She is subject to sudden nervous attacks."

"No, no," cried Helen, still more vehemently, "don't take me up stairs; I cannot go back; it would kill me. Only let me stay with you."

Mr. Gleason, who well remembered the terrible fright Helen had suffered in her childhood—her fainting over her mother's corpse—her imprisonment in the lonely school-house—believed that she had received some sudden shock inflicted by a phantom of her own imagination. Her frantic opposition to being taken up stairs confirmed this belief, and he insisted on his wife's conveying her to her own room and giving her an anodyne. Clinton felt as if his presence must be intrusive, and left the room—but he divined the cause of Helen's strange emotion. He heard a quick, passionate tread overhead, and he well knew what the lion-strength of Mittie's unchained passions must be.

Mrs. Gleason, too, had her suspicions of the truth, having seen Helen's homeward flight, and heard the voice of Mittie soon afterwards in loud and angry tones. She besought her husband to leave her to her care, assuring him that all she needed was perfect quietude. For more than an hour Mrs. Gleason sat by the side of Helen, holding her hands in one of hers, while she bathed with the other her throbbing temples. Gradually the deep, purple flush faded to a pale hue, and her eyes gently closed. The step-mother thought she slept, and darkened the window—so that the rays of the young moon could not glimmer through the casement. Mrs. Gleason looked upon Helen with anguish, seeing before her so much misery in consequence of her sister's jealous and irascible temper. She sighed for the departure of Clinton, whose coming had roused Mittie to such terrible life, and whose fascinations might be deadly to the peace of Helen. She could see no remedy to the evils which every day might increase—for she knew by long experience the indomitable nature of Mittie's temper.

"Mother," said Helen, softly, opening her eyes, "I do not sleep, but I rest, and it is so sweet—I feel as if I had been out in a terrible storm—so shattered and so bruised within. Oh! mother, you cannot think of the shameful accusations she has brought against me. It makes me shudder to think of them. I shall never, never be happy again. They will always be ringing in my ears—always blistering and burning me."

"You should not think her words of such consequence," said Mrs. Gleason, soothingly; "nothing she can say can soil the purity of your nature, or alienate the affections of your friends. She is a most unhappy girl, doomed, I fear, to be the curse of this otherwise happy household."

"I cannot live so," cried Helen, clasping her hands entreatingly, "I would rather die than live in such strife and shame. It makes me wicked and passionate. I cannot help feeling hatred rising in my bosom, and then I loathe myself in dust and ashes. Oh! let me go somewhere, where I may be at peace—anywhere in the world where I shall be in nobody's way. Ask father to send me back to school—I am young enough, and shall be years yet; or I should like to go into a nunnery, that must be such a peaceful place. No stormy passions—no dark, bosom strife."

"No, my dear, we are not going to give up you, the joy and idol of our hearts. You shall not be the sacrifice; I will shield you henceforth from the violence of this lawless girl. Tell me all the events of this evening, Helen, without reserve. Let there be perfect confidence between us, or we are all lost."

Then Helen, though with many a painful and burning blush, told of her interview with Clinton, and all of which Mittie had so frantically accused her.

"When I rushed down stairs, I did not know what I was doing—my brain seemed on fire, and I thought my reason was gone. If I could find a place of shelter from her wrath, a spot where her eye could not blaze upon me! that was my only thought."

"Oh! that this dangerous, and I fear, unprincipled young man had never entered our household!" cried Mrs. Gleason; "and yet I would not judge him too harshly. Mittie's admiration, from the first, was only too manifest, and he must have seen before you arrived, the extraordinary defects of her temper. That he should prefer you, after having seen and known you, seems so natural, I cannot help pitying, while I blame him. If it were possible to accelerate his departure—I must consult with Mr. Gleason, for something must be done to restore the lost peace of the family."

"Let me go, dear mother, and all may yet be well."

"If you would indeed like to visit the Parsonage, and remain till this dark storm subsides, it might perhaps be judicious."

"Not the Parsonage—never, never again shall I be embosomed in its hallowed shades—I would not go there now, for ten thousand worlds."

"It is wrong, Helen, to allow the words of one, insane with passion, to have the least influence on the feelings or conduct. Mrs. Hazleton, Arthur, and Alice, have been your best and truest friends, and you must not allow yourself to be alienated from them."

Helen closed her eyes to hide the tears that gathered on their surface, and it was not long before she sunk into a deep sleep. She had indeed received a terrible shock, and one from which her nerves would long vibrate.

The first time a young girl listens to the language of love, even if it steals into her heart gently and soothingly as the sweet south wind, wakening the sleeping fragrance of a thousand bosom flowers, every feeling flutters and trembles like the leaves of the mimosa, and recoils from the slightest contact. But when she is forced suddenly and rudely to hear the accents of passion, with which she associates the idea of guilt, and treachery, and shame, she feels as if some robber had broken into the temple consecrated to the purest, most innocent emotions, and stolen the golden treasures hidden there. This alone was sufficient to wound and terrify the young and sensitive Helen, but when her sister assailed her with such a temper of wrathful accusations, accusations so shameful and degrading, it is not strange that she was wrought up to the state of partial frenzy which led her to rush to a father's bosom for safety and repose.

And where was Mittie, the unhappy victim of her own wild, ungovernable passion?

She remained in her room with her door locked, seated at the window, looking out into the darkness, which was illuminated by the rays of a waxing moon. She could see the white bark of the beech tree, conspicuous among the other trees, and knowing the spot where the letters were carved, she imagined she could trace them all, and that they were the scarlet color of blood.

She had no light in her room, but feeling in her writing desk for the pen-knife, she stole down stairs the back way and took the path she had so often walked with Clinton. She was obliged to pass the room where Helen lay, and glancing in at the window when the curtain fluttered, she could see her pale, sad-looking face, and she did not like to look again. She knew she had wronged her, for the moment she had given utterance to her railing words, conscience told her they were false. This conviction, however, did not lessen the rancor and bitterness of her feelings. Hurrying on, she paused in front of the beech tree, and the cyphers glared Upon her as if seen through a magnifying glass—they looked so large and fiery. Opening her pen-knife, she smiled as a moonbeam glared on its keen, blue edge. Had any one seen the expression of her features, as she gazed at that shining, open blade, they would have shuddered, and trembled for her purpose.

With a quick, hurried motion, she began to cut the bark from round the letters, till they seemed to melt away into one large cavity. She knew that some one was coming behind her, and she knew, too, by a kind of intuition, that it was Clinton, but she did not pause in her work of destruction.

"Mittie! what are you doing?" he exclaimed. "Good Heavens!—give me that knife."

As she threw up her right hand to elude his grasp, she saw the blood streaming from her fingers. She was not aware that she had cut herself. She suffered no pain. She gazed with pleasure on the flowing blood.

"Let me bind my handkerchief round the wound," said Clinton, in a gentle, sympathizing voice. "You are really enough to drive one frantic."

"Your handkerchief!" she exclaimed, in an accent of ineffable scorn. "I would put a bandage of fire round it as soon. Drive one frantic! I suppose your conduct must make one very calm, very cool and reasonable. But I can tell you, Bryant Clinton, that when you made me the plaything of your selfish and changing passions, you began a dangerous game. You thought me, perchance, a love-sick maiden, whose heart would break in silence and darkness, but you know me not. I will not suffer alone. If I sink into an abyss of wretchedness, it shall not be alone. I will drag down with me all who have part or lot in my misery and despair."

Clinton's eye quailed before the dark, passionate glance riveted upon him. The moon gave only a pale, doubtful lustre, and its reflection on her face was like the night-light on deep waters—a dark, quivering brightness, giving one an idea of beauty and splendor and danger. Her hair was loose and hung around her in black, massy folds, imparting an air of wild, tragic majesty to her figure. Twisting one of the sable tresses round her bleeding fingers, she pressed them against her heart.

"Mittie," said Clinton. There was something remarkable in the voice of Clinton. Its lowest tones, and they were exceedingly low, were as distinct and clear as the notes of the most exquisitely tuned instrument. "Mittie! why have you wrought yourself up to this terrible pitch of passion? Yet why do I ask? I know but too well. I uttered a few words of gallant seeming to your young sister, which sent her flying like a startled deer through the woods. Your reproaches completed the work my folly began. Between us both we have frightened the poor child almost into spasms. Verily we have been much to blame."

"Deceiver! you told her that you loved me no more. Deny it if you can."

"I will neither assert nor deny any thing. If you have not sufficient confidence in my honor, and reliance on my truth to trust and believe me, my only answer to your reproaches shall be silence. Light indeed must be my hold on your heart, if a breath has power to shake it. The time has been—but, alas!—how sadly are you changed!"

"I changed!" repeated she. "Would to Heaven I could change!"

