Eulalie, or, The wife's tragedy
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] EULALIE; OR, THE WIFE'S TRAGEDY. BY MISS M. A. EAIRLIE. [COUSIN MAY CARLETON.] NEW YORK: FREDERIC A. BRADY, PUBLISHER No. 22 ANN STREET. page: 0[View Page 0] ERTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, BY CAULDWELL & WHWEY, In the Clerk's Offlie of the Distriot Court for the Southern Distrioctof New York. cRAsE & CO. RB OTTP ZB, 181 Wlim sLt, N Y. EULALIE; OR, CHAPTER I. 'ARTUR SUTHERLAND. Mr. Arthur S utherland sat by the open window of his room, in the M tropolitan, smoking a cigar, and watching the ceaseless tide of humanity ebbing and flowingon Broadway. Three o'clock, and a sunshiny May-afternoon-silks and satins and beaut- ful faces sweeping down to meet dresscoats, and switch canes, and mustached faces, saun- tering up. An oran-grinder, right below, was playing a lively air, and it seemed to Arthur Sutherland that the men and women were keeping time to his music, walking through the great quadrille of life. For what is it all, this ceaseless gliding in and out, bowing and dipping, and forward and back, but a mighty quacrille that we dance every day, with the music in our own hearts, whether that music be a jubilate or a dead- march. Arthur Sutherland sat andr watched the ever-shifting panorama, with face as serene asthe bright May-day. W Whyat? He was young and handsome, and rich, just return ed rom making the grand (ontinental tour, and disposed to think there ws no place like home after all. Young, and handome, and rich: surely all thatthe world can give of hap- pinesIs contained in these three words; and Arthur Sutherland was happy-very happy indeed this pleasant May afternoon. Tis bright little world of ours looked very much to him as Eden must have done to Adam on: the first dav of his life, and ve-.yes, Eve, was up-town, in a brown-stone front, and only waiting the word to make him blessed for life; There was a tap at his door. "Come in," said Mr. Sutherland, without looking round; and some one obeyed- and crossed tue room, and struck him lightly on the shoulder with a kid-gloved hand. Mr. Sutherland turned round to see, not the waiter he had expect- ed, but a gentlemanly young man, elaborate. ly attired, faultless, from the toe of hisshiny boots to the crown of his silk hat. " Wh Phil, old fellow, is it you!" said Arthur utherland, grasping both his viitor's hands. "Here'sa surprise I Wherein the world did you come from?" "Where did I come from?" exclaimed Mr. Sutherland's visitor, taking a seat after a prolonged shake-hands. "I think it is I who should ask that question! Wheretdo you come from, and what do you mean by being in New York a whole week and not infoiingY your friends." "How should I know my frends'were here? What are you do ing in New York t Practicing your profession " . "When I get any practicing to do; but the people who know me are Po onfoundedly healthy, and the people who dont knlowl me won't employ me; so, between both, I .ain a a state of genteel beggary. 'I wish," said M. Outherland's visitor, vindictively, "the o- ted-plague, or the yellow-fever, or the smal ' pox, would break out A man might ave some chance of living the ." "He would stand mor che hance of din, I should think," said Arth utherand, sail- inug. "Why don't you go down to St Mtrys and hang out your shingle there? I big city Is surfeited with ambitious young doc- tors aitd wellestablished old onXe. [ hy* cians are few and la between and old-fogy- sAB in 8t. Mary', and the pepple know you ; "or which very reason," sad. the young doctor, dejectedly; they t wouldt i -employ me. Do you suppoe the men and women who know little Phil uterland. wheni he wore .petticoats, and got spanklP , Wud * employ Doctor Phillip Sutherland :- ldrag out their double teeth, or cue .their col c page: 4-5[View Page 4-5] or rheumatisms. No; I might blue-mold in the grass-grown streets of St. Mary's before I sold sixpence-worth of physic." Arthur Sutherland laughed. There is no joke so good L s the misfortunes of our friends, when wh are beyond misfortune's reach ourselves. They were distant cousins, these young men, bearing the same good old English name; b it there, all resemblance be- tween them ended. Arthur Sutherland was rich: Philip Sutierland was poor. Arthur had a mother and. sister, and a home: Philip had no near r kidred than this distant cous-, in, and uo home but in swarming boarding- houses. He had been M. D. for about half a year, and found i terribly up-hill work. "All a chap can make," said Doctor Suth- erland, moodily :" won't pay his board, and keep bin in paper collars and cigars. As for the theitre, or paying tailors, or bootmakers, that's out of thei question. If they would take payment in blue-pills, and castor-oil, or blistering, or anything professional, I might manage someho-; but they won't. Tailors'. and bootmakers Inever seem to be sick, or have their teeth drawn; or if they do, they won't come to me! I wish I had taken to tailoring myself-Lit's money-making, and its handy to be able to make your own coat and pantaloons. I have a strong mind some- times, as it is, to Ithrow physic to the dogs, and take to the needle and goose." "It's a harrowing case, certainly," said Ar- thur, laughing; "but don't disgrace the name of Sutherland yet. You know my poor mother's proudest boast is, there never yet was a Sitherland in trade. Stick to the scalpel and lancet, dear boy', and ta-ry an heiress 1" "That's easier said than done," Doctor Sutherland repliel, more moodily still. "I'll marry an heiress Itast enough if I could find one to have me, let her be ugly as a Hotten- tot. But I neverl knew one heiress to speak to; and if I did, she would treat me like the rest. She would #ail past me with upturned nose, and plump into the arms of some fel- low like yourself, Wvith more money already than you know what to do with. Marry an heiress I wish to Heaven I had the chance!" 1 "I suppose it is only in novels that mil- lionaires' d&ughters elope with grooms and fortunes," said .Arthur; " and yet there ought to be heiresges in New York in these c days of commercial fortune-making; and you are not Bsuci a bad-looking fellow in the ( main, Phil I Hope on, hope ever, my boy I ] there is no telling what. is in store tor you 3 yet." "Yes, there is tihe poorhouse," Dr. Suther- s land replie., glomily; "unless I take to ' street-sweeping or some other useful avo- I cation to prevent it. I think I'll emigrate to Mexico or Havana; they're nice unhealthy places in hot weather, and doctors ought to ,thrive there. And, by-the-by, speaking ol Havana," said Phil Sutherland, rousing him- self from his state of despondency, a" are you aware your mother and sister spent January and February there this year?" "Yes, certainly. My mother wrote me from there, and went into rhapsodies over the beauties of Eden Lawn and its mistress, 1 was in Switzerland at the time, among the ice and snow, and it was rather odd to read that the weather was oppressively warm." "Your mother liked it," said Phil; " but your sister Gusty didn't. You ought to hear her abusing the place and the people, the heat and the mosquitos, the church-going bareheaded, and the two meals per day." "Poor little girl!"Arthur said, smiling; "two meals, per day I knew would not suit her. Who were the people, and how did my good mother make their acquaintance?" "It was at Montreal. You know your mother sent Augusta to the Convent of the Sacred Heart there, to be finished." Arthur nodded. "'Well, among the pupils there it seems was a lovely young Creole, Mademoiselle Eulalie Rohan, English on the paternal side, French on the maternal, fabulously beautiful, and fabulously wealthy. Your mother saw her, and was enraptured. The liking, it appears, was mutual; for a pressing invitation follow- ed from the young lady and her grandfather' to spend the winter in Cuba; which invita- tion was accepted, Gusty told me in a letter, only on condition that Mr. and Miss Rohan should spend the ensuing summer at Maple- wood." Arthur Sutherland looked surprised. "Indeed I 1 was not aware of that. Has Mademoiselle no relative but grandfather?'I "Not one, it appears. She has been an orphan from earliest childhood, and this old grandfather idolizes her. Her fortune is be- yond computation, Gusty says. There is a princely estate in South America, another princely estate in Louisiana, and still another in Cuba. Except the Rothschilds, Mr. Ro- han and his pretty granddaughter are about the richest people in this lower world.", Arthur Sutherland's small white hand fell lightly on his cousin's shoulder, and his blue eyes lit up mischievously. "My dear fellow, the very thing. Nothing could fall out better. This heiress of fabu- lous wealth and beauty is to spend the sum- mer at Maplewood. Dr. Phil Sutherland, young and good-looking, and fascinating, shall spend the summer at Maplewood also. The beautiful heiress and the fascinating physician will be perpetually thrown to- gether-riding, driving, walking, sailing. ci The result is apparent to the dullest compre- " hension. Dr. Sutherland will leave Maple- q wood a married man and a millionaire." "Nothing of the sort," said Dr. Sutherland, " in a hopeless tone, as he lit a cigar; " no such tt luck for me I It is for my dear cousin Ar- thur this golden trap is baited. You know ix the old proverb,' le that has a goose will it get a goose'."' P "For me I Nonsense, Phil." h "Is it nonsense I It is a wonderful woman, t] that stately mamma of yours, old boy; and t( this gold-bullion heiress is for her Arthur- s her only one, and nobody else." E "Then my stately mamma will have her 1 trouble for her pains," said Arthur Suther- c land, coolly ;"I have no fancy for gold-bullion ] heiresses, or for having the future Mrs. S. se- e lected tor me in this right-royal fashion. No more have I for swarthy skins or tornado- e tempered Creoles." t "4 No," said Phil, puffing away energetic- c ally. "No; you like pink cheeks, alabaster t brows, and pale auburn ringlets. Miss Isabel n Vansell is a very pretty girl." Arthur Sutherland tried to look uncon- E scious, but it would not do. The slight flush that reddened his handsome face ended in a laugh. "There you go again I talking more non- sense I It is a lovely afternoon," said Mr. Sutherland, awakening suddenly to the tact; "suppose we take a stroll down Broad- way." "With all my heart. But, first, when is it to be?" "When is what to be?" "The wedding of Arthur Sutherland, Es- quire, of Maplewood, Maine, to Miss Isabel Vansell, of New York City." "As if I would put you au fait of my love- matters!" said Arthur, drawing on his gloves. "Who has been talking to you of Miss Van- sell?" "Oh, I happen to know the lady. She blushed beautifully yesterday when she ask- ed me if I had seen my cousin, Mr. Suther- land, since his return to New York. Didn't I stare I It was the first intimation I bad of your return." "Which proves you don't read the papers; my return was duly chronicled." "And so you really won't marry the heir- ess?" "I really won't." "But you have not seen her." "That makes not the slighest difference." "And they say she is beautiful." "All the better I I should like my cousin Phil to have a handsome wife. The Suther- lands always marry pretty women." "Humph!" muttered Dr. Phil, flinging his cigar out of the window, and rising to go; "and when is the fair-haired Isabel to reign. queen of old Maplewood?" "I haven't asked her that," replied Arthur; "when I do, I will let you know. Now, drop the subject. Here we are on the pave." The two young men sauntered away, arm- in-arm, and made a very protracted stroll of it. They had been boys together, and had passed through college together, and they had not seen each other for three years; so they found enough to talk about. They dined together some hours later, and afterward strolled into a fashionable theatre to see the melancholy Prince of Denmark and his love-sick Ophelia. And, when that was over, Arthur Sutherland went back to the. 'Metropolitan, and Philip Sutherland return- ed to his east-side boarding-house. The gas was burn4ng low in Arthur Suth- erland's room when he entered it, and in the obscurity he saw a white patch on the crimson tablecloth-a letter, He turned up the light and looked at it. The address was written in a delicate Italian running-hand, and the envelope smelt like a jesamine-blos- som. j - * L "From my mother," thought the young man. "She reads the papers, if Phil does not. Arthur Sutherland, Esquire, Metropoli- tan Hotel, New York. Exactly Let us see what it says inside." He opened the envelope .with care, and drew out four sheets of fine pink paper, close- ly written and crossed. There was a fifth sheet, much smaller, and in a different hand -careless and sprawling, and a trifle blotted. The young man smiled, as he laid it down to read his mother's first. I 1 Poor little Gusty!" he thought. "That big slapdash-fist and these blots are so like you I If you ever write love-letters, I hope you will have an open grammar and diction- ary before you ; for your spelling and com- position would send Lindley Murrayand JoMt e Walker into fits. Tne nuns of the Sacred - Heart may be very accomplished ladies, bus - they haven't succeeded in drilling spelling t and grammar into the head of my only sis- f ter." Mrs. Sutherland's letter, dated Maplewood, was very long, very affectionate, and very entertaining. Her delight was boundless - know her darling was at home again; he; impatience indescribable to behold him. Sh8 and Augusta were well and happy. Maple wood was looking lovely this charming Ma- weather, and Mr. and Miss Rohan were e raptured with it. And from this point alI n Mrs. Sutherland's letter was taken up il r- singing the praises of Miss Eulalie Rohan -her fascination, her grace, her wealth; above is all, her inconceivable beauty. Mrs. Suther- page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] land could find io words strong enough to tell her L her admiration of this young ier son took i ver coolly, lying back in his arn-chair, and smoking as he read. Whhenh read the finishing sentence-astrong appeal that sounded like a command to come home iimediately, and immediately was un- derlined twie -he laid it down, and took up the other. "Very wel, mdther i" he said, half aloud, "I will go Zome r; but I won't fall in love with your 1 Creole eiress, and so I give you warning i The SecoLd epi the was in a very different style. It as short and energetic, and to the point, and not very easy to decipher. Miss Augusta SutLerland told her brother she wa glad he had come lack from that horrid Eu- rope, an she hoped he would come home at once, an stay at home, as he ought to do. They ha Eulae Ilohan and her grandfather with them, and mamma was just bewitched about that Elalie. c I dare say," wrotelthe young lady, "ou will be bad as the rest, and o e stark, starng ma about her black eyes, and?ale tabe, and long curls, the moment you see them. Every one does. Even at schoolit was just the same; ad I declare it turns me sic sometimes. She has inly been here a week, and not a soul of them ir St. Miry's can talk of a single bless- E ed thin but the blackeyed beauty up at Maplewood. Of course, I am nowiere. Even mamma scarcely takes any notice of me' now. And when you return it will be the sate, only more so. Of course, you will fall in love with Miss ohan and her overgrown for- f tule, and tLere will be wedding at Maplewood. At f there doesn't, I know mamma will have to be put an the nearest luntlc-asylum. Come home as b lass you an t Its'rslther pleasant seeing on's fel- V low-beings rnaki g fooli of themselves when one gets r used to It; and I know you will take the Cuban fever as badly asthe'rest. Yur affectionate sister, g L i"AUGUsTA SUTHERLAND. "P. 8.-Phll Sutherland is knocking about New b York somewhere in his' usual good-for-nothing way, if the authorities have not sent him to Blackwell's Isl. 'and as a vagrant. If you see him, you may fetch him at to MaplewoSd. If he is not blessed with the usual to quantity of brains, he iaiat least harmless, and it will be'a sort of charity to keep him for the summer. Tell him I said so. A. S." Mr. Sutherland's told repeater pointed to th half-past one as he :finished the perusal of bz these letters. He rose, folding them up, thrust w them into his coat-pocket, turned down the hi gas, and preparsd to retire. a "Poor little Gusty!" he said to himself, tic wit h a yawn. "I 4on't think her convent- life has changed her much. She does not la: seem to be so enraptured with this Creole belle ks my mother; i but, then, it never was ml the little girl's Latur e to go into raptures over op anybody., no -)octor PhiliD Suerland presented him- t self next nmoriang his cousin's hotel in or time for breakf'st. tthur showed him his sister's letter wiile they lounged over their mt to coffee and toast, which was served that morn. ing ing in his room. "You had better run down with me, Phil," in he said. "There used to be capital trout- aId streams about St. Mary's; and when you're ng not angling for the silver-backs, you can an- nae gle for that golden prize-,the Cuban heir. n- eSS." ok "All right!" said Phil. "I have no ob- jection to running wild for a couple of months; id, at Itaplewood; and I do want to look at this ve bird of -,Paradise they 'have caged in your )u Maine home. When do you go " "At noon, in the 12:50-train; so you had nt better be off to your lodgings, and get your he. belongings together betinhes. Fetch your cab s here at twelve. I have an engagement in the as interval.'" *- "Yes, up-town, in Forty-third street, of at course I Are you going to ask Miss Isabel O. Vansell the momentous question before you r start? The gods grant she may say, Yes o Some faint ray of hope where the heiress is concerned may glimmer for me then." Me Mr. Sutherland's reply to this was to take er his cousin by the collar, and walk him out of at the room, with an imperative order to be off It and mind his own business, which Doctor t Phil did, laughing as he ran down the hotel- - steps, while Mr. Arthur Sutherland stood be- fore the mirror making his toilet. l A most elaborate toilet indeed. Arthur Sutherland was not a fop or a dandy, but no -fop or dandy that ever lounged in the sun- shine down roadway could take more pains brushing hair or arranging his collar or cra- vat than he, this morning. He had every reason to be satisfied with the result the glass gave back a strikingly-haandsome face--a complexion of almost womanly fairness, larke blue Saxon eyes, and profuse auburn hair. Yes, he looked handsome, and he knew it, still without being a fop or a dandy, and, the toilet completed, he ran down the hotel-steps, sprang into a passing stage, and was rattled up-town. ]His destination was, as his' cousin surmised, Forty-third street; and ascending the marble steps of one of its long row of brown-stone palaces, he rang the bell and was admitted by a maid-servant. It was not his first call evidently; for the girl knew him, and returned his nod and smile of recogni. tion. "Is Miss Vansell at home?"Mr. Sutherj land asked. Yes, Miss Vansell was at home and in the morning-room; and Susan,'as sLe spoke threw open the door of the morning-room, an- nounced Mri. Sutherland, and vanished. Ar- thur Sutherland had his own ideal of women, or at least of the womlan he wanted to natrry A tall and slender angel robed in white bock- muslin, with an aureole of pale'gold hair, a broad white brow, and dove-like eyes of blue: a beautiful and perfect creature, excelling in all womanly virtue and sweetness; her very presence breathing purity and holiness, and whose heart never was to enshrine any image but his. "A lovely being scarcely formed or molded, A rose with al its sweetest leaves yet folded,", soft of voice, deft of touch, and free from every stain of earthly evil and passion: a woman and an angel blended in one, who would choose him out from all the world, and love him and cling to him in perfect faith and trust until death: a perfect being, per- fect in all feminine accomplishments, whose music would lull him to sleep in the twilight, and whose fair Madonna-face would always brighten with a smile when he came, and sadden with tender melancholy when he went away. This was the sort of woman he wanted to marry; and perhaps he thought he saw his ideal, this bright May-morning, when he entered the morning-room of the Vansell mansion. Isabel Vansell stood by the open window, the breeze lifting her pale tinseled hair, and fluttering the azure ribbons at her waist, and the flowing skirt of her white-muslin dress. She stood by the open window among pots of tall rose-geraniums, whose perfume scented the air, placing bits of sugar between the gilded bars of a canary-bird's cage, with deft white taper fingers. Robed in white, crown- ed with that aureole of golden ringlets, with as fair and sweet a face as ever the sun shone on-surely in this graceful girl, whose blue eyes drooped, and whose pink cheeks deep- ened as she gave him her hand, Arthur Sutherland had found his ideal. Long after, when the dark and stormy and tragical days that intervened were passed, that picture came back to him with a remorseful pang-- this fair and graceful girl, with the sunlight making a halo round her drooping head. Mr. Sutherland sat down by the open win- dow among the rose-geraniums ana canary- birds, and talked to Miss Vansell in very common-place fashion, indeed. He admired her very much; she was his ideal, his perfect woman, and he loved her, or thought he did; but for all that he talked common-places, and never let drop one tender or admiring word. Isabel. Vansell sat opposite him, with the breeze still stirring the lovely pale-gold hair, and the sunlight illumining her delicate face. They talked of the old themes, they went over the old beaten ground-Miss Vansell had no striking or original ideas on any sub- ject, but she talked on all with charming fem- nine grace. She was not voluble, andshe was just a thought shy; but Mr. Sutherland admired her none the less for that. Yet still he never betrayed that admiration by one word, or look, or tone; and it was only when he aroseto go that he alluded to his depart ure at all. It must be ' good-bye' this time, and not ' good morning'," he said, smiling; "I leave town at noon.' "Leave town 1" the young lady echoed, faintly, the rose-tint fading out of her sweet face; "I did not know-I thought-", Arthur Sutherland saw and interpreted the signs, with a little thrill of delight. "I shall not be absent long," he said. "New York has irresistible charms for me just now. I shall only run down to Maplewood to see my mother and sister, and return." The color came back to Miss Vansell' cheeks, and she held out her lily-leaf hand with a smile. "Bon voyage," she said; "after three years' absence, I wonder you could linger even a week in New York." "Home has its charms, and so has New York; very powerful ones just at present Shall I find you in the city when I return?" he asked, holding the hand she had given him a moment. "Yes," said Miss Vansell, blushing beauti fully; "good-bye!" The momentous question, towhich Phil had alluded, rose to the young man's lips, but he checked himself. "Time enough when I return," he thought; "it will be sweet to know it is for that I shall return." So the words were not spoken that would have sealed his- fate-that would have changed the whole current of his life. Per- haps there is a Providence in these things; and all the fever of love, and doubt, and an- guish, and misery, was to be undergone, to make him a better man, to try him as gold is tried in the crucible. Once he looked hack as he descended the stone steps at the window of the morning- room. His ideal was there still, among the rose-geraniums and the birds, with the fair Madonna-face, and tender blue eyes. CHAPTER .II EULALIE. In the purple twilight of the next evening the two young men drove in a buggy hired at the railway-station, through the one long, straggling street of the village of St. Mary's. I wonder if any one who reads this over was in St. Mary's; if not, I advise them to visit it as speedily as possible. That beautiful little city, Portland, is very near it; and of all delighttul villages on the rock-bound coast of Maine, I do not think there is one more de- lightful than St. Mary's. You walk down its chief street, between two rows of dear lit page: 8-9 (Illustration) [View Page 8-9 (Illustration) ] tie white cottages, with green window-shut. ters and red Adors, their snowy fronts all overrun with sweethrier, and their windows looking into the[ prettiest of flower-gardens. You walk down the long straggling street until it ceases 4o be a street, and you find yourself on a lQng white sandy beach, with the broad blue Atlantic spreading out before you, and melting in the far-off purple horizon into the low blue sky. You see winding paths leading hIre and there to beautiful villas and stately mansions, embosomed in towering trees; and still further away, your view is bounded by black piny woods and the misty outliLe of hills. The salt breath of old dcean is in your lungs, its saline freshness in your fate, its ceaseless roar in your ears, but there is little of the strife and tumult and bustle and rproar of the big restlessworld in St. Mary's. In the purplish gloom of the May-twilight, Arthur 'Sutierlani and his cousin drove slowly along the pleasant country-roads, with sw 31liLg meadows and dark woods, and peacefuL-looding farmhouses and stately homesteads on either hand, It was all very familiar and very dear to them both;, they had spent their boyhood together here before they had gone forth to fight the battle of life; and every green flane and upland meadow and fore3t-ar 3ade was as well known to them as their own faces in the glass. They drove along in the misty twilight, with the scented dountry-air blowing in their faces, very silently--thikingi of these bygone days, perhaps, an., wondering if they had changed as littee as the landscape in these intervening yars. The twilight was deepening into starlit light as the homi3 of Arthur Sutherland came in view. A pair of tall iron gates stood wide; and y0u saw a spacious carriage- drive winding aWay between two rows of giant maples and hemlocks, while miniature forests of these same noble trees spread them- selves away on either hand. Embosomed among these glorious old trees stood a long low old-fashioned! gray stone house, elder than the Revolutio*, and built far more with a view to strength and durability than beauty or chasteness of architecture. There were modem additions and repairs; but the old gray-stone he use, With its high narrow win- dows and stacks Eof chimneys and peaked gables stood much as it had stood when the 1 first Sutherland who emigrated from Eng- I land to the co-onie4 built it, over one hundred t 'years before. The Sutherlands were proud i of their old mansion-very old as age goes in 1 America-and only altered it to make un- a avoidable repairs. I The long drawing-room i and dining-room windows opened upon a j sweep of grassy lawn sloping down to the t t- groves of maple and elm and hemlock, like a 1 green velvet carpet; a piazza run around the 's second story, in which the tall windows 3. opened in the same fashion. Stables and out- it houses, also of gray stone, were in the rear d of the building, and beyoend them stretched a t delightful orchard, where apple and plum, e and pear and cherry-trees, scented the air a with their blossoms in spring, and'strewed g the sward with their delicious ripe fruit in 1 autumn. To the right, rolled away swelling i meadows, ending where the pine woods be- r gan; to the left, another long garden, all e aglow in summer with rose-trees, and where i little wildernesses of lilacs and laburnums, and cedar and tamarac, sloped down to the t sea: a glorious old garden, in whose green I arcades and leafy aisles delicious silence and cooliness ever reigned, where the singing of numberless birds, the wash of the ceaseless waves, or the swaying of the boughs in the ibreeze, made music all day long: a dreamy, delightful old garden, where everything grew or did not grow, as best pleased itself, ending in a grassy tenace, with a flight of stone steps leading down to the beach below. A magnificent place altogether, this ancestral home of the Sutherland's, there was not a tree or a stone inside the iron gates that was not dear to them, and of which they were not proud. The round May-moon was sailing over the dim, dark hill-tops as the two young men drove round to the stables and left their vehicle there. Two long lines of light glanced across the front of the old stone house; and, in the blue misty moonlight, it cast quaint and weird shadows athwart the turfy lawn. Arthur Sutherland lifted the, pondrous iron knocker and roused the silent echoes by a loud alarm. The man-servant who opened the door was a stranger to the returned heir, and stared at him, and informed him Mrs. Sutherland was engaged, and that there was a dinner-party at the house. "Never mind," said Arthur, "I dare say she will see me. Just tell her two gentlemen await her presence in the library, my good fellow I This way, Phil!" He pushed past the man as he spoke, and opened a door to the left, with an air of one. all at home. A shaded lamp burned on a round table in the centre of the floor-they had no gas atMaplewood-and, by its subdued light, you saw a noble room, lined all round the four walls with books from floor to ceil- ing. A portrait of George Washington hung above the low black marble mantel; albeit traditions averred the Sutherlands had rather snubbed that hero in his lifetime. Arm-chairs, cushioned in green billiard-cloth to match the green carpet and curtains, stood page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] around; 'and just as the young gentlemen subsided into one a piece, a mighty rustling ot silks resounded without, the door opened, and a lady entered: a lady, fair and proud, and stately and handsome, and still youthful- looking, with fair unsilvered hair, delicate regular features, thin lips and large light blue eyes: a lady who would have told you she was five-and-forty, but who looked ten years younger, elegantly dressed, and redolent of patchouli. Arthur Sutherland rose up, the lady looked at him, gave a cry of delight, ran forward, and clasped him in her arms. "My darling boy I My dearest Arthur I! and have you returned at last!" "At last, my dear mother, and glad to be home again." They were very much alike, the mother and son; the same tall stature, the same blonde type of Saxon beauty; but the proud and somewhat severe look in the mother's blue eyes was a warm and more genial light in the son's. She held him off at arm's length, and looked at him with loving and delighted eye. "You have grown taller and stouter, I think," she said, while her son stood, laugh- ingly, to-be inspected. "Your three years' travel has decidedly improved you! M dearest boy, I cannot tell you how rejoiced I am to have you home once more!" "A thousand thanks, mother mine I But have you no welcome for this other stranger?" The lady turned round quickly. She had quite overlooked him in the happiness of seeing her boy. Doctor Sutherland came forward with a profound bow. "Philip Sutherland 1" she said, smilingly. holding out her ringed; white hand. "Iam very glad to see you back agair at Maple- wood!" Mr. Philip Sutherland expressed 'his thanks, and his pleasure at seeing her looking as young and handsome as ever. "Pshaw!" said the lady, smiling gracious- ly, however. "R Have you not ceased that old habit of yours, of talking nonseise, Philip? Have you dined, Arthur?"I "Yes, mother. We dined in Portland. You are having a dinner-party, they tell me?" "Only Colonel and Mrs. Madison and the Honorable Mr. Long and his daughter. Will you go up to your room and dress, and i join us in the drawing-room. The gentle- 1 men have not left their wine yet. You will 1 find your room in as good order as if you ] had been absent three days instead of three years; and Philip, you know your own old ; chanmber." "Up in the cockloft!" muttered Philip, sotto voce. "Yes Ma'am, I know." "But I should like to see Augusta first, mother. Will you send her word V" "I'm here 1" screamed a shrill voice; and the door was flung open, and a young lady bounced into the room and bounced up to the speaker, flinging her arms round his neck, kissing him with sounding smacks: a young lady, inclined to embonpoint, fair-haired and blue-eyed-as it was the nature of the Suther- lands to be; but, unlike the Sutherland's, with a snub-nose. Yes, this young lady was a Sutherland; but she had a snub nose and a low forehead, and cheeks like a milkmaid in color and plumpness; but, for all that, a very nice-looking and a very nice girl, indeed. "Now, there, Augusta, "don't strangle me," said Miss Augusta's brother, when he thought he had been sufficiently kissed. "Stand off and let me look at you. How fat you have grown 1" "Oh, have I?" exclaimed Miss Suther- land, with sudden asperity. "' I wonder you let me in the room before you told me that Phil Sutherland, how do you do? I knew you were dying to be, asked down here, and so I asked you!" Doctor Sutherland murmured his thanks in a subdued tone-he was always subdued in the presence of this outspoken cousin; but the young lady paid no attention to him. "Hadn't you better go back to the draw- ing-room, mamma? That horrid old Colo- nel Madison will drink so much port wine, and come in and bore us all to death if you're not there to listen to him. I hate those stupid stories about Mexico, and all the valiant deeds he did there, and so does Eulalie; and 1 gape in his face, and he goes off and tells his wife I'm the most ill-bred girl he ever met. I know he tells her that, and I hate him 1" Miss Sutherland bounced out of the room as she had bounced into it, and Mrs. Suther- land turned to follow her. "Make your toilets, young gentlemen, and show yourselves in the drawing-room as quickly as possible. Your luggage Is up- stairs by this time, no doubt." She sailed out of the room; and the two young men ran up-stairs to their respective apartments-Mr. Philip Sutherland's being rather in the attic than otherwise. "My old roost looks much the same as ever," said the young Doctor, glancing around. "I wonder if any one has courted the Balmy up here since 1 left, or if it has been sacred to the memory of Philip Suther- land!" IThe young physician made a rather care- ful toilet,' with the memory of the Creole heiress in his, mind, and descended presently page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] in allT the purple and fine linen proper for young mer- to wear, and tapped at his cou- sin's door. "Are yo 1 ready, old boy?" he said, open- ing it and looking in. "Ah I I see you are, and most elaborately got up I Now, then, for our dark-eyed heiress!" The long drawing-room was all ablaze with light from pendant chandeliers when they entered; and Augusta Sutherland, sit- ting at a grand piano, was singing a Swiss song, that seemed more tra-la-las than any- thing else. The gentlemen had come in from the dining-room, it seemed; for Mrs. Suther- land, lying back in a fauteuil, i la princesse, was listening with languid politeness to a stout military gentleman with a big bald head, while she watched the door. A smil- ing motion brought the young men to her velvet thrcne; and they were introduced in due form to Colonel and Mrs. Madison-the latter a pale-faced, insipid-looking little woman, wih nothing at all to say. "Excuse me one moment, Colonel," said Mrs. Sutherland, with her sweetest smile, "while I present my son to Mr. and Miss Rohan, neither of whom he has seen. yet. I must hear the end of that Mexican adven- ture." She took her son's arm, and they walked the length of the apartment together, while Philip was taken by the button-hole, captive, to the Mexican officer, sorely against his will. In the shadowy recess of a deep old-fash- ioned bay-window, Arthur saw two people sitting. A tall, and stately, and handsome old man, with hair as white as silver, tind a face deeply furrowed by time or trouble. The other, a tall and decidedly plain-looking girl, very stylishly dressed. There was a little low sofa between them that Seemed only a mass of scarlet drapery and cushions, in the deep shadow cast by the heavy amber- colored curtains of the bay-window. "Is it possible," thought Arthur, "that this young -ady with the small eyes and wide mouth, is the beauty I have heard so much of? They must look through a golden mist, indeed, who can discover loveliness in that face." The young lady's name was pronounced, even while he was thinking this; but the- name was Miss Long, and he remembered what his mother had told him of an Honora- ble Mr. Long and his daughter being there. The stately old gentleman was Mr. Rohan, of Eden Lawn, Cuba, who bowed rather stiffly as the son of his hostess was introduced. "Miss Rohan, allow me to present my son, Arthur, Miss Eulalie Rohan."' The mass of scarlet drapery was pushed aside by a Little hand all blazing with rich rings, and from the shade of the yellow cur. tains a recumbent figure rose, and a sweet voice, the sweetest he ever had heard, spoke to him. There had been a greenish gleam as she lifted her head, and Arthur saw that she wore a circlet of emeralds in her dense black hair; but somehow he had thought of the fa. tal greenish glitter of a serpent's head, and he could not get rid of the idea. She rose up from the shadowy background, among the glowing red of the cushions, a scarlet shawl thrown lightly over her shoulders; and she looked like a picture starting vividly out from black gloom. Arthur Sutherland saw a face unlike any face he had ever seen be. fore ;' great black eyes of dusky splendor, lighting up gloriously a face of creamy pal- lor, and flashing white teeth, showing through vivid crimson lips. He could not tell wheth. er she was beautiful or not; he was dazzled by the flashing splendor of those eyes and teeth, set in the shadow of that raven-black hair.- In far-off eastern lands he had seen such darkly-splendid faces, and it seemed to him for a moment that he was back in the land of the date and the palm-tree, under a blazing, tropical sun; but how strangely out of place this glowing Assyrian's beauty seem- ed in his staid New England home I She had been resting lazily down among the crimson-velvet cushions, talking in her sweet, foreign voice to her grandfather and Miss Long; but she sat up now, letting the scarlet shawl trail off her exquisite shoulders. As she moved her little black head, all run- ning over with curls that hung below her taper waist, the greenish glitter of the eme- ralds flashed and gleamed with a pale, sinis- ter lustre. Arthur Sutherland hated the gems. He could not get rid of the thought ot the serpent while this pale, sickly flashing met his eye. He thought of Isabel Vanself who wore Orient pearls, as pale and pure as herself; and thought how fortunate it was for him he had seen and loved her before he met this black-eyed houri, whose darkly-gorgeous beauty might have bewitched him else. He was safe now, with that counter charm, his fair-haired ideal; and being safe, it was only polite to sit down and talk to his mother's guests; so he took a vacant chair near the low sofa, and began to converse. Mr. Arthur Sutherland, among his other accomplishments, was an adept in the art of , making conversation". He and Miss Long, who was rather a blue-stocking and very strong-minded, had a discussion on the ditf- ference of society in the Old World and the New. This led him to speak pf his travels, and he gave eloquent over-descriptions of Florence, the Beautiful, .and the solemn gran- deir of the Eternal City. He had heard the wonderful "Miserere" in St. Peter's; he had / made the ascent of Mt. Blanc; he had seen sp the carnival in Venice, and he had performed p the Via Crucis in the Holy Land. The great of solemn black eyes of Eulalie Rohan fixede themselves on his face, as she listened in breathless, childlike delight; and perhaps the h consciousness of this made him yet more el- oquent, though he said very little to her. He d had essayed some remarks to her grandfa- c ther, and received such brief replies as to nip the attempted conversation in the bud. But a Eulalie could talk as well as listen; and pres- d ently, when he asked her something about e Cuba, the glorious black eyes lit up, the dark h Creole face kindled with yet more vivid beau- ti ty, and she. talked of her home under the or- ange and cition groves, until he could feel t, the scented breath of the Cuban breeze blow- 1. ing in his face, and see the magnolia sway- t ing over his head. She talked with the most r charming infantile grace in the world, in f that sweet, foreign-aecented voice of hers- a the small, ringed hands fluttering in and out the crimson drapery, and the serpent-gleam U of the emeralds ever displeasing the young u man's eyes. She was not eloquent or origi- v nal; she was only very sweet and charming, n and innocently childlike-not a bit strong- v minded like Miss Long-not at all given to X bounce, like Miss Augusta Sutherland-and ] her sweetness was something entirely differ- t ent from that of his pale, golden-haired saint and ideal, Isabel Vansell. This dark divini- ty, who was all jets and sparkles, all scarlet f drapery and amber background, and big I black eyes, and emeralds and diamond-rings. He could see, while he sat gravely listening to her sweet, childish voice, Philip Sutherland, staring over at her with open-eyed admira- tion, and smiled to himself. "Poor Phil!" he thought; " he is just the sort of fellow to be caught by this tropical butterfly, this gorgeous little flower ot the sun. Those big, velvet-black eyes of hers, and this silvery prattle, so babyish and so sweet, and that feathery cloud of purple- black hair is just the sort of thing to fasci- nate him. Now I should like a woman, and this is only a lisping baby-a very charming baby, no doubt, to people who admire olive skins, and pretty little tattle, but not at all to my taste." Miss Rohan had one attentive auditor to everything she said, besides Mr. Sutherland, and that was her grandfather. Arthur had been struck from the very first by the old man's manner toward his child; it was such a mixture of yearning, mournful tenderness, watchful care. He watched her every move- ment; bhe listened to every word that was said to her, and every word she uttered in reply. He seemed to have eyes and ears only for her, and his gaze had something of un- speakable sadness in it. The prevailing ex- pression of his whole face, indeed, was one of settled melancholy; that furrowed coun- tenance was a history of deepest trouble- past, perhaps-but whose memory darkened his whole life. Arthur Sutherland said all this, and won- dered what that trouble could be, and what connection it could have with this bright young creature, who seemed as innocently and childishly happy as if she were only a dozen instead of eighteen years old. What- ever it was, its blight had not fallen on her- her laugh was music itself, her silvery prat- tle gay as a skylark's song. "Perhaps he loves her so well, and fears to lose her so much," he thought, "that the love and fear bring that look of unspeakable trouble with which he seems perpetually to regard her. Grandfathers have idolized be- fore now granddaughters far less beautiful and charming than this dark-eyed syren." The little party gathered in the recess of the bay-window so comfortably was broken up at this moment. The Hon. Mr. Long, who had been turning Miss Sutherland's music whilheshe sang, came forward now with that young lady on his arm, and begged Miss Rohan to favor them with some music. Eulalie arose promptly, and Arthur saw for the first time what a tiny creature she was, with a waist he could have spanned like a doll's, and her flossy black ringlets hanging far below it. There was a general move; Mr. and Miss Long, and Mr. Rohan, all ad- journed to the other end of the drawing- room, but Arthur Sutherland remained, and his sister dropped down on the sofa Miss Ro- han had just vacated. "There they go!" was her resentful cry; "the Longs atheongs and the grandfather, and now mamma ad that stupid thaext ican Colonel and his automaton Wife, and Phil Sutherland, all over to the piano to hear the millionaire's heiress sing. Nobody paid any attention to my Singing, of course; even Mr. Long was gaping behind the music when he thought H was not looking I wonder, if I w if I were a mil- lionaire's granddaughter, if people would flock round to listen to every word I let fall, as if they were pearls anik diamonds, or would my snub-nose and one hundred and forty-two pounds avoirdupois set them gap- ing when I open my mouth as it does now." I Arthur Sutherland smiled at his sister's I tirade, but did not reply. He was listening to the grand, grateful notes of the instrument, , swept by a master-hand, and a rich contralto- - voice singing some mournful Spanish ballad. a The voice was full of pathos, the song sad as a a funeral-dirge, with a wild, melancholy re- y frain. i- "There!" burst out Augusta, "that's the page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] sort of dismalness she sings all the time. It makes my flesh creep sometimes to hear her, and people go mad over her singing and playing. Nobody ever sees anything in mine, and I'm sure I play the hardest galops and polkas g ,ing; but, I dare say, if I had big black eyes like two full moons, and a grandfather wi:h several millions of money it would be different!" "4 How very fond of her he seems to be!" said Arthur, looking over at the piano, where Mr. Rohanu stood with his eyes on his grand- daughter's face while she sang. "Who? Her grandfather? Good graci- ous me l" cried Miss Sutherland, shrilly, "there never was anything like it I They talk about people adoring the ground other people walk on, but if they only could know how that Mr. Rohan admires Eulalie, they might talk. Of course, it would be sinful idolatry in any ,body but a millionaire; and I know if I was Eulalie I should not put up with it. He watches her as a cat watches a mouse; he won't let her go to parties; he won't let her go outside the door, unless he is tagging a- her apron-strings. He wouldn't let her speax to a'young man, or let one look at her, it he could help it; and he would like tq shut her ip in a box and carry her round with him, like that princess in the Arabian Nights. He' wanted her to take the vail when she was in the convent." "Wanted her to take the vail," echoed her i brother, amazed. i - "Yes," said Augusta, " and my opinion is i there is something' wrong in the business, and E Eulalie doesn't know what. She says he has 1 been like that ever since she can remember, e loving her to absurdity, but always as if he ( pitied her, or was lafraid of her, or something. He is a very nice old man, but I think he is a monomaniac where his- granddaughter is concerned-or would be, if he was not a mil- lionaire." A monomaniac! The word spoken so a lightly struck strangely and harshly on the ear of Arthur Sutherland. He had heard of such things I And was this the secret of those a loving, anxious, watchful looks? Did he t know he was mad, and did he fear the same s fate. for his )eautiful child? Was it heredi- I tary in the famil, yet a secret from her? d "Well!" exclaimed her sister, with her t round, blue eyes fixed on his face. "1 should r like to know what that solemn countenance c means? If you were making your will you h couldn't looit more dismal; and as you seem to have lost yourl tongue since Bulalie went away, I'll go and fetch her back to you." Oil went Miss Augusta. Arthur shook b away the creeping feeling that had come over m him, with a s-ight shudder. f "What an idiot 1 am!" he thought, at it " weaving such a web of horrible improbable r, fancies out of a casual word let drop by my d chattering sister. The old man dotes on ls n grandchild, and that ceaseless care and s mournful tenderness of look and voice is d only the effect of excessive love, and fear of a losing her." r, Half an hour after, the dinner-party broke up, and the guests went home. Miss Rohan bade them good night, with one of her bril. e liant smiles, and went up stairs with Augusta. - As Arthur followed, and was enteiing his own room, Philip came along the hall, with - a night-lamp in his hand. He had managed , to get introduced to the heiress, and had been devouring her with his eyes, ever since they r had fallen on her first. r "I say, Arthur," he cried, as he went back, r "what a glorious little beauty she is!" IArthur Sutherland looked at his cousin l with a pitying smile. D "With what different eyes people see things!" he said. "You saw a glorious little beauty, and I saw-a dark fairy with a soil voice! Good-night!" t Arthur Sutherland's dreams were a little contused that night, and Eulalie Rohan and Isabel Vansell got hopelessly mixed up in them. Once in those uneasy dreams, he was walking through the leaty arcades, and green aisles of Maplewood with bluc-eyei Isabel, robed in white and illumined by the sunlight as he had seen her last, when, out of the black shadow of the trees, a tall serpent reared itself upright with a hiss, and the sun- shine was suddenly darkened. The serpent had an emerald flashing in. its head, and look- ed at him with the great black eyes of the Creole heiress; and then he awoke with a vi- olent start, and the vision was gone. CHAPTER III. BEGINNING OF THE TROUBLE. Arthur Sutherland rose early the morning after his return home, despite the previous day's fatiguing journey, and made a hasty toilet. T'le house was as still as a tomb; no one was stirring, but the birds who chanted their matin-hymns in the glorious May-sun.