"Yes, changed. Be not angry, but hear me. Where is the softness, the womanly tenderness and grace that first enchanted me, forming as it did so bewitching a contrast with the dazzling splendor of your beauty? I did not know then that daggers were sheathed in your brilliant eyes, or that scorn lurked in those beautiful lips. Nay, interrupt me not. Where, I say, is the loving, trusting being I loved and adored? You watch me with the vigilance of hatred, the intensity of revenge. Every word and look have been misconstrued, every action warped and perverted by prejudice and passion. You are jealous, frantically jealous of a mere child, with whom I idly amused myself one passing moment. You have made your parents look coldly and suspiciously upon me. You have taught me a bitter lesson."

Every drop of blood forsook the cheeks of Mittie. She felt as if she were congealing—so cold fell the words of Clinton on her burning heart.

"Then I have forever estranged you. You love me no longer!" said she, in a faint, husky voice.

"No, Mittie, I love you still. Constancy is one of the elements of my nature. But love no longer imparts happiness. The chain of gold is transformed to iron, and the links corrode and lacerate the heart. I feel that I have cast a cloud over the household, and it is necessary to depart. I go to-morrow, and may you recover that peace of which I have momentarily deprived you. I shall pass away from your memory like the pebble that ruffles a moment the face of the water then sinks, and is remembered no more."

"What, going—going to-morrow?" she exclaimed, catching hold of his arm for support, for she felt sick and dizzy at the sudden annunciation.

"Yes!" he replied, drawing her arm through his, and retaining her hand, which was as cold as ice. "Your brother Louis will accompany me. It is meet that he should visit my Virginian home, since I have so long trespassed on the hospitality of his. Whether I ever return depends upon yourself. If my presence bring only discord and sorrow, it is better, far better, that I never look upon your face again. If you cannot trust me, let us part forever."

They were now very near the house, very near a large tree, which had a rustic bench leaning against it. Its branches swept against the fence which enclosed Miss Thusa's bleaching ground. The white arch of the bridge spanned the shadows that hung darkly over it. Mittie drew away her arm from Clinton and sank down upon the bench. She felt as if the roots of her heart were all drawing out, so intense was her anguish.

Clinton going away—probably never to return—going, too, cold, altered and estranged. It was in vain he breathed to her words of love, the loving spirit, the vitality was wanting. And this was the dissolving of her wild dreams of love—of her fair visions of felicity. But the keenest pang was imparted by the conviction that it was her own fault. He had told her so, dispassionately and deliberately. It was her own evil temper that had disenchanted him. It was her own dark passions which had destroyed the spell her beauty had wrapped around him.

What the warnings of a father, the admonitions of friends had failed to effect, a few words from the lips of Clinton had suddenly wrought. He had loved. He should love her once more—for she would be soft and gentle and womanly for his sake. She would be kind to Helen, and courteous to all. This flashing moment of introspection gave her a glimpse of her own heart which made her shudder. It was not, however, the sunlight of truth, growing brighter and brighter, that made the startling revelation; it was the lightning glare of excitement glancing into the dark abysses of passion, fiery and transitory, leaving behind a deeper, heavier gloom. Self-abased by the image on which she had been gazing, and subdued by the might of her grief, she covered her face with her hands and wept the bitterest tears that ever fell from the eyes of woman. They were drops of molten pride, hot and blistering, leaving the eyes blood-shot and dim. It was a strange thing to see the haughty Mittie weep. Clinton sat down beside her, and poured the oil of his smooth, seductive words on the troubled waves he had lashed into foam. Soft, low, and sad as the whispers of the autumn wind, his voice murmured in her ear, sad, for it breathed but of parting. She continued to weep, but her tears no longer flowed from the springs of agony.

"Mittie!" A sterner voice than that of Clinton's breathed her name. "Mittie, you must come in, the night air is too damp."

It was her father who spoke, of whose approach she was not aware. He spoke with an air of authority which he seldom assumed, and taking her hand, led her into the house.

All the father was moved within him, at the sight of his daughter's tears. It was the first time that he had seen them flow, or at least he never remembered to have seen her weep. She had not wept when a child, by the bed of a dying mother—(and the tears of childhood are usually an ever-welling spring)—she had not wept over her grave—and now her bosom was laboring with ill-suppressed sobs. What power had blasted the granite rock that covered the fountain of her sensibilities?

He entreated her to confide in him, to tell him the cause of her anguish. If Clinton had been trifling with her happiness, he should not depart without feeling the weight of parental indignation.

"No man dare to trifle with my happiness!" she exclaimed. "Clinton dare not do it. Reserve your indignation for real wrongs. Wait till I ask redress. Have I not a right to weep, if I choose? Helen may shed oceans of tears, without being called to account. All I ask, all I pray for, is to be left alone."

Thus the proud girl closed the avenues of sympathy and consolation, and shut herself up with her own corroding thoughts, for the transient feelings of humility and self-abasement had passed away with the low, sweet echoes of the voice of Clinton, leaving nothing but the sullen memory of her grief. And yet the hope that he still loved her was the vital spark that sustained and warmed her. His last words breathed so much of his early tenderness and devotion, his manner possessed all its wonted fascination.

A calm succeeded, if not peace.



CHAPTER X.

An ancient woman there was, who dwelt In an old gray collage all alone— She turned her wheel the live long day— There was music, I ween, in its solemn drone. As she twisted the flax, the threads of thought Kept twisting too, dark, mystic threads— And the tales she told were legends old, Quaint fancies, woven of lights and shades.

It is said that absence is like death, and that through its softening shadow, faults, and even vices, assume a gentle and unforbidding aspect. But it is not so. Death, the prime minister of God, invests with solemn majesty the individual on whom he impresses his cold, white seal. The weakest, meanest being that ever drew the breath of life is awe-inspiring, wrapped in the mystery of death. It seems as if the invisible spirit might avenge the insult offered to its impassive, deserted companion. But absence has no such commanding power. If the mind has been enthralled by the influence of personal fascination, there is generally a sudden reaction. The judgment, liberated from captivity, exerts its newly recovered strength, and becomes more arbitrary and uncompromising for the bondage it has endured.

Now Bryant Clinton was gone, Mr. Gleason wondered at his own infatuation. No longer spell-bound by the magic of his eye, and the alluring grace of his manners, he could recall a thousand circumstances which had previously made no impression on his mind. He blamed himself for allowing Louis to continue in such close intimacy with one, of whose parentage and early history he knew nothing. He blamed himself still more, for permitting his daughter such unrestricted intercourse with a young man so dangerously attractive. He blamed himself still more, for consenting to the departure of his son with a companion, in whose principles he did not confide, and of whose integrity he had many doubts. Why had he suffered this young man to wind around the household in smooth and shining coils, insinuating himself deeper and deeper into the heart, and binding closer and closer the faculties which might condemn, and the will that might resist his sorcery?

He blushed one moment for his weakness, the next upbraided himself for the harshness of his judgment, for the uncharitableness of his conclusions. The first letter which he received from Louis, did not remove his apprehensions. He said Clinton had changed his plans. He did not intend to return immediately to Virginia, but to travel awhile first, and visit some friends, whom he had neglected for the charming home he had just quitted. Louis dwelt with eloquent diffuseness on the advantages of traveling with such a companion, of the fine opportunity he had of seeing something of the world, after leading the student's monotonous and secluded life. Enclosed in this letter were bills of a large amount, contracted at college, of whose existence the father was perfectly unconscious. No reference was made to these, save in the postscript, most incoherent in expression, and written evidently with an unsteady hand. He begged his father to forgive him for having forgotten—the word forgotten was partially erased, and neglected substituted in its place—ah! Louis, Louis, you should have said feared to present to him before his departure. He threw himself upon the indulgence of a parent, who he knew would be as ready to pardon the errors, as he was able to understand the temptation to which youth was exposed, when deprived of parental guidance.

The letter dropped from Mr. Gleason's hand. A dark cloud gathered on his brow. A sharp pain darted through his heart. His son, his ingenuous, noble, high-minded boy had deceived him—betrayed his confidence, and wasted, with the recklessness of a spendthrift, money to which he had no legitimate claims.

When Louis entered college, and during the whole course of his education there, Mr. Gleason had defrayed his necessary expenses, and supplied him liberally with spending money.

"Keep out of debt, my son," was his constant advice. "In every unexpected emergency apply to me. Debt unnecessarily recurred is both dishonorable and disgraceful. When a boy contracts debts unknown to his parents, they are associated with shame and ruin. Beware of temptation."

Mr. Gleason was not rich. He was engaged in merchandise, and had an income sufficient for the support of his family, sufficient to supply every want, and gratify every wish within the bounds of reason; but he had nothing to throw away, nothing to scatter broadcast beneath the ploughshare of ruin. He did not believe that Louis had fallen into disobedience and error without a guide in sin. Like Eve, he had been beguiled by a serpent, and he had eaten of the fruit of the tree of forbidden knowledge, whose taste

"Brought death into the world, And all our woe!"

That serpent must be Clinton, that Lucifer, that son of the morning, that seeming angel of light. Thus, in the excitement of his anger, he condemned the young man, who, after all, might be innocent of all guile, and free from all transgression.

Crushing the papers in his hand, he saw a line which had escaped his eye before. It was this—

"I cannot tell you where to address me, as we are now on the wing. I shall write again soon."

"So he places himself beyond the reach of admonition and recall," thought Mr. Gleason. "Oh! Louis, had your mother lived, how would her heart have been wrung by the knowledge of your aberration from rectitude! And how will the kind and noble being who fills that mother's place in our affections and home, mourn over her weak and degenerate boy."

Yes! she did mourn, but not without hope. She had too much faith in the integrity of Louis to believe him capable of deliberate transgression. She knew his ardent temperament his convivial spirit, and did not think it strange that he should be led into temptation. He must not withdraw his confidence, because it had been once betrayed. Neither would she suffer so dark a cloud of suspicion to rest upon Clinton. It was unjust to suspect him, when he was surrounded by so many young, and doubtless, evil companions. She regretted Clinton's sojourn among them, since it had had so unhappy an influence on Mittie, but it was cowardly to plunge a dagger into the back of one on whose face their hospitable smiles had so lately beamed. We have said that she had a small property of her own. She insisted upon drawing on this for the amount necessary to settle the bills of Louis. She had reserved it for the children's use, and perhaps when Louis was made aware of the source whence pecuniary assistance came, he would blush for the drain, and shame would restrain him from future extravagance. Mr. Gleason listened, hoped and believed. The cloud lighted up, and if it did not entirely pass away, glimpses of sunshine were seen breaking through.

And this was the woman whom Mittie disdained to honor with the title of mother!

Helen had recovered from the double shock she had received the night previous to Clinton's departure, but she was not the same Helen that she was before. Her childhood was gone. The flower leaves of her heart unfolded, not by the soft, genial sunshine, but torn open by the whirlwind's power. Never more could she meet Arthur Hazleton with the innocent freedom which had made their intercourse so delightful. If he took her hand, she trembled and withdrew it. If she met his eye, she blushed and turned away her glance—that eye, which though it flashed not with the fires of passion, had such depth, and strength, and intensity in its expression. Her embarrassment was contagious, and constraint and reserve took the place of confidence and ingenuousness; like the semi-transparent drapery over a beautiful picture, which suffers the lineaments to be traced, while the warm coloring and brightness of life are chilled and obscured.

The sisters were as much estranged as if they were the inmates of different abodes. Mrs. Gleason had prepared a room for Helen adjoining her own, resolved she should be removed as far as possible from Mittie's dagger tongue. Thus Mittie was left to the solitude she courted, and which no one seemed disposed to disturb. She remained the most of her time in her own chamber, seldom joining the family except at table, where she appeared more like a stranger than a daughter or a sister. She seemed to take no interest in any thing around her, nor did she seek to inspire any. She looked paler than formerly, and a purplish shade dimmed the brilliancy of her dazzling eyes.

"You look pale, my daughter," her father would sometimes say. "I fear you are not well."

"I am perfectly well," she would answer, with a manner so cold and distant, sympathy was at once repelled.

"Will you not sit with us?" Mrs. Gleason would frequently ask, as she and Helen drew near the blazing fire, with their work-baskets or books, for winter was now abroad in the land. "Will you not read to us, or with us?"

"I prefer being in my own room," was the invariable answer; and usually at night, when the curtains were let down, and the lamps lighted in the apartment, warm and glowing with the genialities and comforts of home, the young doctor would come in and occupy Mittie's vacant seat. Notwithstanding the comparative coldness and reserve of Helen's manners, his visits became more and more frequent. He seemed reconciled to the loss of the ingenuous, confiding child, since he had found in its stead the growing charms of womanhood.

Arthur was a fine reader. His voice had that minor key which touches the chords of tenderness and feeling—that voice so sweet at the fireside, so adapted to poetry and all deep and earnest thoughts. He did not read on like a machine, without pausing to make remark or criticism, but his beautiful, eloquent commentaries came in like the symphonies of an organ. He drew forth the latent enthusiasm of Helen, who, forgetting herself and Mittie's withering accusations, expressed her sentiments with a grace, simplicity and fervor peculiar to herself. At the commencement of the evening she generally took her sewing from the basket, and her needle would flash and fly like a shooting arrow, but gradually her hands relaxed, the work fell into her lap, and yielding to the combined charms of genius and music, the divine music of the human voice, she gave herself up completely to the rapture of drinking in

"Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held her breath to hear."

If Arthur lifted his eyes from the page, which he had a habit of doing, he was sure to encounter a glance of bright intelligence and thrilling sensibility, instantaneously withdrawn, and then he often lost his place, skipped over a paragraph, or read the same sentence a second time, while that rich mantling glow, so seldom seen on the cheek of manhood, stole slowly over his face.

These were happy evenings, and Helen could have exclaimed with little Frank in the primer, "Oh! that winter would last forever!" And yet there were times when she as well as her parents was oppressed with a weight of anxious sorrow that was almost insupportable, on account of Louis. He came not, he wrote not—and the only letter received from him had excited the most painful apprehensions for his moral safety. It contained shameful records of his past deviations from rectitude, and judging of the present by the past, they had every reason to fear that he had become an alien from virtue and home. Mr. Gleason seldom spoke of him, but his long fits of abstraction, the gloom of his brow, and the inquietude of his eye, betrayed the anxiety and grief rankling within.

Helen knew not the contents of her brother's letter, nor the secret cause of grief that preyed on her father's mind, but his absence and silence were trials over which she openly and daily mourned with deep and increasing sorrow.

"We shall hear from him to-morrow. He will come to-morrow." This was the nightly lullaby to her disappointed and murmuring heart.

Mittie likewise repeated to herself the same refrain "He will come to-morrow. He will write to-morrow." But it was not of Louis that the prophecy was breathed. It was of another, who had become the one thought.

Helen had not forgotten her old friend Miss Thusa, whom the rigors of winter confined more closely than ever to her lonely cabin. Almost every day she visited her, and even if the ground were covered with snow, and icicles hung from the trees, there was a path through the woods, printed with fairy foot-tracks, that showed where Helen had walked. Mr. Gleason supplied the solitary spinster with wood ready out for the hearth, had her cottage banked with dark red tan, and furnished her with many comforts and luxuries. He never forgot her devoted attachment to his dead wife, who had commended to his care and kindness the lone woman on her dying bed. Mrs. Gleason frequently accompanied Helen in her visits, and as Miss Thusa said, "always came with full hands and left a full heart behind her." Helen sometimes playfully asked her to tell her the history of the wheel so long promised, but she put her off with a shake of the head, saying—"she should hear it by and by, when the right time was at hand."

"But when is the right time, Miss Thusa?" asked Helen. "I begin to think it is to-morrow."

"To-morrow never comes," replied Miss Thusa, solemnly, "but death does. When his footsteps cross the old stile and tramp over the mossy door-stones, I'll tell you all about that ancient machine. It won't do any good till then. You are too young yet. I feel better than I did in autumn, and may last longer than I thought I should—but, perhaps, when the ground thaws in the spring the old tree will loosen and fall—or break off suddenly near the root. I have seen such things in my day."

"Oh! Miss Thusa," said Helen, "I never want to hear any thing about it, if its history is to be bought so dear—indeed I do not."

"Only if you should marry, child, before I die," continued Miss Thusa, musingly, "you shall know then. It is not very probable that such will be the case; but it is astonishing how young girls shoot up into womanhood, now-a-days."

"It will be a long time before I shall think of marrying, Miss Thusa," answered Helen, laughing. "I believe I will live as you do, in a cottage of my own, with my wheel for companion and familiar friend."

"It is not such as you that are born to live alone," said the spinster, passing her hand lovingly over Helen's fair, warm cheek. "You are a love-vine that must have something to grow upon. No, no—don't talk in that way. It don't sound natural. It don't come from the heart. Now I was made to be by myself. I never saw the man I wanted to live one day with—much less all the days of my life. They may say this is sour grapes, and call me an old maid, but I don't care for that; I must have my own way, and I know it is a strange one; and there never was a man created that didn't want to have his. You laugh, child. I hope you will never find it out to your cost. But you havn't any will of your own; so it will be all as it should be, after all."

"Oh, yes I have, Miss Thusa; I like to have my own way as well as any one—when I think I am right."

"What makes your cheeks redden so, and your heart flutter like a bird caught in a snare?" cried the spinster, looking thoughtfully, almost sorrowfully, into Helen's soft, loving, hazel eyes. "That step doesn't cross my threshold so often for nothing. You would know it in an army of ten thousand."

The door opened and Arthur Hazleton entered. The day was cold, and a comfortable fire blazed in the chimney. The fire-beams that were reflected from Helen's glowing cheek might account for its burning rose, for it even gave a warmer tint to Miss Thusa's dark, gray form. Arthur drew his chair near Helen, who as usual occupied a little stool in the corner.

"What magnificent strings of coral you have, Miss Thusa?" said he, looking up to a triple garland of red peppers, strung on some of her own unbleached linen thread, and suspended over the fire-place. "I suppose they are more for ornament than use."