- shine, among -the branches of the quaint hemlocks trailing against his chamber-win- dow. It had been his custom from boyhood to indulge himself in a long walk, a longer ride, or a sea-bath before breakfast. He chose to ride this morning; and mounting his horse, rode away, with all the old boyish light-heartedness back again. It was so pleasant to be at home after all these years of sight-seeing, and roaming up and down this big world; and Maplewood, in the refulgent morning-sunshine, was inexpressibly beauti ful. The dark pine-woods, sharply defined against the blue sky, the long winding grove4 of maples and hemlocks, and beeches, and chestnuts; the sunny sweeps of lawn and grassy terrace; the winding, old-fashioned flower-gardens, perfuming the air; the glori- ous old orchard; the swelling meadows, stretching away on either hand; and the old gray-stone mansion, nestling in the midst of this sylvan greenwood, so peaceful and so grand in its sturdy old age. Yes, Maplewood was beautiful, and Ar- thur's heart was in a glow of happy pride as he rode down the long graveled drive, through the tall iron gates, and out into the dusty highroad. He met the farm-laborers going to their work; he could see that St. Mary's was all astir, but he did not ride through St. Mary's. He galloped along the quiet roads, so tempted by the beauty of the morning that two hours had elapsed before he returned. Leaving his horse to the care of the stable-boys, he came round, by the back of the house, humming a tune. As he turned a sharp angle of the building, the long grassy terrace overlooking the sea, came in sight; aid he saw, to his surprise, a fairy 'form, in a white cashmere morning-dress, loitering to and fro, and dropping pebbles into the placid waters below. She wore a little straw hat on her black curls, its white feather drooping among them, and the scarlet shawl of hist night drawn around her shoulders. Miss Rohan was not loitering alone either; near her, leaning over the low iron railing, stood Philip Sutherland, talking animatedly, and Arthur could hear her low, musical laugh where he stood. There was no earthly reason why this should annoy him-he would not for a moment have con- fessed even to himself, thatit did annoy him- but his brow contracted, and he felt for the first time that his cousin was an officious meddler, whom it would have been better to have left in New York. He had started for- ward impulsively to join them. Was he not master here, and did not the laws of hospi- tality compel him to be attentive to his mother's guest, when he as impulsively stopped.!Walking rapidly 'through the chestnut-grov!, leading from the lawn to this terrace, he saw Mr. Rohan, his aged face looking tenfold more troubled and anxious and careworn in the garish sunshine than it had done in the lamplight, The trouble in his face was so very like terror, as he looked at his granddauglter loitering there with Philip butlhrland, that Arthur stared at him, amazel. He (iined them, drawing his child's arm within his own, and bowing cold- ly. and distantly to her companion. Ten nuuutes alter, he: saw the old man lead her anway. and Philip fbllowing in their wake, faithlul as a ncedle to the iNorth Star. Ar- thur did uot join hinm; he lingered in the ter- race, smoking a cigar, and trying to puzzle out the riddle, and only mystifying himself by the effort. He flung his smoked-out cigar into the blue waves; and seeing by hiswatch it was the breakfast-hour, he strolled back to the house, and into the breakfast-room. The breakfast-room at Maplewhod was a very pretty apartment, with canary-birds and flower-pots in the window, and the fresh soa- breeze rustling the muslin curtains. Standing among these birds and flowers when he entered was Eulalie. That sunlit figure in the white dress, among the gera- niums and canaries, reminded him of another picture he had looked at, just before leaving New York. But Eulalie turned round, and all similitude vanished. The dusky splendor of her Southern beauty extinguished poor Isabel's pale prettiness, as the sun might a penny candle. The flashing of those glorious eyes and those pearly teeth, the rosy, smiling mouth disclosed, blotted out even the memo- ry of his flaxen-haired ideal. He hated tarry tresses, and sloe-black eyes, and dusky skins, and passionate dark daughters of the South; but for all that he was none the less dazzled by those wonderful Creole eyes now. The gleaming emeralds he had disliked so much, glittered no longer amid the ebon waves of her hair-some scarlet geranium-blossoms shone like red stars in their place, and were the only speck of color she wore. Mrs. Sutherland and Augusta and Philip were there and Mr. Rohan was near his granddaughter, as usual. He sat beside her at table, too, and listened to her, and watch- ed her, with the same jealous watchfulness as last night. Just as they sat down, a young lady entered the room, at sight of whom both', young men started up with exclamations of surprise, shaking hands, and calling her fam- iliarly by her Christian name. She was a tall, slim, pale girl, rather pretty, with the light hair, and blue eyes, and a look general. ly of the Sutherlands. She was dressed ia slight mourning, and looked four or five 'years the senior either of Augusta or Eulalie. "Why, Lucy," Arthur cried, " that is an astonisher. I did not know you were hero I Mother said nothing about it." Lucy Sutherland-she was cousin to both young men, and poorer even than Philip.- lifted her light eyebrows slightly as she took her place. "N O," she said quietly; "why should she mention so unimportant a matter. It was not worth mentioning." Arthur smiled; perhaps the answer was characteristic. "Why were you not down last night?" "Because she is an oddity," said his mother, taking it upon herself to reply; "and page: 16-17 (Illustration) [View Page 16-17 (Illustration) ] as unsocial as that Black Dwarf in Sir Walter Scott's novel. I tell her she should have been with Robinson Crusoe on his island, or go and be a nun at once." Miss Lucy Sutherland made no reply; si- lence was another of her oddities, it seemed; but Augusta and Eulalie chattered away like magpies. The whole party loitered a very unnecessary length of time over the break- fast-table; and, when they arose, the young ladies adjouirned to the drawing-room-Miss Rohan and Miss 'Augusta to practice some wonderful duet, and Miss Lucy to seat her- self at another window, and stitch away in- dustriously at some elaborate piece ot em- broidery. Philip Sutherland hung devotedly over the p'ano, with rapt face; the dragon- as he mentally styled the Cuban millionaire- had gore to the library to write letters. Ar- thur seated. himself beside his cousin Lucy, to talk to Lier, and furtively watch the fairy figure 'in white at the piano how well she played; how those tiny, ringed hands flew over the polished keys, and what wonderful power to fascinate the little dark witch had I He talked to Lucy Sutherland, snipping re- morselessly at her silks, and listening to the music, and thinking what danger he might have been in of falling in love with a black- eyed girl if he had not been fortunate enough to first meet with Isabel Vansell. "How long have you been at Maplewood, Lucy," he asked his cousin. "Since my father's death-five months ago," she replied, in a grave but steady voice. "Your mother finds me useful, and desires me to stay ; and, being of use, I am quite will- ing. Arthur smiled as he looked at her. "Proud Lucy I You are the same as of old, 1 see. I am very glad you are here. You must never leave us, Lucy, until you leave us for a home of your own." Lucy Su nerland was habitually pale, but two red spots came into her, cheeks and slowly died out again. She did not reply; she did no. lift her eyes from her work, as her needle flashed in and out. "You were here when Mr. and Miss Ro- han came, of course," he said, after, a pause. "Yes." " How do you like Miss Rohan?" "Very well." "Which means, I suppose, you do not like her at all?" Lucy Sutherland looked up, calmly, as she threaded her needle. "Not at all I Why should I dislike her?" i"Heaven knows! IFor soime inscrutable female reason; but I ani sure you do not like her." "I have seen very little of Miss Rohan," said Lucy, rather coldly. "I'm always busy; ' and she could hardly be expected to trouble herself much about me. Even if I were her equal in social position, we are so much un- like, and have so few tastes and ,sympathies in common, that we should never care for each other's companionship. Miss Rohan never thought twice about me, and is su- premely indifferent whether I like or dislike her". "Thus spoke the pride of all the Suther. lands!" exclaimed Arthur, smiling. "Why, you foolish Lucy, what do you mean by talk- ing of being beneath her. Are you not a lady by birth and descent, and, education, as much as she is! As for her grandfather's millions, she can afford to look down upon the whole of us, when they are concerned; for, if report speaks truly, she will be rich enough to buy and sell all the Sutherlands that ever existed." Here there was an interruption. Mrs. Sutherland came in to tell her son there were callers for him in the reception-room. The guests of last night had spread the report o! his return, and his old friends were losing no time. "Mr. Synott asked for you, Philip," Mrs. Sutherland said. "I dare say yon would prefer turning over the music, but you must go." "Oh, hang Mr. Synott!" muttered Philip; "I wish he was in Jericho!" There was no help for it, however;a he had to. go; and what was worse, he and( Arthur were kept there until the luncheon-bell rang, by a constant stream of troublesome old Iriends. There was a conservatory off this reception-room whose back-window comn manded a view of the long terrace,' and they could see Mr. Rolan and his dark-eyea granddaughter lounging there, when the practicing and letter-writing were over. They disappeared before luncheon-hour, and were not present at that meal; neither was Lucy. The Cuban grandee and his grandchild had gone off riding; and it was another of Lucy's oddities never to eat luncheon. It was a far less pleasant meal than breakfast had been, although half a dozen of the old friends par- took ot it, and talked a great deal; but the dark piquant face and wonderful black eyes were missing, and it was all vexation of spirit. Arthur Sutherland found that afternoon very long. The troublesome friends went away at last, but not until he was hcartily sick of them; and/ then he went up into h room to write letters. But, somehow, the great black eyes and entrancing Creole face came between him and the white paper, aad sent him into long fits of musing that made him sadly neglect his writing. He tried to read; but his book seemed stupid, aud 1o page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] hflung it aside and went out, in desperation, to ( smoke away the tedious hours. He found ( Philip Sutherland pacing up ,and down the i sunny lawn, with his weed alight, and joined I him. Augusta sat under a tree, reading a i novel, with a big black Newfoundland doz- ing beside her; and Lucy, in her own chaim- ber-window, still bending over her embroid- ery, watched them, and guessed instinctively , the cause of their restlessness. ", W hen they were here before," she thought, 1 with a contemptuous smile, " they were rid- i ing over the country, or off with their fishing- J rods all day long. Now, they dare not stir outside the gates, lest they should lose one glimpse of that sallow baby-face and those great, meaningless black eyes." The young men smoked a vast number of cigars under the waving arms of the old trees; but they did not talk much, and Miss Rohan's name'was not once mentioned. Yet both understood intuitively what the other waited for, and hated him for it. Philip made some allusion once to Miss Vansell, and ask- ed Arthur, carelessly, when he was going back to Nlew York, and had met with a de- cided rebuff. It was nearly six o'clock, and the trees were flinging long, fantastic shadows on the cool, dark sward, when Mr. and Miss Rohan returned. Beautiful she always was ; but in a side- saddle she was bewitching. She rode a spir- ited, flashing-eyed Arab, as dark and as daintily small as herself, and her long, green riding-skirt floated back in the breeze as she cantered up the avenue. Exercise could not flush the creamy pallor of her dark, Creole face; but; it made it radiant,'and the black eyes were as bright as two sable stars. Both young men started forward to assist her, but, gathering up her, long train in one gloved hand, and laughing gayly, she sprang lightly out of the saddle unaided. "Thanks, Messieurs!" she said; "but Arab and I understand each other. Grandpapa, I shall not wait for you. I must run away and dress." She tripped away as lightly as any other fairy, and the young men resumed their saun- tering up and down the darkening avenue until the dinner-bell rang. Then they re- turned to the house; and presently the ladies appeared, and Miss Rohan, as usual, elegant- ly dressed. She had a fancy very often for arraying her light, delicate little figure in rich silKs' and costly moire antiques, stiff enough to stand alone; but this evening Ar- thur Sutherland could hardly: tell what she wore. He only knew she came floating in in a cloud of gauzy amber drapery, like a mist ot sunshine, with ail her feathery, black xinglets hanging around her, and wearing no ornaments save a glittering opal cross attach- ed to a slender gold chain. The yellow, sin- ister light of the opals was almost as distaste- ful to. him as the greenish gleam of the emer- alds. "I wish she would not wear jewels," he thought. "At least, none but diamonds. They are the only gems to bear comparison with such a pair of eyes." Miss Rohan was in high spirits, and chat- tered away in her sweet, soft voice about the delightful long ride she and grandpapa had had, and which she had enjoyed so much. The little heiress and the Sutherlands-mo- ther, son, and daughter-had the conversa- tion all to themselves. The other three took little share in it. Lucy was silent, because it was Lucy s nature to be silent. Mr. Rohan was moodily distrait, but not too much so to keep that endless watch on his granddaugh- ter. And poor Philip sat staring at the beau- tiful brunette face across the table in speech- less admiration, to the sad neglect of his din- ner and the rules of politeness. But Miss Rohan took no notice. She was so accus- tomed to be stared at wherever she went that she had grown used to it, and took the un- conscious homage paid her beauty as a mat- ter of course. Philip held open the dining-room-door for the ladies when dinner was over, and looked as if he would like to follow them. The three gentlemen were not very sociable over their wine and walnuts. Arthur essayed conversation with the grandfather of Eulalie, but failed; for Mr. Rohan only answered ab- sently and in monosyllables. So there was no temptation to linger; and they speedily made their appearance in the drawing-room, where they found Mrs. Sutherland in an after-dinner doze, and Lucy reading in a cor- ner. The other two were nowhere visible, and Mrs. Sutherland opened her eyes to ex- plain. "The girls have gone out, I believe, to look at the moonlight. Excuse me, Mr. Rohan, but may I ask you to remain a moment? I wish to consult you on a little matter of busi- ' ness." Clever mamma I Her son smiled to him- 3 self as he stepped through the open window out on the lawn. The moon was sailing up 3 in a cloudless sky; the stars were number- less; and Maplew6od, its gray, old mansions; r its woods, and shrubberies, and groves; its 1velvety lawns and far-spreading meadows- F looked beautiful enough for fairy-land. Instinctively the young men turned their e steps terracewa-d; and there, leaning over the i low iron railing, were the two girlish figures, a the petite fairy in amber with a cloud of 1 black lace hanging around her; the other in o pink muslin. The wide sea lay as smooth as a page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] polished mirror; the moonlight shone upon it in one long, silvery track, in and out of which the boats flitted, with their white wings spread. One gay boatful were singing, and the music came borne delightfully to them on the low night-breeze. A woman's sweet voice was singing "Kathleen Mavourneen", and neither of the cousins spoke as they join- ed the listening figures. The spell of the moonlit sea and the sad, sweet song was not to be broken; but Eulalie's dark eyes and bright smile welcomed them. It was the first time Arthur had been near her without the Argus-eyes of the grandfather being upon them; and just as the melody died out on the water, and he was Lthinking how best to take advantage of the situation, lo I there was that ubiquitous grandfather emerging from the chestnut-walk. Had he cut short Mrs. Suth erland's little business-matter? or had he man- aged to escape - "The deuce take him " was, I am afraid, Arthur Sutherland's mental ejaculation. "If she were the Koh-i-nor itself she could not be more closely guarded I -- - "The dew is alling heavily, Eulalie," he said, drawing her hand within his arm; " it is imprudent of you to be out at this, hour. Miss Sutherland, let me Advise you to return I to the house."? He walked away with his granddaughter but none of tie others followed. There was i no mistaking his coldly 'repellent manner, and Auegustus apostrophized him as a, hor- rid old bear". "That's the way he tyrannizes over her all n the time," exclaimed Miss Sutherland, , no d old Turk could be worse. I' ve told Eulalie n bout a million times I wouldn't stand it, a but then she has no spirit! I'd jtay out just for spite!" Was it tyranny I Eulalie, looking up, saw E her grandtather's face so full of distress and a trouble that her tender aniety was aroused. c "What is it,L grandpapa?" she asked. n "What is troubling you? Something has happened." p "No, my darling 1" he said, with a wearv sigh, " nothing has happened, but the old a trouble that never will end until I am in my is gravel O my darling I my darling! I wish hi we were both there together!" \ W. i Gerandpapa I'" Eulalie cried, shocked and c] aftrighted, W ",Aga he sighed-a long and heavy sigh. n "ulalte, are you not tired of this place , Would you not like to go home?" w" "Home! Oh dearno, grandpapa! I am 6 very happy here, and it is not two weeks since we came. What would Mrs. Suter- it land say?" ha " Why should you care, Eulalie? Are we lo not happy enough together? Let us go back T it to Eden Lawn, and live quietly, as we did be. lh fore I sent you to school. What do we want gs or care for these people " Ld "I, Very well, granglpapa!"But the sweet m face darkened and saddened so while she et said it, that his heart smote him. " You don't want to go, my darling 9?", "Dear grandpapa, I will go if you desire it e but it is very pleasant to be here! t The troubled ook grew deeper on his face dt 'than she had ever seen it, and his answer t was something very like a groan. She clasp- Le ed her little hands round'his arm, and lifted n her wistful dark eyes to his. We , Oh, grandpapa, what is it! I What is this e dreadful trouble that is blighting your whole life I When will you cease to treat me like a e child-when will you tell me! I know I am only a foolish little girl!" she said, with a rueful look at her diminutive proportions ; "but indeed I am not such a baby as you , think I I can bear to hear it, whatever it is, f and you will feel happier for telling." t d ZHappier!" he crid out, passionately. ; mEulalie, the Kay I tell you my heart will break! O mv pet! my darling! God alone 3 knows how I have love you, and yet my only prayer for you, all your innocent ite, h& been; that lie might bless you with an early death!" She clasped her hands in speechless af- fright, her great black eyes dilating as she- listened to the appalling words. "When I placed you in the Sacred Heart," he went on, ', it was not so much that you might be educated--that could have been done at home: it was in the hope that you might take the vail, that you might become a nun. Hundreds as young and beautiful and rich as yourself renounce all this world can give, yearly, to become the bride of Heaven; 'and I hoped you would do the same, and so escape the horrible fatality that may come. You would have been safe, then ; they never could tear a nun from her convent." * Tear anun from her convent! Oh, grand. papa I grandlapa!" what do you mean!" ",ot now, Eulalie-not now, but verv soon you shall know I Very soon, because i is impossible for me longer to conceal the horrible truth. While you were a child, -all was well, and I have tried to keep you a child as long as I could. But you are a woman now, my little innocent lamb! I never felt it so plainly as to-night. "' To-night!"She could only echo his own words-she was too utterly bewildered and shocked to think. "Yes, these young men have made me see it very plainly," he said, bitterly. "I might ave rknown t was madness to try to keep lovers off, and you a beauty and an heiress. The convent was the only hope. Say, my child, is it too late yet? Do you not long to go back to the peace and holy calm of the con- vent, out of this weary battle of life?" "s Grandpapa, I was very happy in the Sa- cred Heart with the dear kind ladies, but I am also very happy here in this beautiful world, or would be, if your trouble did not make me so wretched! Oh, grandpapa I what is tUis dreadful seret ." In Something too dreAdful for my lips ever to tell you. r must say the horrible truth in writing, if my heart breaks whilst doing it." Every trace of color had faded out of the dark face, and her black eyes were dilated in vague horror. "Is it any disgrace grandpapa-my fa- ther--" she faltered and stopped. 4 Your father was the soul of honor. He never wronged a human creature in his life!" "And my mother-I never knew either of them, grandpapa!" "Your mother was beautiful and pure as an angel I As innocent as a baby of all the wickedness and misery of this big world!" She gave a little sigh of fervent thanksgiv- ing. A great fear had been removed. "It cannot be anything so very terrible, then," she said. "You magnify the danger, grandpapa. Only tell me, and see how bravely I will bear it!" They were ascending the portico-steps. He looked down on her, and she saw what a haggard and wretched face he wore. "My poor little girl!" he said mournfully, "You do not know what you are saying! There are horrors in this great world that you never have dreamed of I Go to your room, my darling, and pray to Heaven to give you strength to bear the blow when it comes." "Only one word, grandpapa!" she cried, a wild idea flashing through her brain; " is it some hereditary disease you fear-is it"-her very lips whitening as she pronounced the word-" is it insanity?" The old man ooked at her in unmistaka- ble surprise. "My darling, what put such a revolting idea in your poor little head! No, physical- ly and mentally the race from which you have sprung is sound. There are worse things even than madness!" He left her with the last dreadful words on his lips, and went up stairs. Eulalie lingered a moment in the portico, shivering with a hor- rible vague fear. The two strolling back from the terrace caught one glimpse of-her, before she saw them and flitted in, but that glimpse was enough to reveal how sad and disheartened the bright face had become. "The old brute has been scolding her!" burst out Philip Sutherland; ' and choking would be too good for him-the old mon- ster!"' CHAPTER IV. BATTLING WITH FATE. There was a perceptible change in the manner of Eulalie Roban, after that night's interview. The vaguely-terrible things the old man had said could scarcely fail to affect his granddaughter, arid disturb her greatly. She had been so happy all her life, to her ex- istence was one long holiday-this lower world was no place ot exile, but a terrestrial Eden, and she had been as innocently and joyously happy as the wild birds warbling in the trees. But now some shadowy horror impended overher, all the more fearful for being shadowy, and the sunshine of her life was suddenly darkened. "I wonder what it all means," she thought, sadly. "If grandpapa would only speak out -I think I'could bear it far better than this suspense. What can this dark mystery be? It is not disgrace, it is not disease, it is not poverty. What, then, is it that is worse than these? Poor dear grandpapal I he is very wretched, I know, but I am sure I shall not be half so unhappy when I know the truth, as I am now." The family at Maplewood noticed the change, and wondered too. They saw the shadow that had thllen on the little Creole heiress, and how lovingly sorrowful the eyes with which she watched her grandfather. She devoted herself more to him than ever before, walked with him, rode with him, read to him, sang to him, and did all in her power to divert him from his morbid melancholy, with an earnest devotion that was touching to see. "There is something wrong and abnormal about all this," thought Arthur Sutherland; "there is some mystery here, or else Augusta was right, and the old man is a monomaniac, and she knows it. Poor little girl I David never tried harder to win Saul from his gloomy melancholy;than she does her grand- father. I must ask my mother what she knows of their history." It was one evening in the long drawing- room about a week after that moonlight- night, that Arthur thought this. The win- dow was all wide open and the pale twilight stole in, fragrant with the perfume of tha rose-trees. Eulalie Rohan sat on a low stool at one of these open casements, dressed in white f and with no jewels green or yellow, to offend his fastidious eye. The breeze lift- ed her feathery ebon curls, and fluttered back her flowing muslin sleeves, as her fingers lightly touched the strings of her guitar. Her grandfather sat in an arm-chair beside her; listening with closed eyes to the sweet old page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] Spanish ballad she sang. There was no other light than the pale gloaming: the song was low and wild, and mournful, and the singer's voice full of pathos, that went to his heart. Philip Sutherland was listening just outside the window with his heart in his eyes. Poor Philip was wildly, and hopelessly, and deep- ly in love with the little Creole beauty; and made no secret of it; and was madly jealous of Arthur, and every other single man in the neighborhood under forty, who spoke to her. Augusta and Lucy were spending the even- ing out--his mother sat at the other extremi- ty of the apartment, reading a magazine by the last rays of the daylight. Arthur went over and sat beside her, and, plunged into the subject head-foremost. "Mother," he said; "how long have you known Mr. Rohan?" Mrs. Sutherland looked up and laid down her book. "How long have I known Mr. Rohan? Not very long. When Augusta was at school in Montreal, I met him there. It is about three years since I saw him first." "Do you know anything of his history? I am curious to know the meaning of that set- tled melancholy of his." "I cannot tell you; unless it be continued grief for the death of his only son." "His- only son I Eulalie's lather! But he has been dead for upward of eighteen years. A tolerable time to blunt the edge of any sor- row." "It has not blunted his, it seems; and I am at a loss to account for his gloom in any other way. His son married very young, before he was twenty, and went with his bride from Louisiana to Cuba, and died there ten months after with yellow fever. His wife, a poor little helpless thing of sixteen, wrote to Mr. Rohan, who went out there immediately, to find her utterly prostrated by the blow. She idolized her young husband, it seems, and never held up her head again. A few weeks after Eulalie's birth, she was laid beside him in the ground; and Mr. Rohan bought the estate there-Eden Lawn; and devoted him- self to the child she had left. Eulalio grew i up there, and never quitted it until three h years ago, when she was fifteen; and he placed her in the Sacred Heart at Montreal, to complete her very imperfect education. That is all I know of their history, and this much Mr. Rohan told me himself." "Poor little thing 1" said Arthur, looking t pityingly over at the orph an heiress. "She c is poorer than other girls, notwithstanding 1 her grandfather's millions And you think i the loss of his son has been preying on his spirits ever since? i '.It is the only way in which I can account for his singular gloom; and his continual t r watchful anxiety about Eulalie, no doubt. s springs from excessive love. He seems very s unwilling to speak of himself or his family- affairs at all-in fact, I believe he never would e talk if he could help it!" r "The Rohans are English, you told me, by - descent. What was Eulalie's mother?" I "A lovely French Creole, I have heard;. s and Eulalie inherits all her gorgeous South- 3ern beauty. She is like some Assyrian prin- cess, with those luminous eyes and that won- derful fall of hair." The last cadence of the song died out as r Mrs. Sutherland said this-died out as sadly t as the last cadence of a funeral-hymn. Ar- thur looked over at the twilight-picture; the old man was asleep in his chair, and the lit- tle white figure specking the blue dusk free firom his surveillance for once. The oppor- tunity was not to be lost. Arthur rose and crossed the room, and Eulalie's pensive face lit up with a beautiful, shy, welcoming smile. "Your song is a very sad one, Miss Ro- than," he said; " but all your songs are that. Is it the old story of the nightingale with its breas t against a thorn?" "'The sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought'," quoted Eulalie; " grand- papa loves those old Spanish ballads, and at this hour so do I. I used to sit and sing to him by the hour, in the twilight at dear old Eden Lawn." She struck a few plaintive chords of the air she had been singing, and looked up, dreamily, at the evening-star, whose tremu- lous beauty she had often watched through the acacia leaves, at this hour, in her sunny, Cuban home. "What a lovely night it is!" she said. "Yes," said Arthur; "too lovely to spend in the house. Will you not come down to the terrace, to see the moon rise?" Philip Sutherland watching them, jealous-: ly, in the shadow of the clematis vines, gnash- ed his teeth at this rather sentimental request, but Eulalie only smiled and shook her head. "You forget, Mr. Sutherland, grandpapa objects to the night-air forme. I don't think it does me any harm, but he does, and that settles the matter." "You are obedience itself, Miss Rohan." "Grandpapa loves me so very much," she said, simply; "it is the least I can do, surely." There was a pause. Mrs. Sutherland was ringing for lights, but the moon streiming in througlh the waving foliage lit up this win- dow with silvery radiance. The little white figure, the tender, beautiful face, the droop- ing head, with its cloud of shining tresses, made a very pretty picture, which stamped itself indelibly in the memory of the two young men, when the poor little beauty's tragic story was all over. 6 I thought you were to dine this evening at Colonel Madison's, with Lucy and Augus- s ta," he said, presently. "I was invited, but grandpapa did not wish a me to go." - "Your grandpapa is as surly an old Turk as ever I heard of!" thought Arthur; " his love is more 'like tyranny than anything else." g "And I preferred staying home, myself," M said Eulalie, lilting her earnest, dark eyes to t his face, while the thought passed through d his mind. ," I am always happier at home A with grand-" t She stopped, and sprang to her feet. Ar- t thur and Philip darted forward, and all star- ed at the old man. He was still asleep, but t in his sleep he had screamed out-a scream so full of horror that it had thrilled through them all. His face was convulsed, his hands outstretched, and working in agony. "It is false 1" he cried, in a voice between t a gasp and a shriek. "She is mine, and you a shall not take her from me! Oh, Eulalie I Eulalie I Eulalie!" I He awoke with that scream of agony on 1 his lips, his face still convulsed with the hor- ror of his dream, his fingers working, his eyes wild. Eulalie knelt beside him, her face ashen white, and caught his hand in her own. "I am here," she said; " dear, dear grand- papa, what is the matter?" With an unnatural cry, he caught her in his arms and strained her to him, his whole formn quivering with convulsive emotion. "Thank God!" he cried; "it was all a dream! O my darling! my darling! 1 thought they were going to tear you from He dropped his head on her shoulder, and burst out into a passion of hysterical sobbing, dreadful to hear. Eulalie looked up at Ar- thur with a face like marble, but trying brave- ly to be calm. "Will you help him up to his room, Mr. Sutherland? Dear, dear, dear grandpapa, don't cry! You are breaking my heart! Dearest grandpapa, don't! Eulalie is here- it was only a bad dream I Nobody shall ev- or take me from you!" She kissed him, and caressed the poor old head; and strove by every endearment to soothe him, her voice trembling sadly. The rest stood by, pale, Startled, and wondering. The old man lifted his head, at last, and saw them. The sight of those pale, grave laces seemed to restore him magically, and cl arose, still sustaining his clasp of his grand- daughter, the horror ot his dream yet vibrat- ing through all his frame. "I have had a terrible dream!" he said; "I fear I have startled you all. Eulalie, will you help me to my room?" Arthur came forward. "Miss Rohan is not strong enough," he said; "permit me to assist you up-stairs." But the old man would accept no assist- ance save his granddaughter's; and Arthur had to stand and watch them toiling wearily up the great staircase, he leaning on her arm. Not one of the three spoke when they were gone. Mrs. Sutherland retreated to her sofa with a very grave face. Philip went up to his own chamber. The drawing-loom was a dreary desert, now that she was gone, and Arthur stepped out of the open window on the moonlit lawn, to smoke, and cogitate over this queer business. "There is a screw loose somewhere," he thought; *" there is no effect without a cause. What, then, is the cause of this old man's morbid dread of losing his granddaughter? It haunts him in sleep-it makes his waking life a misery. There must be some cause fox this fear-some grounds for this ceaseless ter- ror; or else, through sheer love, he is going mad. In either case, she is much to be pitied; poor little thing! How white and terrified that pleading face was, she turned to me. Poor child-she is only a child I I pity her very much!" Yes; Mr. Sutherland pitied the black-eyed little heiress very much, forgetting how near akin pity is to that other feeling he was res- olutely determined not to feel for her. He pitied her very much, with this dreadful old grandfather; and paced up and down the lawn in the moonlight, thinking about her until the carriage that had been sent to Colo- nel Madison's returned with his sister and cousin. It was very late then-past midnight -but he could see the light burning in Mr. iRohan's room; and the shadows cast on the blind, the shadows of the old man and his grandchild, sitting there, talking still. * Yes, they sat there talking still; the terror of his dream so clinging to him, that he seem- ed unable to-let her out of his sight. He sat in an arm-chair, she on a low stool at his feet, her hands clasped in his, her eyes uplifted - anxiously to his disturbed face, her own quite - colorless. "You are better now, grandpapa," she was d saying. "Will you not tell me what that ter- o rible dream was?" e The bare memory of the dream made him shudder, and tighten his clasp until her little i hands ached. e "O my darling, it was only the great d troubles of my life haunting me in my sleep. [- The horrible fear that never leaves me, night t- or day, realized in my dreams." "The horrible fear I Oh, grandpapa, what do you mean? What is it you are afraid "of?" "Don't ask me!" exclaimed the old man, trembling at her words. "Don't ask me I page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] You will know it too soon, and it will ruin your life as it has ruined mine." - "Grandpapa, is it fbr me or for yourself you fear " "For myself 1" he echoed. Do you think any fear for myself could trouble me like this?My life, at the best, is near its close Could any fear for myself, do you think, dis turb the tew days that are left like this? No it is for you-tor you, my cherished darlin -that I fear, and one of the greatest horrors of all is to have tell you what that fear is 1 There was .a long pause. Eulalie's face could not grow whiter than it was, but the great black eyes were unnatural dilate Through it, all this dark troublermystery she was trying to keep calm, all for hi sake. * "You spoke, grandpapa,"' she said, "of my being torn fonm you. Could any one in the world do that "ff She glanced up at him, but his face was so full ot anguish that she dared not look again. *"Heaven pity you, my poor girl, they could! You are my dead son's only child, but I should be powerless to prevent it! If all the wealth I possess could save you, I would open my hands and let It flow out like water. I could die happy, leaving you pen- niless, and knowing you were safe." afe! SafeI from what?" she repeated, in vague horror. , "From a fate dreadful to think of-from a a hate, the fear of which is shortening my life." "Grandpapa t" she broke out, passionately, "this is cruel! You frighten me to death with vague terrors, when I could far better bear the truth! Tell me what I have to dread--the truth will be easier to bear than this horrible suspense!" "Not now! Not now!" he cried out, imp ploringly. "O, my Eulalie! I do not mean to be cruel!I If I have said this much, it is only 'to prepare you for the truth. 'If this intolerable pain at the heart and this blind- ing giddiness of the head mean what I think they do, my time is very short. Rest con- tent, my- darling, in a very few weeks you shall know all 1 " Y "Only tell me one thing,", she leaded, with new energy; ", have I enemies? Is there Aiy one in the world I have cause to fear?" She listened breathlessly for the answer, her great wild eyes fixed on his face. "Yes, there is one, and only one, whom you have intensest cause to tear. It is thie: dread of meeting this one enemy that has caused me to keep you secluded-at has caused me to wish you so ardently to bury yourself in a convent! I have been batthnzac with fate for the past eighteen years, an , .k ruin yet I know it is all in vain. I may take what precautions I please; I may seclude you in self the farthest corner of the world; and yet when the time comes you and that man will ink meet!" ike "Hitherto I have never seen him, then P?" se. "No-that is, since you were an infant." s- "Then, grandpapa, horw should he ever N know me .X" iug' The old man looked at her, with infinite rs pity in his eyes. " " poor child I will show you here 1" cee drew from around his neck a thin gold he chain, With a locket attached. He touchedr ed. the spring and handed her the locket. ry, It contained two portraits--one of a bright, is boyish, handsome face; the other, dark and beautiful, the pictured imaged of the living of face looking down upon it. Under each was in a name, ",Arthur Eulalie".wa "It is your mother and isther, my dar- Oo ling!' he said. "Look at your mother's II. rface. Do. you not think any one who ever ty saw that 'ace in life would recognize you, d, her living image?" If " "And her name was Eulalie, too. I never I knew that before. 'Eulalie --Arthur!"My e father's name was Arthmur? y L- ", .," said' Mr. Rohan, sorrowfully. 'His name was Arthur." n "Arthur!-Arthur!" "she repeated softly. "I like the name.". , "You like it, Eulalie. Is it for the sake of r the father you have never seen, or the young man down-stairs, whom you have see. ." ", f Oh, gran dpapa!" was Eulalie's reproach : - "}My dear little girl, I can read your heart , plainer, perhaps, than you can yourselfy ou must not fall in love with this young man, Eulalie. It will be folly-worse than filly-madness-for you ever to let yourself love him or any one else." '"Grandpapa 1" rather indignantly, ,I never thought of falling in love with him ," "No, my poor dear, you never thought of 'it, I dare say. But' it may happen for all that; and you cannot prevent him from ad- miring and loving you. That is why I wish- ed you to return to Eden Lawn the other night-that is why I wish you .to go still." "'Would It be so very dreadful, thyn," Eulalie asked, a little embarrassed., and not looking up, " if he-if H-I mean if we did?" "Yes," said Mr.. Rohan, solemunly. "It would be dreadful, circumstanced as you are. I shall tell you al very soon until then, you must neither give nor take any promises from any man. When what I have to tell is told, you shall be as free as air you shall do what'you please, go where you like,. act as your Own conscience may suggest. And nowr-g to toyour room, my darling, 'or it - v,- -- d..z, V-'-, -a L.s is very late, and remember me in your inno- cent prayers!" He kissed her, and led her to the door; and as she walked down the hall to her room, she heard him lock himself in. She was hopelessly mystified and dazed, poor child! and the blight of that fearful unknown se- cret was falling 'upon her already. She might go to her room, but it was to cry her- self to sleep likea little child. Mr. Rohan did not appear in the drawing- room tor the remainder of the week. The excitement of that night threw him into a kind of low nervous fever, that kept him in his own apartment, and kept Eulalie there most of the time, too. She was the best and most devoted of nurses, reading and singing to him, scarcely ever from his side. But Ar- thur Sutherland saw the sad, pale face that he remembered so brightly beautiful, and pitied her every day more and more. He, too, was battling with fate, and failing as miserably as we anl do in that hopeless struggle. For he found himself thinking a great deal more of this Creole heiress than was at all wise or prudent, considering he was not in love with her, and never meant to be. Those large, starry black eyes; those floating ink-black curls, soft and feathery as floss-silk; that dainty, fairy form, and that soft, sweet voice, haunted him too much by night and by day for his own peace of mind. He wanted to be true to his blue-eyed, golden- haired ideal; he wanted to go back to New York and marry Miss Vanseli. And wanting to do all this, he yet lingered and lingered at Maplewood, and found it more and more difficult every day to tear himself from the enchanted spot. He did not want to marry a woman with big black eyes and a dark skin; he did not want to marry a foreigner; he did not want to maiTy any one about whom there hung the faintest shadow of mystery or secrecy. And yet he lingered at Maple- wood, fascinated by that lovely Creole face, and the spell of that musical voice, watching for her coming with feverish impatience, and chafing at her absence or delay. He did not want to fall in love with her himself, but he hated Philip Sutherland with a most savaoe hatred for having had that misfortune. le could not help admiring her, he said to him- self; no one could, any more than they could help admiring an exquisite painting or the marble Venus de Medicis; but he meant to be faithful to the old ideal, and make his pale saint with the halo of golden hair Mrs. Arthur Sutherland. Was he not as good as engaged to Isabel? What business had those raven tresses and dark oriental eyes per- petually to come and disturb all his waking and sleeping dreams? He battled conscien- tiously with his fate-or tancied he did-and the more he battled, the more and more he thought of Eulalie! CHAPTER '. wATt'S VICTORY. In the very plain parlor of a very unpre- tending house, in a very quiet street of that lively little tree-shaded city, Portland, Maine, there sat one lovely afternoon in June, a woman busily sewing.. The woman sat at the open window, and the window commanded an exquisite viewof beautiful. Casco Bay, but she never once stopped in her work to glance at it. Perhaps she had no time to spare, perhaps Casco Bay was a very old song, or perhaps its sunlit beauty was beyond the power of her soul to appreciate. She sat and stitched and stitched and stitched, with dull monotonous rapidity, on the child's dress she was making, a faded and fretted-looking creature, with pale hair and eyes, and shrunk thin features. She was ,ressed in rusty black, and wore a widow's ap, and her name was Mrs. Sutherland- Lucy Sutherland's mother. Two or three small children rolled over on the threadbare carpet, playing noisily with rag dolls and with tops, and two or three more of a larger growth were down in the kitchen, regaling themselves with bread and meat, after school. It needed no second glance at the worn-out carpet, the rheumatic chairs, the shabby sofa, the cracked looking-glass, and the seedy gar- ments, to tell you this family were very poor. They were very poor-and of that class of poor most to be pitied-who have seen " bet- ter days", poor souls! and who struggle, and pinch, and tell lies, and eat their heart out, trying to keep up appearances. They were in mourning for the husband anid father, half- brother to the late James Sutherland, Es-. quire, of Maplewood, as Mrs. Sutherland never was tired telling her neighbors. They had been very poor in his lifetime, for he was of dissipated habits; but they were poorer now, and Mrs. Sutherland had no time to admire Casco Bay, for patching and darning, and making and mending, from week's end to week's end. There were six besides Lucy; and Lucy and her salary, us paid companion to the lady of Maplewood, was their chief support. Lucy Sutherland's life had been a hard one. Six years before this June-afternoon she had gone first to live at Maplewood-gone to eat the bitter bread of dependence. But Lucy Sutherland was morbidly proud; Mrs. Suth- erland, of Maplewood, -haughty and over- bearing; and Augusta too much given to fly out into gusts of bad temper. Of course, the cold pride and the hot temper clashed at once, and Mrs. Sutherland swept stormily in, page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] boxed Augusta's ears, and scolded jucy stoutly. Lucy retorted with flashing eyes, and banged the door in the great lady's face, packed up her belongings, and was home be- tore night. But there were too many at home already. Lucy went out once more as ' a nursery-governess; and for four years led the wretched, slavish life that nursery-gov- erneses mostly lead. She was perpetually losing her place, and perpetually trying the next one, and only seeming to find each worse than the last. Four years of this sort of life broke down and subdued Lucy Suth. erland enough even to suit Mrs. James Suth- erland, of' l1aplewood. That lady, finding herself very lonely when Augusta went away to school, and remembering how useful she had found Lucy, presented herself at the house in Portland one day, and asked her to come back. Lucy was out of place, as usual. Mrs. Sutherland offered a higher figure than she had everh received as nursery-governess, and Lucy, neither forgiving nor forgetting the past, took prudence for her counseller, and went back. W hatever she had to endure, she did endure, with stony patience-her heart rebelling fiercely against destiny, but her lips never uttering one complaint. She had been the chief support of the family since then, not through any very strong sisterly love, but because of that very pride that would have them keep up appearances to the last gasp. She did not visit them very often; j she wrote to her mother once a month, a brief letter, inclosing a remittance -and she endur- ed her life with, hard, icy coldness, that was anything but the virtue of resignation. 'Mrs. Sutherland, sitting sewing this after- noon, was listening to the postman's knock. It was the time for Lucy's letter, and the re- mittance was truly needed. AWhile she watched, a cab drove up to the door; a tall young lady, dressed in black, and wearing a black gauze vail over her face, alighted, and rang the bell. The next moment, there was a shout from the girls and boys below of "O mamma! Here's Lucy!" Mrs. Sutherland, dropping her work, met her eldest daughter in the doorway, and kiss- ed her. The children, playing on the floor, sus- pended their game to flock around their sis- ter. Lucy kissed them one after the other, and then pushed them away. "There I there!" she said, impatiently. Run away, now, Bessy, don't stand on my dress I Franky, go along to your tops, and let me alone. I am hot, and tired to death 1" She dropped into a seat, still pushing them away-her tace looking pale, and haggard, and careworn. Mrs. Sutherland saw her daughter was in no very sweet temper, and hustled the noisy flock out of the room, and came back and sat down with a face full of anxiety. "What is it, Lucy dear?" she asked. "Have you left your Aunt Anna's again?" They were very much alike, this mother, and daughter-alike outwardly and inwardly. Lucy Sutherland looked at her mother, and broke into a hard laugh. "Your welcome is not a very c rdial one, mamma! You ask me if I have lost my place-Hasn't that a very, pleasant house- maid-like sound?