"I never had any thing for ornament in my life," said Miss Thusa. "I supply the whole neighborhood with peppers; and I do think a drink of pepper tea helps one powerfully to bear the winter's cold."

"I think I must make you my prime minister, Miss Thusa," said the young doctor, "for I scarcely ever visit a patient, that I don't find some traces of your benevolence, in the shape of balmy herbs and medicinal shrubs. How much good one can do in the world if they only think of it!"

"It is little good that I've ever done," cried the spinster. "All my comfort is that I havn't done a great deal of harm."

Opening the door of a closet, at the right of the chimney, she stooped to lift a log of wood, but Arthur springing up, anticipated her movement, and replenished the already glowing hearth.

"You keep glorious fires, Miss Thusa," said he, retreating from the hot sparkles that came showering on the hearth, and the magnificent blaze that roared grandly up the chimney.

"It is her father that sends me the wood—and if it isn't his daughter that is warmed by my fire-side, let the water turn to ice on these bricks."

"And now, Miss Thusa," said the young doctor, "while we are enjoying this hospitable warmth, tell us one of those good old-fashioned stories, Helen used to love so much to hear. It is a long time since I have heard one—and I am sure Helen will thank me for the suggestion."

"I ought to be at my wheel, instead of fooling with my tongue," replied Miss Thusa, jerking her spectacles down on the bridge of her nose. "I shan't earn the salt of my porridge at this rate; besides there's too much light; somehow or other, I never could feel like reciting them in broad daylight. There must be a sort of a shadow, to make me inspired."

"Please Miss Thusa, oblige the doctor this time," pleaded Helen. "I'll come and spin all day to-morrow for you, and send you a sack of salt beside."

"Set a kitten to spinning!" exclaimed Miss Thusa, her grim features relaxing into a smile—putting at the same time her wheel against the wall, and seating herself in the corner opposite to Helen.

"Thank you," cried Helen, "I knew you would not refuse. Now please tell us something gentle and beautiful—something that will make us better and happier. Ghosts, you know, never appear till darkness comes. The angels do."

Miss Thusa, sat looking into the fire, with a musing, dreamy expression, or rather on the ashes, which formed a gray bed around the burning coals. Her thoughts were, however, evidently wandering inward, through the dim streets and shadowy aisles of that Herculaneum of the soul—memory.

Arthur laid his hand with an admonishing motion on Helen, whose lips parted to speak, and the trio sat in silence for a few moments, waiting the coming inspiration. It has been so often said that we do not like to repeat the expression, but it really would have been a study for a painter—that old, gray room (for the walls being unpainted were of the color of Miss Thusa's dress;) the antique, brass-bound wheel, the scarlet tracery over the chimney, and the three figures illuminated by the flame-light of the blazing chimney. It played, that flame-light, with rich, warm lustre on Helen's soft, brown hair and roseate cheek, quivered with purplish radiance among Arthur's darker locks—and lighted up with a sunset glow, Miss Thusa's hoary tresses.

"Gentle and beautiful!" repeated the oracle. "Yes! every thing seems beautiful to the young. If I could remember ever feeling young, I dare say beautiful memories would come back to me. 'Tis very strange, though, that the older I grow, the pleasanter are the pictures that are reflected on my mind. The way grows smoother and clearer. I suppose it is like going out on a dark night—at first you can hardly see the hand before you, but as you go groping along, it lightens up more and more."

She paused, looked from Arthur Hazleton to Helen, then from Helen to Arthur, as if she were endeavoring to embue her spirit with the grace and beauty of youth.

"I remember a tale," she resumed, "which I heard or read, long, long ago—which perhaps I've never told. It is about a young Prince, who was heir to a great kingdom, somewhere near the place where the garden of Eden once was. When the King, his father, was on his death bed, he called his son to him, and told him that he was going to die.

"'And now, my son,' he said, 'remember my parting words. I leave you all alone, without father or mother, brother or sister—without any one to love or love you. Last night I had a dream, and you know God's will was made known in dreams, to holy men of old. There came, in my dream, an aged man, with a beard as white as ermine, that hung down like a mantle over his breast, with a wand in his right hand, and stood beside my bed.

"'Hear my words,' he exclaimed, in a solemn voice, 'and tell them to your son. When you are dead and gone, let him gird himself for a long pilgrimage. If he stay here, he will be turned into a marble statue. To avert this doom, he must travel through the world till he finds a young maiden's warm, living heart—and the maiden must be fair and good, and be willing to let the knife enter her bosom, and her heart be taken bleeding thence. And then he must travel farther still, till a white dove shall come from the East, and fold its wings on his breast. If you would save your kingdom and your son, command him to do this. It is the will of the Most High.'

"The old man departed, but his words echoed like thunder in my ears. Obey him, my son, the vision came from above.

"The young Prince saw his father laid in the tomb, then prepared himself for his pilgrimage. He did not like the idea of being turned into marble, neither did he like the thought of taking the heart of a young and innocent maiden, if he should find one willing to make the offering—which he did not believe. The Prince had a bright eye and a light step, and he was dressed in brave attire. The maidens looked out of the windows as he passed along, and the young men sighed with envy. He came to a great palace, and being a King's son, he thought he had a right to enter it; and there he saw a young and beautiful lady, all shining with diamonds and pearls. There was a great feast waiting in the hall, and she asked him to stay, and pressed him to eat and drink, and gave him many glasses of wine, as red as rubies. After the feast was over, and he felt most awfully as he did it, he begged for her heart, the tears glittering in his eyes for sorrow. She smiled, and told him it was already his—but—when with a shaking hand he took a knife, and aimed it at her breast, she screamed and rushed out of the hall, as if the evil one was behind her—Don't interrupt me, child—don't—I shall forget it all if you do. Well, the Prince went on his way, thinking the old man had sent him on a fool's errand—but he dared not disobey his dead father, seeing he was a King. It would take me from sun to sun to tell of all the places where he stopped, and of all the screaming and threatening that followed him wherever he went. It is a wonder he did not turn deaf as an adder. At last he got very tired and sorrowful, and sat down by the wayside and wept, thinking he would rather turn to marble at once, than live by such a horrible remedy. He saw a little cabin close by, but he had hardly strength to reach it, and he thought he would stay there and die.

"'What makes you weep?' said a voice so sweet he thought it was music itself, and looking up, he saw a young maiden, who had come up a path behind him, with a pitcher of water on her head. She was beautiful and fair to look upon, though her dress was as plain as could be. She offered him water to drink, and told him if he would go with her to the little cabin, her mother would give him something to eat, and a bed to lie upon, for the night dew was beginning to fall. He had not on his fine dress at this time, having changed it for that of a young peasant, thinking perhaps he would succeed better in disguise. So he followed her steps, and they gave him milk, and bread, and honey, and a nice bed to sleep upon, though it was somewhat hard and coarse. And there he fell sick, and they nursed him day after day, and brought him back to health. The young maiden grew more lovely in his eye, and her voice sounded more and more sweet in his ear. Sometimes he thought of the sacrifice he was to ask, but he could not do it. No, he would die first. One night, the old man with the long, white beard, came in his dream, to his bedside. He looked dark and frowning.

"'This is the maiden,' he cried, 'your pilgrimage is ended here. Do as thou art bidden, and then depart.'

"When the morning came, he was pale and sad, and the young girl was pale and sad from sympathy. Then the Prince knelt down at her feet, and told her the history of his father's dream and his own, and of his exceeding great and bitter sorrow. He wept, but the maiden smiled, and she looked like an angel with that sweet smile on her face.

"'My heart is yours,' she said, 'I give it willingly and cheerfully. Drain from it every drop of blood, if you will—I care not, so it save you from perishing.'

"Then the eyes of the young Prince shone out like the sun after a storm, and drawing his dagger from his bosom, he—"

"Stop, Miss Thusa—don't go on," interrupted Helen, pale with emotion. "I cannot bear to hear it. It is too awful. I asked you for something beautiful, and you have chosen the most terrible theme. Don't finish it."

"Is there not something beautiful," said the young doctor, bending down, and addressing her in a low voice—"is there not something beautiful in such pure and self-sacrificing love? Is there no chord in your heart that thrills responsive as you listen? Oh, Helen—I am sure you could devote yourself for one you loved."

"Oh, yes!" she answered, forgetting, in her excitement, all her natural timidity. "I could do it joyfully, glorying in the sacrifice. But he, so selfish, so cruel, so sanguinary—it is from him I shrink. His heart is already marble—it cannot change."

"Wait, child—wait till you hear the end," cried Miss Thusa, inspired by the effect of her words. "He drew a dagger from his bosom, and was about to plunge it in his own heart, and die at her feet, when the old man of his dream entered and caught hold of his arm."

"''Tis enough,' he cried. 'The trial is over. She has given you her heart, her warm, living heart—take it and cherish it. Without love, man turns to stone—and thus becomes a marble statue. You have proved your own love and hers, since you are willing to die for each other. Put up your dagger, and if you ever wound that heart of hers, the vengeance of Heaven rest upon you.'

"Thus saying, he departed, but strange to tell, as he was speaking, his face was all the time growing younger and fairer, his white beard gradually disappeared, and as he went through the door, a pair of white wings, tipped with gold, began to flutter on his shoulders. Then they knew it was an angel that had been with them, and they bowed themselves down to the floor and trembled. Is there any need of my telling you, that the Prince married the young maiden, and carried her to his kingdom, and set her on his throne? Is there any need of my saying how beautiful she looked, with a golden crown on her head, and a golden chain on her neck, and how meek and good she was all the time, in spite of her finery? No, I am sure there isn't. Now, I must go to spinning."

"That is beautiful!" cried Helen, the color coming back to her cheeks, "but the white dove, Miss Thusa, that was to fold its wings on his bosom. You have forgotten that."

"Have I? Yes—yes. Sure enough, I am getting old and forgetful. The white dove that was to come from the east! I remember it all now:—After he had reigned awhile he dreamed again that he was commanded to go in quest of the dove, and take his young Queen with him. They were to go on foot as pilgrims, and leave all their pomp and state behind them, with their faces towards the east, and their eyes lifted to Heaven. While they were journeying on, the young Queen began to languish, and grow pale and wan. At last she sunk down at his feet, and told him that she was going to die, and leave him alone in his pilgrimage. The young King smote his breast, and throwing himself down by her side, prayed to God that he might die too. Then she comforted him, and told him to live for his people, and bow to the will of the Most High.

"'You were willing to die for me,' she cried, 'show greater love by being willing to live when I am gone—love to God and me.'

"'The will of God be done,' he exclaimed, prostrating himself before the Lord. Then a soft flutter was heard above his head, and a beautiful white dove flew into his bosom. At the same time an angel appeared, whom he knew was the old man of his dream, all glorified as it were, and the moment he breathed on her, the dying Queen revived and smiled on her husband, just as she did in her mother's cabin.

"'You were willing to give your own life for hers,' said the angel to the young King, 'and that was love. You were willing to give her up to God, and that was greater love to a greater being. Thou hast been weighed in the balance and not found wanting. Return and carry in thy bosom the milk-white dove, and never let it flee from thy dwelling.'

"The angel went up into Heaven—the young King and Queen returned to their palace, where they had a long, happy, and godly reign."

The logs in the chimney had burned down to a bed of mingled scarlet and jet, that threw out a still more intense heat, and the sun had rolled down the west, leaving a bed of scarlet behind it, while Miss Thusa related the history of the young Prince of the East.

Helen, in the intensity of her interest, had forgotten the gliding hours, and wondered where the day had flown.

"I think if you related me such stories, Miss Thusa, every day," said the young doctor, "I should be a wiser and better man. I shall not forget this soon."

"I do not believe I shall tell another story as long as I live," replied she, shaking her head oracularly. "I had to exert myself powerfully to remember and put that together as I wanted to. Well, well—all the gifts of God are only loans after all, and He has a right to take them away whenever He chooses. We mustn't murmur and complain about it."

"Dear Miss Thusa, this is the best story you ever told," cried Helen, while she muffled herself for her cold, evening walk. "There is something so touching in its close—and the moral sinks deep in the heart. No, no; I hope to hear a hundred more at least, like this. I am glad you have given up ghosts for angels."

The wind blew in strong, wintry gusts, as they passed through the leafless woods. Helen shivered with cold, in spite of the warm garments that sheltered her. The scarlet of the horizon had faded into a chill, darkening gray, and as they moved through the shadows, they were scarcely distinguishable themselves from the trees whose dry branches creaked above their heads. Arthur folded his cloak around Helen to protect her from the inclemency of the air, and the warmth of summer stole into her heart. They talked of Miss Thusa, of the story she had told, of its interest and its moral, and Arthur said he would be willing to make a pilgrimage to Mecca, over burning coals, for such a heart as the maiden offered to the young Prince. That very heart was throbbing close, very close to his, but its deep emotions found no utterance through the lips. Helen remarked that she would willingly travel with bleeding feet from end to end of the universe, for the beautiful white dove, which was the emblem of God's holy spirit.

"Helen, that dove is nestling in your bosom already," cried Arthur Hazleton; "but the heart I sigh for, will it indeed ever be mine?"

Helen could not answer, for she dared not interpret the words which, though addressed to herself, might have reference to another. With the humility and self-depreciation usually the accompaniment of deep reverence and devotion, she could not believe it possible that one so exalted in intellect, so noble in character, so beloved and honored by all who knew him, so much older than herself; one, too, who knew all her weaknesses and faults, could ever look upon her otherwise than with brotherly kindness and regard. Then she contrasted his manner with that of Clinton, for his were the only love-words that ever were breathed into her ear, and she was sure that if Clinton's was the language of love, Arthur's was that of friendship only. Perhaps her silence chilled, it certainly hushed the expression of his thoughts, for he spoke not till they reached the threshold of her home. The bright light gleaming through the blinds, showed them how dark it had grown abroad since they left Miss Thusa's cottage. Helen was conscious then how very slowly they must have walked.

"Thank you," said she, releasing herself from the sheltering folds that had enveloped her. "Hark!" she suddenly exclaimed, "whose voice is that I hear within? It is—it must be Louis. Dear, dear Louis!—so long absent!—so anxiously looked for!"

Even in that moment of joy, while bounding over the threshold with the fleetness of a fawn, the dreaded form of Clinton rose before the eye of her imagination, and arrested for a moment her flying steps. Again she heard the voice of Louis, and Clinton was forgotten.



CHAPTER XI.

"Go, sin no more! Thy penance o'er, A new and better life begin! God maketh thee forever free From the dominion of thy sin! Go, sin no more! He will restore The peace that filled thy heart before, And pardon thine iniquity."—Longfellow.

"I am glad you came alone, brother," cried Helen, when, after the supper was over, they all drew around the blazing hearth. Louis turned abruptly towards her, and as the strong firelight fell full upon his face, she was shocked even more than at first, with his altered appearance. The bloom, the brightness, the joyousness of youth were gone, leaving in their stead, paleness, and dimness, and gloom. He looked several years older than when he left home, but his was not the maturity of the flower, but its premature wilting. There was a worm in the calyx, preying on the vitality of the blossom, and withering up its beauty.

Yes! Louis had been feeding on the husks of dissipation, though in his father's house there was food enough and to spare. He had been selling his immortal birth-right for that which man has in common with the brutes that perish, and the reptiles that crawl in the dust. Slowly, reluctantly at first, had he stepped into the downward path, looking back with agonies of remorse to the smooth, green, flowery plains he had left behind, striving to return, but driven forward by the gravitating power of sin. The passionate resolutions he formed from day to day of amendment, were broken, like the light twigs that grow by the mountain wayside.

He had looked upon the wine when it was red, and found in its dregs the sting of the adder. He had participated in the maddening excitement of the gaming-table, from which remorse and horror pursued him with scorpion lash. He had entered the "chambers of death"—though avenging demons guarded its threshold. Poor, tempted Louis! poor, fallen Louis! In how short a space has the whiteness of thy innocence been sullied, the glory of thy promise been obscured! But the flame fed by oxygen soon wastes away by its own intensity, and ardent passions once kindled, burn with self-consuming rapidity.

We have not followed Louis in his wild and reckless course since he left his father's mansion. It was too painful to witness the degeneracy of our early favorite. But the whole history of the past was written on his haggard brow and pallid cheek. It need not be recorded here. He had thought himself a life-long alien from the home he had disgraced, for never could he encounter his father's indignant frown, or call up the blush of shame on Helen's spotless cheek.

But one of those mighty drawings of the spirit—stronger than chains of triple steel—that thirst of the heart for pure domestic joy, which the foaming goblet can never quench—that immortal longing which rises up from the lowest abysses of sin, that yearning for pardon which stirred the bosom of the Hebrew prodigal, constrained the transgressing Louis to burst asunder the bonds of iniquity, and return to his father's house.

"I am glad you have come alone, brother," repeated Helen, repressing the sigh that quivered on her lips.

"Who did you expect would be my companion?" asked Louis, putting back the long, neglected locks, that fell darkly over his temples.

"I feared Bryant Clinton would return with you," replied Helen, regretting the next moment that she had uttered a name which seemed to have the effect of galvanism on Mittie—who started spasmodically, and lifted the screen before her face. No one had asked for Clinton, yet all had been thinking of him more or less.

"I have not seen him for several weeks," he replied, "he had business that called him in another direction, but he will probably be here soon."

Again Mittie gave a spasmodic start, and held the screen closer to her face. Helen sighed, and looked anxiously towards her mother. The announcement excited very contradictory emotions.

"Do you mean to imply that he is coming again as the guest of your parents, as the inmate of this home?" asked Mr. Gleason, sternly.