-before you invite me to take off my bonnet. I suppose if I had lost my place you would find me another before dark." Mrs. Sutherland took up her sewing and recommenced. "Take off your bonnet, Lucy!" she said. "We have not much; but, whatever we have, you are welcome to your share of it. Have: you quarreled with your Aunt An- na " "No, I have not quarreled with my Aunt Anna i" replied Lucy, with sneering empha- sis; for Lucy. never deigned to call her rich relative aunt; " but my Aunt Anna has sent me home on her service for something not to be had in St. Mary's, and which it is not worth while sending for to Boston. I think I will take off my bonnet, mother, since you are so pressing!" Mrs. Sutherland took no notice of her idaughter's ill temper. She was too much dependent on Lucy to afford the luxury of quarreling with her; so she laid aside her bonnet and mantle and produced some crack- ers and a glass of wine. "1 don't want anything," said Lucy, im-. patiently. "Drink the wine yourself, mamin ma, you look as if you needed it. What are you making there?" i"A dress for Fanny I! The child is in tat- ters and not fit to go to school. I had to get it on credit." "Pay for it with this," said Lucy, throw- ing her wallet into her mother's lap. "a There is fifty dollars.' Mrs. Sutherland is charitable enough to give me all her old black silks that are too good to give to the cook, and I make them over and save my money." "How long are you going to stay with us, Lucy dear?' "Very delicately put, mamma! But don't be afraid. ' I shall not trouble you long. I return to-morrow by the earliest train." "And what is the news from Maplewood?" inquired Mrs. Sutherland. "( Has Arthur re- turned?" "Yes, Arthur has returned." ' She spoke so sullenly, and with a face that darkened so ominously that her mother look- ed up from her work once more. "How long is it since lie came?" she ask- ed, almost afraid to ask anything iu her daughter's present frame of mind. ", Not a month yet; but long enough to make a fool of himself! He and Phil Suth- erland came together; and Phil, perhaps, is the greatest fool of the two. He is the noisiest, at least." "My dear Lucy I how strangely you talk I What do yroumean? In what manner are they making fools of themselves?" Lucy Sutherland laughed a hard and bitter laugh; but her eyes were flashing blue flame, and her lips were white with passion. "Oh, about a pretty little puppet they have there, mother-a wax doll with a little waist, and dark skin, and big vacant black eyes-an insipid little nonentity, who can lisp puerile baby-talk about grandpapa and Cuba, and who is to'be heiress of countless thousands. They are making fools of them- selves about her, mamma. It is for this little foreign simpleton that they are both going mad!" Mrs. Sutherland was a woman of penetra- tion but not of much tact. She saw at once that something more than mere feminine, spleen was at the bottom of this bitter, reck-' less speech, and was unwise enough to utter her thoughts. ' '"I know you always liked Arthur," slie said. "And I hoped when he returned, and you were thrown so much together, it might be a match. Lucy I Good Heavens 1" She started up suddenly in consternation; for Lucy at the words had broken into a vio- lent fit of hysterical sobbing. It was so un- expected-so foreign to the nature of one so self-restrained and calm, this stormy gust of passionate weeping, that her mother could only stand and look as in blank dismay. lt did not last long, it was too violent to last. Lucy Sutherlaud looked up, and dashed 'the tears fiercely away. "There!" she said. "It is all over, and you need not wear that frightened face.' It is not likely to happen again. I am a fool, I dare say; but I think should go mad go mad if I could not cry out sometimes like this. I am not made of wood or stone, after all, though I gain credit for it; and tins is all that keeps me from going wild V" "My dear girl!" her mother anxiously said. "My dear Lucy, there is something more than common the cause of this. Tell mother! "It is only this, then, cried Lucy, passion- ately, " that I hate Arthur Sutherland, and I hate Eulalie Rohan; and I hate myself for being the wretched pitiful fool I am!" Mrs. Sutherland listened to this wildly- desperate speech in grave silence; and, when it was over, sat down and resumied her sew- ing, still in silence. Her woman's penetration \ saw the truth-that her quiet daughter was- furiously jealous of this foreign beauty. "She always was more or less in love with Arthur," the mother mused. "And the rul- ing passion of her life was to be mistress of Maplewood. She has found out how hope- less her dream has been, and this insane out- cry is the natural result. It is not like Lucy, and it will soon be overn" Mrs. Sutherland was right. The first wild outhurst was over, and Lucy was becoming her old self again. . "I suppose you think that I am going mad, mamma," she said, after a pause; "and I think I should, if I could not cry out to some one. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to be Arthur Sutherland's wife, for your sake and the children's take as well as for my own. But that is all over now. He will marry this Creole heiress before long, if something does not occur to prevent it." "What should occur to prevent it?" re- plied her mother. "Arthur Sutherland's own pride. There is something very strange, to say the very least, and very suspicious, in the manner of this girl's grandfather, who seems to be her only living relative. There is some mystery- some guilt, I am positive-in his past history, which may be visited yet on his granddaugh- ter, He lives in constant dread of something, and that something threatens her when he idolizes as only these old dotards ever do idolize. My suspicions have been aroused from the first; and if I fail to find out what it means, it will be no fault of mine. I hate you, Eulalie Rohan"-she exclaimed, clenching her little hand, while her blue eyes flashed- 6"I hate you, and Heaven help you if ever you are in my power!" . ' . . In the misty twilight of the evening follow- ing this, Lucy Sutherland returned to Maple- wood. There was a dinner-party at the house, and the family and the guests were yet at table. Sarah, the housemaid, told Miss. Lucy this, while arranging a little repast of strong tea and toast in the young lady's room, and further informed her that Mr. Rohan was not yet well enough to ap- pear in the dining-room, but that Miss Rohan was down-stairs, and was looking beautiful. Even the very servants (she thought, bitterly) were bewitched by the black eyes and ex- quisite face of the Creole heiress; while she was looked upon, perhaps, as almost one of themselves. Lucy drank her tea and ate her toast, and made her toilet, and descended to the drawing-room to report the success of her mission to the lady of the house. Eulalie was at the piano, looking beautiful indeed in amber silk, and with rich gems flashing through the misty lace on her neck and arms. page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] There was a tinge of melancholy in the large dark eyes, that added the only charm her beauty lacked. And Lucy Sutherland hated her for that beauty, aid that costly dress and those rare gems, with tenfold intensity. She knew how her own commonplace pretti- ness of features and complexion paled into significance beside the tropical splendor'of such dusky beauty as this; and she envied her as only one jealous woman can envy another, with an envy all the more furious for every outward sign being suppressed. Lucy reported her successful mission to Mrs. Sutherland, and then retired to a remote comer, as a discreet companion should. She saw the gentlemen, enter the room pres. ently, and flock about the piano, and press Miss Rohan to sing. Philip Sutherland was at their head; but Arthur, seeing the instru- ment besieged, went and ,sit down by his mother. There were no lady-guests for him to devote himself to, and the gentlemen were all engrossed by the black-eyed pianist. Lucy's remote corner was not so very fat off but that, by straining her ears, she could hear the conversation between mother and son; and Lucy did not scruple to listen. The talk at first was desultory enough. Mrs. Sutherland crotcheted, and her son toyed with her colored silks and made rambling remarks, but his gaze never wandered from the piano. "Iie is thinking about her," thought Lucy, "though he speaks of the heat and the din- ner, and he will begin to talk of her present- ly." Lucy was right. Arthur was thinking of the Cuban beauty, as he seemed always to be c doing of. late. He had no idea of failing in I love with her: it was the very last thing he wanted to do. He had come home determined to dislike her--to have no yellow-skined heiress forced upon him by his mother; and yet here he was walking into the trap with c his eyes wide open. He despised himself p for his weakness, but that did not make him any stronger. He wished his mother would broach the match-making subject that he' might raise objections; but she never did. He wished now she would begin talking of her, but she crotched away as serenely as if match-making had never entered her head, a and he had to start the subject himself. 4' How long before Mr. Rohan leaves here " g he asked, carelessly. cl "Not for months yet, I trust," replied his motler; "he promised to spend the summer t, with us. We should miss Eulalie sadly.", p "He will return to Cuba, I suppose, when p he does leave here?" "I presume so." "W hat a lonely life Miss Rohan must lead there " said Arthur, thoughtfully. Ie ,e "les, it is lonely, poor child. Arthur,"- er looking up suddenly, and laying her hand Bd on his arm-" why should Miss Rohan re- 8, turn to- Cuba?" y. "It is coming," thought Lucy Sutherland, i- setting her teeth. o A"Why should she return, mother!" said f Arthur, coloring, consciously, while he r laughed. "Why should she not return? It r, is her home." "I said why should Mis* Bohan return. I ;say so still. I have no objection to Eulalie's o going to Cuba-only let her go as Mrs. Arthur e Sutherland."1 e "My dear mother!" Mrs. Sutherland smiled. , , That astonished look is very well feign- s ed, Arthur, but it does not deceive me. It is - not the first time you have thought on this subject; though why it should take you so long to debate, I confess, puzzles me. There 3never was such a prize so easily to be won before. If you do not bear it off, some one else will, and that speedily." "But, my dear match-making mamma," remonstrated her son, still laughing, "I do not like prizes too easily won. ft is the grapes that hang above one's head, not those ready to dropinto one's mouth, that we long for."' "Very well," said Mrs. Sutherland, grave- ly, "you will please yourself. While you are struggling tor the sour grapes overhead, some wise man will step hi and bear off the prize within reach. It is your affair, not mine." . e She closed her lips, and went industriously on with her work. Arthur looked over at Miss Rohan, the shimmer of whose amber- silk dress and dashing ornaments he could see between the dark garments of the men about her. - "After all, mother," he said, ", is not your castle built on very empty air? I may pro- pose to Miss Rohan, and be refused for my pains. The heiress of a millionaire is not to boe had for the asking." Very true I You must take your chance of that. But you know, Arthur, it'is the grapes that hang highest you prefer. Perhaps you will find Miss Rohan beyond your reach after all." Her son made no reply; he had caught a glimpse of Lucy's black barege dress, and crossed over to where she sat at once. "Why, Lucy, 1 didn't know you had re- turned," he cried. " You come and go like a pale, noiseless shadow, appearing and disap- pearin' when we least expect you." A faint angry color flushed into the girl's pale face, but Arthur did not see it as he leaned over her chair. ? "When did you arrive?" "About an hour ago." "And how did you find the good people of Portland? Your mother and the little ones are well, I trust." "Quite well, thank you 1" "You should have made them a longer visit, Lucy. It is rather unsatisfactory run- ning home, and-" He stopped abruptly in the middle of his own sentence. He had been watching Eula- lie and thinking of Eulalie all the time he was talking. He had seen her leave the piano five minutes before, and cross to the open windows fronting the lawn, and his sis- ter take her place. He saw her now step through one of the windows, and disappear in the moonlight, and Philip Sutherland striding after her. . Arthur's brow darkened, and his face flushed. In some strange magnetic manner the conviction flashed upon him that another was about to ask for the prize he would not seek. If Philip Sutherland should succeed I He turned sick and giddy at the thought- and in one instant the scales dropped from his eyes, and he saw the palpable truth. He loved Eulalie Rohan; and what he felt for Isabel Vansell was only calm, placid admi- ration. He loved this glorious little beauty; and now he was' on the point of losing her, perhaps forever I "How blessings brighten as they take their flight." In that moment he would have given all the wealth of the Sutherlands and the Rohans combined to have forestalled his cousin Philip. "Lucy," he said, "will you come out for a walk? The evening is too lovely to be lost here." . Lucy Sutherland silently arose. She saw his ashen face, and read his thoughts like a printed book. She, too, by that mysterious rapport, guessed Philip's errand, and from his heart of hearts prayed he might succeed. The group gathered around the piano paid no attention to them, as they went out through the open'window, into the lawn, where the moonlight lay in silvery sheets. Silently, and by the same impulse, they turned down the chestnut avenue that led to the terrace. Two minutes and it came in sight, and they saw Eulalie Rohan standing by the low iron railing, her silk dress and the brilliants she-wore flashing in the moon-rays, and the tangled black ringlets fluttering in the breeze. She wore a large shawl, for she was a chilly little creature; and, even in that su- preme moment, Arthur could notice how gracefully she wore it, and how unspeakably lovely the dark face was in the pale moon- light. The lilacs waved their perfumed arms about her head, and she broke offfraant pur- ple bunches as she watched the placid moonlit ocean. He saw all these minor details, while i . I y ' he looked at Philip Sutherland coming up to her, and breaking out vehemently and at once with the story he had to tell. Such an old old story; but heard for the first time, this June-night, by those innocent ears. Ar- thur Sutherland set his teeth and clenched his fists, and felt, a mad impulse, to spring upon his cousin and hurl him, over the iron- work into the sear They both stood still- Lucy nearly as white as her companion, but as calm as stone, and looked at the scene, They were too far off to hear what was said; but in the bright moonlight they saw Eulalie turn away, and cover her face with her hands, and Philip fall down on his knees at her feet. There was white despair in every line of his face, and they knew what his answer had been. "She has refused him!"Arthur cried. "Thank God!" "Let us go back to the house," said Lucy, icily; Miss Rohan might take us for eaves- droppers if she saw us here." She was deadly pale, and there was a strange, unnatural glitter in her blue eyes; but Arthur never once looked at her or thought of her as they walked back to the house. . "I will ask Eulalie Rohan to be my wife, before the sun goes down to-morrow," was his mental determination by the way. Miss Rohan returned to the house ten min- utes after, looking pale, and with a startled look in her great dark eyes that reminded Arthur of a frightened gazelle. She quitted the drawing-room almost immediately after, to see if her grandfather had been made com- fortable for the night, and did not return; and the long drawing-room became all at once to Arthur Sutherland as empty as a desert. It was late when the guests departed, al- though their host was the reverse of enter- tamining, and he was free to go out and let the cold night-air blow away the fever in his veins. He felt no desire to sleep, and he wandered aimlessly through the far-spread- ing grounds of his ancestral home, tormented. by conflicting doubts, and hopes, and fears. About ten minutes' walk from the grassy terrace, half-buried in a jungle of tall fern and rank grass, and shaded by gloomy elm- trees, there was the ruins of an old summer- house. A lonely and forsaken summer- house, where no one ever went now, but a chair of twisted branches and a rickety table showed that it once had its day. Lying on the damp, grass-grown floor of this old sum- mer-house, his arms folded and his face rest- ing on them, lay poor Philip Sutherland, do- ing battle with his despair. page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] CHAPTER VI. TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. "I will propose to Eulalie to-morrow "' was Arthur Sutherland's last thought, as sometime in the small hours he laid his head upon his pillow, to toss about restlessly until daybreak. "I Will ask her to be my wife to-day!" was his first thought as he arose in the morn- ing. "There is no use in struggling against, destiny; and it is my destiny to love this beautiful, dark-eyed creature beyond any- thing in this lower world." The heir of Maplewood made a most care- ful toilet that morning, and never was so little pleased with his success. It was still early when he descended the stairs, and passed out of the hall-door to solace himself with a matutinal cigar, and think how he should say what he had to say. Conscience gave him some twinges still, and would not let him forget that in some manner he stood pledged to Miss Vansell, and that it was hardly honorable to throw her over like this. The still, small voice was so clamorous that he turned savage at last, and told conscience to mind her own business and let him alone. After that, conscience had no more to say; and he went off into long delicious day- dreams of the bright future, when this beau-. ful Creole girl should be his wife. The ringing of the breakfast-bell awoke him from his castle-building. He flung away his cigar, and went into the house, expecting for certain to find Miss Rohan in the break- fast-room. She had never been absent once since his return home. The sweet, dark face, shaded by that glorious fall of perfumed hair, and lit by those starry eyes, had always shone on him across the damask and china and silver of the breakfast-service. But, do things ever turn out in this world as we plan them? Eulahe was not there. His mother and sister and Lucy alone were in the. room. As he entered, a housemaid came in at an opposite door, with Miss Rohan's compli- ments, and would they please not to wait breakfast;. she had a headache, and would not come down., Mrs. Suther .and dispatched a cup of strong tea and some toast to Miss Rohan's room by the housemaid, and the quartet sat down to the morning-meal. A chill of disappoint- ment had fallen upon Arthur. She had never been absent before. Was it anomen of evil? He had been so confident of meeting her, and he was disappointed. ' Was this disappoint- ment but the foretunner 9f a still greater? The chill seemed contagious: all were silent and constrained; and tae breakfast was unspeakably dismal. Mrs. Sutherland seem. ed absent and pre-occupied; Lucy sat frigid- idly mute; and Augusta was, I regret to say, intensely sulky. Poor Augusta I She alone knew the secret motive prompting that post. script inviting Philip Sutherland down to Maplewood ; and she alone knew how cruel- ly that hidden hope had been disappointed. She had dressed prettily, and looked charm. ing-or at least as charming as that snub. nose of hers would permit; and it had been all in vain. How could Philip Sutherland see her rosy cheeks, and dimples, and round blue eyes, while he was dazzled and blinded by the dark splendor of that Creole face? She had not been a spectator of that moon. light-scene on the grassy terrace; but she knew as well as Lucyor Arthur what had happened last night, and what had occasion- ed the absence of Eulalie and Philip this morning. Thereicre, Miss Sutherland was in the sulks, and had red rims round her blue eyes, and that poor snub-nose swollen, as people's will when they cry half the night. The meal was half over before Mrs. Suther- land, in her pro-occupation, missed Puilip, and inquired tor him. "Philip has gone," said Lucy, quietly. *"Gone I Gone where 1' demanded her aunt, staring. "Back to ciew York, I presume. He left very early this morning, before any of you were up." Mrs. Sutherland still stared. "Back to New York so suddenly! Arthur, did he tell you he was going? "Not a word." "Where did you see nim, Lucy 1" inquired the astonished lad$ of the house. "eaving his room about six o'clock. I generally come down-stairs about that time; and, as I opened inydoor, I encountered him quitting his room, with his traveling-bagr in his hand. I asked him where he was going, and he answered, To perdition I Any where out of this place 1'" Lucy repeated Philip Sutherland's forcible words as calmly as it it had been the most matter-of-fact answer in the world. She said nothing of the wildly-haggard face he had worn; but a blank silence iell on all, and his name was not mentioned again until the dreary meal was over. Arthur Sutherland passed the bright morn- ing-hours in aimless wanderings in and out of the house, and under the green arcades ol the leafy groves, waiting impatiently for Mis Rohan to appear.' He waited tor some hours in vain; and, When at last she did appear, it was only another disappointment. He had sauntered down through the old orchard, idly breaking off twigs, and trying to read the morning-paper, wnen the sound of car- riage-wheels brought him back For his pains, he just got a ,glimpse of his mother and hiulalhe and Mr. tiohan, as the carrias rolled away. If indisposition prevented Mr. and Miss Rohah from appearing in the breakfast-room, they were well enough to take an airing in the carriage, it seemed. That was the longest day Arthur Suther- land ever remembered in his life. He kept wandering aimlessly in and out, smoking no end of cigars, and talking by fits and starts to Lucy, who was about as genial and sym- pathetic as an icicle.' The first dinner-bell had rung, and the long red lances of the sun- set were slanting through the chestnuts and maples when the carriage-party returned. They all went up-stairs at once; and Arthur entered the dining-room to wait, feverishly, her entrance. There was a letter awaiting Mr. Rohan, bearing the New York postmark. He open- ed it, and his face clouded as he read it. It was written by the solicitor of one Mrs. Law- rence, who lay dangerously ill, and request- ing him to come to New York at once iU he wished to see her before she died. Mr. Rohan laid down the letter with a troubled face. Mrs. Lawrence was a rela- tive-a distant one-but his only living rela- tive save his granddaughter, and the request must be obeyed. The trouble was about Eulalie. How could he hurry her off on such short notice, and how could he leave her behind? He walked up and down his room in perturbed thought, revolving the difficulty, and at a loss whether to take or leave her. "She does not wish to leave this place," he thought; ," why should I drag her away, poor child? 'The time has come for her to know all-dreadful as it will be for me to tell it; why not leave her here and let her learn the horrible truth when I am gone. It would break my heart to see her first despair; if I let her find it out in my absence, the shock will be over before I return. Yes, I will go, and Eulalie shall remain, and I shall leave in writing the miserable story that must be told. My poor darling I my poor little in- nocent child I may Heaven help you to bear the misery of your lot l' The second bell rang, and Mr. Rohan de- scended to the dining-room, trying to conceal all sign of agitation. His granddaughter was there talking to Arthur Sutherland, whose devoted manner there was no mistaking. The signs he could not fail to read deepened the old man's trouble, and his voice shook painfully in spite of himself as he announced his departure next day. Every one was surprised. Eulalie uttered a little cry of distress. "Going to New York, grandpapa? Are you going to take me?" "No, my dear," the old man. said; and Arthur, who had turned very pale, breathed again. ' You could not be ready; and, as I hope to return in a week, it would not be worth While." Almost immediately after dinner, Mr. Ro- han returned to his room, pleading the truth- letters to write. But Pate had declared, against Arthur that day. Carriage-wheels rattled up to the door almost instantly after, and some half-dozen of his mother's most in- timate friends came in. There were three young ladies, who at once took possession of Eulalie, and all chance of saying what he had to say was at an end for that evening. Arthur Sutherland being a gentleman- what is better, a Christian-did not swear; but I am afraid he wished the three Misses Albermarle at Jericho. They were tall young ladies, with voluminous drapery and balloon-like crinoline, and his little black- eyed divinity was quite lost among them. The oldest Miss Albermarle presently made a dead set at him, and held him captive until it was time to depart; 'and then when he Came back from escorting them to their carriage, he just got a glimpse of Eulalie's fairy figure flitting up-stairs to her room. No, to her grandfather's, for she tapped at that first to say good-night. He was writing still, she could see, when he opened the door, and the old troubled look was at its worst. He would not let her come in; he kissed her and dismissed her, and returned to his writ- ing. it was a very long letter-written slowly, and in deep agitation. Sometimes his tears blistered the paper; sometimes he threw down his pen and covered his face with his hands, while his whole frame was convulsed. But he always went on again-scratch, scratch, scratch; the inexorable pen set down the words, and as the clock was striking two his task was ended. He folded the long, closely-written letter, placed it in an envel- ope, addressed to his granddaughter, and locked it in his desk. "' My poor, poor girl!" herald ; "my little helpless lamb I How will you live alter read- ing'this!" The Cuban millionaire passed, a miserably restless night-too much agitated by what he had written and the memories it had recalled, to sleep. Not that the tragical story of the* past was ever absent from his sleeping or' waking fancy, but this written record was like the tearing open of half-healed wounds. He could, not sleep; and he was glad when the red dawn came glimmering into the east, to rise and go out, that the morning-breeze might cool his hot head. The sun arose dazzlingly. The scent of the long, leaty avenues, the saline breath of the sea, was so refreshing, the songs of count. less birds so inspiriting, that he could hardly page: 32-33 (Illustration) [View Page 32-33 (Illustration) ] fail to be benefited by his morning-walk. When the breakfast-bell rang, he entered the house with a face even brighter than usual, and gave Eulalie, who came tripping to meet him, her morning-kiss, with a smile. "By what train do you go?"Mrs. Suther- land asked, as they sat down to breakfast. The twelve olclock. I have a little busi- ness to transact in Boston,'and shall remain there over night. Mr. IRohan remained in the drawing-room the best part of the morning, while his granddaughter sat at the piano, and played and sang for him incessantly. She and Mrs. Sutherland were to see him off; and just be- fore it was time to start, he called her into his room, and closed the door. Eulalie came in, looking darkly-bewitching in a little Span- ish hat with long plumes, and. a shawl of black lace, trailing along her bright silk dress. The smile faded from her red lips at sight of grandpapa's face, and she glanced apprehensively from him to a large sealed letter he held in his hand. "Eulalie," he said, steadying his voice by an effort, "I promised that you should speed. ily learn the story that must be the secret of your life. I could not sit down and tell it to you-I could not; but I have written it here, and to-night or to-morrow you will read it, and learn all. My poor little darling, if I could spare you the shock of this revelation with my life, God knows how freely that life would be given. But I cannot; you must know what is set down here. And all I can do is, to pray that the knowledge may not blast your whole life as it has blasted mine." "Grandpapa I grandpapa! is it so very dreadful, then?" "Yes, poor child, it is dreadful. Say a Prayer, Eulalie, before you open this letter, tor strength and fortitude to bear its-contents." She held the letter without looking at it. Her dilated eyes were fixed on his face-her parted lips were mutely appealing to him. He took both her hands and clasped them in his. "Ask me nothing now, my darling. It is all written there. I shall return in week, and you shall remain here, or go home, just as you please. May all good angels have you in their keeping, my precious child, until I return." He kissed her passionately, and, led her toward her own room. "Lock up your letter," he said; "and bring the key with you. No eye must rest on this history but your own." He quitted heraand descended the stairs. The carriage was in waiting, and so was Mrs. 'Sutherland, in a Parisian bonnet and cash- mere shawl. She was going with Eulalie, to see him off, and a groom was just leading 3 round Mr. Sutherland's horse. , "Your guard of honor is going to be a large one," laughed Mrs. Sutherland. "Ar. thur insists on escorting us to the depot Where is Eulalie? Ah I here she is at last; and your grandpapa has no time to spare, Miss Rohan." They entered the carriage, and drove away, Arthur riding beside them, determined this L day should not pass without his speaking. \ They stood on the platform, watching the I train out of sight, and then returned to the carriage. * "Crying I You foolish child!" exclaimed i Mrs. Sutherland; ," and grandpapa only go. ing for a week I Come I I shall not permit this I am going shopping in the village, and afterward I have some calls to make, and you shall accompany me. That will cheer you up." Eulalie would have excused herself if she could, and gone'directly back to Maplewood. She was dying to read that mysterious letter, and learn her grandfather's terrible secret; but there was nothing for it but submission. So the shopping was done, and the calls made, with Arthur still dutifully in attend- ance ; and the sunset was blazing itself out in the sky before they returned. A red and wrathful sunset. The day had been oppressively hot, and the sun lurid and crimson in a brassy sky. There was not a breath of air stirring, and there was an un- natural greenish glare in the atmosphexe, ominous of coming storm. The trees shiver- ed at intervals, as, if' they felt already the tempest to come; the glassy and blackening set moaned as it washed up over the sands, the frightened birds cowered in their snug nests; and over'the paralyzed earth, the hot, brazen sky hung like a burning roof. Eula- lie glanced fearfully around as she was help- edfrom the carriage by Arthur. "We are going to have a storm,",he said, answering her startled glance;---"and that very soon." I It wanted but a quarter of seveb, Eulalie's watch told her; and she hastened after Mrs. Sutherland, to change herdress. Sheresign- ed herself into the hands of her maid with a sigh of resignation-there was no time for letter-reading now-and went down-stairs, when the dinner-bell rang. But dinner on such a stifling evening was little better than a meaningless ceremony of sitting down and getting up again. Eulalie, accustomed to a tropical clime, felt as if she were gasping for air, as if she could not breathe, and pass- ed out through the open' drawing-room win- dow, down to the terrace. Now was Ar- thur's chance. Fortune, that had so long takeuda malicious pleasure in balking him, page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] was in a favorable mood at last. Her arose,'* with a heart beating thick and fast, and strode out after her, feeling that the supreme mo- ment had come. He could see her misty white dress fluttering in and out among the trees,'and came up to her just as she leaned over the iron railing, to catch the faintest breath from the sea. The lurid twilight was fiery red yet, in the west, but all the rest of the sky looked like hot brass shutting down over their heads. Eulalie lifted herdark eyes to his face, in awe, as he stood beside her. "How hot it is," she said; " and what an awful sky I The very sea seems holding its breath, and waiting for something fearful!" ",The storm -is very near," said Arthur; the sky over there looks like a sea of blood." There was something in his voice that made Eulalie look at him instead of at the blood-red sky; and Arthur Sutherland broke out at once with what he had followed her there to say. That passionate avowal was the first he had ever uttered in his life; and the crimson west, and the lurid atmosphere, and the black, heaving sea, swam in a hot mist before his eyes, and the scheme of cre- ation seemed supended, not awaiting the com- ing storm, but the answer of this black-eyed Creole girl. Mrs. Sutherland, sitting in the entrance of the bay-window, too languid even to fan her- self; this oppressive Juno-evening, was dis- turbed five minutes after the departure of her son and Miss Rohan by the announcement of a visitor. A visitor on such an abnormal evening was certainly the last thing Mrs. Sutherland expected or desired; but the vis- itor was shown in, and proved to be the Rev- erend Calvin Masterson, pastor of the, fash- ionable church of, Saint Mary's. The Rev- erend Calvin had come to solicit a donation toward a new pulpit and sounding-board, and being anxious to complete the affair as soon as possible, had ventured out this sultry even- ing to Maplewood. Mrs. Sutherland, who had long ago set the Reverend Calvin down as a very desirable husband for Augusta, subscribed liberally; and, knowing Eulalie's purse was ever open to contributions of all kinds, turned round to look tor her; but Eulahe was not to be seen. Lucy Sutherland, sittingpale and cool through all the heat, came out ot the shadows to in- form her Miss Rohan had gone out. "Then go after her, Lucy," said Mrs. Suth- erland. "You will find her in the terrace, I dare say." Lucy, who never hurried, walked lpisurely down the chestnut avenue. Long bebore he came to the terrace, she could see the pall, white figure, with the long, jettv s, and that other tall form beside it. 'ere could be no mistaking that they stood there as plight- ed husband and wife now. If any doubt re- mained, a few words of Arthur's, caught as she neared them, would have ended it. "And I may speak to your grandfather, then, my dearest girl, as soon as he re- turns?" Perhaps Lucy's pale face grew a shad* ^ paler, perhaps her thin lips compressed them- ; selves more firmly; but that, was all. An instant after, she was standing beside them, delivering in her usual quiet voice Mrs. Suth- erland's message. "Masterson, eh B? cried Arthur. "He must be in a tremendous hurry for the sound- ing-board when he comes up from St. Mary's such a hot evening as this." He drew Eulalie's hand within his arm, with a face quite radiant with his new joy, and led her away. Lucy followed slowly, her lips still tightly compiessed, and a bright light shining in. her blue eyes. She did not return to the drawing-room., She went straight to her own apartment, and sat down by the open window, and watched the star- less night blacken down. An hour after, the Reverend Calvin Mas- terson drove away ; and, as the clock struck ten, she heard Eulalie, Augusta, and Arthur come up-stairs. "Mr. Masterson will have a dark night for his homeward drive," Arthur was saying. "We will have the storm before morning." CHAPTER VII. STRUCK BY LIGHTrNfG. Eulalie Rohan went to her room that hot June-evening with a new and delicious sense of joy thrilling through every fibre of her heart. She had taken life all along as a bright summer-holiday, whose darkest cloud was a shadow of the past in her beloved grandfather's face; but, to-night, the world was all Eden, and she the happiest Eve that ever danced in the sunshine. She had never known, until she stood listening to his avow- al on the terrace, how much she had grown to love Arthur Sutherland. She never dreamed how near and dear he had become, or why she had rejected poor Philip; but she passed from childhood to womanhood in one instant, and knew all now. The wax tapers, held up by fat Cupids in the frame of her mirror, were lit when she entered, and Mademoiselle Trinette, her maid, stood ready to make her young lady's night-toilet; but Eulahe was not going to sleep just yet, and dismissed her with a smile. - "It is too hot to go to bed, Trinette," she said. "I shall not retire for an hour or two, and you need not wait up. Good night." The femme-de-chambre quitted the room, and Eulalie seated herself by the window. page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] 'The night was moonless and starless, and would have been pitch-dark but for a lurid phosphorescent glare in the atmosphere. In the unnatural stillness of the night, she could ; hear the shivering of the trees, the slipping : of a snake in the under-brush, or the uneasy fluttering of a bird in its nest. No breath of Eair came through the wide open casement, and the waves bood dullyo the aves boomed dullyshore below with an ominous roar. In her white dress and dark black ringlets. Eulalie sat by the window send thought how very happy she as, and how very happy she was, and how very happy she was going to be. She mused over the glorious picture of the future Arthur had painted while they stood in the red twilight of th the terrace, the long continental tour through beautiful Italy, tair France, Bunny Spain, and picturesque Switzerland; of the winters spent in her Cuban home amog the magnolia and the acacia groves, and the summers passed here at Maplewood. It was such a beautiful and. happy life to look for- ward to-almost too happy, she feared-too much of Heaven to be enjoyed on earth. An hour had passed-two hours-before Eulalie arose from the window and prepared to retire. As she stood betore the glass, combing out her magnificent hair, her eve fell on the little rosewood desk in which she had locked that mysterious letter given her by her grandfather. Shehad forgotten all about t until now, and the memory sent a th rill of vague fear to her very heart. That myste- rious secret that he 'had told her would darken her whole life as it had darkened his. What could it be? She unlocked the desk- and took it out with fingers that trembled a little, and sat looking at it with a supersti- tious terror of opening it. "How foolish I am!" she thought, at last "it cannot be so very terrible atter all. Poor grandpapa is morbid, and aggravates its im- portance. It Is no record of crime, he says; it is no hereditary disease, physical or mental and if it be the loss of wealth, even of my whole fortune, I shall not regret that much. I often think I should like to be poor, and wear pretty print dresses and linen collars, and live in a little white cottage with green window-shutters, like those in St. Marys, and take tea with Arthur every i evening at six o'clock. I will say a prayer, as grandpapa told me, and read this letter, and go to bed." There was a lovely picture of the Mater ] Dolorosa hanging above her bed. Eulalie i knelt down before it and murmured an Ave i Maria, as she had been wont to do in her e convent-days; and then, drawing a low chair close to the dressing-table, opened the letter. It was very long-half a dozen closely-written I sheets-and signed, "Your heart-broken a I grandfather"; and Ealalie, taking up the first I sheet, began to read. I Arthur Sutherland felt no more inclination , for sleep this oppressive summer-night than r Eulalie Rohan. The closeness of his cham. f hber seemed to stifle him, and he stepped out of the open corridor to the piazza that ran round the second .story. He could see the lights from the other chamber-windows glar. ing across the dusky gloom, and he knew the others were as wakeful as himself. It was one of these abnormal nights-not made for sleep-in which you lie awake and toss about frantically, as if your pillows were red hot and your bed a rack. "I feel," he thought-as he leaned against a slender column overrun with clematis and lit a cigar-"I feel as though something were about to happen. I feel as though this in. tense happiness were too supreme to last-as though the tie that binds me and Eulalie were but a single hair. Good Heavens! if I should lose her-if something should happen to take her from me!" He turned faint and giddy at the bare thought. Poor slighted Philip I he could afford to pity him now. Where was he this hot dark night, and how was he bearing the blow he had received? It was so impossible not to love this beautiful black-eyed enchant- ress that Philip was not so much to blame after all. "I will run up to New York when Mr Rohan returns and I have spoken to him, and hunt the poor lad up," mused Arthur. "I wish I had not brought him down.. But how was I to know that my mother's heiress would turn out a little black-eyed angel!" He walked slowly up and down the piazza, smoking and thinking, for over two hours. One. by one, the lighted windows darkened- Eulalie's alone shone bright still. He won- dered what she could. be doing to keep her up so long; and, while he watched her win- dow, there shot athwart the sultry glooma sheet of blue flame that almost blinded him. A moment's pause, and then aroll of thunder, as if the heavens were rending asunder. A great drop of rain fell on his face, then another and another, thick and fast; and the storm threatening so long -had burst in its might. Arthur stepped hastily through, the window and closed it. A second sheet of lurid flame leaped out like a two-Odged sword, and lit up, with an unearthly glare, the woods and meadows and gardens of Maplewood. A second roll of thunder, nearer and" more deafening than the first, and a deluge of rain. The sky had kept its promise, and the tem- pest. ot rain and lightning and thunder was appalling in its fury. Arthur Sutherland put /J his hands over his dazzled eyes, feeling as though the incessant blaze of the lightning were striking him blind. Flash followed flash, almost without a second's intermission, blue, blinding, ghostly-the continual roll of the thunder was horrible, and the rain fell with a roar like a waterfall. "Good Heavens!" thought Arthur, " what awful lightning I My poor little timid Eula- lie will be frightened. I remember Augus- ta's telling me once how terrified she was at thunder-storms." , He opened his door, crossed the hall, and tapped at his sister's. It was opened imme- diately by Augusta, who looked like a pic- ture of the tragic muse, with her hair all disheveled, and her white morning-dress hanging loose about her. "Have you not retired yet, Augusta?" her brother asked. "No, I staid up reading a novel until the lightning commenced; and now it is of no use thinking of bed until this storm is over. Good Heaven I what awful lightning!"' A sheet of blue lambent flame that almost blinded them lit up, for nearly three minutes, the hall; followed by a thunder-clap that shook the house to its very foundation. Augusta clasped her hands over her dazzled eyes, and her brother seized her wrist and drew her with him into the hall. "Augusta," he said, hurriedly, " you told me Eulalie was afraid of lightning. I wish you would go in and stay with the poor child until this storm is past." Miss Sutherland, just. at that particular time, had no very especial love for the black- eyed beauty who had won her cousin Philip from her; but she tapped, nevertheless, at Miss Rohan's door. There was no reply; Au- gusta rapped again, more loudly, but still no answer. She turned to her brother with a paling face. "Try the door," he said; "open it your- self." Augusta turned the handle. The door was not locked, and she went in. Went in, over the threshold, and recoiled an instant after, with a shrill and prolonged scream, that echoed from end to end of the house. Arthur Sutherland, lingering in the hall, was standing in the doorway m a moment. In all the long years of his alter-life he never forgot the picture on which he looked then. The tall candles flared around the mirror, but the perpetual flashing of the lightning lit the room with a blue ghastliness that quenched their pale light. There was a certain sul- phurous smell in the chamber, too, that Ar- thur had perceived in the hall, but not halt so strongly as here. Eulalie sat at the table, still iu her dinner-dress, the shining skirt trailing the carpet, the jewelry she wore flashing weirdly in the unnatural light. She sat in an arm-chair, erect and rigid; her hands clasping the last sheet of a letter, her large black eyes staring wide open, with an awtul, glazed, and sightless glare. Not one vestige of color remained in the dead, white face; and with the staring, wide-open eyes, the marble stiffness of form and face, she looked like nothing on earth but a galvaniz- ed corpse. A terrible sight, sitting upright there, tricked out in satin and lace, and per- haps stone-dead. She had evidently but just finished reading her letter-the loose sheets lay at her feet, where they had fluttered down. The horrible truth flashed upon Ar- thur in a moment-she had been struck by lightning! With the awful thought yet thrilling to the core of his heart, he was bending over her, holding both her hands clasped in his. These hands were ice-cold, and she sat neither hearing nor seeing him, staring blankly at vacancy. "Eulalie!" he cred. "My darling I speak to me I .Eulalie I Eulalie do you not know me!" She might have been stone-deaf, for all the sign she made of hearing him-stone-blind, for all the sign she made of seeing him- stone-dead, for any proof of life or conscious- ness. There were others in the chamber now- looking on with pallid awe-struck faces; Au- gusta's scream had aroused the house. Ar- thur Sutherland saw a mist of faces around him, without recognizing one of them; he could see nothing but that one white, rigid face, with the staring, wide-open' black eyes. "Arthur," a quiet voice said, and a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder. He looked up, and saw his mother in her dressing-gown, pale and composed. "Arthur, you had bet- ter go for Doctor Denover at once. The storm is subsiding and there is no time to lose. I fear she has been stunned by the lightning." The words restored Arthur to himself. He started to his feet, and was out of the room in a second. ' In another, he had donned hat and waterproof coat, and in five minutes was galloping, through darkness and rain, and thunder and lightning, as he never had galloped before. Mrs. Sutherland had sal-volatile, cologne, L and other female restoratives for fainting, ) brought, but in' this case all proved useless.. I She chafed the cold hands and temples, but warmth was not to be restored. She strove by caresses and endearing words to restore some I sign of life into that death-like face; but all in vain-all in vain. Augusta and Lucy i t stood silently near; the servants were group-I a ed in the hall, hushed and frightened; and i page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] the ghastly blue glare of the lIgntning still lit up, at fitful intervals, the room. Airs. Sutherland desisted at length from her hopeless task, and rose up, very pale. "I can do no more," she said. "It is the first case of the kind that has ever come within my observation. 1 wish Dodtor Den- over was here. Lucy, what is that?" Lucy had stooped to pick up the fallen sheets of, the letter; and she looked up from sorting them, at this abrupt question. One sentence had caught her eye on the last sheet, and set her curiosity aflame. The sen- tence was this: "Beware' of that man, my child I I know not whether he is living or dead, but the fear has been the blight of my life, as it must be the bane of yours." Lucy Sutherland had time to see no more. Her aunt's hand was outstretched to receive the letter, her aunt's haughty voice was speaking. "That is Miss Rohan's letter, Miss Suther- land. Give it to me 1" Lucy. silently obeyed. Mrs. Sutherland crossed to Eulalie's bureau, placed the letter. in one of the drawers, without looking at it, locked the drawer, and put the key in her pocket., There was a significance in the act that made Lucy's light-blue eyes flash, and she turned and walked out of the apartment, upstairs, to her room. In her own room, she sat down by the open window, and looked out at the black, blind night. Ghastly gleams of lightning qutvered zig-zag in the air yet, the rain still ten with an angry rush, and the thunder boomed suddenly; but the midnight-storm was subsiding. Lucy Sutherland, sitting there, felt a fiendish joy at her heart-a de- moniacal sense of triumph and delight. II all the pride of her beauty and her youth, the fiery arrow from the clouds had struck her rival down. "She may die H She may die!" was her inward thought; "and he may be mine yet 1" She sat there the livelong night, looking out at the black trees, listening to the hurry- ing of feet down stairs, the opening and shut-, ing of doors; careless what they thought of i her absence, and thinking her own dark thoughts. Had Eulahe Rohan really been s struck by lightning, or was it something in 1 that letter that had struck her down, like a death-blow. "Beware of that man!I know not whether he is living or dead; but the fear i has been' the blight ot my life, as it must be the bane of yours 1"The strange words danc- ed before her eyes, as if the letter were yet in t her hands. She knew it was from Eulalie's i grandfather. She had seen the signature on t that same last sheet, ,-Your heart-bxoken grandfather, Gustavus Rohan". It sounded very meloch'ainatic, but' there c I might be a terrible meaning in the words after all. "If I could only get that letter," she mused; "if I could only get it for ten minutes. ; There is some secret in that old man's life, ? and that secret is to overshadow the life of his granddaughter. What can it be? Who is this man of whom he warns her--who has L her in his power-the fear of whom is to be L the bane of her. lif, as it has been the blight of his? If I could only fathom this mystery I might stop the marriage yet. Where there is secrecy there is apt to be guilt, and Arthur Sutherland would never ally himself with guilt. Oh I if I could only get that letter 1" She heard the return of Arthur and the physician, and stole on tiptoe to the head of the stairs to listen. Eulalie's room-door stood open this sultry night, and she could hear as plainly as if she were in the apart- ment. It was quite plain the Doctor was as much puzzled as the rest, and failed as en- tirely to restore the stunned girl to conscious- ness. If she had really been struck by light- ning, the fiery shaft had left no trace; it had benumbed her, as the whistling of a cannon- ball close to her head might have benumbed her. She sat there before them, an awful sight, in the dismal gray of the coming morning, decked in satin and lace and jew- els, the white face stony and corpse-like, the black, staring eyes, awfully like the eyes of the dead.' "It is a most remarkable case," Doctor Den- over said: "a case, such as hasnever come under my observation before. I have known cases'where intense fear or sudden shocks have produed- some such result. '1 cannot be certain that it was the lightning. Do you know if the young lady had received a shock of any kind Y There are finely-strung, sensi- tive organizations that sudden shocks of any kind stun into a state like this." "No," said Mrs. Sutherland, "I am not aware of any. Miss Rohan spent the evening with us, and retired to her room about two hours before we discovered' her, in excel- lent spirits. I am positive she received no shock." "Was she ery much afraid of thunder- storms?" inquired Doctor Denover; i" intense. fear might have this effect-"' "4 Yes," answered Augusta, ," Eulahe was always terribly frightened by lightning, more frightened than any one I ever knew." "It may have been fear, then," said the Doctor ;" as I said, I have known such things to occur, and the sufferers have been stunned into a state resembling death. Sometimes they have recovered, sometimes they have not. Sometimes physical animation returns, but the mind remains dead forever. In this case I cannot at present pronounce an opin ion. The poor young lady had better be un- : dressed and placed in bed, my dear Mrs. Sutherland- and we will try what a little blood-letting will do for her.", "I wonder how he, is bearing all this 1" thought Lucy, at the head of the stairs, with a savage feeling of revengeful delight at her heart; "I wonder whose'is the triumph now 1" She passed the remainder of thelong night, or rather dawn, between her own chamber and the head of the stairs, listening to what was going onbeloW. She knew, with ahorri- ble inward joy, that he had failed in every at- tempt to rouse her, and that he was going away in despair. "I can do nothing more at present," she heard him say, as he was leaving; " it is an extraordinary case, and has had no parallel in my practice. I will return this afternoon, as you directed, Mrs. Sutherland, with Doctors Reachton and May, and we will have a con- sultation. Meantime, keep her quiet, and force her to take the nourishment I men- tioned. I think, Mr. Sutherland, you would do well to telegraph for her grandfather at once." "You think, then, Doctor," Lucy heard Arthur say, in a voice that did not sound like the voice of Arthur, "that there is no hope." "By no means, my dear Sir, by no means I While there is life there is hope!" "Which is equivalent to saying her doom is sealed," thought the listener at the head of the stairs. The Doctor took his departure, in the dis- mal grayness of the rainy morning. A dull and hopeless day rose slowly out of the black and stormy night: a gloomy day at the best, depressing, and wretched, even to the happy; doubly depressing and wretched in the silent house. Drifts of sullen clouds darkened the leaden sky; the rain fell with miserable persistence; the wind howled in long, lament- able blasts through the wet trees; and the dull, ceaseless roar of the surf on the shore boomed over all. Inside the house, the silence ofdeath reigned now; the noises of the night were replaced by ominous calm. If that pretty room below' had contained a corpse, the old mansion could not have been hushed in more profound stillness. A deep-voiced clock, somewhere in the silent house, struck nine, and the strokes sounded like the tolling of a death-bell. Lucy, in a carefully arranged toilet, with neatly- braided hair and spotless cuffs and collar, descended calmly to breakfast., The door of Miss Rohan's room stood ajar, and she caught a glimpse of her aunt, sitting by the bedside. She saw Arthur in his own room, too, as she passed the half-open door, pacing restlessly up and down, looking worn and haggard in the dismal daylight. Augusta followed her into the breakfast- parlor, and they took their solitary meal to- gether. When it was over-and a most silent and comfortless repast it was- Augusta went up to Eulalie's room: and Lucy, with her everlasting work-basket and embroidery, took her seat near the window, and calmly waited for events to take their course. It rained all day, ceaselessly, wretchedly. The melancholy wind tore through the trees, and beat the ram against the glass, and deep- ened the white rage of the surf on the shore. But through it all, the telegram recalling Mr. Rohan to Maplewood went shivering along the wires to New York; and, through it all, the three doctors of St. Mary's drove up to the house in the afternoon. There was an examination of the patient. They found the death-like trance as death-like as ever; and had a prolonged consultation afterward in the library. Lucy did not hear the result, but it was evident enough the case baffled the three. They stayed for dinner, and talked learnedly ot the eccentricities of the electric fluid; of people struck blind, or dumb, or deaf, or dead, by lightning. But all the precedents they cited seemed to throw no light on the present case, and they went away in the gloomy twilightleaving matters much as they were. Three days passed and still no change. She lay in her little white bed, as a corpse might lie on its bier, cold and white as snow. The soul looking out of that white face might have fled forever, for all signs of life in the vacant, black eyes. She lay without speaking or moving, or seeming to recognize any of them. At intervals they parted the locked teeth with a knife, and forced her to swallow tea-spoonfuls of port wine and es- sence of beef They gave her powerful opiates, and drew the curtains, and darkened the room; and perhaps in these intervals she slept; but whenever they drew near the bed, they found the great dark eyes wide open, and looking blankly t the white wall. They never left her, night or day; and Lucy, quietly observant of all, wondered if Arthur ever meant to eat or sleep again. Those three days had made him pale, haggard, and hol- low-eyed, and revealed his secret to every one in the house. o On the fourth. day there was a change. Some sign of recognizing Arthur had been given when he stooped over her, and she lia articulated a word-"grandfather". Butshe fhad fallen off again, and they had fed to ; arouse her, as she lay vacantly looking at the blank wall. , "It is very strange, Arthur"--Mrs. Suther. ; lahd said, as she stood with her son for a mo- page: 40-41 (Illustration) [View Page 40-41 (Illustration) ] inent on the piazza, before descending to dinner- it is very strange Mr. gohan does not return." "He may have left New York," said Ar- thur,!" before the telegram reached there. He will be with us, no doubt, in a day or two.^ Even as he spoke, carriage-wheels rolled rapidly up along the drive; and, an instant after, a conveyance from the railway emerg- ed from the shadow of the trees, and they saw the Cuban millionaire sitting behind the driveir. Mrs. Sutherland and Arthur hasteped down at once, and met the old man on the portico. steps. His face was ashen white, but there was a strange fire in his eyes, a strange and startling energy in his voice. "W ill she live?" he cried, grasping Mrs. Sutherland's hand, and looking at her with ,that startling fire in his eyes. "Will she live?" "My dear Mr. Rohan," Mrs. Sutherland was beginning, sadly; but he cut her short, witlih a flashing glance and a stamp of pas- sionate impatience. "Will shelive V" he cried out, vehemently; "Quick I Yes, or no?" ", The doctors say no!" ," Thank God!" iMother and son recoiled at that fearful 1thanksgiving, as if they had been struck. But he never looked at them as he strode straight on to his granddaughter's room. CHAPTER VII. TAKEN AWAY. Eulalle did not die. The doctors had said she could not recover, but, in spite of the doc- tors, she did. From thatfourth day on which she had spoken, vitality returned; and in the brief struggle between life and death, life had gained the victory. But the recovery was 'wearily slow, and very trying to those who loved her. S8e knew her grandfather when i he bent over her, his tears streaming on her white face, but she knew him as if he had not been absent at all. She seemed to have for- gotten that. Very slowly the fair, frail body began to recover, but the mind remained hopelessly benumbed. She knew them all ' when they spoke to her, but their presence seemed to convey no idea to her clouded brain. She had nothing to say to them; she had nothing to say to any one, except to her grandfather, and her poor, plaintive, child- [se cry to him ever was, "Take me home, 'grandpapa-take me home!" In her sleep she wandered deliriously, and talked of her Cuban home, her convent- school, her lessons, her tasks, her girl-friends, but she never by any chance came back to the present. Maplewood and its memories I sebmed to have entirely faded out, and she was only the child Eulalie once more, cry- ing out to be taken home. During the three long weeks in which the poor little feet strayed wearily in the "val ley of the shadow of death", Mr. Rohan scarcely left her side night or day. There I was no mistaking the passionate love, the devoted tenderness, the sleepless anxiety, with which he watched over her. There ' was no mistaking that all-absorbing love for his grandchild-sinful beyond doubt, in its excess, despite that strange and unnatural "Thank God!" he had uttered so fervently when he heard she must, die. It was won- derful inconsistency, surely, but so it was. He scarcely left her night or day, to take suf- ficient food or sleep to support nature; his tears furrowed his aged cheeks, as he watch- ed that showy face, so cold and deathke, contrasting with the great, hollow black eyes, and disheveled raven hair. Mrs. Sutherland had followed him to his granddaughter's chamber, on the evening of his arrival, and had been startled considera- bly by the vehemence with which he asked his first question. She had been narrating to him by the way, the circumstances attend- ing Eulalie's misfortune. - "Madam!" he said cutting her abruptly short; "I sent my granddaughter a letter which she should have received on that day. Where is that letter?" . Mrs. Sutherland produced the key of the bureau-drawer. 4"We found the letter lying on the floor at her feet, as if she had just finished reading it, and I locked it in that drawer." Mr. Iohan crossed the room, opened the drawer, took out the letter, and placed it carefully in his pocket-book,: before he sat down by his grandchild's bedside. He listenedto what Mrs. Sutherland had to say, with his eyes fixed' on that colorless face, and both wasted little hands clasped in his. He listened without answering-with- out taking his eyes once off that dear face, his own drawn and quivering with suppressed anguish. "He is the strangest old man," Mrs. Suth- erland said to her son, afterward; "I some- times think his mind is going. How extra- ordinary that he should utter that horrible thanksgiving when I told him Eulalie must die I and yet he loves her to idolatry." "Poor old manl"Arthur said, sadly; "how Lpity i 1". "That etter, too," his mother, went on, mus- ingly; "Why should he be so anxious about it, the first moment he arrivesT It isabsurd to suppose that he can have any secret to con- ceal; and yet, dear me I it seems very much like it." Arthur did not reply; he scarcely heard / page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] her. He only feared that the life and the rea- son of the woman he loved were in danger, and that dreadful knowledge blotted out eve- rything else. The silent agony of those long days and nights that had intervened since the fiery bolt had struck' her down in the zenith of her beauty and youth, had left traces in a his pale, worn face that no one could mis- take. Perhaps even that devoted grandfa- ther, watching over his one ewe-lamb, suffered less than the young lover, who had yielded his whole heart to the spell of the dark-eyed enchantress, hovering now between life and death. He had spoken to that grandfather, or rather, his heart had broken out in spite of him in his despair, and he had told the story I of his love and his acceptance, and his an- guish, with a passionate abandonment of sor- row that could not fail to touch any heart That loved her. It was a silent, sultry summer-evening, a I week after the old man's return. The two I went walking up and down the chestnut- grove, with the black shadows of the trees making flickering arabesques on the sward at his feet, and the yellow summer-moon flaming up in the low sky. lie could not tell how the silent and self-contained old million- aire might take his revelations-just at that moment he did not care; but he was certain- ly unprepared for having his hand grasped, as a father might have grasped it. 0 "My poor boy 1"-the old man said, in a broken voice ;-" my poor boy, I have fore- seen this I I would have saved you-I would have saved her ; but I could noti I could not There is a fate, I suppose, in these things! May- Heaven help you to bear your trial 1", "Thea you would not have withheld your consent," Arthur said. "I teared you would think me presumptuous in asking for her hand. I feared you might have higher views 1" "No, no, no t" cried the old man, vehe- mently. "God knows how gladly I would give my darling to you, Arthur Sutherland, for I believe you to be a good and honorable man; but there is an obstacle-an obstacle that can never be surmounted-between you.,. d iinacle!"Arthur repeated, in aston- ishment. "What is it" "I cannot tell you," said Mr. Bohan, turn- ing his face away. "It is my secret and hers, poor child I and I fear it is the knowledge of that secret, and no lightning-flash, that has struck her down. I cannot tell you what it is, Mr. Sutherland. I can only say I fear it will keep you apart forever. If mypoor dar- line lives, it will keep her Eulalie Rohan all hefrlife." "This is very strange," said Arthur, slow- ly; "I have no claim to a knowledge of your secret, Mr. Rohan; but so far as it involves her who has promised to be my wife, I sure- ly have some right to know why it is to keep us apart, and to judge for myself whether it is sufficient. It must be a very powerful rea- son, indeed"-with a tremor of the voice- !" that will hold me for life from the woman I love." "This is a powerful reason," said Mr. Ro- han; "but not even so far as you ask have I a right to-reveal this secret of my life. I have not the right; for it menaces Eulalie, not me." "Menaces Eulalie! It is some danger, then?" "It is some danger." "Perhaps it is the loss of wealth you fear," cried Arthur, brightening; " if so-" "No, no, no!" interposed the old man, hastily; " would to Heaven the loss of every farthing I possess could fiee my poor child from her danger I Most gladly, most thank- fully would Ibecome a beggar to-morrow!" Arthur Sutherland's brow contracted. Was there really some dark and hideous secret in- volving his plighted wife, or was all this strange talk but the lunacy of a monomaniac. There was a long and painful pause, broken at last by the younger man. ," You do not treat me well, Mr. Rohan," he said, the light of the yellow moon showing how pale his face was. "You do not treat me generously. Have you no trust in me? Can you not rely upon my love for your gralnddaughter, to keep your secret and hers, and judge for myself whether it is sufficient to sever us forever. Is the whole happiness of my life to be lost, for a darkly mysterious : hint that I cannot comprehend. Oh, Mr. I Rohan I remember that I love her, that she loves me; and pity us both!" They were-Btanding on the terrace as he spoke, on the very spot where he had stood with Eulalie that fatal evening. The old I man laid his hand kindly on his arm. "My dear boy,' he said, "I have no wish to distress you. I am the last in the world e who would make a mystery or raise an ob- i stacle were it in my power to avoid it. It would be the proudest and happiest day of - my life, the day on which I could see my child your wife, if this reason did not exist to - render that happiness impossible." ", "Why impossible?" cried Arthur, vehe- of mently; "why, if we love and trust each It other? She has committed no crime, Mr. at. Rohan, that needs concealment." Lt "She? My innocent darling! who knows r- no more of the wickedness and misery of this "big world than an infant I Oh, no 1" "Then," cried Arthur, still more vehe- r- rnently; "she shall not suffer for the page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] crimes of others I Whatever your secret is, Mr. Rohan, keep it I I don't ask to know it She is innocent of all evil; and, in spite of ten thousand secrets I claim her as my prom- ised wife 1" Mr. Rohant caught none of his enthusiasm. His face only clouded the more. "Poor boy!" he said, " it is hard to dash such high hopes. I shall not dash them- you shall take your answer from Eulalhe, if she ever recovers sufficiently to give you an answer. When she promised to be your wife, subject to my consent, Mr. Sutherland, she was as ignorant as you are now of this hidden spring in her life. She learned it that night; and it was that knowledge, and not the lightning, that struck her down. If she ever recovers, she shall decide your fate her- self, unbiased by me, and you shall hear it from her own lips. If she thinks, m spite of everything, she can still be your wife, your wife she shall be, with my heartfelt blessing and prayers tor you both." Arthur grasped the old man's hand, and poured out such a flood of grateful acknowl- edgments as he never had listened to before. He looked at tflushe ued, handsome face, with a sad smile. "Ah I it is very little, after all, that I am promising you; but Eulalie shall decide for herself. The poor child wants to go home. Let us take her home, Mr.- Sutherland. Among the old scenes and the old, faithful faces, she may recover. Do not come to us. Do not write to her. Give us time-say half a year; and then,- when only the memory of this sorrowful time remains, come to our Cuban home, and say to Eulalie what you have said to me. She shall do as she pleases -go with you as your bride, or remain with me, without my speaking one word to in- fluence her. Will you doth is, Mr. Suther- land " Poor Arthurl I Six months seemed a drear. ily long time. But what could he say, save 'yes Wi "Will you write to me?" he said. "Will you not let me know how she is?" "Most certainly I And she shall write to you herself, if she wishes it. As soon as she is strong enough to bear the journey, we shall start. The home-air will restore hei faster than anything else." So it was arranged. , The matter ended with these words, and no more was said on- the subject. The invalid still reiterated her mournfulI cr: " Take me home, grandpapa! Take me home!" And the old man's answer ever was: Yes, dear, we'll go home very soon now. " But, in spite of the anxiety of both, it was i, nearly a month before the frail invalid could t. start on that homeward journey. Before the f expiration of a fortnight, she was able to rise - and lie all day on the sofa, dozing the still, sultry hours away, or looking yacantly, with large, haggard eyes, at the purple, sunlit sky. In another week she could go down stairs, i clinging to her grandfathers armn-a poor - pale shadow-and, wrapped in a large shawl, f walk out feebly in the lovely green arcades of a Maplewood. Very slowly strength of body r was returning to that delicate little frame; , but strength of mind came slower still. Noth. ing could arouse her fromn that slow torpor- t tha dull apathy to everything and every. t body. Whether it was Mrs. Sutherland, or Augusta, or Lucy, or Arthur, it seemed much the same to her. She was restless, and silent, t and uneasy with them all. Only with her f grandfather was she at rest and content. r At last came the day of departure. A very sad day in the Sutherland mansion, with none of the gay bustle, and pleasant contusion, and hurry, that usually attends departures. The trunks were packed and strapped in silence and gloom ; the last meal was eaten together in a dismal and comfortless way; and Arthur lifted Eulalie into the carriage with a face nearly as pale as her own, and a heart that lay like lead in his bosom. His mother and sister drove with them in the roomy carriage to the depot, and he rode beside them at a funeral-pace. Little more than a month ago, he had rid- den beside them, as he was doing now, to sea Mr. Rohan off on his journey; and how his whole life seemed to have changed since then Il How bright the world had, looked that day, taking its color from his own good- ness of heart I What a desolate, blank waste it seemed now-all things darkened by his own gloom I He could see the frail, little creature, who lay back among the silken cushions, languid, and wasted, and wan; and he remembered how bright, and beautiful, and radiant she had been that day.! Only one month ago I It seemed to him that he had lived centuries since then. Thd last good-bye was said, the train went shrieking on its western way, and the Suther lands returned home. How still, how ghost- ly silent that home seemed I If a corpse had been carried out of the house and buried, the 9pprqssive quietude and loneliness could not have been greater., They all felt it. There was so much to remind them of her- her empty and desolate-looking room ; the music she loved scattered loose on the piano ; the books she used to read, her vacant seat at the table, her empty sola under the amber curtains of the bay-window-all telling of some one lost, and lost, perhaps, forever. Ms. Sutherland, standing by the drawnmg-. room-window, in the gray twilight of that same evening, was revolving a pan in her -mind for changing all this. It was a dull, sunless, airless, oppressive evening, with a low-lying gray sky, from which all rosy and golden clouds had gone ; and the tall trees looked black against the leaden background. There was a rustic bench, under a clump of bushes, visible from the window, and she cruld see her son lying, with his face on his arm. upon it, in a forlorn and hopeless sort of way. Augusta was gaping dismally in the -hostly twilight over a book; and Lucy, at the piano, was playing some mournful air in % wailing minor key, that was desolation it- self. This won't do!" thought Mrs. Suther- land, decisively. "We must have a change. That poor girl's memory is like a nightmare m this house, making us all melancholy and wretched. There is that boy gone to a shad- ow, and as pale, and haggard, and miserable as if he had lost every friend he had in the world. Augusta, too, whose spirits used to be boisterous enough for anything is moping herself to death; and I believe I am catching the infection, for I am nervous and low-spir- Ited, and out of sorts'. I shall,leave Maple- wood before the week ends, and take them both with me." Mrs. Sutherland was as good as her word, and went to work with energy. The bustle and hurry of preparation turned the quiet house topsy-turvy, and forced the most torpid of them into action. "I am going to Saratoga, Arthur," Mrs. Sutherland said, with calm determination. "Augusta wants change; and you are to ac- company and remain with us. The gay life there, the fresh scenes and fresh faces will do us all good. I shall probably remain until late in September, and pass a month or two in New York before returning here." Arthur listened listlessly. He was not to see Eulalie Rohan for six months; and it mattered very little to him where these six weary months were passed. So he resigned himself, "passive to all changes", and saw to the huge pile of trunks and bandboxes, and attended them faithfully to their destination. And Lucy Sutherland, the housekeeper, and the servants, had the! old house at Maple- wood all to themselves. Lucy might have gone to Portland, and spent those months with her mother; but she liked the grand house, and sunlit lawn, and green arcades, and spreading gardens, and sea-side terraces of Maplewood, far better than the dingy, hired house looking out on Casco Bay. thhe had her, books (and Lucy was fond of read- ing), her cousin's piano, and her eternal em- broidery; and she liked being alone, and bore the departure of her aunt and cousins with constitutional calm. Mrs. Sutherland had informed them they were all three to be absent until the close of November. Great, therefore, was Lucy's surprise when, before the first thfortnight had worn away, one of the two returned. She was sitting at the piano, playing softly in the hot twilight, when a tall form strode into the room, and stood be- tween her and the red sunset. She rose up, with a face that told no tales of the rapid heart-beating beneath, and looked at her cousin Arthur. "I could not stay there, Lucy," he said; "I was sick of it all in ten days I What did I care for those crowds of strange men and women, and the dressing, and dancing and drinking, and the rest of the foolery I I shall do far better here, in this quiet place, and with you, my quiet, fireside fairy!" (* And your mother?"Lucy asked. "My mother adheres to the original pro- gramme. She and Augusta like the gay Saratoga life, and dress and drink water with the best. I am afraid they did not like my desertion; but they knew no end of people there, and were not likely to need me; and so I got desperate, and-here I am." The two cousins sat in the twilight a long time talking, that still summer-evening. Both of them thought of Eulalie, but neither spoke of her; and Lucy's hopes were high once more. She sat at her window un- til the midnight-moon sailed up to the zenith, with a flush m her cheek, and a fire in her blue eyes, and a hopefulness at her heart all unusual there. The black-eyed siren, whoso dusky beauty had bewitched him, was far away. All the long summer she would have him to herself, thrown entirely upon her so- ciety in this quiet, country-house I Surely, surely, her time had come I Lucy Sutherland came out in quite a new character after that night. She who had al- ways been as silent and as taciturn as an Indian became all at once conversable and entertaining. She played for him-not very brilliantly, perhaps. She walked out with him; and asked him to read aloud to her while she worked. The old housekeeper looked on approvingly; they were cousins, and it was all right; and Arthur talked to her, and read to her, and thought of her pre- cisely as he would have talked, and read, and thought of Augusta. And he would have been almost as much amazed if any one had told him his sister Augusta was in. love with him as his cousin Lucy. There was but one woman in all the world to him, whose memory was a thousand times dearer than all the cousins in existence. How he passed all those long, long, purpose- less days, and weeks, and months, thinking of her, dreaming of her, and praying tor page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] her, he alone knew. How his mind ever went back to that one absorbing subject, let him talk of what he pleased to Lucy; how her face came between him and the page from which he read aloud; how he would shut his eyes and lean back in his chair when Lucy played, and see the fairy figure once more, in Lucy's place, and hear the sweet old Mozart melodies she loved to play. Poor Lucy I If you had only known how all those pretty tasteful toilets were thrown away, how vain were all your efforts to please, you might have saved yourself a great deal of useless trouble during the weeks of that for you far too pleasant summer. The close of the first month ,brought a letter bearing the Havana postmark. What an event that was, and how eagerly it was torn open and devoured I It was very short, and very cold, the feverish lover thought. Eulahe was greatly improved since their re- turn; -and he (Mr. IRohan) had strong hopes of, her speedy and perfect restoration to health. T'hat was all; but-Arthur thanked God for the news it brought, and felt he could wait more hopefully now. He wrote often, and very' long letters; but Mr. Rohan's re- plies were few and far between, and said very little. July, August, and September passed. Mrs. Sutherland quitted the springs, and establish- ed herself for a couple of months in New York. It was bleak December, and the ground was white with snow; and the green arcades and long sunny gardens were drear and forsaken., Then maples, and hemlocks, and beeches, and chestnuts were gaunt and stripped, and the wintry blasts howled dis- mally around the old house, before the lady and:her daughter returned to spend Christ- mas at home. But while the world lay wrapped in its winding-sheet of snow, and the old year was dying, with melancholy north winds shriek- ing its requiem, and the roses had faded from Lucy Sutherland's cheeks that the summer had brought there, Arthur was in an elysi. um of happiness, Christmas-eve had brought him joy, in the shape of a letter from Cuba. It was of the briefest, as usual; but it con- tained these words, and they had transform- ed the scheme of the universe: '! MY DEAR BOY :-The time of probation is past, and you have nobly kept your word. Eulalie is per- fectly restored once more-a little quieter and more womanly than of old, but her restoration to health complete.. You may come to us if you will. Eden Lawn is delightful this Decembei-weather, and we will both rejoice to see you." CHAPTER IX. "COME WHAT WILL, I HAVE BEEN BLESSED." / The long windows of the' flat-rooled, foreign-looking mansion, shone like sheets of red gold in the evening-sunlight. The low. scented, tropical wind, stirred the lime-trees and orange-trees, and swung the creamy magnolias and clustering acacias. It was a January-evening. The snow was piled high and the freezing blasts howled somewhere; but not here in this isle of the tropics. The red lances of the sunset kissed the sleeping flowers good-night as it dropped behind the rosy horizon, so resplendently brilliant that it seemed as if some of the glory of heaven shone through. The girl who lay languidly on a lounge, with a book in her hand, looked out with dark, dreamy eyes on the fading radiance, her thoughts far away. The white-muslin wrapper she carelessly wore hung loose around her wasted figure, and was hardly less colorless than the face above it. That dark, pallid, Creole face, was unspeakably lovely still, though its brightness had fled; the pro- fuse ravep curls as beautiful and silky as ever, and falling dank and divided over her shoulders, like an ebon vail. The book she held in her hand was' half closed. She was not reading, but thinking very sadly-think- ing of a pleasant Northern household around which the snowdrifts were flying this Janu- ary-evening, and the desolate wind howling up from the angry sea. She could see the long drawing-room where the coal fire blazed in the polished grates, the lighted lamps, and the drawn curtains. She saw a stately elderly lady, with a face pale and proud, lying back in an arm-chair luxuriously, " in after-dinner mood", with half-closed eyes. She saw no plump, fair-haired, rose-cheeked damsel, sitting at the piano, dressed in vio- lent pink, playing noisy polkas or stormy mazurkas. She saw another young lady, robed in nun like black, with a suppressed look in her pale face, and a clear, cold, fathomless light in her blue eyes. She saw these three women as she had often seen them; and she saw, with an aching sense of loss and desolation at her heart, a fourth form-a man's form-sitting reading by the light of a shaded lamp, as she had been wont to see him sit and read in the happy days gone by. Did they miss her at all? Vid he miss her? In that New England man- sion, on the stormy sea-coast, was even the memory of the Creole girl, who had once been one of them, forgotten'? While she was thinking all this, the fading sunlight was darkened, and a stranger stood before the window. He had to pass it to reach the door; but the low cry the girl gave at sight of him reached his ear 'and stopped him. She had started up in a violent tremor and faintness, and he had caught sight of her. A moment'more,' and he was through the low, open casement, holding her in his arms. "My darling!" he cried, "have I found you again!" She was so agitated and so excited by the unexpected sight of him that she could not speak. She trembled so as he held her that he grew alarmed. 4, My love!" he said, tenderly, '" how you tremble! I have frightened you, I fear, coming so suddenly. Sit down here, my dearest, and try and be calm." He seated her gently on the lounge. Her face, pale before, blanched now with the ex- citement of the moment, even to the lips. He was pale himself with Suppressed agita- tion, but he was calm outwardly, for her sake. "Will you not speak to me; Eulalie?" he said, holding both her hands in his. "You have not said one word of welcome yet." She laid her face-her poor, pale face, down on the dear hands that clasped hers, and he could feel them grow wet with her tears. ,Oh, Eulalie " he said,' in a distressed voice, "are you sorry I have come?" "No I no " said Eulalie, in broken tones -"noI Forgive me, Arthur. I am not strong-I am not what I used to be. I am very glad to see you, and I am very foolish to cry, but I cannot help it. Excuse my weakness. I will be better in a moment." Presently she looked up, with a faint smile breaking through her tears. "I am sorry to distress you by crying so," she said; " but I have been weak and nerv- ous ever since I was ill, and those tears flow too easily. Thank you for not trying to stop me 1" "You are not well yet," Arthur said, with an anxious glance at the thin, pale face. "Your grandfather told me you were." "And I am. I am quite well again, only not so strong as I used to be. When did you come?"- "I reached 1Hayana last evening, and have lost as little time as possible in arriving here." "How are all at Maplewood-your mother, and sister, and Lucy?" "They are all well, and all miss you very mu-ch." There was a blank pause. How difficult it is, in that first meeting, after an absence of months from those who are dear to us, to say what we want to say most. The wretched feeling of restraint we cannot overcome-so much to say, that we grow confused and say nothing at all, or only ask; trivial questions. It was so with Arthur and Eulalie now. With the questions that were to decide the i whole future lives of both pending, they sat and talked the commonest commonplace, and 4 with long embarrassing gaps between. "Where is your grandfather?"Arthur asked. "Here!" said a familiar voice, before she could reply. , Welcome, my dear boy, to Eden Lawn!" He had entered quietly, unobserved, and came round from behind Eulalie's lounge, with outstretched hand and friendly smile. There was a heartiness in his voice, a hos- pitable warmth in his manner, that was a new revelation. The cold, watchful, silent, gloomy old man, who had been the night- mare of their lives at Maplewood, was an en- tirely different person, from this courteous and gentlemanly host, welcoming his guest. "! heard your voice as I descended the stairs," he said. "And how are all at home?" Arthur answered; and the three sat long in the rosy twilight talking. Mr. Rohan was genial, and the most fluent talker of the three. The change in him for the better was really marvelous. It was as if some un- endurable weight had been lifted off from his mind; and that, relieved of that oppression, his nature resumed its natural bent again. But the spirits he had gained, his grand- daughter seemed to have lost. Arthur Sutherland looked at her with a sense of indescribable pain at his heart. Let her change as she might, he could never love her less. He had given her his whole heart, and that faithful heart grieved now, to see how altered she had grown. He could remember her, a bright little tropical flower -as radiant a little beauty as ever danced in the sunlight; and he saw her a woman with haggard cheeks and'great melancholy, dark eyes. No common illness could have wrought a change like this. Was it, then, that dark, that impenetrable secret, that was to stand between them all their lives. Had the old man cast off its burden when he told it? and was its shadow, that had darkened his life so long, darkening hers now? Arthur Sutherland asked himself those questions in the solitude of his own room that night. He loved her so well and so truly- he trusted in her truth and her innocence so implicitly, that, despite this dark barrier of a secret he was never to know, he could take her to his heart to morrow, and thank God for the gift. His pride and his sense of honor were as of old; but he loved this dark-eyed enchantress, and he felt that his life without her would be a dead and dismal blank-use- less to himself or his fellow-beings. 'He had tried, in the days gone by, to look his worst fate in the face-a life apart from hers -but he never could, he never could I She seemed to have become part of his very na- ture; and he felt-it was very wrong, no doubt-that a life separated from Eulalio was a life not worth having. page: 48-49 (Illustration) [View Page 48-49 (Illustration) ] With all this, Arthur found it was not so very easy to regain his old place-to bridge over the chasm of six months, and stand on his former footing. He found it hard to speak of the subject that had brought him to Cuba; but he was so happy, only to be with Eulalie once more, that waiting was not so very trying. A week passed away before he ventured to speak: a blissful week, that brought back the old delicious time when he had read and walked with his dark-eyed di- vinity in the summer-twilights and sunsets, and listened to her playing all the long, sul- try afternoons. She was changed since then. She was grown so very quiet; and the beau- tiful eyes were so mournful in their subdued light; but no change could make her less lovely to him. Mr. Rohan was invariably kind; he seemed trying to atone for his past coldness and reserve by his genial warmth and cordiality now; and it was to him the young man first found courage to speak. They were walking up and down the lime- walk, in the coolness of the early morning, when Arthur broached the subject. "You know; Mr. Rohan," he said, with an agitation in his voice no effort could quite overcome; "you know the object that has brought me here. 1 have not said one word to Eulalie yet. Have I your permission to speak to her?" . M. Rohan looked kindly)at the agitated face of the speaker. Most certainly," he said. "Most certain- ly, my dear boy. I told you, when you spoke to me last, that my granddaughter should never be influenced one way or other by me in this matter. I told you this, and I have kept my word." Arthur grasped the old man's hand in his fervent gratitude. "Then I have your permission to speak to her at once, to end this suspense?" "' Yes," said Mr. Rohan; *" whatever Eula- lie says, I agree to beforehand. You have acted nobly and selt:denyingly, my dear boy; and you are worthy of her. Tell her what I have said; that she is free to act as she pleases. Heaven knows, the only desire for which I live is to promote her happiness!" Arthur waited for no more. He knew where Bulahe was to be found, and he sought her out with a radiant face. She was reclin- ing, as usual, on a lounge in the breakfast- room, m a loose, white wrapper, reading from a volume of poems he himself had given her. She dropped it suddenly, for Arthur was beside her,. pouring out, with new-found eloquence, the words he had come to say. "1 have waited so long, Eulalie," he cried; "I have remained away irom your dear pres- ence for six long months, at your grand- father's desire, and surely now H have some claim to speak. When will you keep your promise, Eulalie-when will you be my with P" She dropped her book, and sat up, and look. ed at him with a frightened face. "Oh, Arthur 1" she exclaimed, " you must never ask me that question again! I can never be your wife!" Arthur Sutherland stood staring at her, ut. terly confounded. X "Oh, forgive me!" she said; "forgive me, Arthur IIt is breaking my heart, but I can- not help it I When I made that promise, I did not know what I know now. I can never be your wife, Arthur-never, never!" "Never!" repeated Arthur, white to the very lips. "Have I thus been the dupe of a coquette from first to last? Was I only mocked .when you told me at Maplewood that you loved me 2" "No, no, no 1"Eulalie cried out, vehement. ly. "* I spoke the truth. It is because I love you that I cannot be your wife!" That darkly-mysterious secret again! He knew she referred to that. Was it to be a stumbling-block in his way to the very end. "I cannot understand this, Eulalie. What is to prevent your keeping your promise- whatis to prevent your being my wife?" She turned away from him, and hid her face in her hands. "Because-because there is a secret I can never tell you-a secret of shame, and hor- ror, and humiliation. I cannot tell you what it is; and you yourself must see that it is im- possible for me ever to become your wife." "What if I do not see it?" "Arthur!" She dropped her hands, and sat looking at him, in wonder. "I do not know what your secret is. I do not ask to know it," he said, resolutely. "I only know that I love you, and that you have never committed any crime to be afraid or ashamed of. The crime and shame of others, however near to you they may be, shall not wre'ck the happiness of our whole future lives. I hold you to your promise, Eulalie. I ask you again, when will you be my wife?" Her breath came quick and short: too amazed, too happy to speak. ", Arthur I Arthur I you are speaking hast- ily and impulsively now. You may repent your rashness hereafter." "I shall never repent. I am not speaking hastily or impulsively. I am saying what I said six months ago. I am saying what I should say six years from now, if you kept me waiting so long. Eulalie, I ask you once more, when will you be my wite?" * And you can trust me still, in spite of this secret I can never tell." 'I could trust you, my dearest, in spite of ten thousand secrets. I should never ask page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] any woman to marry me whose truth and far lhonor I could insult by a doubt." ed 6"And in the future," Eulahe said, pale and pt breathless, " if any evil should come, you will to not fbrget that I have warned you that you in take me in spite of everything." sc "I shall never forget. No evil the future ei can have in store for me can be half so ter- rible as losing you. I shall be able to meet b] thie worst evil undauntedly, so that I have L you by my side." Her dar, eyes filled with tears as she laid h both her hands in his. h , You are very, very good," she said. t Itl shall be the study of my life to be worthy s of such confidence as this. Does grandpapa know of this? t ,I spoke to him before I came to you. t] Whatever you say, he has promised to in- o dorse. Dear little hand," he said, lifting it to n his lips with a radiant face; "mine for life t now l" .. CHAPTER X. THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. Far away from the orange and citron E groves of sunny Cuba, with its mellow sun- 1 shine and tragrant breezes, the snowdrifts were flying and the wind howling dismally i this January-month. At Maplewood, the ] tall trees rattled their skeleton-arms, and the i snow was piled high in the long meadows and spreading gardens. Fence and lawn X were deserted, the double windows made i fast, heavy curtains shut out the bleak day- light, and sparkling fires blazed in the polisa- ed grates. But life was very pleasant indoors at Maplewood, this stormy new-year-season; for Mrs. Sutherland had friends trom the city spending the holidays under her hospitable roof; and laughter and merry voices rang from early morning until late at night througa the lately siient rooms. Half a dozen gay girls, with portly mammas and tall, mus- tached brothers, filled the empty chambers; and it was nothing but party-going and party-giving, and general jollitication these merry Niew- fear-times. There was one young lady ati Maplewood who took very little share in these gay do- ings. If an extra partner was wanting to fill a quadrille or cotilion, or a second need- ed in a duet, or a supernumerary in a cha- rade or tableaux, her services were called into requisition; and she always did what she was asked to do with the readiness ol an au- tomaton or a living machine. But she never joined them for alt that. She mixed among them, and yet was as far aloof as though she dwelt in a desert. She was not of their kind, and they disliked her instinctively tor it, as cordially as she detested them in the depths of her heart. But her face; the rigidly pale face of Lucy Sutherland, was too well train- ed to show anything of this detestation. The paid companion knew her place a great deal too well for any such atrocity. She flitted in and out among them-a pale, silent, in- scrutable shadow, puzzling to some, conveni- ent to others, and liked by none. With the low, leaden, winter-twilight of a bleak, January-day darkening around her, Lucy Sutherland stood at the library-window, looking at the snow beginning to fall. A high gale. surged through the maples and hemlocks, with a roar that nearly drowned the roar of the surf on the sands. There was a sobbing cadence in the wind this wild winter-evening, and the snow fluttered through the leaden air faster and faster, as the darkness came on. A black sky frowned over all, and the scene was the very dreari- ness of desolation; but it suited the mood of the girl who watched it, far better than the lilarious gayety within. tShe could hear them in the drawing-room-some one at the piano sipging "Thou hast Learned to Lore Another"--sweet girlish voices blending mu- sically with men's deep tones, and their laughter coming softly in with the music. But what had sue, the paid dependent, to do with music and laughter, and rich and hap- py people? She was not missed or wanted, and so she stood brooding darkly over her own morbid thoughts, while the snow beat against the window-glass, and the stormy night shut down ia blackness. A servant came in and lit the gas. As she * went out there was a rustle of silk, a waft of 3 perfume, and Mrs. Sutherland swept in, an ; open letter in her hand, and her face radiant. t "Augusta I are you here?" she cried. "Oh, it is only you, Lucy I Have you seen Au- g gusta?" I "1 think I saw her going into the conserv- y atory with Mr. Halcombe, have an hour ago. 3- Shall I go in search of her?" ; Yes, go. I must tell her the good news. 1 I have just had a letter from Cuba, Lucy, and e Arthur is married!" Some one says of Talleyrand, that if he d were kicked from behind, his face would not - show it. Diplomacy, perhaps, gave the great to statesman that wonderful command of counte- i- nance, but it comes by nature to women. L- Lucy Sutherland heard the news as Mary, to Stewart hcar% her death bell toll, without Le flinching. She might have caught one gasp- i- ing breath, with the agony ot the first suarp, sr sudden pang; but even that, her tace did not ig betray. Its pallor was habitual now, and the ie gaslight befriended her. Even her voice was d, quite steady when she spoke. as "Permit me to offer my congratulations. [is He is married to Miss Itohan?" Ie "Yes, to Miss Bohan; and his letter ia one page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] outhurst of ecstasy. As it was written the day after the. wedding, that was to be expect- ed; and Eulalie is an angel; and he is in paradise. He writes to say good-bye, for the happy pair start for the Continent, without coming near us. Go find Aiugusta, Lucy; I must tell her at once." It was something quite foreign to the usual order of things for Mrs. Sutnerland to con- verse in this friendly manner with her niece- in-law, but she was so uplifted on the present occasion as to forget, for the time being, how much she disliked her. "Tell Augusta to come at once," Mrs. Sutl- erland called after Lucy; "I must put a stop to her flirting with that popinjay Halcombe. Don't tell her what I want her tor, either." Lucy found Miss Augusta and Mr. Hal- come deep in a desperate flirtation among the rose-bushes and geraniums, and delivered her mamma's message. The dinner-bell rang at the same moment, and Lucy Went in after -the rest with no shadow on her stony face of what her heart was feeling. She listened, still with that shadowless calm, when Mrs. Sutherland came back with Augusta, and made public the tidings of her son's marriage to the Creole heiresss, whose fabulous wealth I and beauty was an old story to all. She ate and drank while a little tumult of congratu- lation went on around her, and all the time I her heart seemed to lie dead in her breast. t How desperately, how passionately, how in X sanely, she had learned to love Arthur Suth E erland she had never dreamed, until this i night, 'when the last flickering hope died out, h and she knew she had lost him forever. With c that face of stone, she sat eating and drink- ing mechanically, the voices around her m blended in one confused discord, and a' dull h sense of horrible despair filling her bieast. p "Their tour is to be a prolonged one"-the o voice of Mrs. Sutherland made itself distinct, saying-"Eulalie has never been abroad, and e they purpose remaining two years. I doubt u it, though-that devoted grandfather and b granddaughter cannot remain apart half the s time." s Of course there' was nothing else talked of all through dinner, but the wedding, and the sl great kiches, and greater beauty of the Creole ca bride. Arthur Sutherland was the most for- m tunate of men, all agreed; and the ladies w wondered what the bride wore, and how ma- su ny bridemaids she had; and whether she le was married in a bonnet, or bridal-vail and w wreath; and if it was in church, or at home. or "In church, I dare say," Augusta siid; to "these Catholics like to be married in church, I believe; and Eulahe was always very de- th voutt." ge Lucy Sutherland, weariOg that ineffably an calm lace of hers, made herself' very uselfu, da he that evening, as usual. She walked through ct- two or three sets of quadrilles-she played in waltzes and polkas for the rest-and went up he to her room past midnight, and was alone ut -with her despair for the first time. She had [ loved him-she did love him-and she had lost him forever I Thousands of other poor al hearts have wailed out daily, and do wail a- out that same pitiful cry; but that, I am e- afraid, makes it none the easier to bear. She at. had been a block of stone down-stairs, but w here, locked in her own room, with no wit. ness save Heaven, she could be a woman, 1- and do battle with her womanly agony, and p go down amongthem when to-morrow came, e. a statue once more. The holidays passed very pleasantly at I- Maplewood. 