"Yes, sir," replied Louis, a red streak flashing across his face. "How could it be otherwise?"

"But it shall be otherwise," exclaimed Mr. Gleason, rising abruptly from his chair, and speaking with a vehemence so unwonted that it inspired awe. "That young man shall never again, with my consent, sit down at my board, or sleep under my roof. I believe him a false, unprincipled, dangerous companion—whom my doors shall never more be opened to receive. Had it not been for him, that pale, stone-like, petrified girl, might have been brilliant and blooming, yet. Had it not been for him, I should not have the anguish, the humiliation, the shame of seeing my son, my only son, the darling of his dead mother's heart, the pride and hope of mine, a blighted being, shorn of the brightness of youth, and the glory of advancing manhood. Talk not to me of bringing the destroyer here. This fireside shall never more be darkened by his presence."

Mr. Gleason paused, but from his eye, fixed steadfastly on Louis, the long sleeping lightning darted. Mittie, who had sprung from her chair while her father was speaking, stood with white cheeks and parted lips, and eyes from which fire seemed to coruscate, gazing first at him, and then at her brother.

"Father," cried Louis, "you wrong him. My sins and transgressions are my own. Mountain high as they are, they shall not crush another. Mine is the sorrow and guilt, and mine be the penalty. I do not extenuate my own offences, but I will not criminate others. I beseech you, sir, to recall what you have just uttered, for how can I close those doors upon a friend, which have so lately been opened for him with ungrudging hospitality?"

Mittie's countenance lighted up with an indescribable expression. She caught her brother's hand, and pressing it in both hers, exclaimed—

"Nobly said, Louis. He who can hear an absent friend defamed, without defending him, is worthy of everlasting scorn."

But Helen, terrified at the outburst of her father's anger, and overwhelmed with grief for her brother's humiliation, bowed her head and wept in silence.

Mr. Gleason turned his eyes, where the lightning still gleamed, from Louis to Mittie, as if trying to read her inscrutable countenance.

"Tell me, Mittie," he cried, "the whole length and breadth of the interest you have in this young man. I have suffered you to elude this subject too long. I have borne with your proud and sullen reserve too long. I have been weak and irresolute in times past, but thoroughly aroused to a sense of my authority and responsibility as a father, as well as my duty as a man, I command you to tell me all that has passed between you and Bryant Clinton. Has he proffered you marriage? Has he exchanged with you the vows of betrothal? Have you gone so far without my knowledge or approval?"

"I cannot answer such questions, sir," she haughtily replied, the hot blood rushing into her face and filling her forehead veins with purple. "You have no right to ask them in this presence. There are some subjects too sacred for investigation, and this is one. There are limits even to a father's authority, and I protest against its encroachments."

Those who are slow to arouse to anger are slow to be appeased. The flame that is long in kindling generally burns with long enduring heat. Mr. Gleason had borne, with unexampled patience, Mittie's strange and wayward temper. For the sake of family peace he had sacrificed his own self-respect, which required deference and obedience in a child. But having once broken the spell which had chained his tongue, and meeting a resisting will, his own grew stronger and more determined.

"Do you dare thus to reply to me, your father?" cried he; "you will find there are limits to a father's indulgence, too. Trifle not with my anger, but give me the answer I require."

"Never, sir, never," cried she, with a mien as undaunted as Charlotte Corday's, that "angel of assassination," when arraigned before the tribunal of justice.

"Did you never hear of a discarded child?" said he, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, it was so choked with passion.

"Yes, sir."

"And do you not fear such a doom?"

"No, sir."

"My husband," exclaimed Mrs. Gleason, laying her hand imploringly on his shoulder, "be calm. Seek not by violence to break the stubborn will which kindness cannot bend. Let not our fireside be a scene of domestic contention, which we shall blush to recall. Leave her to the dark and sullen secrecy she prefers to our tenderness and sympathy. And, one thing I beseech you, my husband, suspend your judgment of the character of Clinton till Louis is able to explain all that is doubtful and mysterious. He is weary now, and needs rest instead of excitement."

There was magic in the touch of that gentle hand, in the tones of that persuasive voice. The father's stern brow relaxed, and a cloud of the deepest sadness extinguished the fiery anger of his glance. The cloud condensed and melted away in tears. Helen saw them, though he turned away, and shaded his face with his hand, and putting her arms round him, she kissed the hand which hung loosely at his side. This act, so tender and respectful, touched him to the heart's core.

"My child, my darling, my own sweet Helen," he cried, pressing her fondly to his bosom. "You have always been gentle, loving and obedient. You have never wilfully given me one moment's sorrow. In the name of thy beautiful mother I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed."

The excitement of his feelings gave an exalted tone to his voice and words, and as the benediction stole solemnly into her heart, Helen felt as if the plumage of the white dove was folded in downy softness there. In the meantime Mittie had quitted the room, and Mrs. Gleason drawing near Louis, sat down by him, and addressed him in a kind, cheering manner.

"These heavy locks must be shorn to-morrow," said she, passing her hand over his long, dark hair. "They sadden your countenance too much. A night's sleep, too, will bring back the color to your face. You are over weary now. Retire, my son, and banish every emotion but gratitude for your return. You are safe now, and all will yet be well."

"Oh, mother," he answered, suffering his head to droop upon her shoulder, then suddenly lifting it, "I am not worthy to rest on this sacred pillow. I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garments, but if the deepest repentance—the keenest remorse," he paused, for his voice faltered, then added, passionately, "oh, mother—

'Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy sirups of the world Can ever medicine me to the sweet sleep'

I once slept beneath this hallowed roof."

"No, my son—but there is a remedy more balmy and powerful than all the drugs of the East, which you can obtain without money and without price."

Louis shook his head mournfully.

"I will give you an anodyne to-night, prepared by my own hand, and to-morrow—"

"Give me the anodyne, kindest and best of mothers, but don't, for Heaven's sake, talk of to-morrow."

But whether man speak or be silent, Time, the unresting traveler, presses on. Never but once have its chariot wheels been stayed, when the sun stood still on the plains of Gibeon, and the moon hung pale and immovable over the vale of Ajalon. Sorrow and remorse are great prophets, but Time is greater still, and they can no more arrest or accelerate its progress than the breath of a new-born infant can move the eternal mountains from their base.

Louis slept, thanks to his step-mother's anodyne, and the dreaded morrow came, when the broad light of day must reveal all the inroads the indulgence of guilty passions had caused. Another revelation must be made. He knew his father would demand a full history of his conduct, and it was a relief to his burdened conscience, that had so long groaned under the weight of secret transgressions, to cast itself prostrate at the feet of parental authority in the dust and ashes of humiliation. But while he acknowledged and deplored his own vices, he could not criminate Clinton. He implored his father to inflict upon him any penalty, however severe, he knew, he felt it to be just, but not to require of him to treat his friend with ingratitude and insult. His stay would not be long. He must return very soon to Virginia. He had been prevented from doing so by a fatal and contagious disease that had been raging in the neighborhood of his home, and when that subsided, other accidental causes had constantly interfered with his design. Must the high-spirited Virginian go back to his native regions with the story so oft repeated of New England coldness and inhospitality verified in his own experience?

"Say no more," said his father. "I will reflect on all you have said, and you shall know the result. Now, come with me to the counting-house, and let me see if you can put your mathematics to any practical use. Employment is the greatest safeguard against temptation."

There was one revelation which Louis did not make, and that was the amount of his debts. He dared not do it, though again and again he had opened his lips to tell it.

"To-morrow I will do it," thought he—but before the morrow came he recollected the words of Miss Thusa, uttered the last time he had visited her cabin—"If you should get into trouble and not want to vex those that are kin, you can come to me, and if you don't despise my counsel and assistance perhaps it may do you good." This had made but little impression on him at the time, but it came back to him now "powerfully" as Miss Thusa would say; and he thought it possible there was more meant than reached the ear. He remembered how meaningly, how even commandingly her gray eye had fixed itself on him as she spoke, and he believed in the great love which the ancient spinster bore him. At any rate he knew she would be gratified by such a proof of confidence on his part, and that with Spartan integrity she would guard the trust. It would be a relief to confide in her.

He waited till twilight and then appeared an unexpected but welcome visitor at the Hermitage, as Helen called the old gray cottage. The light in the chimney was dim, and she was hastening to kindle a more cheering blaze.

"No, Miss Thusa," said he, "I love this soft gloom. There's no need of a blaze to talk by, you know."

"But I want to see you, Louis. It is long since we've watched your coming. Many a time has Helen sat where you are now, and talked about you till the tears would run down her cheeks, wondering why you didn't come, and fearing some evil had befallen you. I've had my misgivings, too, though I never breathed them to mortal ear, ever since you went off with that long-haired upstart, who fumbled so about my wheel, trying to fool me with his soft nonsense. What has become of him?"

"He is at home, I believe—but you are too harsh in your judgment, Miss Thusa. It is strange what prejudiced you so against him."