'The merry ringing of sleigh. g bells, or the joyous laughter of skaters, made i music in the January-sunshine all day long, g and dancing, and dressing, and feasting, and' r flirting, stole away the "rosy hours" of the f wintry night. It was all very delightful in. , deed, and everybody said Maplewood was the dearest old place in the world, and hated I to tear themselves away, when the month of 3February came round. With her guests, de- parted Mrs. Sutherland, and Miss Augusta, tor the gay life of the city. "It will be so horribly lonely, you know," t Mrs. Sutherland said; "after the pleasant time we have had, for me and Aunrusta to mope ourselves here until next summer. Be- sides, it would be unfair to her, to bury her in her very first season in an old country. house. 1 shall leave Lucy Sutherland in charge, and go to New York." So, early in February, to New York they went, and Lucy was once more alone. Per- haps not one of the gay, fashionable, frivolous people who bade her adieu, thought whether or not. she, a young girl like themselves, might not find it lonely, immured in this big, empty house all alone, like Marianna in tie, moated grange. She was scarcely a human being to them; only a pale, silent, noiseless shadow, coming and going, and forgotten as soon as out of sight. How that long winter did drag itself out, she alone ever knew. About once a month came a letter from Augusta, bringing spas- modic scraps of news from the great outer world. She and mamma were having, oh, such a splendid time; and therd wyas another letter from Arthur and Eulalie, and they were in France, or Germany, or Switzerland, or somewhere else, and too happy for words to tell. Mrs. Sutherland found the city so pleasant that the genial spring-months found her lin- gering still. May came, and June, and July; and tue mistress of Maplewood and her daughter were at New York, and Augusta was having a more splendid time than ever. Once again the maples, and hemlocks, and pines, and tamaracs, were out in their green summer-dress, and the shadows flickered and fell on the velvety terrace overlooking the sea, where Arthur Sutherland had wooed his bride. Once again, the songs of countless birds made the amber summer-air vibrate with wordless melody; and the August and September roses lifted their flushed heads in the golden heat. Tue -long summer wore itself out as the winter had done; and still Lucy was the pale recluse of Maplewood, seldom, save on Sun- day-morning, passing beyond the great en- trance-gates. But when in the glorious au- tumn the maples and hemlocks burst out in an oriflamme'of crimson and yellow, and the apple and pear and plum trees in the orchard were laden to the ground with their luscious load, Mrs. Sutherland came home, with. her daughter and another flock of city-fiends, to spend autumn and Christmas and New- Year's in her New-England homestead. "Goodness gracious me, Lucy Sutherland!" Augusta cried; "what have you been and done to yourself all these ages? You look like somebody that had been dead and buried and come to life again by mistake. Can't you do something for her, Phil, in the pill or powder line, to keep her from looking so awfully corpse-like as that?" For Philip Sutherland was back again at Maplewood. "Time, that blunts the edge of things, dries our tears and spoils our bliss"-- time had brought such balm to him, that he could bear once more to look on the scene of his love and his despair. Fifteen months is a tolerable time to heal a broken heart, par- ticularly when that heart belongs to a man; and Philip Sutherland could eat, drink-ay, and be merry, too, though the woman he loved was the wife of another man. But the great trouble of his life had left its indelible traces, as all great troubles must do; and he had grown ten years older in gravity and staidness, during these fifteen months. He looked at Lucy now With that grave face that was so new to him. "'My solemn Lucy, you do look old enough to be your own grandmother," he said; "no wonder, though, shut up here all alone, like an oyster in its shell. The only wonder is you have not gone melancholy-mad long ago." Lucy looked at him with a contemptuous smile. ," He talks of what he knows nothing ab6ut," she thought; "I shall be lonely now that all these men and women are here. I was not before they came." So the weeks went on, with Lucy counting them in their flight. Christmas and the New-Year came in robed in snow, and de- parted, and Mrs. Sutherland and her friends' departed, too. They had flown back to the city, not to return until June, when Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sutherland were expected home. But Lucy's solitude was over, for April brought a troop of workmen-carpenters and masons and landscape-gardeners and uphol- sterers-to. refit and refurnish the old man- sion for the reception of its master and mis- tress; and workmen and laborers were in and out and up and down stairs, and the sound of hammer and plane resounded from morning till night. But out of the chaos of noise and dirt and confusion, order and harmony come at last. Most elegant harmony, too. The house was like a palpa- ble fairy-tale, in its new beauty and splendor, and June-roses waved in a sort of modern Garden of Eden. The house had been fitted up superbly, and landscape-gardeners had been working miracles. Mrs. Sutherland and Augusta went into feminine raptures over their old home in its transformation. They had come alone this time. It was hardly likely Arthur and Eulalie, weary of traveling, and longing for the peace and rest of home, would care to find a houseful of fashionable strangers in possession before them. And besides, there was poor dear Eu- lalie's mourning for her grandfather; for, nearly six months previously, the old mil- lionaire had gone to that world of shadows from which all his golden thousands could not save him one poor second. He had gone -and how the granddaughter, who had loved him so devotedly, had mourned him, they could only conjecture, for her brief let- ters did not tell. Those countless thousands were all her own now; and the baby that opened its eyes first in this mortal life in Florence the Beautiful, was surely bora with a golden spoon in its mouth. "I do want to see the baby, you know," was Augusta's, cry;!"because the idea of Arthur's baby is something too absurd. If I had only been born to fifty or sixty hundred thousand, I dare say my snub nose would not be thrown in my face every day of my life, as it is now." It was in the golden haze of a June-twi- light that the travelers came. Mrs. Suther- land, Augusta, and Lucy stood in the door. way to welcome them, and Lucy's face was whiter than snow. Arthur, sunburned and bearded and bronzed, and handsomer than ever, kissed them all round; and Eulalie, beautiful as a dream in her deep mourning, wept on the motherly breast .of Mrs. Suther- land. A little paler than of old, a little less brilliantly bright, but indescribably, more lovely. Wifehood and maternity, too holy and intense in its happiness for words to tell, page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] had wrought their inevitable change in her. But the entrancing beauty was all the more entrancing for the change; and it needed only one look to tell you that' this man and wile were truly united, and as perfectly and entirely happy as it is possible lor creatures in this lower world to be. A Swiss nurse, with a round, high-colored face and a funny cap, got out with a bundle in 11er arms. The bundle turned out to be the baby; and Augusta, with a little screech of delight, made a grab at it, and tore off its wrappings, to the unspeakable dismay of baby s little mamma. "Oh, what a beauty I Oh, what a perfect love of a baby!" was Aunt Augusta's cry. "Oh, what lovely black eyes and black curly hair. It's the very image of Eulalie, and not a bit like you, Arthur." "I like it all the better for that," smiled Arthur. "Louisa, don't let her tear your nursling to pieces, if you can help it. It is in imminent danger of being kissed to death." The Swiss bonne came forward, and took the little black-eyed atom from Augusta, and followed the rest into the house. It had its mamma's wonderful Creole eyes, this tiny, pale-faced, solemn-looking baby, and had not one look of the Sutherlands in its infantine physiognomy. It was Eulalie Rohan over again, as Eulalie Roban must have looked at five months old-not beautiful now, but with the serene promise of future beauty in its baby-face. Lucy Sutherland, pale, silent and shadowy, hovered in the background, like any other shadow; all that evening, and watched the wife of, Arthur Sutherland furtively but in- cessantly from under her pale eyelashes. The change in the Creole puzzled her. Two years ago, she had been the most childish of spoiled children; now she was a woman. A woman with ldeep-dented lines of care and thought in her smooth forehead, with gravely earnest, almost mournful, dark eyes. The gaslight fell dull on her black dress; but neither the outward nor the. inward mourn- ing for that beloved parent could have wrought this change; for she was unspeak- ably happy, you could see, loving that hand- some husband of hers with a passionate de- votion that it falls to the lot of but few men to be loved. She loved and trusted him with her whole heart and soul, as these impas- sioned daughters of the South have an un- fortunate way of doing, and she was happy and blessed beyond the power of words to tell. What, then, was the trouble that had wrought a revolution in her whole nature, that had furrowed so early that young brow? In the solemn and lovely starlight, Lucy sat up in her own room, watching' the big round miidnight-moon sailing through, a - cloudless, serene sky, and asked herself the question. The life that lay before these two promised very brightly to-night; but far off, invisible to every eye save her own, the pale watcher saw a dark cloud, slowly gathering. "I hate her!"Lucy Sutherland said to her own-heart; *"I hate her, and I hope and pray and trust I may live to see her ruined and disgraced. There is a secret in her life-a dark, disgraceful secret, that I will find out, if I spend my life in the search; and when I see you down in the very filth under my feet, I will cry quits with you, Mrs. Arthur Suth- erland!" CHAPTER XI. AT THE CONCERT. The prettiest of little ormolu clocks, stand. ing on the low marble mantel, struck up a lively Swiss waltz, preparatory to striking eight, as Lucy Sutherland, en grande tenue, opened the heavy oaken door, and entered the boudoir of Mrs. Arthur Sutherland. En grande tenue, with Miss Lucy Sutherland, meant a robe of pale lavender crape, as dim and shadowy as herself, and a few knots of ribbon, a shade or two deeper in tint. The charming boudoir of the charming wife of Arthur. Sutherlandwas a miracle of taste and luxury and beauty-a fitting nest for the tropical bird who obed it. The bright June moonlight, strewing in between the curtains of rosy silk, feB in squares of silvery lustre on the thick, soft Persian carpet and the gems of -pictures on the tinted walls. Opposite the door was an archway hung with rose silk. Lucy lifted the curtain, and stood in the dressing-room of her cousin's wife. A beautiful room-.more like a sea- nymph's grot than an apartment for any- thing mortal. A carpet that looked like tangled moss; pale green walls, with paint- ed panels, where mermaids and mermen dis- ported themselves in foamy billows; with couches and ottomans,. cushioned in green ,velvet, and great mirrors flashing back on either hand this sea-green trot. A lovely room, for the lovely little lady standing be- fore the exquisite aressing-table full in the light of a dozen,wax tapers, taking a last look at her own enchanting beauty. She wore black lace that swept the carpet with its filmy flounces; and pale oriental pearls glimmered like wan stars in midnight in her hair, and around the perfect throat and arms. Beautiful she looked, this starry-eyed, jetty- haired little Creole wite-a beauty born- and looking lovelier to-night than ever be- fore, Lucy thought, bitterly, in the depths of her envious heart. A vivid foil to the glowing little southern beauty, in her dark drapery, stood Augusta, in a violet pink dress, and flashing diamond- necklace and cross. Trifine, Eulalie's maid, v was just fastening the barbaric diamond- eardrop^s ia her ears when her cousin en- tered. el ," Dressed, Lucy," Mrs. Arthur said, with m that radiant smile of hers, "and not fifteei e minutes since you went up-stairs. There is an example for you and me, Augusta.", "I don't care about following Lucy's ex- ample,' said Augusta, with a French shrug, learned from Trifine. "The role of the Prin- cess Perfect never suited me, but Lucy takes x to it as naturally as life. You have moped and moped, and grown dismal and corpse- like, shut up in this big barn of a house from year's end to year's end, and Prince Perfect is very long- in coming. Isn't he, Lucy, dear?" , YIes," said quiet Lucy, " perhaps so; but no longer coming, Miss Sutherland, than the Prince for whom you have been angling so desperately these last two years." Eulalie laughed; and Augusta, conscious of being well dressed, and of looking her best, made a little wry face. ,' Don't be cantankerous, Lucy, it's an old- maid's privilege, I know, but don't use it, lear.' There I that Will do, Trifine How do I look?" "Charming!" cried Mle: Trifine; and Mrs. Arthur Sutherland echoed the flatter- tering; but Lucy only eyed her with a little sour glance of disdain. "Don't you think I look charming, too, Lucy, dearest and best?" inquired Augusta, provokingly. "Of course, you do; but the extent of your admiration renders you speech- less. Don't trouble yourself to put it in words, love-I'll take it for granted. By- bye, Eulalie. I must go and display myself to mamma, to be revised and corrected be- fore going down." O0f swam Miss Augusta, making a mock obeisance to Lucy in passing. The old arm- ed-neutrality existed still between these two; and Lucy and Augusta hated each other with a cordial intensity, truly womanly.' Lucy's position in the family, hitherto painfully un- defined, had latterly been more decidedly fixed. When Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Suther- land had returned, she spoke one day to the new mistress of Maplewood of leaving, and had been met with an earnest protest. "I shall feel lost if you go, Lucy," Eulalie had said, imploringly. i"You don't know how ignorant I am, and howystupid I am about housekeeping. I couldn't order a din- ner, you know, or see after the servants, or know whether anything was done right or wrong, and you will do me the greatest lavor, ma chere cousine, by stopping here and tak- ing all the trouble off my hands. Besides, Lucia mia, Maplewood would not be Maple- wood without your quiet face within its walls." i"You mean, Mrs. Sutherland," Lucy said, coldly, not deigning to notice the caressing words-"You mean you want a housekeep- er, and you offer me the situation." "O you dreadful matter-of-fact Lucy,"' laughed Eulalie. ,* You are as matter-ot-tact as some arim old man of business. Yes, if you. will put it so, I do want you to be my house- keeper. My poor dear Arthur must go din- nerless, I amn afraid, if you do not." Lucy Sutherland, homeless and friendless, was only too glad to accept an offer which meant nothing to do and a high salary for doing it. But she closed with it as coldly and thanklessly as she had hitherto accepted, ungraciously, a home in the family. So she was housekeeper at Maplewood now, and jingled the keys at her girdle, and issued her mandates to the servants, and came to Mrs. Arthur in a coldly formal way for her own directions; and hated her all the while, and watched her like a spy by night and by day. Eulalie, with the princely spirit nature and education had given her, heaped costly pres- ents on this pale, sBlent, impenetrable cousin- in-law, whom she could not take to kindly, somehow; and Lucy accepted everything, still thankless and still unthawed. The cost- ly jewelry, the rich dresses, Eulalie forced upon her with a lavished hand, were so much " portable property", shle might one day turn into current coin and use to bring about Eulalie's own downfall. She took the gifts and hated the giver, and Eulalie know it by some inscrutable second-sight. "She doesn't like me, poor soul 1' she said to her husband. "I suppose she thinks me foolish and ignorant; and I know I am, too." "Because you don't understand the art of cooking breakfast and making coffee, my dear little good-for-nothing wife," laughed Mr. Sutherland. "I don't think it 'would ; accord with the universal fitness of things to s see my elegant little Eulalie bending over a - cook-stove, or simmering over jellies in a T hot kitchen. Still, I think you mistake about - Lucy: she is one of your silent impenetrable e sort-human icicles, that wouldn't thaw in I the tropics. Her lines have not fallen In very pleasant places, poor girl I and her love- e less life has intensified her reserved and un- v demonstrative nature." a Mrs. Sutherland, senior, going back to the - city very soon, was only too thankful to, ,r have the responsibility of Lucy shifted off r her shoulders. r, "She is, without exception, the most dig- - agreeable creature I ever met," said the elder 3, lady to her daughter-in-law; "but, I dare I say, she will serve you well enough as a page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] housekeeper. I never liked her; the mere sight of her irritates me, and I am glad to be so well rid of her." Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sutherland's dear five hundred friends had called upon 'them immediately after their return; and now a ball was to be given at Maplewood, to which the dear five hundred were invited. Mrs. Sutherland and Augusta departed for Sara- toga directly after; but Mr. and Mrs. Arthur remained for the summer at home, by the young wife's desire. "We have had enough of siglit-seeing and gayety and society while we were abroad, dear," she said, clinging lovingly to her hus- band; " and I am so tired of it all, and I want to be at home, and at peace with only you and baby. I want to stay at home, Arthur, in this beautiful old home of ours, where so many happy days have been spent, and shut out the great big tumultuous world outside, If I can." Lucy Sutherland watched her this night of the ball as she always watched her, furtively, as a cat watches a mouse. She looked after 'her, with a sinister look in her pale eyes, as she went into the nursery before descending to the ballroom. It was a dainty little apartment, all gauzy white drapery, with a carefully shaded lamp, and the most elegant and exquisite of tiny cribs for the heiress of all the $uthe'rlands. It was the first time in nineteen years there had been a baby in ; Maplewood; and from stately grandmama down to Betty, the cook, baby was in a fair 1 way of being kissed to death. There never i was a baby in the world like it, of course; s everybody said so but Lucy Sutherland, and M Lucy never had anything at all to say on a the subject. She was the one Mordecai at t the king's gate; and she watched Eulalie E bend over the crib now with a cold, hard, a evil glitter in her eyes. It was a pretty pic- E ture, too-the lovely young mother in her ^ misty lace dress and floating black curls, I looking little more than a child herself, bending over the cradle of her first-born. t But Lucy, hating mother and child-hating E them with a vindictive intensity that these n frozen natures are capable of once in a life- I time. The happy wife of the man she had v loved and nad lost could not fail to be other d than an object of abhorrence to her; and the beauty, the grace, and the fabulous fortune c ot the young Creole wife were each an item h to render her more and more abhorrent. The ball that night at Maplewood was a e brilliant success. The dusky splendor of ir Mrs. Arthur Sutherland's beauty had never is before so dazzled the eyes Of the good people ti of St. Mary's. She was like some little trop- n ical bird, in her glowing and dusky loveli- e ness, that had fluttered by chance down here, e in this staid New England home. "By George! what a perfect little beauty r she is!" more than one enthusiastic gentla. a men cried. "n Sutherland's the luckiest fel. 1 low alive, to win such a wife, and such a for. e tune." Lucy Sutherland, never relaxing that piti- * less watch of hers, saw Mrs. Arthur some r half dozen times during the night glide out of the heated and gas-lit and crowded ball. room, up stairs, to that pretty room where I her baby slept. "Where the treasure is, there shall the heart be also." And Eulalie, bend- ing down to kiss the sweet baby-face, was t far happier than when surrounded by her hosts of admirers. Lucy's pale blue eyes ,saw this with a gleam of demoniac triumph in their steely depths. "If I fail every other way," she thought, "I can strike her at any time through that child. It would be a very stupid way, though; and I think the mystery that is hid- den in 'her life will come to light yet, and save me the trouble." The ball passed off brilliantly; and in the gay and dismal dawn, the guests drove away from Maplewood. Two days. later, Mrs. Sutherland and Augusta took their depart. -ure for gayer scenes, promising to return; for the Christmas-holidays and the family at Maplewood were left alone to begin their new life. A veryquiet life. No vi3iting, no calling that could be avoided, no party-giving or go- ing. Mrs, Arthur Sutherland had grown strangely quiet, grave Lucy could hardly be more of a recluse than she. If she went out at all, she went reluctantly, and under pro- test. She was so happy at home; she said she wanted nothing of the world outside, and she had acquired a nervous dread of meeting strangers. If she rode out, or walked out, it was always closely vailed-she who had never been in the habit of wearing a vail. Even in her visits of charity to the sick and the poor of the neighborhood, even in her Sunday-drives to and from the church, she never went now without a screening vail. Her husband laughed at and ridiculed her strange whims; but he remembered all these wretched details afterward, in the miserable days so near at hand. So near at hand, and yet just now 'how cloudless the sky looked-how very, very happy those married lovers were I Too hap- py to last; for this perfect bliss cannot long endure in this lower world. Eulalie-taught in her convent-school that perfect happiness is only to be found in heaven--nestling some- times in her husband's arms, would look up in his smiling face with great solemn black eyes. "O Arthur, we are too happy 1" would be i her cry. "It makes me afraid, this great and i perfect bliss. What have we ever done to : deserve it, when so many better than we are have nothing but suffering and misery all their lives I Arthur, dearest, I am atraid it cannot last." "My foolish little pet," her husband would I laugh; " what put such dismal notions in your curly head? Deserve it? Why, are I you not a sort of uncanonized saint? And as for me-well, I don't set up for an arch- i angel; but then I never murdered any one. Of course, it will last. What can possibly happen to mar our bliss?" "What!"Eulalie repeated, her dark face i palinz, and her dark eyes dilating with a sort of lorror. "O Aithur, Arthur if I x lost you, I should die." Arthur- Sutherland stooped down and kiss- ed the lovely face with all the passionate de- votion ot his wooing-days. "My love, how can you talk of such dreary things? I know how it is-you are' growing morbid and melancholy, and dis- mal, shut up here from week's end to week's end. You must go out more, my little wife. Not a word, now. I am going to turn ty- rant, and-will have it! You have been shut up lon- enough like a nun in her cell." The evening after this conversation, Mr. Sutherland, riding home in the twilight, found his wife, as he had first beheld her, lying in the recess of the drawing-room window, wrapped in a crimson shawl, and nestling luxuriantly among the silken pil- lows. Unlike that first evening, this sum- mer-twilight, was black and overcast. The sky above was leaden, without one relieving streak of light; the rain lashed the windows ceaselessly, and the wind wailing through the maples had a melancholy moan in its voice that was like a human cry of pain. A wild wet windy evening without, but the long drawing-room looked cozy and home- like. Eplalie nestled among her cushions like a little dark sultana, Lucy bent over a book at a distant window, only pausing now and then to look out at the storm; and Louise, the Swiss bonne, with little black- eyed baby Eulalie in her lap, sat on a low rocker, swaying to and fro, and singing soft- ly some lullaby 'of her native land. Mr. Sutherland bent over his wife, and aroused her with a kiss. "O Arthur, I am so glad you have come!" Eutalie cried, clinging to him, with that dusky pallor in her Creole face, and that ter- rifled look in her great eyes, that sometimes startled him. " 1 have been asleep and dream- ing-oh, such a terrible dream P! "Terrible dreams, I dare say 1"It's rain- ing like a water-spout, and the wind is howl- ing among the trees out there in a way that would give any one the horrors. What have you been dreaming about, petite?" Oh, Arthur, about grandpapa."' "Well, and what about grandpapa?" Her arms tightened around his neck, and he could feel the frightened throbbing of her heart. "Arthur, I saw him. I saw him as plain- ly as ever I saw him in my life. He came and stood here beside me, looking down on me as he used to look ago -poor, dear grand- papa Honly far more sorrowfully, and far more warningly. He did not seem to speak, and yet I felt as though he had come to warn me of some awful danger near at hand. Oh, Arthur, I am afraid I What do you think it can mean?" She clung to him as a scared child would cling to its tather, looking up at him with her great, wild, wide eyes. Arthur Sutherland, for. the first time, be- came really alarmed. The old fear that had come to him the very first night that they had met-the fear she was going insane-struck on his heart like ice. He folded her close to his breast, white, while she tried to laugh. "My foolish Eulalie I Who would have thought you so superstitious-so silly? The rainy day has made you low-spirited, and you have had a dismal dream; and here you are trembling with the dread of you know not what! Cone I I have a cure for the blues. You and Lucy are to go out with me this evening." Lucy Sutherland lifted her head from her book for the first time. Not once had she stirred. Not once had the colorless lashes lifted off the pale, blue eyes; and not one word of the conversation between husband and wife had escaped her. But Lucy did not believe in dreams, and her face was immova- bly calm as she looked at her cousin. "Go out this rainy evening?" she said, in a tone of calm inquiry. "In the carriage you can defy the rain. All St. Mary's are on the qui vive. All St. Mary's are going; and the ladies from Maple- I wood must go, tQo." He drew from his pocket, as he spoke, a r huge playbill, with letters a foot long, and flourished it before their eyes. "Here you are I I "'The Ethiopian Troubadours I Positive- ly two nights only.' "That means a week, at least." "t "I Unrivaled attraction I The audience - kept in roars of laughter.' 3 Do you hear that, my solemn Lucy. Go - early if you wish good seats. Mrs. Buther- land, will you have the goodness to be dress- - ed by half-past seven?" "- Arthur, I don't care to go." page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] "That does not make the slightest differ- ence, Madam. I have issued my sovereign commands, and on your peril you and Lucy are to disobey. You are to dress in your prettiest; and no vails, remember. I won't have it. And be ready precisely at half-past seven. I would not miss hearing the Ethio- pian Troubadours for a kingdom." Of course, after such imperious orders, there. was nothing for it but obedience. Ua- der his jocose tone, Arthur Sutherland was very much in earnest. He saw that his wife needed change - needed societya-needed amusement-and lie determined to insist for the future on her going out more. But she was strangely and unusually reluctant to leave home to-night. All might have been the effects of her dream ; but her mind was full of ominous forebodings all the while her maid was dressing her. Arthur, waiting for her in'the drawing-room, took botlk her hands in his when she came down, and looked at her. "My pale little girl, what have you done with your rosy cheeks? You are as white as a winter snow-wreath, and your hands are like ice. Oh, this will never do! I shall take you away from Maplewood over the the world again, it' you keep oni like this." "No, no!"Eulalie cried. "Not away from Maplewood, where I have been so very, very happy I I am only a foolish child, as you say; but I will try and grow wise and womanly for your sake, my darling." Lucy came in with her noiseless tread as she spoke'; and Mr. Sutherland, offering an arm to each, led them to the carriage. As it drove through the blind darkness of the sul- try night, the rain beat ceaselessly against the glass, and the wind shrieked dismally up from the sea. The stormy night, however, seemed to have little effect on the music-loving people of St. ] Mary's. The long concert-hall, ablaze with illumi- ' nation, was filled to repletion when the Su'th- = erlands entered, and a low murmur of admi- I ration ran round the crowded hall at sight of I the beautiful wife of Arthur Sutherland. N That gentlemen, with his wife on his arm, r and Miss Lucy following close behind, made c his way to three reserved seats near the stage, 1 nodding to his friends right and left as he passed along. The drop-curtain was down, but the orchestra was in full' blast as they set- tiled themselves in their seats. "Here are programmes for you, ladies," Mr. Sutherland said. "Up goes tho cur- tain!" The drop-curtain rose as he spoke, disclos- r ing the Ethiopian rroubadours, nearly a doz- en in number, with shining black faces, stand- d ing in semicircle, and bowing to the audience. n r- The orchestra struck up a symphony, and one n of the Troubadours, in a very fine tenor voice, y had just commenced one of the popular r songs of the day, when the concert-hall, was 't electrified by 'a wild, prolonged shriek-a it woman's wild scream-a sudden disorder and - commotion in front of the stage, and every one up on their feet in consternation, demand- i, ing to know what was the matter. In the - midst of it all, a gentleman (Mr. Arthur Suth- s land) went past, white to ghastliness, carrying a fainting lady in his arms. The lady was I his wife, and Miss Sutherland was hastily r following. It was some time before the startled au- dience could find out what it was. Then a i rumor ran round. Mrs. Sutherland, appar- 3 ently in best of health and spirits, had been r reading the names of the Troubadours on her r bill, when she had suddenly sprang up with 3that terrifying shriek, and fallen forward in a dead swoon. CHAPTER XII. M',I. GASTON BENOIR. The thriving village of St. Mary's con- tained, among its other public buildings, two Ihotels-the Weldon House and St. Mary's H-Iotel. The Weldon House was the popular 3topping-place of all strangers in the village; whether it was owing to the capital table and beds you got there, or the charms of the buxom widow lady who kept 'it, or her four fair daughters, it is impossible to say. The Ethiopian Troubadours coming to St. Mary's strangers, and inquiring for the best hotel, were directed to the Weldon House; and ac- cordingly in the Weldon House these emi- nent gentlemen had pitched their tents. On-the morning after the concert, quite a lively crowd were assembled in the spacious parlor of that establishment. There were the four Misses Weldon, some two or three lady-boarders, a few of the village young ladies, and half-a-dozen of the Troubadours. They were animatedly discussing the con- cert, with the exception of one young lady, who sat by a window, and whose foot kept beating an impatient tattoo on the carpet, while her eyes never left the door; a re- nmarkably pretty girl, with long golden brown curls, violet-blue eyes, rosebud cheeks, and lips as sweet as ever were kissed. This young lady was Miss Sophie Weldon, second daughter of Madame Weldon; and that she was impatiently waiting for the entrance of some one was very evident. Her silence and distant mainer at length struck the lady who sat placidly crocheting beside her. "What s the matter with our Sophie this morning'?" demanded the lady. "She has generally enough to say for herself, but to- day she sits as solemn as an owl, saying nothing and watching that door." Watching that door!" repeated Miss Sophes eldest sister, maliciously, "whih, el being interpreted, means watching for Mr. th Benoir." The rosebud tinge on Sophie's fair cheek fo turned suddenly to big round roses, and there st was a general laugh among the company. , Benoir's a lucky fellow," said one of the a Troubadours; "but then he's used to that M sort of thing. I don't know what kind of M taste the women have got, for I'll swear he's a next door to a nigger."' ", Who is?" inquired a new Troubadour, la sauntering lazily in; "you don't mean me, a do you?" . w There was a pause of consternation, and Miss Sophie's violet eyes grew as bright as e stars , ," Speak of the-! no, I'll not say it, s ladies being present," said another Trouba- n dour. "Brown's just called you a nigger, Bcnoir-meaning no offence. ' By-the-by, have you got over the shook yet of having f your song interrupted last night?" a ", Who the deuce was it i" inquired Mr. Benoir, "I mean the lady who screamed and I fainted." "Mrs. Arthur Sutherland, of Maplewood," e replied the eldest Miss Weldon. "I suppose a it was the heat, and she is a delicate little 1 thin, any way." "had a good look at her," said one of the Troubadours; "she sat right in front, and, by George! she is the stunningest little beauty I ever saw in my life." "Oh! she's lovely!" cried Miss Sophie, rapturously, "I could sit and look at her for a week. She is prettier than any picture I ever saw, with those great black eyes of hers, and that beautitul smile. And, as you know," exclaimed Miss Sophie, struck by a sudden inspiration, "I think she looks ever so much like Mr. Benoir!" Mr. Benoir bowed profoundly. "Thanks, Mademoiselle, you do me proud! I should like to have a look at this beautiful lady' whom I resemble so much. Is there any hope of seeing her' at the concert to- night"?" '"Hardly, after her fainting-fit of last evening; and she scarcely ever goes out; or if she does, it is always closely vailed." "Vails ought to be indicted as a public nuisance," said Mr. Benoir; " that is, in pretty women. Ugly ones, if there be such a thing as ug. y Ones, do well to mask their bad looks undeir - f Mr. Benoir stopped short, for there was a little cry from Miss Sophie, who had glanced out of the window. "Oh! Emily I I declare if here is not Miss Lucy Sutherland! What in the world bring her here?" "She cannot be coming here," said the eldest Miss Weldon, going precipitately to the window; " she never was here but once in her life, and that was to collect money for the new church. She is too proud. My stars, though, if she is not 1" There was a general flutter of expectation among the company, in the midst ot which Mrs. Weldon herself appeared, ushering i4 Miss Lucy Sutherland. Miss Weldon arose, and presented a seat. "Don't let me disturb you," Miss Suther- land said, smiling graciously. "I called to ask after Fanny--I heard in the village she was ill." "You are very kind, I'm sure, Miss Suth- erland," said Fanny-the youngest Miss Weldon-answering for herself. "I had a sore throat yesterday, but it is almost well now, thank you-" "And how is Mrs. Sutherland?" inquired Miss Weldon, "I was so sorry to see her faint at the concert last night. Is she better again?" "No," said Miss Sutherland, whose eyes had been wandering furtively from face to face of the silent Troubadours ever since her entrance, "she is very poorly. She was ill and hysterical all night, and the doctor never left her. She fell asleep for the first time just before I came away." f There was a general murmur of sympathy , among the ladies, and Miss Sophie inquired F if she supposed it was the heat. ," I don't know," said Miss Sutherland; " it might have been, for poor Eulalie is not very r stron'." I Mr. Benoir, who had been leaning lightly f over the back of a chair, taking very little s interest apparently in the conversation, start- k ed as suddenly and violently at this last es speech as if he had received a spear-thrust. He turned round and faced Miss Sutherland with a strange, eager look in his eye. [! "1 beg your pardon," he said, "but did Ai you call the lady Eulalie?" re Miss Lucy Sutherland lifted her eyes in o- calm surprise to his face, and took a long look before 'she answered him. He was st a very handsome man, this Mr. Benoir- Dr Mr. Gaston Benoir, as his name read on the playbills -with a dark, Southern kind of ic beauty rarely perfect in its way. ' No features in could be more exquisite; no eyes could be a larger, blacker, or more splendidly luminous; no teeth could be whiter or more even; no hair could be darker, or more silken and curly. He was tall and perfect of form as of face, with a clear, dark, olive complexion. He wore a thick, jetty mustache, and spoke with a slightly foreign accent, but in excellent English. To a casual observer, he was only page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] an uncommonly handsome young man; but Lucy Sutherland was a physiognomist, and undetlying all that dark beauty she saw that this man was crafty, and cruel, and sefish, and sensual, and a villain I She-saw it all in that one glance; and then the light blue eyes shifted and fell. "Mrs. Sutherland's name is Eulalie," she said, calmly. "May I inquire why you ask " "Because I once knew a person of that name whom I have not seen for years, and it is a name one does not often hear. It was]in Louisiana I knew the person; but Mrs. Sutherland, I presume, has never been there?" 'I think not. Mrs. Sutherland is a native of Cuba." Cuba * "P Again Mr. Benoir started, and his dark face flushed hotly. ". Cuba!" he re- peated eagerly. "May I ask Jif her maiden- name was Rohan?"mi Miss Sutherland and every one else in the room looked at Mr.. Benoirin surprise. It was," Miss Sutherland said. "Did you ever know Eulalie Rohan?" Mr. - Benoir turned away suddenly, and looked out of the window in a manner that revented them from seeing his face. WhenI e spoke, his tone and words were carefully guarded. "I have been in Cuba," he said, , and I have heard of Mr. Rohan and his grand- daughter. -No, Miss Sutherland, I never saw 'Miss Eulalie Rohan." He turned as he spoke, and walked out of the room, bowing slightly to the company. They all saw him as he went out, and the flush had left his handsome face, and he was white even to the lips. Miss Lucy Sutherland only lingered a few ' moments longer, and then took her departure. i Mr. Benoir was leaning over the balcony, a smoking a cigar, as she passed; andshe gave him a sidelong look from under hbr light a lashes. "It is as I suspected," she thought, as she a walked slowly homeward. "It was never i the heat made Eulalie Sutherland faint last night. What is she to this man? What is he to her Y He is handsomer than any one I p ever saw; and he has known her in Cuba. I am sure of that, in spite of his denial. Is this the dark mystery that overshadowed her p grandfather's lie and hers; and is the day of h her disgrace and downltl nearer at hand h than ever I thought?" Mr. Gaston Benoir lingered so long on tIhe balcon y smoking cigars that pretty Sophie, n Weldon lost patience waiting for him, and b made her appearance there too. Mr. Benoir a started up, flung away his cigar, and oticred t her hisarmn. "I am ti'ed of solitude and my own ut thoughts, Miss Sophie," he said; "and was ad just wishing for you. It looks delightfully at cool down there in the orchard, under the h, trees. What do you say to a walk?" in Miss Sophie had no objection. It would ae have been a strange proposal, indeed, she would have objected to, coming from Mr. lie Benoir. She had seen him the day bebfore I'" for thefirst time; but pretty, blue-eyed Sophie at had a susceptible heart; and Mr. Benoir's it handsome face had wrought fearful havoc in there already. s. There was no one in the long orchard, n where the apple-trees were in bloom; and the handsome Troubadour and the pretty village. e girl walked up 'and down uninterrupted. Mr. Benoir was a good talker, and 4old So. d phie charming tales of his wanderings by sea and land. But, presently-Sophie, think- i- ing of it in the tragical after-days, never knew how-he led the conversation round to e the Sutherlands, to Mrs. Arthur Sutherland particularly; and Sophie found herself tell- ing him l11 she knew of that lady. It was not a great deal. She remembered when she I had first come to St. Mary's, with her grand- t ather, and Mrs. Sutherland, and Miss Au- gusta, from Cuba, and what a sensation r her beauty created hfar and wid,. Then came Mr. Arthur, Who fell in love with her at once, as all St. Mary's knew; and then followed the time when she was struck by lightning, and lay ill unto death. Then came the journey back to Cuba; the dreary probation Mr. Arthur spent at Maplewood; and then his own departure for Cuoa, and the wedding which followed. Then there was the long bridal-tour, the grandfather's death, and the return with the foreign nurse and 'the baby. They had been at Maplewood ever since, go- ing out very little, and seeing little company, and loving each other, as every one knew, better than ever husband and whe loved one another before. Mr. Gaston Benoir listened to all this with a very attentive face. He did not speak, dur- ing the recital, until his fair companion had done. Then he asked a question: "These Sutherlands are very proud people, are they not i" "Proud! Yes; the proudest family in St. Mary s. Mis. Sutherland would not think a princess too good for her son. It Miss Ro- han had been less of a beauty, -and less of an heiress, and less grand every way, she never would have consented to tihe match." Pretty Sophie Weldon, in saying this, was not looking at Mr. Benoir, or she might have been startled by the change in his lhce. Suclh a look of triumphant malice overshadowed it, such a derisive light thiashed friom his black eyes, that SoDphie mighlt well have been stag. gered to know what it meant. "I think I hear some one calling you," was' Mr. Benoir's first remark; and "Sophie, Sophie, where are you?" shrilly called in the eldest Miss Wedon's voice, confirmed his words. Sophie, only too happy to be just where she was, frowned; but Mr. Benoir, with all his politeness, looked relieved as he led her back to' the house. The other Troubadours, scat- tered about, the balcony smoking and read- ing, smiled significantly as the pair came up; bui Mr. Benoir paid no attention to any of them. He turned off up the road, walking slowly; and one of the Troubadours, taking his pipe out of his mouth, hailed him: "I say, Benoir! where are you bound for?" "To see the lions of St. Mary's," Mr. Be- noir replied, without looking round. , And' don't you want company," pursued the speaker. winking at a fellow.-Troubadour. "Perhaps, so; but not youra!" 'With which rebuttff Mr. Benoir walked on. Not to St. Mary's, however. A sudden bend in thIe road hid him from sight, as he turned his back upon that pretty village, and bent his steps in the direction of MapleWood. "At last!"Mr. Gaston Benoir was think- ing as he walked along, "at last my time has come I Ihave waited for it many a year. I have traveled over land and sea until I have almost given up in despair. when lol I come to this one-horse village, in a lost corner of Maine, and find my Lady ligliropes. At last my time has come I Old Rohan had the reins in his hands long enough; but it is my turn now. What a pity lie's dead I I owed him a long debt of hatred; and pretty Eula- lie must pay his share as wellas her own. At last! I at last I Gaston Benoir, your lucky star is in the ascendant I No wonder she tainted at the concert. She'll come through more than that before I have done with her I Good-bye to the Troubadours, my future's made, I!" CHAPTER XIm. MR. BENOIR'S LETTER. The great iron gates of Maplewood stood wide open as, Mr. Benoir drew near, as if in- viting him to enter." He paused for an in- stant to glance at the prospect, the broad sweep of carriage-rhive, the waving trees, the gleams of origlit parterres, the plash of dis- taunt tfountains, and the stately old house just showing in glimpses iu the distance. 