"Something here," cried the spinster, striking her hand against her heart; "something that God put here, not man. I'm glad you and he have parted company; and I'm glad for more sakes than one. I never loved Mittie, but she's her mother's child, and I don't like the thought of her being miserable for life. And now, Louis, what do you want me to do for you? I can see you are in trouble, though you don't want the fire to blaze on your face. You forget I wear glasses, though they are not always at home, where they ought to be, on the bridge of my nose."

"You told me if I needed counsel or assistance, to come to you and not trouble my kindred. I am in distress, Miss Thusa, and it is my own fault. I'm in debt. I owe money that I cannot raise; I cannot tax my father again to pay the wages of sin. Tell me now how you can aid me; you, poor and lonely, earning only a scanty pittance by the flax on your distaff, and as ignorant of the world as simple-hearted Helen herself?"

Miss Thusa leaned her head forward on both hands, swaying her body slowly backward and forward for a few seconds; then taking the poker, she gave the coals a great flourish, which made the sparks fly to the top of the chimney.

"I'll try to help you," said she, "but if you have been doing wrong and been led away by evil companions, he, your father, ought to know it. Better find it out from yourself than anybody else."

"He knows all my misconduct," replied Louis, raising his head with an air of pride. "I would scorn to deceive him. And yet," he added, with a conscious blush, "you may accuse me of deception in this instance. He has not asked me the sum I owe—and Heaven knows I could not go and thrust my bills in his face. I thought perhaps there was some usurer, whom you had heard of, who could let me have the money. They are debts of honor, and must be paid."

"Of honor!" repeated Miss Thusa, with a tone of ineffable contempt. "I thought you had more sense, Louis, than to talk in that nonsensical way. It's more—it's downright wicked. I know what it all means, well enough. They're debts you are ashamed of, that you had no business to make, that you dare not let your father know of; and yet you call them debts of honor."

Louis rose from his seat with a haughty and offended air.

"I was a fool to come," he muttered to himself; "I might have known better. The Evil Spirit surely prompted me."

Then walking rapidly to the door, he said—

"I came here for comfort and advice, Miss Thusa, according to your own bidding, not to listen to railings that can do no good to you or to me. I had been to you so often in my boyish difficulties, and found sympathy and kindness, I thought I should find it now. I know I do not deserve it, but I nevertheless expected it from you. But it is no matter. I may as well brave the worst at once."

Snatching up his hat and pulling it over his brows, he was about to shoot through the door, when the long arm of Miss Thusa was interposed as a barrier against him.

"There is no use in being angry with an old woman like me," said she, in a pacifying tone, just as she would soothe a fretful child. "I always speak what I think, and it is the truth, too—Gospel truth, and you know it. But come, come, sit down like a good boy, and let us talk it all over. There—I won't say another cross word to-night."

The first smile which had lighted up the face of Louis since his return, flitted over his lip, as Miss Thusa pushed him down into the chair he had quitted, and drew her own close to it.

"Now," said she, "tell me how much money you want, and I'll try to get it for you. Have faith in me. That can work wonders."

After Louis had made an unreserved communication of the whole, she told him to come the next day.

"I can do nothing now," said she, "but who knows what the morrow may bring forth?"

"Who, indeed!" thought Louis, as he wended his solitary way homeward. "I know not why it is, but I cannot help having some reliance on the promises of this singular old woman. It was my perfect confidence in her truth and integrity that drew me to her. What her resources are, I know not; I fear they exist only in her own imagination; but if she should befriend me in this, mine extremity, may the holy angels guard and bless her. Alas! it is mockery for me to invoke them."

The next day when he returned to her cabin, he found her spinning with all her accustomed solemnity. He blushed with shame, as he looked round on the appearance of poverty that met his eye, respectable and comfortable poverty, it is true—but for him to seek assistance of the inmate of such a dwelling! He must have thought her a sorceress, to have believed in the existence of such a thing. He must have been maddened to have admitted such an idea.

"Forgive me, Miss Thusa," said he, with the frankness of the boy Louis, "forgive me for plaguing you with my troubles. I was not in my right senses yesterday, or I should not have done it. I have resolved to have no concealments from my father, and to tell him all."

Miss Thusa dipped her hand in a pocket as deep as a well, which she wore at her right side, and taking out a well-filled and heavy purse, she put it in the hand of Louis.

"There is something to help you a little," said she, without looking him in the face. "You must take it as a present from old Miss Thusa, and never say a word about it to a human being. That is all I ask of you—and it is not much. Don't thank me. Don't question me. The money was mine, honestly got and righteously given. One of these days I'll tell you where it came from, but I can't now."

Louis held the purse with a bewildered air, his fingers trembling with emotion. Never before had he felt all the ignominy and all the shame which he had brought upon himself. A hot, scalding tide came rushing with the cataract's speed through his veins, and spreading with burning hue over his face.

"No! I cannot, I cannot!" he exclaimed, dropping the purse, and clenching his hands on his brow. "I did not mean to beg of your bounty. I am not so lost as to wrench from your aged hand, the gold that may purchase comfort and luxuries for all your remaining years. No, Miss Thusa, my reason has returned—my sense of honor, too—I were worse than a robber, to take advantage of your generous offer."

"Louis—Louis Gleason," cried Miss Thusa, rising from her seat, her tall, ancestral-looking figure assuming an air of majesty and command—"listen to me; if you cast that purse from you, I will never make use of it as long as I live, which won't be long. It will do no good to a human being. What do I want of money? I had rather live in this little, old, gray hut than the palace of the Queen of England. I had rather earn my bread by this wheel, than eat the food of idleness. Your father gives me fuel in winter, and his heart is warmed by the fire that he kindles for me. It does him good. It does everybody good to befriend another. What do I want of money? To whom in the wide world should I give it, but you and Helen? I have as much and more for her. My heart is drawn powerfully towards you two children, and it will continue to draw, while there is life in its fibres or blood in its veins. Take it, I say—and in the name of your mother in heaven, go, and sin no more."

"I take it," said Louis, awed into submission and humility by her prophetic solemnity, "I take it as a loan, which I will labor day and night to return. What would my father say, if he knew of this?"

"He will not know it, unless you break your word," said Miss Thusa, setting her wheel in motion, and wetting her fingers in the gourd. "You may go, now, if you will not talk of something else. I must go and get some more flax. I can see all the ribs of my distaff."

Louis knew that this was an excuse to escape his thanks, and giving her hand a reverent and silent pressure, he left the cabin. Heavy as lead lay the purse in his pocket—heavy as lead lay the heart in his bosom.

Helen met him at the door, with a radiant countenance.

"Who do you think is come, brother?" she asked.

"Is it Clinton?" said he.

"Oh! no—it is Alice. A friend of her brother was coming directly here, and she accompanied him. Come and see her."

"Thank God! she cannot see!" exclaimed Louis, as he passed into the presence of the blind girl.

Though no beam of pleasure irradiated her sightless eyes, her bright and heightening color, the eager yet tremulous tones of her voice assured him of a joyous welcome. Alice remembered the thousand acts of kindness by which he had endeared to her the very helplessness which had called them forth. His was the hand every ready to guide her, the arm offered for her support. His were the cheering accents most welcome to her ears, and his steps had a music which belonged to no steps but his. His image, reflected on the retina of the soul, was beautiful as the dream of imagination, an image on which time could cast no shadow, being without variableness or change.

"Thank God," again repeated Louis to himself, "that she cannot see. I can read no reproach in those blue and silent orbs. I can drink in her pure and holy loveliness, till my spirit grows purer and holier as I gaze. Blessings on thee for coming, sweet and gentle Alice. As David charmed the evil spirit in the haunted breast of Saul, so shall thy divine strains lull to rest the fiends of remorse that are wrestling and gnawing in my bosom. The time has been when I dreamed of being thy guide through life, a lamp to thy blindness, and a stay and support to thy helpless innocence. The dream is past—I wake to the dread reality of my own utter unworthiness."

These thoughts rose tumultuously in the breast of the young man, in the moment of greeting, while the soft hand of the blind girl lingered tremblingly in his. Without thinking of the influence it might have on her feelings, he sought her presence as a balm to his chafed and tortured heart, as a repose to his worn and weary spirit, as an anodyne to the agonies of remorse. The grave, sad glance of his father; the serious, yet tender and pitying look of his step-mother; and the pensive, melting, sympathizing eye of Helen, were all daggers to his conscience. But Alice could not see. No daggers of reproach were sheathed in those reposing eyes. Oh! how remorse and shame shrink from being arraigned before that throne of light where the immortal spirit sits enthroned—the human eye! If thus conscious guilt recoils from the gaze of man, weak, fallible, erring man, how can it stand the consuming fire of that Eternal Eye, in whose sight the heavens are not clean, and before which archangels bend, veiling their brows with their refulgent wings!

It was about a week after the arrival of Louis and the coming of Alice, that, as the family were assembled round the evening fireside, a note was brought to Louis.

"Clinton is come," cried he, in an agitated voice, "he waits me at the hotel."