'lThe songs oif countless birds made the air melo- dious; the June-sunlight lay in golden sheets on the velvet sward; the hush of the place was deep and unbrokien in its noon Jay sunmmer-rest. "A fine old place," Mr. Benoir thoughlt; "a place a man might be proud of I And Eulalie Rohan is mistress of all this, and the wife of an honorable gentleman. A proud man this Mr. Sutherland, they tell me, and come of a proud race. All the better. Ill lower his pride for him one of these days, or I'm mistaken." He entered the wide open gates, and walk- ed up the broad graveled drive. For nearly ten minutes he went on without meeting any one; then a bend in the drive brought him in view of a rose-garden, where a gardener was at work. Tue man looked up at the soundl of footsteps and stared at the stranger. "My good man," Mr. Benoir said, conde- scendingly, "I hope I don't intrude. I am a stranger here, and, seeing the gate open, took the liberty of entering. If' I trespass, I will leave." The gardener touched his hat to the hand- some and gentlemanly stranger. "No, Sir; it's no trespass. Maplewood is free to all strangers, by Mr. Sutherland s or- ders. You can go over the grounds if you like." "Thanks, my friend," Mr. Benoir said, po- litely. "I think I will." He turned away, following the drive until it took him to the lawn in fiont of the house. He paused, looking thoughtfully up at its long, low, old-fashioned front "A fine old house-old and historic for this new land. I wonder which is her room -I wonder if she is thinking of me now. O, my pretty little Eulalie! do you dream how near I am to you this minute?" Ho walked on; for a servant-girl, coming out, was staring with open-eyed admiration at the dark stranger. He strolled through the old orchard, through the woods and fields; and, coming round the end of the house, found himself on the grassy terrace overlooking the sea. He leaned over the iron railing, and looked down at the placid waves murmuring upon the shore. "A nice place to commit suicide," Mr. Benoir said to himself. "One leap over this railing into that calm sunlit treacherous water, and all oie's troubles are ended. My pretty Eulalie I if I were in your place, i should know how to dely Gaston Benoir!" The footpath through time woods to his left caught his eye. He followed it, and found himself presently in the half-ruined old sum- muer-house where Philip Sutherland had long ago fought with his despair. He sat down in the rustic seat by the rickety table, and looked complacently out at the pleasant view of the terrace which it commandled. lie sat there, and no shadow of thie awiul tragedy so soon to take place within tiheso four walls canmo darkly over his nmind to warn him. He sat and looked out at tho terrace, his mind in a state of soliloquy still. page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] "A capital place for a rendezvous," thought Mr. Benoir. "Silent as the grave, lonely as the heart of some primeval forest. A murder might be done here and no one be the wiser I I wonder if Mrs. Arthur Suther- land ever wa ks in that terrace? If so, I could sit here safe and unseen and have a look at her. I really should like to see her. That pale-faced, fair-haired young lady, down at the hotel, this morning, disbelieved me, I think, when I said I never saw Miss Rohan. I wonder if she looks like-" Mr.' Benoir checked his own thoughts abruptly to light a cigar. When the weed was in good going order, he rose up and saunter- ed slowly back arain toward the gates. The gardener was at work still, and paused as the stranger drew near, leaning on his rake. "Well, Sir?" he asked '"and how do you! like Maplewood?" "A charming place," said Mr. Benoir. "I had no idea there was anything like it in St. Mary's." "There's nothing like it far or wide!" said the gardener. "( And there isn't as old a family, or as rich now, as the Sutherlands, in the State." "Indeed I 1 heard," Mr. Benoir said, po- litely, " that Mrs. Sutherland was ill. She is better, I hope?" "Getting better, Sir. She is able to be up, they tell me. We'll have her out here to- morrow, may be. She's uncommon fond of walking through the grounds when she's in hex health." "I suppose she has her own particular walk, too"' "Yes, Sir, yes I The terrace down there by the water. That's Mrs. Sutherland's daily walk up and down when she's well, and of moonlight nights with her husband. It's a lonesome sort of place, but she likes it best." "There is no accounting for a body's tastes," said Mr.. Benoir. "By the way, I intend making some stay in St. Mary's; and if I should choose to come here occasionally, would Mr. Sutherland have any objection v". "Why Hno, Sir, I think not,' said the gardener, on whom the stranger's handsome lace, pleasing smile, and insinuating address had made a very favorable impression; "Ieastways, Le never does object, and he aint likely to begin with you. All that's wanted of vistors is not to pick the flowers, and they may come as often as they please." "* Mr. Sutherland is very kind, and I am much obliged to him and to you. Good day, my friend. 11l saunter up to-m:rrow again, I think, to kill time." Mr. Benoir was absent and distrait all the rest of that day. Blue-eyed Sophie, fluttering around him like a butterfly round a flower, wondered what was the matter, and pouted her rosy lips to find how little notice he took of her. He avoided his brother-Troabadours, and loitered by himself in the orchard, smok- ing endless cigars, and thinking, and think- ing. The conceirt that night was very successful. Mr. Benoir's/ singing charmed everybody; but none of the Sutherlands was present. So successful indeed was the concert and so crowded the house, that the Troubadours had big posters put up next day to inform the good people of St. Marys that, as a particular tavor, they would remain for the rest of the week. Immediately after breakfast, Mr. Benoir started for Maplewood, one pocket filled with cigars (for this mysterious gentleman was an inveterate smoker) and a novel borrowed from Sophie in the other. He made his way to the old summer-house without meeting any one, and sat down on the rustic chair beside the old table to smoke and read, and keep watch. But all his watching was useless. One of the gardeners and a maid-servant appeared on the terrace for a few moments, but no Mr. or Mrs. Sutherland. Mr. Benoir's watch, point- ing to three, reminded him that two was Mrs. Weldon's dinner-hour and that he was hungry; so he rose up, pocketed his novel, and started for home. The Troubadours stayed all week, ac- cording to promise, and every day found the handsome tenor at his post in the summer- house. Not quite- unrewarded either, this patient watching; for one day, Mr. Suther- land appeared on the terrace-he knew it was Mr. Sutherland from the description he received of him-loitered up and down for halt' an hour, as if to afford the watcher a good look, and then retired. "A proud man"-was the Troubadour's criticism while he looked-," A proud man, who would prefer ten thousand deaths to dishonor. You're a very fine fellow, and a very fine gentleman, no doubt, Mr. Arthur Sutherland, but I have you under my thumb for all that." Mr. Benoir's extraordinary conduct puz- zled his brother-Troubadours beyond every- thing. He had changed so suddenly and un- accountably trom being "hail fellow! well met", the life of the company, to a thoughtful, silent, and steady man. His prolonged ab- sence, too, couid not be accounted tor. They had traced him morning alter morning to Maplewood; but, as the spies said, what the deuce did the fellow do there? He couldn't have fallen in love with Miss Lucy Suther- land that first morning, could be? Hardly, for he made love most devotedly to pretty Sophie. It wasn't to see the place-once or twice would surely suffice tor that. The Troubadours were puzzled, and Sophie Wel- an don with them. al It was quite true Mr. Benoir made love to her between whiles, he being no more insen- d sible than the rest of mankind to the in- m fluence of azure eyes, golden brown ringlets, and rose:bloom cheeks. He could hardly ml be insensible to the flattering import of rosy blushes and eyelid-droopings at his coming. t So he found time to do a little courting, even 8 while he kept that daily watch at Maplewood. hi But, right in the middle of his love-making, b he had a habit of breaking abruptly off and sC falling into a moody silence, and being a s( thousand miles away from Sophie in half a minute. His handsome dark faice would i cloud over as suddenly as an April-sky; and p Sophie, afraid of him in those gloomy fits, f would glance shyly and wistfully at him from under her eyelashes, and steal away and leave him alone. Before the end ot the week, the concert- s going folks of St. Mary's began to grow tired E of the Troubadours, and the houses they p drew were wofully thin. So they made up q their minds to pack and start on Monday- t morning, and were all ready to go, when Mr. Benoir, their very best singer, electrified f them by announcing his intention of remain- ing where he was. "I entered into no engagement with you," Mfr. Benoir. coolly said to the head of the t Troubadours. "1I merely came with you here to kill time. Now that I am here, I like the place, and don't choose to leave it just yet-that's all." "1 say, Benoir, is it Maplewood or our Sophie that's the attraction?" demanded a Troubadour; to which Mr. Benoir's reply was to turn his back upon him and walk away. Sophie was in ecstasies, and set it all down to her own account; but, then, why was Mr. Benoir so moody? Surely she gave him en- couragement enough, yet despite all, that ab- sorbed,.gloomy, and distrait manner remain- ed. The daily visits to Maplewood were con- inued; the very servants there began to notice him now, but still all in vain Mrs. Sutherland was better, report said ; but, let him watch as he would, she never appeared on the terrace. Did some secret prescience tell her he was there, and warn her to keep away? Mr. Benoir got desperate at last. "111 dilly-dally nd longer," he said to him- self, setting his white teeth savagely. "I'm about tired of this game of solitaire. If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Moham- med must go to the mountain. I can't go to my lady, so my lady must come to me." That evening, in the solitude of his own chamber, Mr. Benoir wrote a note. A brief and abrupt note, without date, or address, and almost without signature. , "You know that I am here; and that I will not leave until I see you. The time of meeting I leave with you-the place I take the privilege of naming myself. The old summer-house at Maplewood, facing the ter- race, is the best place in the world for a clandestine meeting. , G. B." Mr. Benoir took a great deal of pains with the address on the envelope-"Mrs. Arthur Sutherland, Maplewood, St. Mary's". -He had written the note in a bold, dashing fist, but the address was in a pale, womanish scrawl, that would not have disgraced a schoolgirl. "If they see it," said the scribe to himself; "they'll think it's from a lady, and won't sus pect. I rather think, Mrs. Sutherland, these few lines will bring you to it!" Mr. Benoir dropped this letter into the post- office, and waited patiently for three dlas for an answer. During those three days he for- sook Maplewood, and played the devoted to Sophie Weldon. On the third morning he presented himself at the post-office. and in- quired if there was a letter for Gaston Benoir. The postmaster fumbled through a pile in the "B" department, and at last singled out one for the name. Mr. Benoir glanced at the su- perscription. It was postmarked St. Mary's, an'd the address was in a delicate and rather peculiar female hand. His fingers closed tightly over it, while a smile so evil, so tri- umphant, so sinister, came over his handsome face, that it altered so you would hardly have tknown it. He had not patience to wait to reach the hotel. He tore off the envelope the r moment he was outside the door, and went i along the quiet village-road, reading. The Y note was as short and abrupt as his own; L "I will meet you to-morrow night at nine, in the place you have named. Destroy this as soon as read." a That was all. Not even an initial at the r. end; but then it was hardly needed. As Mr. - Benoir looked up from the paper, at the sound i- of an advancing footstep, he found a lady i- passing by, staring at him as if he were the eighth wonder ot the world. It is a lady's 1- privilege to stare; so Mr. Benoir lifted his hat o politely, and walked on. The lady was Miss s. Lucy Sutherland; and, an instant after, she et stooped hastily to pick up something white, d lying in her path-the torn envelope of a *e letter, over which her hand closed as if she p had found a diamond. Not until she was some yards away-not until she made sure a- there was no living creature to watch her, m did she unclasp the envelope and look at it. e No earthly emotion could redden the pallid n, face of Lucy Sutherland, but it almost flush- to ed now, and her eyes kindled with a steely, fiery gleam. rn "So she writes to him," she thought; " the ef wife of Arthur Sutherland writing to this page: 64-65 (Illustration) [View Page 64-65 (Illustration) ] handsome strolling vagabond. That was her letter he was reading is I passed him. It is coming-it is coming-the day ot her down. fall; and meanwhile I will keep this piece of paper-it may be of service before long!" CHAPTER XIV. MR. BENOIR'S SHADOW. Eulalie Sutherland sat in that favorite seat of hers, the deep, curtained recess of the drawing-room window, watching the summer- night tall. It had been a dull day--a day of hopeless chill and drizzle, with a low, com- plaining wind, that had moaned and sighed drearily through the trees, and a sky of lead closing down over all: a wretched day, that unstrung your nerves, and made you cross and miserable, and the highest-spirited agree with Marianna, that " life was dreary". The night closed in early this gray, July- day, and a servant came in to light the gas. Mrs. Sutherland turned round-she was alone in the drawing-room-and forbade her. "I don't want lights yet, Martha. Where is Miss Lucy?" "In the 'dining-room, Ma'am, helping Su- san to sort the silver." ," Very well; that will do. Mr. Sutherland has gone out to spend the evening, so there is no need of lighting the gas, just yet. That will do." The servant left the room, wondering, per- J haps, at her mistress's strange tancv for sit- ting in the dark, and Eulalie sank back in her seat. There was just light enough coming ] palely through the large window to show the change which a few days' illness had wrought in the Creole's dark face. So thin, so hag- i gard, so worn it looked, you might have f thought she had been sick for months; and I the black, starry eyes looked unnaturally large and bright. Some inward excitement i or other sent a feverish fire burning in their clark depths this evening, and on the haggard cheeks glowed two deep crimson spots, quite t toreign to her-usual complexion. Her very stillness, as she sat staring straight before her ] at the darkening day was full of the same I suppressed excitement. Her long black hair i fell loose and uncared-for over the scarlet f shawl folded around her, a silky mass of rip- p ples and ringlets. The house was very still. A golden cana- I ry-bird fluttering faintly in its gilt cage above f her bead; the tick, tick, of a little French clock on ti'e carved chimney-piece; the wail- ti ing of the evening-wind, and the dull tramp v of the waves on tho shore-all were sharply r audible in the deep hush.. She was quite. I alone; Mr. Sutherland had gone to a dinner- ' party, reluctant, but with no excuse for ab- t schnllg; Lucy was busy in the household-de- 1i paiumoui, and the Swiss bonne and We baoy a r were up in the nursery. So Mrs. Sutherland sat alone in the rainy twilight, looking stead- factly out at the creeping blackness, and nev- er seeing it. Her hands lay folded in her lap except when she pulled out her watch to look at the hour; but her burning impatience, her intense suppressed excitement, showed itself in every line of her altered face. As the dark day shut down in darker night, Lucy, her housekeeper's task ended, came in- to the drawing-roomli. A faint light trom the hall illumined the long room, and showed her quick eyes the scarlet drapery, and the tan- gled waves of dead, black hair. "You here, Mrs. Sutherland?" she said, in a voice of quiet surprise; "and sitting in the dark!" Eulalie turned round, but in such a way that the deep shadow of the amber curtains concealed her face. "Yes," she said, trying to speak in her usual voice. "*1 prelerred the twilight. Itins for Martha if you wish." "I wish I Oh, no I If there is nothing you want me to do, I will take my work up to my room and finish it." It was one of Miss Sutherland's unsocial customs to take her work up to her chainuer of an evening, instead of sitting with her cousin and his wife. She gathered up her spools and cambric now, and left the draw- ing-room, as was her wont. On the thresh- old she paused to ask a question. "Do you intend sitting up for Mr. Suther- land?" . ' "Yes, I think so. .Why?" "Because it will be unwise. He will prob- ably not return until late, and you are not strong enough yet to lose your night's rest. Good-night 1' "Rest r"Eulalie repeated, inwardly, look- ing out at the darkness with a sort of desp ir. st bhall I ever find rest again in this world? Shall I ever rest now, until they lay me in that last home, where all find rest alike '" Tick, tick I The golden handS of the little French clock told oil tie minutes of another hour, and struck up a waltz, preparatory to striking eight. A watery moon, struggling feebly through banks of rugged clouds, gleamed awthart the blackness of the night, and hurriedly hid itself again in billows of black. The hush of the llouse was pro- found. Eulalie sat in the stillness and dark- muo. like a figure of stone. Raindrops, pat- tcrmg softly against the glass, told the storm wa increasing, and the wailing wind was rising high among the rocking trees. Tne Fi cnch clock set up a lively waltz again- tte hands pointed live minutes to nine. At tle sound, Eulalie started up, wrapping the larqe crimlson shawl over her head, a nd arouid her figure, crossed the drawing-room page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] ,swiftly, opened noiselessly the long window, and stepped out into the rainy grass. Then a sudden panic of irresolution seized her. The night was raw and dark, the wind cried out like a human voice in agony, the trees rose up around her on every hand, tall grim goblins. The roar of the surf on the beach struck a chill of cold nameless terror to her heart. The awful mystery-of night and sol- itude chilled the blood in her veins. She stopped, afraid to go in, and looked back. &ome one was entering the drawing-room from the hall, and the dread of being seen there, counteracted that other dread. She went on through the wet grass, and struck into the path leading to the terrace. The memory of the night when she had walked that path with her dead grandfather and heard the first warning of her mysterious danger, came back to her, with a pang like death. "Poor, poor grandpapa," she thought, "the danger you dreaded so much has come at last. Thank God you have not lived to see this night!" On the terrace she lingered for a moment, out of breath. She leaned against the iron railing, and looked down at-the black gulf of water, roaring at her feet. "If the worst come," she thought, "and it were not a crime, how easily one could es- cape, after all." She drew back, shuddering at her own temptation, and turned toward the tangled path leading through the wood to the ruined summer-house. "No, nlo,no!" she said, inwardly; "never that! If what I fear does come, there will be no need of suicide. My days in this world will be tew indeed. May Heaven strengthen me to meet the worst!" She had to feel her way among the trees along the dark pathway. A faintly glim- mering light from the broken window of the summer-house told her the man she had come to meet was there before her. Her heart beat so fast that she turned faint and sick. For a moment only-the next she was rapping at the closed door. It opened in- stantly, and Eulalie Sutherland and Gaston Benoir stood face to face. There was a moment's blank pause. A dark lantern, brought thoughtfully by the ex- Troubadour, stood lighted on the old table; and by its uncertain glimmer the two stood looking intently at each other. Beside the lantern stood a black bottle, and a strong. odor of whisky and cigar-smoke showed how the gentleman had beguiled the tedious time of waiting. They stood and looked at each other. Miss Sophie Weldon had once remarked that Mrs. Sutherland and Mr. Benoir resembled each other, and Miss Weldon was right. There was a resemblance-something in the outline of the face, in the peculiar beauty of the mouth and chin, and in the full oriental eye, not sufficiently marked to strike a casual ob- server; but there. In that interval of silence, during which the rain beat against the broken windows, and the wind howled dis- mally through the wood, the place looked strange and eerie enough, shadows lurking fitfully in every corner, and the man and woman mutely confronting each other. Only for an instant-all Mr. Benoir's suave polite- ness returned then; and, with a low bow and an easy, off-hand manner, he drew forward the only chair the summer-house contained. "Good-evening, Mrs. Sutherland," he said, in a tone of easy familiarity; "pray take this seat, and accept my thanks for the favor of this interview and your punctuality. You see," pointing to the black bottle, and seating himself on the table, "I brought a friend with me to shorten the time of waiting. Pray sit down; you will fatigue yourself standing." Eulalie sank into the chair, her dilated eyes, unnaturally large and bright, fixed on his face with but one expression-that of in- tensest fear. She would have stood, but she trembled so it was impossible. "That is right," said easy Mr. Benoir, with a satisfied nod; "now we can talk comfort- ably. Were you surprised to receive my let. ter?" "No." "Ah I I thought not! You recognized me at the concert that night-that is to say, you recognized my name on the bills, and fainted. Well, I don't wonder; it must have been a ' shock. Do you know, Mrs. Sutherland, you gave me a shock, too, when you entered here nve minutes ago?" She did not speak. Some subtle fascina- tion, beyond her power to control, kept her eyes riveted immovably to his face. "My dear Eulalie-pardon the familiarity, but you and I don't need to stand on cere- nxony-you bear the most startling resem- blance to your mother-you don't remem-n ber her, do you?- and for one second, whnc you entered, I fancied the dead had arisen. Your grandfather-he was a sly old fox, too -must have known, if ever I saw you I should recognize you by the resemblance." Still she sat silent; still her widening eyes never left his ficee. 1Mr. Benoir, no way dis. concerted, tallked on. "You don't speak, Mrs. Sutherland, and you look frightened, I think. Don't bo alarmed; there is not the slightest occasion, I assure you. 1 ant the most conscientious of mankind where ladies are concerned, par. ticularly to my own-" page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] He stopped. Eulahe had held out both hands with a sort of gasping cry. "Don't 1" she said, "don't! don't! don't! If you have any mercy, spare me!" "My dear child," said Mr. Benoir, " if you cry out like that, some one may hear you. Compose yourself; I would not distress you for the world, especially in our first inter- view. By-the-by, wont they miss you in there?" nodding toward the house.- "No." "Does that pale-faced, fair-haired young woman, Miss Sutherland, know you are out?" "I think not." "That's right; keep her in the dark; she's as keen as a razor, that demure damsel. And now let's come to business; for it's con- foundedly raw in here, and I have a long walk before me in the wind and rain. How long have you known your own story?" "Not three years." "Ah! that cunning old fox kept it as long as he could. You knew it before you were married?" "Yes," she answered, shivering and draw- ing her Shawl closer around her. "Mr. Sutherland doesn't know, of course?" "No." "No one in all this big world knows it but you and I?" "No one." Mr. Benoir's black eyes flashed with tri- umphant malice; -Mr. Benoir's handsome face wore the look of a demon. "Then, my pretty little Eulalie, you are utterly and entirely and irrevocably in my power I Mine, almost body and soul!" She rose up, came a step forward, and fell down. on her knees before him, holding up her clasped hands. "Spare me!" she cried; "for God's sake have mercy on me I am in your power beyond earthly hope; but be merciful, as you expect mercy. For my husband's sake, for my child's sake, for my dead mother's sake, have mercy!" His face darkened -and grew stern as he looked down on her Irotm under his bent black brows. "Get up, Mrs. Sutherland," he said, " you look at me with your mother's tace, and speak to me with your mother s voice, but it only hardens me the more. What did your mother care for me? What right have I to cherish her memory? I have long debt of vengeance topay otf.' I owe that dead grand- father of yours a long score, and I am afraid you must settle it Get up, Eulalie Suther- land. I threaten nothing, 1 promise nothing. I only say this: I am not a man to forget or forgive. Get up, I say, and listen to me." He held out his hand to assist her, but she shrank from his touch, and arose precipitately. Mr. Benoir burst into a laugh. "You don't like to touch me, my pretty Eulalie; there is pollution in it, isn't there? Is it the black blood in my veins you are afraid of, or what? Don't be too fastidious, my dainty little rosebud, you -may find it in your way hereafter. I say, have you got any money?' "You little simpleton! Let me see that ring on your left hand. A diamond, by Jove I Diamonds are very pretty-give it to me!" Eulalie shrank back. "I cannot," she said, "it is my husband's gift." , "Let him give you another, then; tell him you lost it. Give it me." "No, no," she pleaded faintly, "not that! If you, want money, you shall have it, as much as you desire, but not this!" "I will have this and the money, too. Give me that ring." She dared not refuse. She- dropped the ring into his extended hand, trembling be- fore him. Mr. Benoir held it to the light, the splendid jewel flashing forth rainbow- fire, and put it complacently on his little finger. "t Thanks, my pretty Eulalie. It is a tight fit, but I can wear it, I think. It will serve to remind me of you, my dear, until we meet again. When am I to have that happiness?" "Why do you ask me?" said Eulalie, her voice trembling pitiably; " you know it must be whenever you wish." "Very true-but I like to be as accommodat- ing as possible. I don't know at present when I shall take a fancy to have another chat in this airy little rendezvous-when I do, I shall drop you a line. How much money can you conveniently spare me to-morrow?" "How much do you want?" "Let me see," Mr. Benoir said, reflective- ly. "I like to. begin moderately. Suppose we say a thousand dollars." "I cannot get you so much to-morrow," re- plied Eulalie; "* you will have to wait a day or two. Is there anything else-I must be going?" ")Are you in such a hurry to leave me? Well, I'm in a hurry myself; so it's no matter. No, there's nothing more at present-I'll see you again before long, and again and again. I don t mean to drop your charming ac- quaintance, my pretty Eulalie, now that I've made it. Fellows, like me, knocking about this big world and getting more kicks than halfpence, don't often get into such society as I m moving in at present. Talking of knock- ing about, do you know, Mrs. Sutherland, I have searched every inch of this habitable globe ior you, and was about giving up the hunt, when I came here and met you. You'll d send the money in a day or two without h fail?"' "I will send you the money," Eulahe said. g "Heaven knows how gladly I would buy i your silence with every, farthing I possess. p But before you go-you have not promised to h keep my secret." b 'No," said Mr. Benoir, getting off the ta- ble; "and what's more, I don't mean to prom- ise. No, my pretty little Eulalie, you are f the image of your mother, and I don t forget 8 her or my own wrongs, or the debt I owe old 1 Rohan, and old Rohan's son, and I won't prom- u ise. They're both dead, so they can't pay t the debt; but you, whom they both loved, are 1 alive, and must, I hate to be ungallant to, a c lady, particularly a young and pretty one; 1 but, my little beauty, I really am afraid you i must." t She covered her face with her hands, with a a low, despairing cry. Mr. Benoir pocketed t the black bottle, took up his dark-lantern, t pulled up the collar of his overcoat, pulled E down his felt hat over his eyes, and turned toward the door. Eulalie dropped her hands from before her face-her face, blanched to the color of death, and held them out to him in a last appeal. E "Can nothing buy your silence I Can nothing of all I possess tempt you to be se- ca-t?" Nothing, my pretty Eulalie." "Have you no pity for me-a weak, help- less girl, who has never wronged you?" "My dear Mrs. Sutherland," Mr. Benoir said, with a sardonic smile; " you are a Christian, a most devoted daughter of the Old Church, they tell me, and you know where it is written ' The, sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children, even unto the third and fourth generations'. Satan quoting Scripture, eh? Good night, my pretty little Eulalie; don't stand too long here, or you may catch cold. I shall expect to hear friom you in the course of the week-until then adieu, and au revoir!" He raised his hat with ceremonious polite- ness, but with that derisive smile still on his handsome sinister face, and went out. The path through the wood was in inky black-. ness--the slanting rain drove in his face, and the blast waved and surged, like the voice of an angry giant, through the trees. The dark lantern he carried served to show him the way through the gloomy woodland aisle. "A bad night," thought Mr. Benoir, look- ing up at the black sky; " and a dismal walk from here to St. Mary's. But if it were rain- ing cats, dogs, and pitchforks, I should go through it all for the sake of the interview that is just past. Poor little Eulalie what an unlucky little beauty it is, after all! If the debt I owe the Rohans were a trifle less heavy than it is, I should be tempted to take her fortune, every stiver of it, and then let her go. As it is, that is out of the question. Gold is sweet, but revenge- is sweeter. No, my poor little, pretty little Eulalie, there is no help for you. Oh, confound it I I shall break by neck f" Stumbling along in the darkness, under the dripping trees, with the wind and rain in his face, Mr. Benoir had enough to do to pre- serve the even tenor of his way, without looking behind him, A dark, shadowy fig- ure, flitting noiselessly along after him was therefore unseen-a figure that stopped when he stopped, that hurried on when he hurried on, and that never lost sight of him. A figure that had followed him from St. Mary's earlier in the evening, that had watched him through the grounds of Maplewood at a safe distance; and that, crouching under the trees behind the summer-house, had waited until the in- terview within was over. A figure that kept steadily behind him, like his own shadow-a woman's figure, slender and tall, wearing a long black mantle, with the hood down over her head. That shrouding hood would have hid 'her face, even if there had been light enough to show it--but she was only a blacker shadow among shadows, moving swiftly and noiselessly, as a shadow should. Mr. Benoir, absorbed in his own dark venge- ful thoughts, never once looked back, never once dreamed that the destroying angel was stealthily and surely on his own track I CHAPTER XV. REIBECCA THE HOUSEMAID. Miss Lucy Sutherland, in her capacity of housekeeper at Maplewood, was not very much liked. The servants had a way of stigmatizing her as " that sneaking cat", from a fashion she had of stealing upon them un- tobserved and noiseless, and at the most unex- pected time. If Elizabeth the cook, or Fan- ny the waitress, smuggled their young men in for lunch in the kitchen, or a stolen tWte-a- tte in the servants' hall, Miss Lucy glided down upon them, shod with the shoes of l-. lence, pale and vengeful. Elizabeth the cook Ithrew up her situation after a week or two, [in disgust. "I ain't no fault to find with you or master, Ma'am," Elizabeth said, in explanation to Eu- lalie "you're as good as gold, both; and - keep your places as ladies and gentlemen L should, and does not go a pryin' and a sneak- L- in' into the kitchen, where you ain't no busi- o ness, at all times and seasons, hindering of v folks from doing their work, and hunting t round like an old cat after a mouse, tor fol- e lowers. I can t stand it, Ma'am, and I won't; page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] so I give notice and leaves when my month's up."' Elizabeth left accordingly; and so did Fanny the waitress, and Barah' the house- maid. Another cook and waitress were procured, after some trouble; for Miss Lucy was hard to please in the matter of qualifica- tions and reference, and applicants were few and far between. The housemaid seemed to be a still more difficult matter; half-a-dozen had applied, been weighed, and found want- ing, and the office was still open. Miss Sutherland sat in the housekeeper's room, in an arm-chair before a table, poring over accounts. A pretty room, and sacred to Miss Lucy; a bright-tinted carpet on the floor, pretty pictures on the papered walls, lounges and easy chairs scattered about The table was strewn with bills, receipts, and passbooks; and Miss Sutherland, pen in hand, was busy balancing her ledger.-- The, morning-sunlight streamed in an amber flood through the open window, and the songs of countless birds and the scent of lilac and rose-tree came in on the morning- breeze. No trace of last night's storm re- mained; the sky was as blue as Miss Lucy's blue eyes, and a great deal brighter. Sud- denly, a shadow came between her and the sunlight; and, looking up, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland, arm in arm, loitering past, on their way to the terrace. Arthur looked handsome and happy; he was laughingly relating some incident of the previous even- ing's entertainment, and Eulalie looked, as she always did, beautiful. Her long black ringlets, falling behind her taper waist, were just shown off by the white muslin skirt, and the rosy ribbons that trimmed it lent a glow to the creamv pallor of the Creole lace. Young and handsome, rich and happy, lov- ing and beloved-surely they were an en- viable pair. Lucy Sutherland's wrongs-the love she had given unsought, the miserable, sinful, hidden passion that gnawed at her heart still, and made her life a torment, rose up in wrathful rebellion as she looked. "HoW long the time is coming!" she said to herself; " how long, how long! Of what use. to me are my suspicions, or the tangible evidence of her own handwriting, addressed to this strange man, without fur/- ther proof. Where was she last night, out in the storm? She looked like a living corpse, when I met her, stealing in, dripping wet, and started back from me as if I had been a ghost. How he bends over her, looking down in her sallow, baby face, and big, meaningless black eyes, as it there was no one in the world but her- I self Il Arthur Sutherland, you are, a fool ] where that pale-faced, foreign hypocrite is concerned; and I will prove it to your satis- 3 faction and my own some day, before loner Well, what do you want?" I She turned harshly upon the servant who entered, and whose knock she had not deign- ed to answer. "Miss Lucy, there is a young woman in the kitchen come after the housemaid's place." "Who is she? Where does she come from?" "From Boston, she says. She is a very respectable-looking young woman, and brings first-class references, she says." "Show her in, then." The girl retreated for a minute, and re-ap- peared, showing in the new applicant for the housemaid's'place. Miss Sutherland, some- thing of a physiognomist, was struck at the first glance by the young woman. She stood before her, stately and tall, slender and grace- ful-a handsome young woman, beyond a doubt. Her face was so thin and dark, and the crimson of her cheeks and lips so living and vivid, that it startled you strangely. Her eyes were as black and glittering as glass beads, and her coal-black hair was straight and thick as an Indian's. There might have been something fierce, perhaps, in those glittering black eyes; something bitter and shrewish in the sharply-compress- ed lips; but she stood respectfully enough before the young lady, to be inspected. Her dress was very simple, and exquisitely neat. "You have come about the housemaid's place," Miss Sutherland said, at length, mo- tioning her to a seat. "Yes, Miss," the young woman replied. sitting down, with her gloved hands folded in her lap, and looking steadfastly at Miss Sutherland out of her shining dark eyes. "What is your name?" "Rebecca Stone." "Where did you live last?" "With a family in Boston, Miss; I have my references with me. I came to St. Mary's a few days ago, to see some friends; and hear- ing you wanted a housemaid, I thought I would apply for the place. I am sure Ican give satisfaction, Miss." The young woman spoke with a fluent ease and a quietself-possession that impress- ed Miss Sutherland. She took another stead- fast and suspicious look at her, but the black- eyedyoung woman did not flinch. "How old are you?" was the next query. "Twenty-five, Miss." -"And how long have you been at serv- ice?" "A great many years, Miss, in the very best families. Here is my character from the last lady I lived with, Mrs. Walker, of Bea- con street." Lucy glanced carelessly over the paper. ' She speaks well of you," she said; " we are very much in need of a housemaid at present; and I like your appearance better than that of the other applicants; so, if the terms suit you, you may come."- "The terms suit me very well, Miss." "Yes. And when can vou come?" ' Right away, Miss. I can get my things fetched up to-night." f"That will do. Ring the bell, please." The new housemaid obeyed. ,I suppose you understand," said Miss Sutherland, "that no followers are allowed?" A faint smile dawned and faded on the young woman's face. "I understand, Miss. I don't think I shall give you any trouble on that head." Again Lucy looked at her suspiciously. There was something in her tone and man- ner of speaking unlike that of any one of her class she had ever had to deal with. But the handsome, bold, brunette face before her was as unreadable as a page of Sanscrit; and Rosa the waitress came in before she could ask any more questions. "Rosa," Miss Sutherland said; "this is the new housemaid. Her name is Rebecca, and she can sleep with you. She is going to re- main now ; so fetch her up-stairs, and let her take off her things." Rebeccafollowed Rosa out; and Lucy look- ed after the tall, stately figure of her new servant, with a glance of considerable inte- rest. "There is character in the gipsy face of that girl," she said to herself; "those bold, black eyes of hers are very large print in- deed. I don't think she has been a house- maid all her life, her assertion to the contra- ry notwithstanding. I shall keep my eye on her, I think." Once again the sunlight was darkened. Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland were loitering back in most lover-like fashion, and the sight drove the new housemaid out of her thoughts. She resumed her work, but with a dark frown disfiguring her pale face. She could not grow used to the daily sight of the happiness of these two. It half maddened her some- times to see them loving and beloved, and blessed with all earthly blessings, and feel that it was out of her power to blight that happiness. No Indian savage could have been more thoroughly cruel, and cold-blood- ed, and revengeful, than she. She could have seen the woman she hated tied to a stake, and burning to death; and folded her arms, and smiled at the sight. Miss Sutherland kept her promise to watch the new housemaid, but she only had her la- bor for her pains. Rebecca's conduct was above reproach. No housemaid had ever given such satisfaction at Maplewood before. No duty was left unfulfilled, no work was slightedor neglected. She had a rapid, tidy way of doing things, that left her considera- ble time to herself, but she never seemed to want it. When her regular duties were con- cluded, and she might have amused herself gossiping in the kitchen with her fellow- servants, she would come to Miss Sutherland for sewing, and sit at one of the front win- dows by herself, stitching away industriously. She was altogether such a model, this Rebec- ca, that Lucy took quite a fancy to her, be- fore the end of the first week. This in itself would have been enough to make her fellow- servants dislike her, but her silent and reti- cent manner had already done that. Cook and lady's maid, waitress and coachman, joined together in stigmatizing her as " that stuck-up thing", and lost no opportunity of making her feel their petty malice. But Re- becca had the temper of an angel, and noth- ing ever came ot it. The black eyes might flash flame, the thin lips compress until noth- ing remained of them but a crimson line, the dark face might pale with suppressed anger, but no explosion took place. If she had a temper to match those flaming black eyes, it was well under control.- The suppressed fire might break out to terrible purpose, you could see, but not while that iron will held it chained. She was Miss Sutherland's puzzle, still-the reticence of the girl matched her own, andbaffledher, and sheicould learn noth- ing more of her past history than she had heard that first day. The handsome housemaid created more sensation at Maplewood than ever housemaid created before. Even Ar- thur was struck by her appearance. "I say, Lucy," he said, one day, when Re- becca swept in her stately way across the drawing-room, with baby Eulalie in her arms; "where did you pick up this new handmaiden? She looks more like an In- , dian queen than an every-day domestic." Lucy explained. "She's a remarkable-looking young per. t son," said Mr. Sutherland, stretching himself \ on a lounge, and opening the morning-paper; "and very decidedly good-looking. She'll have all the stable-boys about the place fall- ing in love with her, if you're not careful, t Lucy." But Rebecca kept stable-boys and every- thingelse masculine at a discreet distance'. I They might admire those flashing black eyes, i and tar-black tresses, but they must admire r afar off. She never gossiped, she never flirted, she never idled, this remarkable new i housemaid. 'With the plain sewing Miss , Sutherland gave her, she would sit at one of s the front windows and work as if her life de- r pended on it, until the stars shone in the sky. She was the pink and perfection of house- page: 72-73 (Illustration) [View Page 72-73 (Illustration) ] maids, bu' Lucy Sutherland was not satisfied. All secrecy, and self-suppression, and indus- try only made her the more suspicious. "Why is she so secretive of her past life 1" she thought; " why does she avoid her fel- low-servants, and keep steadily to herself? Why is she in so much hurry with her prop- er work, and so fond of sitting sewing at the front windows? There is more in all this than meets the eye." Miss Sutherland, as usual, was right. Re- becca the housemaid, like herself, was on the watch; and the person watched for came in the beginning of the second week. It was a sultry August-evening-not a breath of air stirring the maples and hemlocks, and the setting sun piercing their greenish gloom with long lances of red fire. The girl sat watching the western sky, flooded with the scarlet glory of the sunset, and crossed with billows ol yellow gold. The red light flashed back from her brilliant eyes, and wove gleams of fire in the waves of her ink-black hair, gilded the roses on her cheeks, and lighted her bright dark face with a new beauty. She sat with her chin on her hand, looking at all thid glory of coloring, her work, for once, dropping idly. in her lap-lost in thought. The quiet house was as still, this hot August-evening, as the enchanted castle of the Sleeping Beauty. No sound louder than the slipping of a snake among the dry underbrush, the chirping of a restless bird in its nest, or the mysterious fluttering of leaves stirred by no wind, came to disturb her rev- erie. The sound of the sea was like the faint, ceaseless sound of an reolian harp, and Maplewood was hushed in the deep calm of eventide. . The servants had drawn their chairs out into the cool porch, and were en- Joying themselves there; but this unsocial Rebecca had no desire to join them. She sat there as still as if the calm enchantment of the place and hour had fallen upon her, too; or as if, like the Sleeping Beauty, she waited tfor the coming of the prince to rouse her to life. Slowly, out of the sunset-sky, the blaze .of the sunset-fire died. Slowly it paled and faded, and the big white August-moon sailed up, serene 'amid the constellations in the deep-blue arch. With the moonlight came the prince, as if he belonged to it, heralded by vapory, scented circles of cigar-smoke. Darkly-splendid--handsobe enough for any earthly prince-Mr. Gaston Benoir lounged up the avenue, smoking at his ease. Beauty unado:ned is something very nice, no doubt; but beauty adorned in the height of the fash- ion is something considerably nicer. The ex-troubadour had rejuvenated his outward man within the last week, and appeared now arrayed within an inch of his life, but in per- i feet taste. Very few could have looked at Mr. Benoir, thus dressed, and in the dusky splendor of his southern beauty, without turning to look again, as they might at some exquisite picture. The handsome housemaid, from her post at the window, looked at him with a strange, wild fire gleaming in her black eyes. There was something fiercely- passionate, eager, and tender, withal, in that look; and the color came and went on her face, and her breath caught itself in fluttering gusts. "At last!" she said. between her set teeth, "at last -at last he has come!" Screened by heavy damask curtains, the girl sat and watched him, with that dusky tire in her eyes, and that passionate light in her face, until he turned off round, an angle, and was hid by the trees. The last rays of the daylight had faded; the moon's silver radiance flooded the trees and lawns and gardens and terraces with the light of day. Rebecca rose up, pale with inward excite- ment, ran up to her room, threw a black shawl loosely over her head, came noiseless- ly down stairs, and left the house unobserved. There had been a dinner-party that day, and the family were assembled in the drawing- room. ,Miss Lucy, ever on the watch, was safely out of the way. Out in the moonlight, Rebecca turned in the direction of the sea- view terrace, the path Mr. Benoir had taken, and beheld that gentleman leaning lightly on the railing, smoking still, and watching the boats gliding in and out of the moonlight. The housemaid stood still in the shadow cast by a clump of cedars, and waited. He had not heard her, and enjoying his cigar and the view of moonlight on the ocean, was very slow in turning round. Her dark dress and the gloom in which she stood kept him frdm seeing her at first, but she let the shawl slip loose off her head, took one step forward into the light, with his name on her lips: "Gaston!" CHAPTER XVI. A' LITTLE TANGLE NI MR. BENOIR'S WEB. Mr. Gast n Benoir was a gentleman whose admirable self-possession was not to be easily disturbed; but he started back now in some- thing that was very like consternation. "The-devil!" said Mr. Benoir. Lucy Sutherland's strange housemaid came fully out into the broad sheet of moonlight; her long, straight black hair tumbling loose about her shoulders; her great, fierce, black eyes shining like ebon stars. f No, Gaston, not your master; only one of his angels. 