"What shall I say to him, father?" asked he, turning to Mr. Gleason, whose folded arms gave an air of determination to his person, which Louis did not like.

"Come with me into the next room, Louis," said Mr. Gleason, and Louis followed with a firm step but a sinking heart.

"I have reflected deeply, deliberately, prayerfully on this subject, my son, since we last discussed it, and the result is this: I cannot, while such dark doubts disturb my mind, I cannot, consistent with my duty as a father and a Christian, allow this young man to be domesticated in my family again. If I wrong him, may God forgive me—but if I wrong my own household, I fear He never will."

"I cannot go—I will not go!" exclaimed Louis, dashing the note on the floor. "This is the last brimming drop in the cup of humiliation, bitterer than all the rest."

"Louis, Louis, have you not merited humiliation? Have you a right to murmur at the decree? Have I upbraided you for the anxious days and sleepless nights you have occasioned me? For my blasted hopes and embittered joys? No, Louis. I saw that your own heart condemned you, and I left you to your God, who is greater than your own heart and mine!"

"Oh, father!" cried Louis, melted at once by this pathetic and solemn appeal, "I know I have no right to claim any thing at your hands, but I beg, I supplicate—not for myself—but another!"

"'Tis in vain, Louis. Urge me no more. On this point I am inflexible. But, since it is so painful to you, I will go myself and openly avow the reasons of my conduct."

"No, sir," exclaimed Louis, "not for the world. I will go at once."

He turned suddenly and quitted the apartment, and then the house, with a half-formed resolution of fleeing to the wild woods, and never more returning.

Mittie, who was fortunately in her room above, (fortunately, we say, for her presence would have been as fuel to flame,) heard the quick opening and shutting of doors, and the sound of rapid steps on the flag-stones of the yard.

"Louis, Louis," she cried, opening the window and recognizing his figure in the star-lit night, "whither are you going?"

"To perdition!" was the passionate reply.

"Oh, Louis, speak and tell me truly, is Clinton come?"

"He is."

"And you are going to bring him here?"

"No, never, never! Now shut the window. You have heard enough."

Yes, she had heard enough! The sash fell from her hand, and a pane of glass, shivered by the fall, flew partly in shining particles against her dress, and partly lay scattered on the snowy ground. A fragment rebounded, and glanced upon her forehead, making the blood-drops trickle down her cheek. Wiping them off with her handkerchief, she gazed on the crimson stain, and remembering her bleeding fingers when they parted, and Miss Thusa's legend of the Maiden's Bleeding Heart, she involuntarily put her hand to her own to feel if it were not bleeding, too. All the strong and passionate love which had been smouldering there, beneath the ashes of sullen pride, struggling for vent, heaved the bosom where it was concealed. And with this love there blazed a fiercer flame, indignation against her father for the prohibition that raised a barrier between herself and Bryant Clinton. One moment she resolved to rush down stairs and give utterance to the vehement anger that threatened to suffocate her by repression; the next, the image of a stern, rebuking father, inflexible in his will, checked her rash design. Had she been in his presence and heard the interdiction repeated, her resentful feelings would have burst forth; but, daring as she was, there was some restraining influence over her passions.

Then she reflected that parental prohibitions were as the gossamer web before the strength of real love,—that though Clinton was forbidden to meet her in her father's house, the world was wide enough to furnish a trysting-place elsewhere. Let him but breathe the word, she was ready to fly with him from zone to zone, believing that even the frozen regions of Lapland would be converted into a blooming Paradise by the magic of his love. But what if he loved her no more, as Helen had asserted? What if Helen had indeed supplanted her?

"No, no!" cried she, aloud, shrinking from the dark and evil thoughts that came gliding into her soul; "no, no, I will not think of it! It would drive me mad!"

It was past midnight when Louis returned, and the light still burned in Mittie's chamber. The moment she heard his step on the flag-stones, she sprang to the window and opened it. The cold night air blew chill on her feverish and burning face, but she heeded it not.

"Louis," she said, "wait. I will come down and open the door."

"It is not fastened," he replied; "it is not likely that I am barred out also. Go to bed, Mittie—for Heaven's sake, go to bed."

But, throwing off her slippers, she flew down stairs, the carpet muffling the sound of her footsteps, and met her brother on the threshold.

"Why will you do this, Mittie?" cried he, impatiently. "Do go back—I am cold and weary, and want to go to bed."

"Only tell me one thing—have you no message for me?"

"None."

"When does he go away?"

"I don't know. But one thing I can tell you; if you value your peace and happiness, let not your heart anchor its hopes on him. Look upon all that is past as mere gallantry on his side, and the natural drawing of youth to youth on yours. Come this way," drawing her into the sitting-room, where the dying embers still communicated warmth to the apartment, and shed a dim, lurid light on their faces. "Though my head aches as if red-hot wires were passing through it, I must guard you at once against this folly. You know so little of the world, Mittie, you don't understand the manners of young men, especially when first released from college. There is a chivalry about them which converts every young lady into an angel, and they address them as such. Their attentions seldom admit a more serious construction. Besides—but no matter—I have said enough, I hope, to rouse the pride of your sex, and to induce you to banish Clinton from your thoughts. Good-night."

Though he tried to speak carelessly, he was evidently much agitated.

"Good-night," he again repeated, but Mittie stood motionless as a statue, looking steadfastly on the glimmering embers. "Go up stairs," he cried, taking her cold hand, and leading her to the door, "you will be frozen if you stay here much longer."

"I am frozen already," she answered, shuddering, "good night."

The next morning, when the housemaid went into her room to kindle a fire, she was startled by the appearance of a muffled figure seated at the window, with the head leaning against the casement; the face was as white as the snow on the landscape. It was Mittie. She had not laid her head upon the pillow the whole live-long night.



CHAPTER XII.

"Beautiful tyrant—fiend angelical— Dove-feathered raven!—wolf-devouring lamb— Oh, serpent heart—hid in a flowering cave, Did e'er deceit dwell in so fair a mansion!"—Shakspeare.

"Pray for the dead. Why for the dead, who are at rest? Pray for the living, in whose breast The struggle between right and wrong Is raging terrible and strong."—Longfellow.

"Are you willing to remain with her alone, all night?" asked the young doctor.

Helen glanced towards the figure reclining on the bed, whose length appeared almost supernatural, and whose appearance was rendered more gloomy by the dun-colored counterpane that enveloped it—and though her countenance changed, she answered, "Yes."

"Have you no fears that the old superstitions of your childhood will resume their influence over your imagination, in the stillness of the midnight hour?"

"I wish to subject myself to the trial. I am not quite sure of myself. I know there is no real danger, and it is time that I should battle single-handed with all imaginary foes."

"But supposing your parents should object?"

"You must tell them how very ill she is, and how much she wishes me to remain with her. I think they will rejoice in my determination—rejoice that their poor, weak Helen has any energy of purpose, any will or power to be useful."

"If you knew half your strength, half your power, Helen, I fear you would abuse it."

A bright flame flashed up from the dark, serene depths of his eyes, and played on Helen's downcast face. She had seen its kindling, and now felt its warmth glowing in her cheek, and in her inmost heart. The large, old clock behind the door, struck the hour loudly, with its metallic hands. Arthur started and looked at his watch.

"I did not think it was so late," he exclaimed, rising in haste. "I have a patient to visit, whom I promised to be with before this time. Do you know, Helen, we have been talking at least two hours by this fireside? Miss Thusa slumbers long."

He went to the bedside, felt of the sleeper's pulse, listened attentively to her deep, irregular breathing, and then returned to Helen.

"The opiate she has taken will probably keep her in a quiet state during the night—if not, you will recollect the directions I have given—and administer the proper remedies. Does not your courage fail, now I am about to leave you? Have you no misgivings now?"

"I don't know. If I have, I will not express them. I am resolved on self-conquest, and your doubts of my courage only serve to strengthen my resolution."

Arthur smiled—"I see you have a will of your own, Helen, under that gentle, child-like exterior, to which mine is forced to bend. But I will not suffer you to be beyond the reach of assistance. I will send a woman to sleep in the kitchen, whom you can call, if you require her aid. As I told you before, I do not apprehend any immediate danger, though I do not think she will rise from that bed again."

Helen sighed, and tears gathered in her eyes. She accompanied Arthur to the door, that she might put the strong bar across it, which was Miss Thusa's substitute for a lock.

"Perhaps I may call on my return," said he, "but it is very doubtful. Take care of yourself and keep warm. And if any unfavorable change takes place, send the woman for me. And now good-night—dear, good, brave Helen. May God bless, and angels watch over you."

He pressed her hand, wrapped his cloak around him, and left Helen to her solitary vigils. She lifted the massy bar with trembling hands, and slid it into the iron hooks, fitted to receive it. Her hands trembled, but not from fear, but delight. Arthur had called her "dear and brave"—and long after she had reseated herself by the lonely hearth, the echo of his gentle, manly accents, seemed floating round the walls.