'You hardly expected to find me here, did you?" Gaston Benoir replaced his cigar, which, in the shock of the moment he had taken page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] out-all his own cool, phlegmatic self once more. , Expect to see you here!" he said. "I should as soon have expected to see Queen Victoria! Where the deuce did you drop from, Rebecca?" "From New York last. I tracked you from that city here." "Tracked me, did you! Come, I like that! And what are you doing here, pray a" "I am the housemaid." "The what?" tried Mr. Benoir, aghast. "The housemaid," calmly replied Rebecca; "and I flatter myself Miss Lucy Sutherland never possessed such a domestic treasure before." Mr. Benoir expressed his feelings in a pro- longed whistle. "Well," he said, "Solomon-I think it was Solomon, or some other wiseacre-says, ' There is nothing new under the sun', and I used to believe it; but hang me if I ever be- lieve it after this. Rebecca Isaacs a house- maid! That goes a little ahead of anything I ever dreamed of." *' Rebecca Stone, if you please. There is no such person as Rebecca Isaacs. Are you not curious to find out how I discovered you were here?" "No; it's clear enough. That confounded minstrel-troupe, I suppose." "Exactly. I followed you from New Or- leans to New York, from New York to St. Mary's, without pausing." "The deuce you did!" said Mr. Benoir, with anything but an expression of rapture. "And now that you're here, what do you want, Miss Stone?" Miss Stone's big black eves flashed. "What do I want I And is it Gaston Be- noir who asks that question?" "At your service, Mademoiselle. I never change my name." I She stood and looked at him-very white, her black eyes fierce and wild in the misty moonlight. "Then you have nothing at all to say to me, Gaston Benoir?" "No, my dear," said Mr. Benoir, taking her fierce regards very quietly; nothing that I know of except-good night." He lifted his hat and was walking away; but Rebecca, the housemaid, stepped before him, and barred his path. With her wild * black hair falling loose about her-her dead- ly pallor and flaming eyes, she looked like some dark prophetess of other days, or some tragedy-queen of modern times. "No," she said, in a voice deep, suppressed, but none the less threatening. "No, Gaston -we do not part like this. i have not trav- eled over land and sea, for many a weary day and night, to be left at your sovereign pleasure. No, Gaston, not good-night, yet!" "As you please, my dear Rebecca; only this place being open to every one, and the distance to my hotel of the longest; do be good enough to cut it short." The suppressed passion throbbing in the girl's white face might have warned him; but he was not to be warned. He stood, leaning carelessly against the trunk of a tree, slowly puffing out clouds of scented vapor, the moonlight illuminating his handsome face; and flashing back from the diamond- ring he wore on his little finger. Provoking- ly nonchalant he stood there, returning Re- becca's fiery glare with supremest uncon- cern. "My dear girl," he said, starting up, before the passion she was holding in check would permit her to speak; "if we have to enjoy a t6te-b-tete by moonlight, we really must not stand here. Take my arm, and come this way; I know a nice, secluded path, where you can talk and I can smoke to our heart's content, unobserved. By the way, I hope you don't dislike my cigar-you usen't to, I remember. Ah I this is quite like old times, is it not, Rebecca?" He drew the girl's arm within his own, and led her down an avenue, lonely enough for anything; where quiet maples shut out even the moonlight. A few bright rays slanting through the boughs, made lines of light on the turf; and no sound but the-solemn mur- mur of the sea and the trees awoke the echoes ot this lonesome forest-aisle. Perhaps it was the solemnity of the place-perhaps it was something in her companion's last words that made the girl's gipsy-face alter so. The white fur there an instant before vanished, and a look of impassioned appealand despair- ing love came there instead. She clasped both hands round his arm, and looked up in his handsome face, with all a woman's love, and despair, and hope, in her great black eyes. "Old times!" she said. "Oh, Gaston! You have not forgotten old times!" Some memory of the past rose up from her heart and choked her voice. Mr. Benoir took out his cigar, and daintily knocked oif the ashes with the tip of his little finger. ", Forget I of course not. Any more than I ever forget your own dark face, my gipsy! I Oh no; I have an excellent memory, Iflat- ter myself." "And remembering, you could meet me as you did, and speak to me as you did, not two minutes ago. Oh, Gaston; you have nearly broken my heart." Again there came that hysterical choking in her throat. Mr. Benoir took out his cigar once more in some alarm. If anything in L this mortal life disturbed his equanimity, it page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] was a scene, and there seemed considerable danger of that annoyance just at present. "Now, Rebecca, don't don't, I beg! don't make a scene. Don't agitate yourself, my dear girl I it will do you no good, and it will ruffle my feelings beyond description. Bay what you want to say quietly-there is nothhing in this world like doing things quiet- ly; and the worst of you women is, that you never can be brought to understand it. You will flare up; you will go off into hysterics at a moment's notice; you will persist in being agitated, and ecstatic, and enthusiastic, and ridiculous in the extreme. It's a univer- sal failing of the sex, lamentable to a degree. Calm yourself; my dear Rebecca; take your time; don't be in a hurry. Say what you want to say by all means ; but do it with Christian composure, I beg." The black-eyed housemaid listened to this harangue as If she neither heard nor compre- hended. Both hands were still clasped round his arm-the bold, bright eyes looking straight before her, not at the leafy arcade through which the moon-rays sifted, but into the past, were soft and misty with love's remem- brances. Mr. Benoir, resuming his cigar, re- garded his fair companion in some per- plexity. "If pretty little Sophie were here now," he thought, "wouldn't there be a row I Thank goodness she's not. Vontound the women I what a nuisance the whole race are; and this she-devil beside me, the worst of all!" "Gaston," said the girl; " you loved me once; in those old days, when Fwas so very very happy, when I believed, and trusted, and loved you with my whole heart. Gas- ton, you deserted me-no, do not deny it; you know you did. You grew tired of my dark face, and wild black eyes; and you left me. Once I thought, before I knew you, that no man could do that and live. I am a Jew- ess, and I suppose there is fierce blood in my veins; but I loved you so well I Oh, so well, Gaston, that you never can fathom one iota of that passionate worship. I loved you so well that I forgave your desertion, and became a coward; as poor, pitiful and weak a craven as any love-sick woman can be. I followed you here, caring nothing for long, weary days of travel, for hunger, sleepless nights, for no toil, or trial, or disappointment, so that I found ou; so that I won you,to love me again. I lave found you, Gaston; and now, is all the love of other days dead so soon for poor Re- becca?" She looked at him with a look that is some- times seen in the eyes of dogs, crouching at their master's feet, expecting a blow. Usual- ly her color was bright enough; but the pale cold moonlight- itself was not paler than her face now. Mr. Benoir had smoked out his cigar, and threw it among the ferns and strawherry. vines, where it glowed like a red sinister eye, watching them. "My dear Rebecca," Mr. Benoir began, in an expostulating tone. "I told you not to excite yourself-to be calm; and you are ex- cited, and you are not calm. You are as white as a ghost, and your big black eyes are flashing sparks of fire. Come, be a good girl; give me a kiss, and make up friends." This was soothing; but, perhaps, not as satisfactory an answer as could be wished. Mr. Benoir kissed her as composedly as he did everything else; and the girl's head fell on his shoulder ith a great gasping sob. Esau sold his birthright for something to eat, characteristic of the sex; had Esau been a woman, he would have sold it for a kiss; and thought he had a bargain I You see a wom- an badly in love is blind, mad, and a fool; let the happy man tell her black is white, and she will believe him, against the evidence of her Iown eyesight and the assertion of all the world. Young women with big black eyes and tar-black hair are apt to love and hate pretty strongly; and really Mr. Benoir was as handsome as an angel. "Love me little, love me long," is the most sensible of old adages- this love at furnace-heat is not the kind that lasts; and its unhappy victims, tortured by it for a time, are very likely to go off into the other extreme of hatred and ab- horrence, at a moment's notice. Mr. Benoir came to a halt in the moonlit arcade, and put his arm round Lucy Suther- land's housemaid's waist. It was the least any young man, not a st Kevin, could do. and waited with exemplary patience for a fit of hysterical sobbing to pass off. "It's very odd," saMd r., Benoir to him- self, philosophically, "the nature of these women. Now, if I had told this girl to go to the deuce, and be done with it, she would have flared up, no doubt. She's the kind to do it'; but she would not have shed a tear. Instead, for the sake of peace and quietness, I give her a kiss, which, I suppose, is what she wants, and lo! she drops down and drenches my coat-collar immediately. I wish I had never made love in my life. I wish I was well out of this scrape. Rebecca Isacs is not the kind of woman one can court for pastime and desert at pleasure. I shall have to tell lies by the yard to keep her quiet for the present, at least." As telling lies was quite in Mr. Benoir's line of life, and as he was as perfect in the art as it is possible for poor human nature to be, it was no difficult task to deceive a woman who loved him. "' acted wrong in going off as I did, be- yond a doubt," Mr. Benoir admitted, with captivating frankness.. "I don't ask you to 1 excuse that, Rebecca; but believe me when I l tell you no other has ever taken your place. I am not the sort of fellow to fall m love and out every other week, and I always intended when I had a few thousands saved to go South E and be married. I knew you would wait for me, Rebecca; but, somehow, the thousands a are very slow in coming. That, with going round, and one thing and another, a fellow's money goes before he knows it, and it is as much as he can do to keep himself, much less a wife. There, you have it; and I never mean"-said Mr. Benoir, with the air of a Spartan-" to marry until I can support a wife as a wife should be supported." "Gaston," Rebecca said, her dark eyes soft and beautiful in their new and happy light; "do you think one who loved you would care for your poverty? O my love you know me better than that!" "And I know myself," said Mr. Benoir, firmly. "I care for you a great deal too much to entail on you the trials of a poor man's wife. No, Rebecca, you must have faith in me, and wait a little longer. My prospects are brighter just at present than they have been for years." Some secret exultation in his tone that he could not quite repress made the girl look at him, and notice, for the first time, the new broadcloth suit and flashing diamond-ring. "You have a prosperous look, Gaston," she said. "What are the prospects of which you speak?" "Ah l" said Mr. Benoir, mysteriously, "that is my secret. A little speculation, my dear-a speculation that, I think, will make me a richlman." "Is it anything connected with Mrs. Sutherland?" Mr. Benoir stood still, abruptly, his dark face paling, his eyes fell of sudden alarm. "Mrs.' Sutherland!" he repeated. "What do you know of' Mrs. Sutherland, Rebecca Isaacs?" "So," said Rebecca, quietly, "I see I am right It was Mrs. Sutherland, then, who met you last Thursday-night in the summer- house over there. I never was quite sure ot it until now." With that startled pallor still on his face, the ex-Troubadour grasped the girl's arm with a grip that made her wince. "[say, Rebecca," he cried, his eyes fierce, his mouth stern, "I want to know what this means. How came you to know anything of my meeting Mrs. Sutherland in the summer- house? Have you been at your old tricks- acting the spy P" "Yes. Let go my arm, Sir You hurt me 1" "I shall hurt you worse, perhaps," said Mr. Benoir, between his set teeth, "before I have done. Tell me what you have heard?" "I heard nothing. Let go my arm, I tell you, Gaston I You hurt me 1" "You heard nothing!" said Mr. Benoir, slightly releasing his grasp, but still stern and pale. "How do you come to know anything at all-of the matter, then?" "Simply enough," Rebecca replied. "I came to St. Mary's that very day, and stop- ped in the hotel opposite yours. From my window, I watched you loitering all the afternoon, in and out, on the veranda, smoking, and reading; and, at dusk, I saw you start tor Maplewood. I followed you-don't scowl, Gaston--I had reason to distrust you--follow- ed you to Maplewood through therain aad darkness, saw you enter the summer-house, and crouched down outside to watch and wait. Half an hour after, I saw a woman enter; a little woman, so muffled up that I could not see her face, although I did my best. Neither could I hear, again no fault of mine; and when you left the summer-house, I followed you back to the village. I thought that night the woman who stole to meet you was my successful rival,-and how I hated her, all unknown I What dark thoughts the devil was putting in my head as I walked after you in the darkness, perhaps it is as well for your peace of miud not to know." Mr. Benoir drew a long breath of unspeak- able relief. He knew the woman he Was talking to, he knew when to believe her, and when to doubt. She was telling the truth now, and he was safe-she had not heard what had passed, after all. Once more, he drew her arm within his own-they had been standing all this time-and recommenced his walk up and down the shadowy patu. "I don't doubt it I You felt like running your stiletto into me-didn't you, my love t Are you jealous still " "ONo." "Dieu merci! And why not, pray?" "Because I have seen Mrs. Sutherland since that night; and I know it was she Who met you in the summer-house." "The deuce I How do you know it?" "I looked well at my supposed rival, Gas- ton. Her height, her gait;' and no one at Maplewood corresponds with the height and gait of the woman who met you but Mrs. Sutherland." "Well," said Mr. Benoir, looking at her sideways from under his eyelasles; " and I supposing it to have been Mrs. Sutherland- Mrs. Sutuerland is a very pretty woman: the prettiest woman I think i ever saw-your pardon, my love; why are you not jealous tstill?" ' "Because Mrs. Sutherland does not love. L you?" page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] "Ah I Are yoni-e?" "Quite sure, said Rebeekcalmly. "Mrs. Sutherland does not love ypou, ami does love her husband with her whole heart's devotion. No, Gaston, I am not jealous. Mrs. Suther- land met you that night, I am convinced, but not to play the false wife. Whatever brought her to commit such an act of folly, love has no share in it." "You are right, Rebecca," Mr. Benoir said, with sudden gravity; " love had no share in it. Sihcs you know so much, I may as well tell you more. Mrs. Sutherland did meet me last night, very much against her will, poor little woman; but the secret that gives me power over her is no guilty amour. hejis no rival of yours, Rebecca. She hates me, as I suppose an angel would hate Lucifer; and there is little love lost. Some day 1 will tell you what this secret is; some day, when you are my wife. And," thought Mr. Benoir, considering the sentence mentally, " it is very likely I will, when you are my wife." "W When I am your wife," repeated the girl, wearily "Ah how very, very long that time is in coming. I had hoped long ago to have been your wife." "The time will come soon now, cara mia. Be patient, and wait, and trust me a little longer, my own. And now, before-we part, tell me how you ever came to be a servant here?" "I had to dq something; and I heard you came here evdry day. I found out a house- maid was wanted. 1 applied for the place, got it, and fill it admirably, as I told you be- lore." "You're a wonderful girl, said Gaston Benoir, looking at her, in real admiration; "a genius, my gipsy I Will they not miss you within there; or is it ' my night out'?" Rebecca laughed slightly. "Oh no! I have no night out, and no followers. Miss Lucy thinks me the pink and pattern of all housemaids." "And how do you like Miss Lucy?" "Not at all I should hate her, if it were worth the 4kouble. She studies me, and I study her. I don't know what she makes me out, but I have set her down as the greatest hypocrite that ever lived." "Strong language, my dear. What has Miss Lucy Sutherland done to offend you?" - "Nothing to offend me. Wi get on most amicably together, and I knowher to be an arch-hypocrite all the time. How she does hate Mrs. Sutherland, to be sure!" "Hates her, does she?" "Yes, as only one jealous wdoman can hate another." "Jealus I You never mean to say, Re- becca--*" "I do mean to say Lucy Sutherland is fu- riously jealous of her cousin's wife. She hates her for her beauty and her riches, and perhaps for her husband!" Mr. Benoir uttered a very prolonged Oh!" "Trust one woman to read another, Gas. ton I And now, for to-night, we must part; Miss Lucy must not miss her model house. maid. I don't think she believes in me as entirely as she pretends; and, while I remain here, I don't wish to give her any grounds for suspicion. When can I see you again, Gaston?"' /She clasped her hands again round his arm, and looked up in his handsome face with eyes full of love and hope. "Oh," said Mr. Benoir, "all times are alike to me; but, if you don't wish to excite talk, I suppose our interviews had better be clandestine. Let me see--this is Tuesday-- suppose you meet me here Friday-evening again. And, in the meantime, watch the Suth. erlaild family-.Mrs. Sutherland particularly -and fetch as much news with you as you can when you come. I feel an interest in that little lady. I shall tell you why when you are Mrs. Benoir." He stooped and kissed her. They were out in the moonlight; and the gipsy face of the girl was radiant. "O my love I my love!!" she cried, her face dropping on his shoulder; ", You know I am your very slave: ready to obey your every commands, ready to die for you, if it were necessary. Oh, Gaston! I have endur- ed more than you can dream of to reach you. If you prove false to me now, I shall die!" "No," said Mr. Benoir, laughing lightly; "you dont mean that, Rebecca! It is I who should die!" Rebeccalifted her head, a strange wild fire in the depths of her great black eyes. "Yes," she said, slowly, " you should die!" Mr. Benoir recoiled a little. The girl was terribly in earnest - terrible in her love, most terrible in her hatred. For a moment, a chill of cold fear made the young man shive4 in the warm air. A"Pshaw!" he said, impatiently, "- wh, .tre we talking of? Good night, mia carissima, and pleasant dreams." There was a most lover-like embrace; and then the dark housemaid flitted into the house; and Mr. Benoir, with his hands in his pockets, went whistling softly on his way. In no pleasant humor, however, for his brows were knit, and his face stern. "Confound the girl!"hle thought; "has Satan sent her here to ball me! I wish he had her, body and bones; for she is as near akin to him as anything in woman's shape can well be. I have heard of the transmi- ation of souls; and, if there be anything fithe matter, I fancy the soul of a tiger must have got into her body. Rebecca Isaacs, I wish the old demon had you!" CHAPTER XVIL ON THE SCENT. Lucy Sutherland stood in the beautiful breakfast-parlor of Maplewood, looking thoughtfully out at the summer-prospect of swelling meadows where the slow cows grazed; of dark pine-woods, cool and frgrgrant, and the nearer prospect of lawn, and glade, and flower garden, all steeped in the yellow glory of the August-sunshine. The early Breeze, with the saline freshness of the sea, fluttered the white lace curtains and stirred the roses and the geraniums and morning- glories in the parterre below. The sea itself, boundless and blue, and flashing back the radiant sunshine, spread out before her; and over all, land and sea, brooded the blessed calm of country-life. But Lucy Sutherland's blue eyes looked neither at the green fields nor the blue sea-they were turned inward in her dark thoughts. Very bitter thoughts for one so young and fair as she looked; standing there, with the sunshine making a halo inher fair hair, and the sea-wind toying with the azure ribbons trimming her pretty morning-dress. Beautifully neat and fresh everything she wore. 8he looked. a very fireside-fairy, delicate and womanly in out- ward'seeming, most evil and unwomanly at heart. She was alone in the room-that is to say, Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland were not down yet; but Rosa, the waitress, was setting the table, humming a little tune to herself the while. Presently, Miss Sutherland turned round. "Rosa, has James gone to the Post Office yet?" "O yes, Miss, long ago." "It is time he was back. Go and-" Miss Sutherland stopped. James, errand- boy of the house, came in with the letter- bag. Rosa laid it on the table, finished her task, and left the room, and Miss Lucy open- ed the bag'and took out its contents. Some papers for Mr. Sutherland, half a dozen letters, one for herself from her mother, two for Mrs. Sutherland, one in the irregular scrawl of Augusta, the other-Lucy dropped the rest and stood looking at it. "Postmarked in the village," she thought. "Who can be her correspondent? It is a woman's hand, surely; but what woman in St. Mary's writes to Mrs. Sutherland? Can it be-" She paused-stopped her very thoughts. An idea that was like an electric flash made her clutch the letter suddenly and fiercely, her heart 'throbbing against her side. The hall-clock struck nine-half an hour yet be- fore Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland would descend to breakfast. Hiding the letter in a pocket in her dress, she went up-stairs to her own room and examined it. It was a common buff eivelope, the gummed flap stuck down in the usual way. She held it up between herself and the light, but the yellow envelope was too thick, not a word could be made out. *I shall know for all that," thought Luucy, looking at the mysterious letter. "All is fair in war, they say. Eulalie Sutherland has no female correspondent in St. Mary's. I know as well as I am living that this letter is from that man, Gaston Benoir." Miss Sutherland rose deliberately, lit her gas, held a knife in the flame until it was heated, and, with the utmost care and pre- cision, opened the envelope without tearing it. She took out a folded sheet of note-paper, written in a bold, big hand, not at all like the spidery tracery of the address, and ravenous- ly devoured its contents. It was very brief. "MY DEAR MRS. SUTHERLAND :-Meet me to-mor- row-night at our former trysting-place, and at the same hour. Don't let your pocket be quite so empty please, as it was the last time. Devotedly, . B." Lucy Sutherland's heart stood still. In- tense surprise was for the first moment her only feeling. Whatever she had fancied, she dreamed of nothing'so bad as this. A fierce light of vindictive joy flamed up in the pale blue eyes, and her little thin hand clenched 'itself, as if the woman she hated was crushed in the grasp. "At last!" was the triumphant thought, "at last my hour has come! I have hated you for a long time, Eulalie Rohan, but this repays me for all." She refolded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, moistened the flap with some liquid gum, and sealed it. It wanted' still ten minutes of the breakfast-hour when she re- turned to the parlor, and she had time to 'arrange the letters on the table before her cousin and his wife came down. They en- tered together-Eulalie in a loose white cashmere dressing-gown, leaning on her hus- band's arm. "Good morning, Lucy," Arthur said. "Our letters have come, I see. Ah I and from my mother, too. You have one from Augusta, I see, Eulalie." Eulalie tore it open eagerly, without look- ing at the one below it. It was as brief and spasmodic as that young lady's-epistles gene- rally were, and Eulalie looked up from it with a smile. "Augusta's opinion of Cape May is not very flattering to the place or the people. Philip 'Sutherland is with them, and she abuses him almost more than Cape May. page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] He is the dullest and most insufferable of' idiots, she says, and wanders about all day, smoking and bathing, and lying on the sands, too lazy to live. Cape May is drearier than the New York Tombs, and the men in it are a set of simpering ninnies. Poor dear Au- gusta! 1 am afraid she was in very bad humor with the world and herself when she wrote this letter." She laid it down and tcok up the other. Lucy silently observant, saw the instantane- ous pallor that blanched the girlish counte- nance-the cold turn that made every line of her face rigid. She saw how the hand that opened the letter shook, and how the two were thrust together into the pocket of her dress. She saw how effectually it had taken away her appetite, as she sat with her choco- late growing stagnant in her cup, and the toast untasted on her plate. Mr. Sutherland, absorbed in his own correspondence, saw nothing, so Lucy was good enough to call his attention. "My dear Mrs. Sutherland," she said, with unwonted solicitude, "I fear you are not well. You eat nothing, and you are looking pale." "I am very well, thank you," Eulahe said, but her voice faltered; and her husband, looking up, saw the white change that had come over her. "My dear Eulalie," he said, anxiously, "what is the matter? Your face is as white as your dress. Are you ill?" Oh no!" "Then, hly are you looking so pale, dar- ling?" She tried to smile, not brave enough to meet the strong loving eyes fixed upon her. "Nothing, Arthur. I am perfectly well, I assure you. My looking pale is nothing. Finish your letters and never mind me." She poured the cold contents of her cup out, and passed it to Lucy to be refilled. Ar- thur, a little reassured, resumed his reading; but every few minutes his anxious eyes wan- dered from the paper to his wife's face. Lucy sat, pale, calm, and exultant, slowly eating her breakfast, and revolving in her mind a little plan of her own for the day. She look- ed at her cousin as he laid down his last let- ter, and found his anxious gaze still fixed on Eulalie. "Arthur," she said, as if the thought had just struck her, " who i's that young man who seems to have obtained the entree of Maple- wood so much of late?" "What young man?" inquired Mr. Suther- land. "That is what I ask you. A tall, foreign- looking; rather gentlemanly person, dark, and very handsome." "Dark and very handsome? Why, that 'must be the man whom Robinson, the gar- dener,. was telling me about. I forget his name-it has a foreign sound, too-Lenoir, or something of that sort." Eulalie arose suddenly, and walked to the window. Her husband glanced after her in some surprise. "Have you finished breakfast, my love?" "Yes, Arthur." "And tasted nothing," said Lucy. "You really cannot be well, Mrs. Sutherland." "I am perfectly well." "And what about this very handsome young foreigner?" resumed Mr. Sutherland. "You have not fallen in love with him, have you, Lucy? Even Robinson was struck by his remarkable good looks." "No," said Lucy, quietly; "I have not fallen in love with him. Are you aware he is here almost every day?" "So Robinson tells me. It appears he has the good taste to admire the place, and comes here to smoke, and read novels. He is a gen- tleman of learned leisure, it seems, and walks to and fro, Smoking for a living." "It is really very remarkable," said Lucy. "Are you quite sure he has no sinister de- sign, Arthur, in thus frequenting the place 2I "My dear girl, what sinister design can he have?" "Burglary. Your plate-closet is no com- mon temptation." "I am not afraid. The plate-closet is in your keeping, my dear Lucy, and, conse- quently, quite safe." ," Well," said Miss Sutherland, rising; "if you feel no anxiety, of course I need not But if I were you, 1 would ascertain whether this unknown person's intentions are as he pretends." In setting back her chair, she tried to see Eulalie's face, but Eulalie evaded her. The vague distrust the Creole had felt from the first of this pale-faced, low voiced, soft-step- ping cousin, had returned this morning stronger than ever before. Lucy rang for Rosa, and Arthur coming over, put his arm tenderly around his wite's little waist, and looked down at the face she strove to hide by her falling curls. She was conscious how deadly pale she was, and how utterly unable to account for that paleness. 4"My darling," Arthur said; " you are ill. Tell me, love, what is the matter Y * She did not speak. Her poor pale face hid itself on his shoulder, and her little hands clung to him, in the old childish ter- rified way. She was such a weak, frighten- ed, timid little thing, this childish Creole wife, not a bit like a heroine, that she could only cling there mutely in her Uistress. "Tell me, my dearest," Arthur said, more anxiously; " tell me what is the matter!" ,Nothing-nothing." Eulalie reiterated, ] trying to steady her rebellious voice, and keep down her frightened heart-beating; ,"don't ask me, Arthur; it is nothing-it is nothing.".' He looked down at the clinging hands; all he could see; for the tangled shower of curls, and something missing in one of them, struck him. ", Where is your ring, Eulalie-the ring I e gave you last?" She hurriedly snatched away her hand, d and hid it in the folds of her dress. It was a child's act, but she was little more than a child in all things. Arthur stood in won- der-the ring had been his latest gift on her birthday-a cluster diamond his paternal grandnother had worn-an heir-loom in the family, newly set. "Have you lost your ring, Eulalie?" he said, with a feeling of annoyance, in spite of himself. "Yes." Lucy, lingering near the door, heard this answer, and pased out. Rosa was coming in, and Mr. Sutherland, looking unusually grave, lifted his wife's face resolutely. He could feel her cold and trembling; and some shadowy distrust, some cold creeping feeling that all was not right, chilled him. He could see her face was colorless as that of a dead woman's, and her eyes wild with name-' less dread. What did it all mean? He drew her gently out of the room, his face troubled and perplexed. Lucy saw him, half leading her up stairs, and a cold, gratified smile, passed over her thin lips. "Your torments are only commencing, Arthur," she said, softly; "only commenc- ing. The pain you have wrung my heart with-the Jealous pain that exceeds all other earthly toiture-you shall feel in your turn. Mine was hidden, no living soul mocked me with their pity; yours shall be known to the wide world." An hour after, Lucy left the house, in bon- net and shawl, and took the road to the vil- lage. It was a hot day-the sun blazing like a wheel of fire in the serene blue sky, and the young lady walked very leisurely. It was a long walk, but she was neither flushed nor dusty, when she reached St. Mary's, and astonished Mrs. Weldon by her unlooked-for appearance. "Dear me, Miss Sutherland," cried that good woman, rising in surprise; "who'd have thought it. % alk right up stairs, the girls are there, and will be right glad to see you I Beautiful day, isn't it?" "Very beautiful," replied Miss Suther- land; "so much so, that it tempted me out; and feeling very thirsty, after so long a walk, I thought I would stop in here and trouble you for a class of water." "Certainly, my dear Miss Sutherland. Come into the parlor, and sit down, and I will fetch it up directly. And how is that pretty dear, Mrs. Arthur?" 4 Very well indeed." Mrs. Weldon threw open the parlor-door, and announced Miss Sutherland to an audi. ence of one. Only one of the girls occu- pied it, and she sat embroidering a handker- chief, and singing softly to herself at one of the windows. She stopped in her song, and arose, looking quite as much surprised as her mothler-had one. "Don't disturb yourself, Miss Sophie," said the young lady, graciously, holding out her gloved hand. "I came in for a drink, and your good mother would fetch me up. I hope I see you well." "Very well, Miss Sutherland," said So- phie, rather fluttered; " pray sit down." "I thougit the girls were here," said Mrs. Weldon, as her visitor sank gracefully into a seat. "No, mamma, they're all out. Shall I go and look for them?" "By no means," interrupted Miss Suther- land, hastily. "I shall be going in a few moments. How pretty that is, Sophie-is it L for your wedding?" Sophie blushed beautifully, as she handed the handkerchief to Miss Sutherland for in- r spectinn. "I heard some rumor of your marriage the other day," continued the young lady. 1"Who is the happy man, Sophie?" A man smoking on the veranda, walked past the open window, as she spoke, and the peach bloom turned to brightest crimson on t pretty Sophie's face. r "Is it possible?" exclaimed Lucy Suther- land, really surprised. "Is it possible you 3 are going to be married to Mr. Benoir?" 3 "Hush, Miss Sutherland," cried Sophie, hastily, " here is mother!" Mrs. Weldon re-entered with a goblet of lemonade, and excusing herself, left her visit- , or with her daughter. Mother does not like it, you see, Miss Sutherland," said Sophie, still blushing; " because Gaston, poor fellow, was only a, r Troubadour when he came here, and has, she says, no visible means of support. Mother t suspects I don't know what. She does not I like poor Gaston, and she will not give her e consent." "e Oh, then, you are engaged to Mr. Ben- oir?" Y- yes, Miss Sutherland; but it is a secret ; yt, you know." :, "You may trust me, Sophie. Why is it page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] your mother suspects him of not being all right?" "Well, Miss Sutherland, you see when Gaston came here first, a few weeks ag6,.he was poor-that is, he was like the rest of the Troubadours, dependent on their concerts for support. I know that, bconsc he told me so himself. But of late he seems to have come 'into a fortune. He has lots and lots of money, and spends it like water. He has given me and all the girls the loveliest pres- ents, and he wears a splendid diamond- ring 1" "A what?"Lucy cried, sharply. "A beautiful diamond-ring, Miss Suther- land, that must have cost hundreds of dol- ars. And he won't give any account of all this sudden wealth. That's what's the trouble. He only laughs, and chucks me under the chin, and tells me that he has found the goose that lays the golden eggs. Now, Miss Sutherland, mother naturally doesn't like this, and she suspects him to be all sorts of horrors, and won't give her con- sent; and I am just as wretched as ever I can be." Here Miss Weldon applied her handker- chief -to her eyes; and Lucy Sutherland, with a strange eagerness, watched the graceful figure of the elegant lounger on the veranda. "And he retuses an explanation to your mother also?" "Yes. He is too proud and high-spirited to stoop to explanation where his word is doubted. He says that it ought to be suf- ficient that he tells us he came by his wealth honorably and fairly; and mother ought to be glad to get a rich husband for her daugh- ter, without hauling him over the coals as to how he obtained his wealth. And so, Miss Sutherland, our marriage is put off; and I really don't know when it will take place." Miss Sutherland looked at outspoken So- phie with a thoughtful face. "Do you know much of the previous his- tory of this lover of yours, Sophie? Pardon my seeming inquisitiveness; but I ilke you so much, my dear Sophie, that I speak only I for your good." I "Thank you, Miss Sutherland,' said poor Sophie, gratefully. 1 am sure you are very kind. No, I don't know very much about Gaston, except that he was born and brought ( up in Louisiana, somewhere, of French par- E ents, and came North, when quite a boy, to X seek his fortune. He has been knocking t round the world, he says, ever since, until he , has grown tired of it, poor fellow I! and now he wants to settle down, with me for his e wife. I am sure I love him with all my I heart, and would marry him and trust him, I and be happy as the day is long, if mamma 1 wasn't so disagreeable about it. That's all I I I know of him, Miss Sutherland and I am sure it is satisfactory enough." "Miss Sutherland smiled, with something e between pity and contempt for the simple espeaker in her face. But the girl was so r earnest and womanly, in her perfect trust D and faith in the man she loved, that she al- most hated her at the moment, too. Before f she could speak, the door opened, and the s subject of all this talk, tired of lounging and smoking in the hot sunshine, came in, and bowed with well-bred ease to his lady-love's visitor. Miss Sutherland returned the gentleman's bow with uncommon cordiality for her; per- haps, independent of the hidden motive that made her wish to propitiate him, indepen- dent of the interest she must have felt in him had he been ugly as Caliban, she was no more insensible to the power of his remark. able beauty than the weakest of her sex. Mr. Benoir seated himself at one of the open windows, talking in an easy, off-hand strain, as a gentleman addressing his equals. He ran the fingers of an aristocratically small and shapely hand through his .dark hair while he conversed, and the flash of a dia- mond-ring dazzled Lucy Sutherland's eyes: a ring she knew well -that had been worn by fine ladies of the house of Sutherland be- fore any one there present was born-that had been Arthur's birthday-gift to his false- hearted wife. What further proof was need- ed of her inconstancy than this? "We don't see. you often in St. Mary's, Miss Sutherland," said Mr. Benoir, in the course of his free-and-epsy remarks. "No," said Miss Sutherland, composedly, "hardly so often as we see you at Maple- wood." "Ah, yes!" returned Mr. Benoir, carelessly running the hand on which the diamond glittered more conspicuously through his hair.. "I do frequent that charming home of yours a good deal. A magnificent place, Miss Sutherland, and an honor to its owner. 3r. Sutherland has my best thanks for his kindness in admitting strangers within his gates. Personally, I have not the pleasure of knowing him. If I had, I should express my thanks in person." "Mr. Sutherland will take them for grant- ed," replied Miss Sutherland, coldly, rising as she spoke; her Sutherland pride rebelhng against this familiarity. "Maplewood is open to all who choose to enter. Good-bye, Miss Sophie; good morning, Mr. Beoer.' Just deigning to bend her head in acknowl- edgment of the late Troubadour's profound bow, the young lady left the hotel, and began her homeward route. Mr. Benoir watched her out of sight with an odd little smile on his lips. ' A sharp young woman that Sophie," he said; * an uncommonly sharp young woman. What brought her here this morning?" Miss Weldon explained: ,' Ah, for a drink I Is she a great friend of yours, Sophie?" "Oh, dear no!" replied Sophie. "She is a great deal too. proud. She has not been irn our house for years, I think, until that day you met her here first." "And what brought her here that day?" "To see Fanny-she had a sore throat." , lem-m-m!"' said Mr. Benoir, in a mus- ing tone. "That was the day after Mrs. Arthur Sutherland's fainting-fit ." "Yes." The odd little smile was on Mr. Benoir's face again. "A sharp girl,"' he repeated; "a very sharp girl!l Don't you taink, Sophie, she saw my diamond-ring?" "I dare say she did," said Miss Weldon; "it was easy enough seen, goodness knows 1" Mr. Benoir got up, whistling, and went out again on the veranda. Miss Suther- land was already out of sight, slowly as she walked, musing profoundly. She was on the scent now--nothing should stop her until she had hunted her prey down. "To-morrow night they meet," she thought, as she walked leisurely toword the home she was trying to make desolate. "To-morrow night they meet. Very well, Mr. Benoir, I shall be present at that interview too." It was nearly mid-day when she reached the house. As she entered the parloi, tired, and a little hot, sAl found her cousin, Arthur, lying on a sofa with a book. There was an unusual 'gravity in his face. Lucy saw, as he looked up at her entrance, anxiety about his wife. "Have you been to the village, Lucy?" he asked. "Yes," said his cousin, dropping into a seat, "and I am nearly tired to death. How is Eulalie?" "Not very well, I am afraid. She is lying down in her room. Lucy, what is the matter with Eulalie lately?" He had to ask that question. He had thought and perplexed himself over the mat- ter so long in secret, that the words forced themselves from his lips, almost in spite of himself. He got up in a feverish sort of way, and took to pacing up and down the room. Miss Sutherland's blue eyes gleamed pale flame as she watched him, pitting unmoved, with folded hands. "She says herself there is nothing the matter. Can you not take her word for it." "She says that because she does not wish to make me uneasy, but something is the matter, I am convinced. Ever $ince that night of the concert, on which she fainted so suddenly, I have noticed a most unaccounta- ble change." "So have I," said Lucy, "ever since that night. What do you suppose was the cause of her fainting?" "The heat of course-what else?" Lucy gave him a. strange look, that brought her cousin to an abrupt halt before, her. "Lucy, what do you mean. Was it not the heat?" "Very likely, I have said nothing to the contrary." "No, you only looked it! Lucy, if you know what ails my poor girl, tell me for Heaven's sake!" "I do not know," said Lucy slowly, " and what I suspect is my own secret." "What you suspect," Arthur repeated, turning very pale. "Lucy, Lucy, what do you mean?" "Let me ask you a question, Arthur, I heard your wife tell you this morning she had lost her ring-the diamond you gave her. Has she found it yet?" "No." Lucy dropped her blue eyes and patted xestlessly on the carpet. Arthur stood before her, pale and anxious. "NO," he repeated, " she has not found it. Why?" Miss Sutherland's reply was another ques- tion. "Arthur, do you remember the man we were speaking of at breakfast?" "The man? No-what man?" "His name is Gaston Benoir-the remark- ably handsome young foreigner -he is from Cuba, I believe-who prowls about Maple- wood continually. You remember we were speaking of him at breakfast-.that is, you and I were, for Eulalie got up and stood by the window." "Yes, yes." "Well," continued Lucy, with torturing deliberation, "I was in St. Mary's this morn- ing, and feeling warm and thirsty after my walk, I stopped in to Mrs. Weldon's for a drink." "Well." "Mr. Benoir is a boarder there-has been ever since he came here first (the night of the concert in which Eulalie fainted), and he chanced to enter the room I was in talk- ing to one of Mrs. Weldon's daughters." "Well," reiterated Mr. . Sutherland, never taking his eyes off her face. "MisA Weldon, without asking permis- sion, took the offensive liberty of introducing him to me. He is, as I have said, exceeding- ly handsome, gentlemanly in manners, and altogether superior to his station. He was dressed in the height of' the fashion, and page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] wore on the little finger of his left hand a diamond-ring. Arthur, it was the ring your wife has lost 1" There was a dead pause. The shifting blue eyes of Lucy Sutherland, still fixed any- where except in her cousin's face, as slue went hurriedly on: "Perhaps Eulalie, when last out in the grounds walking, dropped it, and this man found it there. Ask her,-Arthur, if she wore it the last time she was out; for I am certain it is her ring Mr. Benoir held in his hand." tShe was up, taking off her bonnet and man- tle, as a pretext for not looking at him; but she knew for all how stern and pale he was standing. -"Where did you say this man was from?" was his first question. , ** From Cuba, but a native of Louisiana, Miss Weldon told me." Again there was a blank pause. "Iou are sure it was Eulalie's ring?"Ar- thur said, at last. "As sure as I can be. There could hard- ly be two so much. alike. What surprises me is, the man's effrontery in wearing it so open- ly, if he iound it, as he must have done." "He mlade no attempt to hide it from you?" "On the contrary, he seemed rather anx- ious I should see it." Again there was a blank stillness. Again Mr. Sutherland was the first to speak. "Did Miss Weldon tell you anything more about this man?" "Oh yes I She was full of the subject, and could talk of nothing else. His hand- some face has bewitched her, it seems; and the scheme of the universe holds no one for her but this dark Louisianian. He is, she tells me, a perfect mystery to every one. He came to the village with the rest of those minstrels, as poor as a church-mouse; but when they were departing, he declined going with them. He remained here; and a golden shower seems, in some mysterious manner, to fall upon him. All of a sudden, and unac- countably to every one, his pockets were uil of money, his shabby-genteel garments re- placed by the finest anid best; and he spends gold like water, Miss Weldon says, and makes herself and her sisters the most expensive presents. The diamond-ring astonishes her most of all; but I fancy I can account tfor that. Mr. Benoir is an unreadable riddle." *"A riddle I shall endeavor to read, nev- ertheless!" exclaimed Arthur, with sudden resolution. "I shall have a look at that ring he wears, and find out before the sun sets if it is the birthday-gift I gave my wilb." He left the room hastily. Lucy, standing by the window, saw him, five minutes after, riding down the winding avenue where the shading maples waved. , CHAPTER XVIII.' BROUGHT To A RECKONING. Mr. Sutherland rode in a very undecided manner toward the village of St. Mary's, He had cantered down the avenue rapitly in the first impulse of the moment; but, a little way beyond the gates, he checked his speed irres. olutely. He was disturbed as he had never been disturbed before in his life; and yet by what?-by a number of odd coincidences that, after all, might mean nothing. His wite had lost her ring, and Lucy saw it, or one like it, on the finger of this very hand- some young Southerner. The man might be a gambler. A lucky throw of the dice, a for. tunate game of cards, might account for his sudden prosperity and his wearing diamond. rings. There might be other rings like that his wife had lost-like enough, at least, tode. ceive Lucy. He had caused it to be set in a fanciful device of his own that he could not fail to know; but the more he thought of it, the more he felt convinced that there had been a mistake. And even should there not be, Eulalio might have lost it somewhere on this very road, and Mr. Benoir, finding it there, might wear it openly, in ignorance of its owner. This latter surmise, however, was hardly probable. Diamond-rings are not lost and bfound like glass beads every day, and no sign made. The ring must be his own, and Lucy had made a mistake. But Mr. Sutherland's course of reasoning did not satisfyr him, somehow. Lucy's words kept ringing in his ears-"Late of Cuba, and born in Louisiania.' His wife was late of Cuba, and born in Louisiania. How strangely Lucy had looked at him! H]ow markedt the tone of her voice had been I What had caused his wite to faint on the night of the concert? "1 Not thee heat, Lucy said; and on that night she had first met this mysterious for- eigner, " late of Ouba", whose beauty set ev- ery one talking. Arthur roused himself with a start and a shock, horrified at himself for the course his thoughts were dritling. "V W hat a jealous brute I am getting to be!" he thought, "when trifles light as air run away with my judgment in this fashion I My darling girl is over-nervous, over-sensitive, and acts strangely, or appears to do so with- out knowing it, What i this man does hap- pen to be a compatriot of hers? What if lhe does wear a ring something like that she has lost? W hat if he is fond of spending his tilme liotering purposelessly about Maplewood? How is she to be connected with that? I am an idiot, and my poor little baby-wife is the dearest, and truest, and best of womankind!" * Mr. Sutherland rode into St. Mary's, and straight up to the Weldon House. He was no such unusual visitor there as Miss Lucy, and good Mrs. Weldon greeted his entrance as a matter of course. He had had the run of the 1 house irom his boyhood, and rarely visited s the village without dropping in. His pres- ent call was of 'the shortest; for the gentle- a man he was in search of was not in. He li learned by a series of indirect questions that I M]r. Benoir had taken Miss Sophie, much v against her (Mr. Weldon's) will, out driv- i iag, and would probably not return until late y in the afternoon. And having got on the sub- ject, Mr. Weldon poured into Mr. Sutherland s s ears the story of Mr. Benoir's wooing, and her 1 distress thereat. i a I must have a look at this modern Fortu- natus, Mrs. Weldon,"7 he said, carelessly, ^ , for pretty Sophie's sake; and then I will be better able to give you an opinion in the mat- t ter. If I drop in about seven this evening am I likely to see him?" it You'll be sure to see him, -Mr. Sutherland. Seven is our tea-hour, and Mr. Benoir is as regular as clockwork generally at his meals. It s very good of you, I m sure," Mrs. Weldon said, grate'ully.; to put yourself to any trou- ble on our account, but I do feel dreadfully worried about my Sophie." "Pray don't mention it," said Arthur, feel- ing very hypocritical, "I shall look in with- out fail, Mrs Weldon, on my way home this evening." Mr. Sutherland rode to the house of a friend, who insisted, as Arthur knew he would, on his remaining to dinner. It was not a very easy task to get away almost im- mediately after that ceremony; 'but pleading a pressing engagement, he made his escape, and set off at a quick canter back to St. AM'ary's. ITue August-sunset was ablaze in the skies, and the atmosphere was like amber mist, as he dismounted before the hotel. Standing in this amber mist, as a glorified saint in a painted window, Mr. Benoir smoked his atter- tea cigar, and watched the few passersby up and down the quiet country-street. Darkly splendid, with the well-bred nonchalance of a prince of the blood royal, the ex-Troubadour stood and looked at Mr. Sutherland, as he alighted and stood before him. Mr. Suther- land met his glance, recognized him in a mo- ment, and coolly addressed him at once. "Mr. Benoir, I believe?" "At Monsieur's service," replied Mr. Be- noir, removing his cigar, and bowing po- litely. Mr. Sutherland presented his card. Mr. Benoir bowed again. "My gardener tells me, Mr. Benoir, you requested permission some time ago to visit Maplewood. Permit me to say my place is open to you whenever it shall please you to go there. " "Did he dismount, I wonder, to tell me this," thought Mr. Benoir; but aloud he said: "A thousand thanks, Mr. Sutherland. You who are so fortunate as to dwell in par- adise can afford poor fellows out in the cold, like myself, a few hours' bliss in your Eden. I have traveled a good deal over this big world, and I have rarely seen a more cheer- ing spot than this New England home of yours." I le raised his half-smoked cigar as he spoke, and knocked off the ashes with the little finger of his left hand. On that finger a diamond-ring blazed-a ring there was no mistaking-the gift he had last given his wite. Arthur Sutherland felt himself suddenly turning cold and white. A horrible feeling- a creeping, shuddering dread, vague and un- shapely as the flickering shadows the trees cast on the ground-benumbed every sense for a moment. His wife's ring worn by this man I He could not get beyond that. All the sophistries of losing and finding vanished into thin air-the fact alone remained and stun- ned him. ', Monsieur does not look well," said Mr. Benoir, "I hope no sudden illness-" He did not finish the sentence. Arthur Sutherland had looked up, and their eyes met. The two men stood staring at each other for ,fully a minute, and all social hypocrisies 'dropped, as we drop a mask. Tlhe insolent' smile on the face ot one-the pale, stern in. quiry in the face of the other-spoke as plainly as words. The left hand of Mr. Benoir toyed careless- ly with his watch-chain, and the last red rays of the sunset flamed back from the gem on his finger. He made no attempt to hide it, 3 and its flashing radiance seemed to blind the t gazer. Arthur's eyes fell upon it once more, as itf even yet he could not believe the evi- dence of his senses. , -Monsieur regards my ring," said Mr. Be- r noir, complacently; "I trust he admires it. f It is the recent gift of a very dear friend, and r worth a dluke's rans:)m, I believe!" e Mr. Sutherland, feeling how ghastly pale - he must be, turned away from that triumph- - ant face, whlose exultation was unconcealed, remounted his horse, and rode swifty away. , Adieu, Monsieur," a mocking voice called - after him, but he neither heard nor answered. - He never stopped to think how strange his conduct must seem-they understood each r. other, and both knew it. The rosy twilight had faded, and the glori- )u ous August-moon flooded field andti forest ;it with her pale radiance. The tall trees cast is ghostly shadows over the white, dusty, de- to serted road, the night air was sweet with the forest- odors, and the frogs held concerts in ne the slimy pools all along the wayside. The page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] still beauty of the night recalled the memory of that other night long,Jlong ago, when he and Philip Sutherland had driven along here in the moonlight to see Eulalie Rohan for the first time. Would it have been better if they had never known. that night-never known the dark beauty which had bewitched them both. He had never asked himself that ques- tion before, and his heart rebelled against it now. No, no; better to have known and loved her, better to have trusted and taken her to his heart, and been happier, it seemed to him, than man ever was before, than to have gone on, calmly content, with some other woman, about whom no secrecy or mystery ever hung-Isabel Vansell, for in- stance. It was very rarely he thought of his old love now. He was so supremely blessed in his beautiful wife and child, that he had no room in his heart even for the memory of the girl he had once loved. But she arose before him to-night in the misty moonlight, like a pale, reproachful ghost; and the old remorse he had been wont to feel came back like a pang. As Maplewood drew near, Mr. Sutherland paused in the furious gallop he had kept up unconsciously ever since leaving the village. He had thought of the recent interview in a stunned, lost kind of way, one phrase ringing and ringing in his ears, even while he seemed to be thinking of other things, as if it were a ] dismal accompaniment, "1 The recent gift of a very dear friend." "Of a very dear friend!" Who did this insolent stranger mean by that, when speaking of his wie's ring?", Late of Cuba!"--had ulalie, or Eulalie's grandfather ever known him in Cuba?"Born in Louis- iana!" Could his wife have known him there? He tortured himself with questions he could not answer, as we all do, and s alighted, and entered the house as miserably h irresolute as his worst enemy could wish. Lucy looked out of the dining-room as he passed, with an inquiring face. d "We thought you were lost, Arthur I Have you dined?" "Yes, thank you! I hope you have not waited? I dined with Squire Hazlett." :' We have waited," said Miss Sutherland; tl "but that isof no consequence. If you are fa going up-stairs, Arthur, please ask Eulalie if she is ready for dinner?" "Where is Eulalie?" "In her room, I think. She has not been of down this afternoon.", Mr. Sutherland ran up-stairs, and tapped no at Eulalie's door. "Come in," the sweet, familiar voice called; and Arthur entered. The pretty room, so tastefully furnished, ne was lit only by the moonlight. The curtains to y of silk and lace were drawn back, and the ie silvery radiance poured in, and, lay in great re squares of brilliance on the carpet. On a le lounge under one of the windows, with the y white lace curtains falling over her like a n misty cloud, lay his wife, in her elegant din. n ner-dreSs. She started up with a little cry i- at sight of. him. it *0 Arthur! Is it-you? I thought it was d Lucy! How long you have been away!" He, sat down beside her, in silence. The d light faded out of the lovely face, and the o pale terror came back as she saw how grave e he was; came back all in a moment, min. r gled with eager, wild inquiry. - Arthur saw the change, and his heart smote him-she looked so like a child who 'dreads I punishment, and mutely appeals for pity. 1 "My poor, pale darling," he said, drawing her to him. "My frightened little girl! Why do you wear that terrified face, of late? Sure. 3ly, you are not afraid of me?" "No, Arthur," very faintly. "Then, my dearest, why do you refuse to tell me what has changed you so within the last few weeks. What is it, Eulalie? for you are changed." , She dropped her face on his shoulder, all her long, loose ringlets falling over him like a silken cloud. "Nothing, Arthur." "Do people change for .nothing, Eulalie? Is it that you love me less?" "Love you less! O Arthur! Arthur!" He stooped and kissed her. "I am answered, my darling! Is it that you are ill?" "No," she said, faintly; "I am perfectly well." "aThen you will not tell me?" Dead silence. Her face lay hidden on his shoulder, her hands pressed hard together in her lap. He lifted one of the little hands and looked at it. "You have not found your ring yet, my dear?" "No," she said, almost inaudibly. "Do you know where you lost it?" Dead silence again. "Answer me, Eulalie. You know I prize this ring very much as an heirloom in our family." Still silent. Arthur's brow contracted. "Will you not answer me, Eulalie?" "Arthur I Arthur!" she cried out, in a sort of desperation; " don't ask me I! don't I I can- not tell you I I have lost it, and I can tell you no more ly "Then 1 can, Eulalie. I have found it!" She started as if he had stabbed her. "I saw it to-day on the hand of a man I never saw before. My love, how came Gas- ton Benoir by your ring?" Shegave a low cry of despair. All was over then, and the worst had come. , My own dear wife," he said, folding her ti closer in his arms, and pale to the lips, with a dread of-he hardly knew what, "I love and trust you with my whole heart; but you must tell me, Eulalie, how this man came by u -your ring." She lifted her head and looked at him as 1 some poor lamb might look at the slaughter- er with the knife at its throat. "Did he find it, Eulalie?" "No." ' Did you give it to him?" he asked, that I nameless horror white in his face. t ", Yes, Arthur." A blank pause of consternation. Her head i dropped again. "O Arthur I I could not help it I indeed I i could not! I am afraid of that man, and I c dared not refuse!" 0 "Afraid of him, Eulalie! What power E has lie over you?" '"I cannot tell you." ' Eulalie, this is verv strange!" She said nothing. She only clung to him mutely, in the old childish way. "Eulalie!"' he said, passionately, "you are driving me madl 1 Imust have an expla- nation. What power has this man over you "I To his unspeakable terror, she rose up, and fell down on her knees before him in the moonlight. "Arthur!" she said, holding up her clasp- ed hands, " for God's sake, spare me. Oh1, I think I am the most wretched creature that ever was born; but I cannot, I cannot, tell you the secret of this man's power. If you cast me off, if I die alone, and miserable, and broken-hearted, I will have no cause to com- plain; but I can never tell you. If you can- not trust me any longer, Arthur, or love me, knowing what you know, let us 'part now. Let me go and leave you to-night 1" "Leave me, my precious darling!"Arthur Sutherland cried, raising her from the ground and straining hler with passionate love to his heart. "It is simply madness to think of such a thing. No, my love, nothing but death shall ever part us, in spite of all the secrets in the world." She clung to his neck, in a joy too intense for words. "You can tell me this, at least, my love. Is this the secret that kept us apart before our marriage?" "Yes, Arthur." "Your grandfather knew it?" "Poor, poorzgrandpapa-yes." "Then I am content. Tell me more, Eu- lalie. Did you know this man in Cuba?" "No." "In Louisiana, then?" No, no; I never saw him in my life, un- til--" "Until when, my dearest?" "Until the night of the concert." Arthur Sutherland drew a long breath of unspeakable relief. "And yet you recognized him that night. How Was that, Eulalie?" "1 recognized his name in the playbill." "And fainted?" "Yes, Arthur." There was silence. Mr. Sutherland, sorely puzzled, but quite relieved of that horror that had fallen upon him like a nightmare, put away the silky curls from the beautiful face of his wife. "My silly darling, to think that anything in this world could ever part us-to think I could ever live without you I Never speak of such a thing again I No one in this world shall ever come between my wife and me!" bihe looked up in his hopeful face with eyes unspeakably tender and mournful. "My poor Arthur I My own dear hus- band I Heaven grant it I But, whatever comes, you will always believe that I loved you with all my heart, and you alone. You will believe this, Arthur 1" "Yes, my dearest! Do not look at me with such sorrowful eyes; all will be well, in spite of ten thousand secrets. We will talk no more of this now. Let us go down- stairs; Lucy is waiting dinner, and will be famished." Still she clung to him; still she looked up in his lace, wi:h those solemn, sorrowful eyes. "And you can trust me, Arthur, in spite ol all. You can love me and believe in me in spite of'this secret." Hle stooped, and tenderly kissed the wist- ful, earnest face. ' As I believe in Heaven I If I doubted you, my own darling, 1 think I should go r mad l' - l CHAPTER XIX. '3 madmY AT THE SUMMER-UOUSE. f Lucy sat in the dining-room when they en- t tered, reading patiently, and ready to wait - with that serene face of hers until midnight if they chose, for her dinner. From that ; vigilant watch-tower of hers, which she had mounted so long ago, and out of her light- blue eyes, seemed to read what had passed. eArthur's face baffled her-it was so calm, so reassured, so infinitely tender and loving and truthful when it turned to his wife. .It turn- ed to that beloved wife very often this even- ing, and his voice had a new tenderness, an - unusual gentleness, a deeper respect, than his pale cousin had ever heard there before. Eulahe was perfectly colorless-her face page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] was like snow; but it was ever so of late; and the dark, beautiful eyes had a pleading, mournful light, unspeakably touching in that sweet young face. Such a sad, sad look ot hopeless sorrow, of despairing resignation, as one only sees in the lovely sorrowlul face of some picture of the Mater Dolorosa. A picture of that "Mother Most Sorrowful" hung above Eulalie's bed; and perhaps she had caught that pitiful look from praying be- fore it so much. She was such a little, child- ish-looking creature withal, with her youth- ful. face, and her pale beauty, and her tiny stature, that any heart but the heart of a jealous woman might have been moved to pity and forgiveness. But the cold, pale girl, who sat at the other side of the table, and ate slowly and thought- fully, neither pitied nor fobrgave. Sue could surmise very littleof the events of the day, except that the circumstance of the ring had been explained away, and that Arthur s irst fleeting doubts of the wife he loved had been set at rest. * "He is such a fool about that black-haired doll," thought Miss Sutherland, "that he would believe the moon made of green cheese If she told him so. I wonder if he saw Gaston Benoir? I wonder if he saw the ring? Will he speak to me on the subject to-night?" "Eulalie," Arthur said, "I want you to sing for me this evening, my darling. I used I to think 1 had caged a singing-bird, but we have had no music at all of late." He led her to the piano, and she fluttered the sheets of music restlessly. "What shall I sing for you, Arthur?" "Anything you please. Some of the old Spanish ballads I used to like so much." i The little hands wandered aimlessly over the keys, and struck at last into a low melan- choly symphony, along which her sweet voice ran faintly, and sadly, and sweetly, as the sighing of the summer-night wind. The old c sad songs offallen Spain her grandfather had t loved best of all, followed one after the other, until the mournful music made the listener's heart' ache. There was something sadder c than tears in the face, looking out ifrom that r cloud of feathery black curls, something f more touching than womanly weeping in the r sad patience of the childish little singer. She v sang so softly that her music seemed the fi echo of the sea-wind, rising and lalling in fit- tl th gusts. b " our music is very melancholy, my little ri wife," Arthur said, as lher hands dropped list- t lessly off the keys. "But it brings back the pleasant old times to hear those songs sl again." b "Old times," Eulalie repeated, very sadly. c "I am alraid it would have better, my dear- e est, itf those old times had never been." h d She sat very still and silent all the .rest of ;, the evening. Hortense, the Swiss bonne, it brought in baby Eulalie; and the young )t mother sat in a low nurse-chair, with tho i, baby in her arms, hushing it softly to sleep. e Arthur 'ehallenged his cousin to a game of A chess; but ever and anon his eyes wandered from his kings and queens, and castles and e bishops, to the pretty picture the baby-wife - made, hushing that other baby to sleep. "- Check!"Lucy cried, sharply, and Arthur - awoke from his cdreaming to find he had lost y the game. "What a, player you are growing to be, Miss Lucy!" he said, sweeping them all up in a heap. "A Sutherland dies before he r 'yields! Once more. ' Come on, Mac- duff '"' This time Mr. Sutherland watched the game, and won it. ,Lucy had done her best, and bit her lip with mortification as he arose, ;laughing. "I am a match for you yet in a free fight, my fair cousin. I told you a Sutherland never yields. Why, where is Eulalie?" "Mrs. Sutherland left the room some time ago," said Lucy. "I dare say you wil find her in the nursery." Mr. Sutherland, however, did not follow his wife to the nursery. He drew back the curtains ifrom the closed window, threw open the shutters, and sat down in the recess, looking out over the wide moonlit sea. Lucy lingered, hoping he would speak of the ring; but he seemed even unaware of her presence, until her voice startled him. "Good-night, Arthur." ; "Good-night, Lucy," he said, kindly, wak- ing up from his reverie for an instant, and tfalling back again when she had left the rooim. "Truth to tell, Arthur Sutherland was not more than half satisfied, thougoh he had seem- ed wholly so to Lucy. He could not forget the handsome, insolent face of Mr. Gaston Benoir; he could not forget the steady, deris- ive stare of his bold black eyes, or the mark- ed meaning of his tone when he' spoke of the ring. He could not forget the humiliating lfact that his wife had given the man this ring-his gift. This unknown, wandering vagrant, was in the confidence of his wife, from which ho was excluded. She was in the power of this insolent SoUtherner-his beautiful, precious darling-and gave him no right to defend her from him; to stand be- tween her and his insolence. The proud Sutherland blood boiled within him, and his strong handcclenched, and his eyes flashed at the thought. He believed in the beautiful creature he had won for his wife; he believ- ed in her purity and truth as he believed in his own soul, but this galling secret kept from him was none the less humiliating for that. He believed implicitly that she had never set eyes on Gaston Benoir before the night of the concert. If there were guilt in the secret, the guilt was none of hers--his lit- tle, gentle, darling, half child, half woman. He remembered her grandfather's strange conduct-the secret of his life and his life's trouble-kept from her so long as he dared keep it. The secret of Gaston Benoir's pow- er involved the honor of her dead grand- father, not hers; and she had promised that grandfather never to reveal it. There was nothing for him-loving her with that true- hearted, unselfish love-but to respect that promise, and endure his mortification. He sat there thinking of this, and staring blankly out at the glorious moonlit ocean and the star gemmed sky, so long that it was past midnight when he went up-stairs. His Avife had fallen asleep when he entered their chamber, and he stood looking at her, with only tender pity in his eyes. She looked so young, so innocently beautiful in her slum- ber, with her wan lace shaded, and made paler by her purple black hair all loose over the pillow, that he forgot lveyjng but his deep love and trust in h1. "My poor little girl-my innocent, un- happy darling!" he murmured. "Thank God that she can sleep like this!" Mr. Sutherland descended next morning to breakfast alone. Lucy, waiting as -usual, lookied up inquiringly. "Eulalie will not come down this morn- ing," he said. "She complains of headache. After breakfast, you will send her up some tea and toast." Throughout the meal, Lucy sat expectant, waiting for some allusion to be made to the lost ring, but Mr. Sutherland made none. He had an unsocial habit of reading during breakhfast, and perused his letters and papers, and sipped his coffee and said very little. When the meal was over, lie sat down with a book, and was deep in its pages, when a sudden exclamation from his cousin made him look up. She was standing, gazing eagerly out of the front widow commanding a view of the grounds. "Well?" said Arthur, inquiringly. "There is the man!" exclaimed Lucy, " of whom we were speaking yesterday-that strange Southerner, Mr. Benoir." Arthur's lace flushed. He rose, looking in the direction his cousin pointed, and saw the handsome tenor crossing the lawn, with his eternal cigar in his mouth. "Yes, yes," he" said, trying to sapeak care- lessly. "I saw the man yesterday, and told him to come as often as he pleased.' I hard- ly expected so early a visit, though." He sat down again to his hook, but all its interest was gone. Mr. Benoir's boldsblack eyes and derisive smile mocked him from every printed page. The sight of the man disturbed him as nothing else could have done, and he suddenly threw the book down and went up to his wife's room. She was kneeling in her white muslin morning-dress before the pictured Mater Dolorosa, her sweet face uplifted, her earnest eyes upraised. Arthur waited until she arose, lookinm out of the window at the sunshine lying bright ia the green fields. "Eulalie, my darling," he said, turning round hastily, "do you know who is here?" "No, Arthur." "The man' you fear so much-the man who has your ring!" She began to tremble suddenly; the blank, terrified stare dilating in her dark eyes. "Eulalie, do you know what brings him here?" Her lips formed "No"; but in the first shock of her husband's words she had no voice to speak. "My love," Arthur said, coming over and encircling the slender waist with his arm, "why should you dread this man so much, when I am here to protect you? Come, Eu- lale, show yourself a brave little woman. Give me leave to go and take your ring from this fellow, and kick him out of the grounds." She gave a cry of terror as she clasped his arm tight, and looked up in his face with her wild eyes. "No, no, no I Not for ten thousand worlds I O Arthur, Arthur! I am utterly, and entirely, and beyond all earthly hope, in the power of this man. Arthur, Arthur if you love me, avoid him, don't speak to him, don't offend him, don't turn him out of the grounds, or ask him for my ring 1" "Eulalie!" "Oh, I cannot tell you, Arthur H dare not tell you i and yet you may know it some day. Oh wish-1 wish I liad never been born 1" She wrung her pale hands, and fell down on the sofa in a fit of hysterical weeping. In all thingsrin this passionate crying; she was more of a child than a woman; and she wept passionately, vehemently, as a child might weep, now. "My love! my love!"Arthur said, dis- mayed, "do not grieve like this! Eulalie dearest, be calm. I will do all you ask. I shall not interfere between you and this man." It was long before the hysterical sobbing ceased, and left the little fragile creature quite exhausted. She drooped among the silken cushions, her poor head aching almost beyond endurance. "I will leave you for a while, darling," Arthur said, kissing the pallid, tear-stained page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] face. "Try and sleep. You have cried un- til you are quite worn out." He drew the curtains to darken the room and went down-stairs, and out. As he cross- ed the velvet lawn, Mr. Benoir came saunter- ing out of the woodland path leading to the old summer-house, still smoking, and lifted his hat in polite recognition. ",Good morning, Mr. Sutherland," said bland Mr. Benoir; "I hope I hove not avail- ed myself of your kind permission too early in the morning. Rising betimes is an old habit of mine, and the beauty of the day tempted me this far." A stiff bow was Mr. Sutherland's only re- ply, as he passed on. Mr. Benoir looked after him, with that peculiar smile of his back again. "Humph I'" lie thought; "so that is your little game, Mr. Sutherland, is it! I expect- ed to have been collared, this morning, and this pretty, ring of mine, or an explanation; demanded. But I see we are prudent. Our pretty little wife is opposed to violent meas- ures, and we love her too much to offend'her. Just as you please, Mr. Sutherland; it will all come to the same thing in the end. I wonder if that wildcat, Rebecca, is on the lookout?" If Rebecca was on the lookout, she did not appear ;fobr Miss Sutherland was on the look- out also. Mr. Benoir loitered about for some time.. He wanted to see the housemaid, to discover any particulars about Eulalie she might know; but Rebecca did not come. He waited until nearly noon, smoking no end of cigars, and talkingto his friend the gardener, and was forced at last to leave without see- ing her. Bulalie's headache was very obdurate, and confined her to her room all day. She lay in her darkened chamber, with her throbbing temples pressed between her hands, thinking distractedly how she was to keep her ap- pointment that night. She dared not stay away, yet how should she go without her husband's knowledge. In his loving anxiety about her, he was in thieroom every hour, in- quiring if she felt better, if he could do any- thing for her, and always hearing that sad, 1 'weary answer," Oh no!"Chance, however, or Mr. Benoir's lucky star, favored her. Dur- ing the afternoon, a message arrived from Colonel Madison, a very old friend of the' I family, requesting him to ride over to his y place at once, if convenient, and help him to i settle a little matter of business. I "As you are so unwell, my love," Mr. Sutherland said, reading the Colonel's note ] aloud to his wife; "I will write, and ask him to postpone, it until to-morrow. If I go, it' will probably be late before I return." f "Don't postpone it!" exclaimed his wife, ] eagerly, " don't disappoint the Colonel be- cause of my headache. I will be better left , .quite alone" Arthur hesitated a little; but Eulalie press. - ed him to comply, with very unwonted eenergy. I * Do go, Arthur t You know how odd the old Colonel is, and how he cannot bear the I slightest disappointment. Don't mind my * headache, dear, it will wear itself Sway after ra while." . I Thus urged, Mr. Sutherland dressed, and rrode away. Lucy came out into the lower hall, as he stood in the doorway, drawing on his gloves, "I would rather postpone it," he said, "' on account of Eulalie's indisposition; but Eu- lalie herself presses me to go. I will not re- turn for dinner." Lucy smiled. She understood why Eulalie) pressed him to go away, very well. "I am glad the coast is clear,"' she thought. "Now, my lady, nothing remains but to watch you." Miss Sutherland took her work up-stairs, and took her post in a room opposite Eala- lie's, across the hall. She left the door ajar, so that the slightest sound in the hall could not tail to be overheard; but the long after- noon wore on, and no sound came from the closed chamber of her cousin's wife. Twilight fell, gray and ghostly, and still no sign of life within that silent room. As it grew too dark to work, Miss Sutherland arose, crossed the hall, and tapped at the door she had watched. It was opened at once, and by Eulalie. She had evidently been up some time; for her loose morning-neglige was exchanged for a dark dress of soft, unrustling texture, and a long black mantle .with a hood was thrown' over the back of a chair. She was startling- ly pale, Lucy saw; but that. was nothing out of the common now. "I did not know you were up, Mrs. Suther- land," said Lucy. .. I hope you feel better?" "Yes," Eulahe said, softly. "Will you have some tea and toast, here, or will you come down and have dinner?" "Thank you! I will have the tea and toast, if you please." Miss Sutherland bowed, and withdrew. And the tea and toast were duly dispatched. She dined in solitary state herself, as she had been wont to do in the days when she was the isolated recluse of Maplewood; and making a very hasty meal of it, returned to /her post up-stairs. The summer-twilight, pale and blue as Lucy's own eyes, faded out into night. A dark and overcast night, thundering raiM, a dull starless sky, an obscured moon, and a fitful complaining wind stirring in the trees. Lucy took no light-the hall-lamp afforded light sufficient for her to sit and wait by, and court the passing hours. Eight struck. Lucy waited and waited, with folded hands, and the steady patience of a woman's hatred. Nine. The closed door: of Eulalie's room softly opened, and Eulalie herself, with the cloak thrown over her arm, came out. In the light of the hall- lamp, Lucy could see how wofully corpse- like she looked, as she glided down the de- serted corridor, down the staircase, and along the lower hall. How was she to know if the implacable enemy following so stealth- ily, so surely on her trail? She had open- ed the front-door, and was out in the dark sultry night. She paused to throw the man- tle around her shoulders, and draw the hood over her head, and to take a startled look about on every side, and then she was glid- ing on again, and her shadow was following her-surely and silently to her doom! Moonless and starless though it was, there was light enough in the night to show the path without difficulty, and Arthur Suther- land's wife and -cousin went steadily on. Once Eulahe had paused for a second on the grassy terrace to glance at the black moan- ing sea, and then had struck into the wood- land path leading to the summer-house. She paused at the door, and tapped softly. Lucy saw it open instantly, saw Eulalie enter, the door close, and then she was alone with her beating heart, under the black trees. If -she could only overhear! Treading lightly on the dewy grass that gave back no echo, she stole round to the end of the sum- mer-house, to crouch down with her ear to the wall. She turned the corner of the little building with one hand outstretched to feel her way, for in the shadow 'of the trees it was very dark. As she stooped, the out- stretched hand fell on something warm-a human face I At the same instant, her waist was forcibly grasped, and the cry of terror that arose to her lips, hushed by ah imper- ative voice. "Hush, I tell you!" her captor said, in a fierce whisper. "Who are you?" "Lucy Sutherland," she faltered, in mor- tal dread. There was a pause. Her eyes had grown more accustomed to the darkness of the place, and she saw her captor was a woman crouching on the ground. The woman arose and stood before her, and, dim as the light was, Lucy recognized her-Rebecca, the housemaid I CHAPTER XX. CONFIDENTIAL. The two women stood looking at each other in silence. The light was too obscure to show the face of either plainly, and each o I seemed waiting for the other to speak. Re- becca still grasped Miss Sutherland's wrist, towering up above her, in her tall stature, almost to the height of a giantess. Lucy I was the first to recover-the first to speak. "Let go my wrist, Rebecca," she said, r quietly; "you are hurting me." The girl loosened her grasp, and still' stood silent. "You have come here to-"Miss Suther- land paused. "r To listen!" said Rebecca, finishing the sentence; " as you have done, Miss Suther- land." "How long have you been here?" "Over half an hour." "You know who are in the summer- house?" "Gaston Bonoir and Mrs. Sutherland." They spoke in Whispers, standing very close together, like two conspirators, with the ghastly trees rising dark about them. In the pause that followed Rebecca's last words, a low murmuring of voices within the sum- mer-house was distinctly audible. "Listen," said Rebecca; "we understand each other. If we want to overhear what is going on within, now is our time." She crouched down again with her ear close to the wall, and Lucy followed her ex- ample. Some natural repugnance she felt, some natural shame, not so much at the eavesdropping, as at that eavesdropping being known; but curiosity was stronger than any other feeling. Noiselessly the young lady and the housemaid sank down in the dewy grass, and hushed their very breathing to listen. The chirping of some wakeful bird in its nest, the sighing of the restless trees in the night-wind, the dull mo- notonous rush of the waves on the shores, sounded intolerably loud in the hush of the night. Nothing but an indistinct murmer of voices could be heard within-the words of the speakers were inaudible. Sometimes the voice of Eulalie rose passionate, implor- ing, vehement. Sometimes Mr. Benoir's loud derisive laugh rang softly out, but every effort to overhear the conversation proved fruitless. Still he had spies crouched in the wet grass, holding their breath, and strain- ing every faculty into the one sense, of hear- ing. At last the interview seeDped terminating, they could hear Mr. Benoir walking about, and catch a few words, as he drew close to their place of hiding. "You cannot have the money then, you say, before the expiration of a week. Well, the sum is large, and if I must wait, why, I must.", The sweet foreign-accented voice of the Creole lady murmured softly in reply. page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] They could not catch her words. Presently, Mr. Benoir, walking up and down, became audible again: "If this night week suits your conve- nience, my pretty Eulalie, then this night week let it be. Xwant the money particu- larly, I can tell you. I expect to be married shortly." Rebecca, the housemaid, gave a start that nearly overset Lucy, but in an instant she was statuesque again. "By-the-by," said Mr. Benoir, becoming audible once more. "Your husband admires my ring, I think, Eulalie. I took pains to let im see it, and 1 fancy he has spoken to you about the striking resemblance it bears to, one you used to wear. Come, my dear, be confidential, and tell us what he said." They could hear the distressed appealing voice that replied, but not her answer. They could hear Mr. Benoir laugh, but not his next words, and then the door opened and they heard him plainly: "This night week, then, at the same hour you ,will find me Lere. ' Good night, most beautiful Eulalie, and happy dreams!" The two spies crouched yet further down, hushing their very heart-beating, lest its loudness should betray them. Tney, could hear the soft rustle of Eulalie's dress against the trunks of the trees, tie lojder sound of Mr. Benoir's footsteps as lhe? followed, whistling. When the last faint sound died out, and nothing but the noises of the night X remained, they rose up. \ "Come," said Lucy Sutherland, "let us go. You and 1 must have a talk to-night before we sleep." She glided noiselessly along the path, and the tall Rlebecca followed her, smiling under cover of the darkness at having caught her so nicely. Suddenly, Lucy stopped-the sound of a horse galloping rapidly along the the road struck-on their ears. "It is Mr. Sutherland," Lucy said, hurried- ly. "I do not wish him to see us. Let us go in by the side-door." Rebecca followed her into the house by one of the servants' entrances. No one met theem, as they rapidly crossed the hall and ascended the stairs. "Come to my room," said Lucy, out of breath. "I want to talk to vou, Rebecca." "1 Yes, Miss," said the undisturbed Re- becca; and they entered Miss Sutherland's chamber together, just as Mr. Sutherland was heard coming along the entrance-hlall.' Lucy's pretty room was unlighted, but her night-lamp stood ready on the dressing table. Thle -window was still open that sultry August-night, and the pale lighter darkness made the room luminous. "Sit down, Rebecca, said Lucy, closing and locking the door. "Do you mind sit.- ting in the dark, or shall I light the lamp?" "Just as you please, Miss Sutherland," said the black-eyed housemaid, with infinite composure. "It's all one to-me." "Very well then-I prefer this light to talk by, Rjebecca." Rebecca- had seated herself by the open window. Lucy took an arm-chair near her, and touched her folded hands as she pro- nounced her name. k "Yes, Miss Sutherland," composedly answered Rebecca. "Will you tell me why you came to be at the summer-house to-night?" "I have told you. I wanted to hear, what Gaston Benoir had to say to M1rs. Suther- land." , "How came you to know they were there? You were at the summer-house before Mrs. Sutherland." "Yes, I was waiting for her to come." "How did you know she was coming?" The housemaid smiledcLunder favor of the dusk at all this cross-questioning. "Miss Sutherland, you know as well as I, do it is not the first time she has been there with him." Miss Sutherland paused aghast, at the knowledge of the housemaid. "You knew she has, met him before I Re- becca, how did you discover it?" "As I discovered them to-night-by watch- ing and waiting." "Has it been since you came here?" asked Lucy, breathlessly. "No." Lucy came near in her devouring curiosity, and caught the girl's hand, and held it hard. "Rebecca, you listened what was it you overheard?" "Nothing!" "Nothing?"-incredulously. "No, Miiss Sutherland, 1 heard nothing. I only saW." "What did you see?" "Mrs. Sutherland enter the summer-house where Gaston Benoir was in waiting, remain there about fifteen minutes, and depart aigain." "And how did you happen to be in hiding that night?" Again Rebecca smiled. "1 followed Gaston Benoir from the vil- lage. I know nothing of Mrs. Sutherland. I only wanted to see where he was going that time of night." "You know Gaston Benoir, then?" , "Yes, Miss Sutherland." ' Rebecca, I am very curious about that man. Will you not tell me who and what he is? I Wrill make it worth your while if you do." -u "I have nothing to tell, Miss Sutherland," said the housemaid, quietly. "Gaston Benoir las is .Gaston Benoir, and that is almost all I w know of his history." tl In the darkness of the room, Rebecca could not see how the listener's face darkened with h anger and disappointment. But the low eager f voice was unchanged when she spoke. n , Almost all I Will you not tell me all. e It is for Mr. Sutherland's sake I ask-Mr. R Sutherland, Rebecca, who knows nothing of t] those stolen meetings." 1 "I am quite aware of that. But Mr. Suth- y erland has no cause to be jealous." "Rebecca!"' "No, Miss., Gaston Benoir and Mrs. Sutherland have very little love for one an- other-very little, indeed." I "How do you know that?" s "Gaston Benoir told me, for one thing ;' and I have eyes, and can see for myself. . "What!" "That Mrs. Sutherland loves her husband, and Would die a thousand deaths sooner than dishonor him." . , Does she not dishonor him by meeting this man at all?" said Lucy, in a fierce whis- per. S ,Perhaps she cannot help herself. Per- haps she is too mnuch afraid of Gaston Benoir to refuse." "Did he tell you that, too?" "Yes." "Rebecca, how long have you known this man?" "About two years." "Where did you know him?" "In New Orleans." "What was he then?" "A sailor," said Rebecca;' just arrived from South America." - A sailor I What more do you know of him? Is he a native of South America?" , Oh no; he was born in Louisana." "Well?". said Miss Sutherland, impatient- ly. "Well," repeated the very calm Rebecca; that is all I know." "I don't believe you," the young lady's angry face; said; but she restrained herself, and, spoke calmly. "And Mr. Benoir is a very handsome young man, and a lover of yours, of course'?" The dark face of the housemaid flushed red in the gloom. "Yes, Miss Sutherland." "Well you tell me about it, Rebecca, Per- haps I can tell you something in return that will interest you!" Rebecca looked surprised. "There is pot much to tell. I knew him in New Orleans, and we were going to be married; but he-" . She stopped, suddenly ;, and Miss Suther- land, still holding her hand, still leaning for- ward to see her face in the darkness, finished the sentence. "Deserted you I And you followed him here! There, there; I see it all-I thought, from the first you were no ordinary house- maid. I thought, under all that self-suppress- ed manner, some strong motive lay hidden. Rebecca, people like you, with such eyes in their heads as you have got, do not ordinari- ly forgive such slights very readily. Hlave you forgiven your recreant lover? -Yes, Miss Sutherland." "You have? And why?" "Because I love him!" Some of the inwarj fire, so well suppressed, broke out in the girl's face and voice as she spoke; and Lucy, in the dim light, saw it. "Ahl I and what did he say when he saw" you here? boes he love you still?" "Yes." "Why, then, did he leave you?" Rebecca, flushed again. Mr. Benoir's ex- planation sounded very lame and humiliating retold. "Because - because - Miss Sutherland," said Rebecca, desperately. "I decline an- swering that question 1" "As you please. But he told you he still loved you?" ' He did." "And would marry you?" "Yes," said the housemaid, impatiently; growing tired of ghis searching catechism. "When?" "When he has money enough to keep a wife as she should be kept." "But hle seems to have plenty of money now. He dresses as only a rich man can afford to dress, his pockets are always full, and he ' wears a diamond-ring. Why does he not marrv you now?" Rebecca's answer was an impatient ges- ture. bhe had no faith in the man she loved, though she tried with all the strength of her woman's heart to believe' him. She had trusted him implicitly once, and had been de- i ceived; and with that betrayed trust had , died her faith in mankind forever. But she loved him still-how entirely, how devoted- , ly, how insanely, none but herself knew- ' and her faith in him was, only hoping against I hope. c He could marry you now if he chose. He has plenty of money, wherever it comes - from. why does lie not do it?" It ' Miss Sutherland!" clied Rebecca, with sudden fierceness ; *' let me alone I I am not a good woman at my best, but you seem to a raise the very demon within me. Why he e does not marry me, is my affair, not yoursa., Let me go to my room." page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] She rose up, but Lucy's thin hand closed on her wrist like a spring. "Not yet l" she said; "not yet. One good turn deserves another. You have' told me what you know, now wait and listen to whai I know!" Rebecca sat down again, her hands folded in her lap, her black brows contracting omi- nously, her thin lijps compressed, her eyes fixed on the young lady's face. "You will not tell me why Gaston lBenoir does not marry you. Shall I tell you?" "If you can!" "I can, very easily I It. is simply because he is going to marry some one else 1" "Miss Sutherland 1" I am telling you the truth. I know pos. itively he would have been married before this, if the girl's mother would have given her consent." The dark housemaid sat stunned. In the dim light, Lucy could see the fixed stare of blank consternation in her dilating eyes. "He loves this girl, I am sure, and he does not love you. He is a liar and a villain, and he has deceived you, my poor Rebecca, as cruelly as ever woman was deceived by man." Rebecca neither moved nor spoke. Her whole face and form seemed to settle into an awful rigidity, her unwinking eyes still star- ing; blankly at the speaker. Lucy was al- most frightened. "Rebecca," she said, shaking her slightly; do you hear me? are you turning to stone? Speak to me, Rebecca. Have you heard what I said?" "Yes." The monosyllable dropped from her lips like an icicle, but her glittering black eyes never left the speaker's lace. "Do you believe me?" "Yes." "Do you not want to know the girl's name -the name of your fortunate rival 1?" "Yes." "Her frozen manner relaxed as she said it, and a sudden. fury leaped into her tigegish black eyes. i"Yes," she repeated, under her breath, half hissing the words-"Yes; what is her name?" i "Sophie Weldon! The' prettiest girl in St. Mary's, Rebecca, and she adored him. You know whom I mean, pretty Sophie Wel- don, whose mother keeps the hotel." "Yea, yes, yes 1"Rebecca cried, with de- vouring eagerness. " 1 know! I have seen her I A pretty wax doll, with pink cheeks and blue eyes, and yellow curls! Oh, I might have known I I might have known!" She shook off Miss Sutherland's grasp, and rose up, her tall stature looking gigantic in the gloom. d "Have you anything more to tell me. Miss Sutherland?" "Not much," said Lucy, also rising. "You ee can easily prove the truth of my story by go. t ing to St. Mary's, and inquiring." "Oh, I don't doubt it. It is very like Gas i ton Benoir. I am not surprised at him. i - am only surprised'at myselt, that I could s have been such a blind fool 1" "And Rebecca," said Lucy, uneasily, "all r this is to remain a dead secret between our- selves. You understand?" "I understand perfectly, Miss Sutherland, e and am much obliged to you! Permit me to bid you good-night." "Good-night, Rebecca," Lucy said; and the tall, dark figure flitted away, shadow-like, einto tLae deeper darkness of the attic-stairs. CHAPTER XXI. \eS MR, BENOIR'S DILEMMA. f The day after the evening in the summer- house, Mr. Gaston Benoir sat in his own pri- vate apartment in the Weldon House, enjoy- L ing solitude and a choice cigar. Smoking 3came as natural and was almost as neces- saryas breathing to the ex-Troubadour, and r now in an easy-chair by the window, his legs elevated on another, Mr. Benoir, in after-dinner mood, smoked and mused. It was late in the afternoon, cold and rainy, with a raw wind blowing fresh from the sea. The sky was of lead, the slanting rain beat ceaselessly on the glass, and the sea-gale rattled the shutters and shook the windows of the Weldon House. But Mr. Benoir, gazing reflectively at the stormy day, felt very comfortable. His room Was such a pleasant one, his cigar super-ex- tra, his dinner digesting easily, what more is needed, to make man happy. Down-stairs, a pretty girl was dying for him-a girl young and fresh and innocent, and whom he loved. Yes, Mr. Be4oir loved pretty Sophie as he had loved some score of others off and on; and which lovings had never come to any- thing. But this time the fickle Troubadour was serious. "I'm getting old," thought Mr. Benoir, looking contemplatively out at two or three young ladies picking their steps through the muddy street. "'When a man gets on the wrong side of thirty as many years as I have, he cannot call himself young any longer. I'm about tired of knocking around this big world, a foothall for fate to kick at, and I feel as though I should like to settle down for good. YNow," Mr. Benoir pursued men- tally, lighting another cigar, " the first great step toward settling down is to get mnaried. I never had much of an opinion of matrimony until these last few weeks; but my pretty little Sophie is an angel, or next door to one. It's something to be loved, too, as she loves me. Not but what I've had a surfeit of it in my time. There's that confounded Rebecca, and be hanged to her!" Mr. Benoir smoked with vindictive energy, scowling at the rain, as the image of Lucy Sutherland's tall housemaid rose before him. "I thought I was done with her," went on Mr. Benoir, continuing his tiain of thought, "when I jilted her in New Orleans. She's one of your high-stepping sort, and I thought her too proud ever to give me another thought. But le grande diable himself could not un- derstand these women! Here she hunts me down; and when I have almost ceased to re- member her, turns up at the very worst time for me, ripe and ready for no end of mischief. I am only surprised that I quieted her so easily that night, when she rose up before me like a black'ghost. I shouldn't have expect- ed it." Mr. Benoir smoked for awhile, musing on this point; and having surmounted it, went on. I "Now, I might concoct a story for the prudish old dame down-stairs, that would satisfactorily account for my sudden wealth, and get her consent and blessing, and so on; but what's the use of that, with this tiger-cat in the way?- No, there is too much of the devil in that girl to be braved. If that unfor- tunate little beauty, Eulalie, had a tithe of her spirit, 1 would have a hard fight for the victory. No, I cannot defy Rebecca. Sophie and 1 must make a moonlight-flitting of it- Young Lochinvar - that style of thing, rather!" While Mr. Benoir sat absorbed in these matrimonial reflections, blue-eyed Sophie, down-stairs in the parlor, sat alone, with a cloud on her fair face. Perhaps it was the gloom of the gloomy day; perhaps she found her own thoughts bad company; or perhaps it was that her handsome Gaston had left her alone since morning. She sat embroidering that gossamer bridal-handkerchief that Lucy utherland had admired, frowning at the rosebuds and forget-me-nots all the while. Her sisters were at work in the kitchen-cabi- net; but golden-haired Sophie, the beauty and pet, was also the lady of the family, and never soiled her taper fingers with anything harder than needlework. So this rainy afternoon she sat looking dis- consolately out at the dark, forlorn day, in the intervals of her work, thinking of her hard fate in having such an obdurate mother- cr, and wondering what Mr. Benoir might be about up in his chamber. She was sitting with her back to the door, gazing at the beating rain, and. sloppy streets, when a familiar step in the hall set her heartheating, and she turned round as the door opened. "Oh, it's you, is it?" said Miss Weldon, slightingly. "I thought it was Fanny." "You would rather it was Fanny, wouldn't you, now?"' said Mr. Benoir, coming forward and kissing the pretty, pouting face in very offhand fashion. "You want me to believe that, I suppose?" "It's of no consequence what you believe I Have you been asleep all day, pray?" "By no means. I am not in the habit of sleeping in daytime." "What have you been about, then?" "Thinking, my dear." Of what " "Of you.7' "I don't believe it," said Miss Sophie, re- lenting, with a smile, nevertheless. "You might have been down here with me, if you liked." "It is true though, Sophie. I want to talk to you, seriously. Put down that sewing, and listen to me." Sophie dropped her work, and looked up at him, with wondering blue eyes. The up- lifted face looked so fresh and blooming, and rosy and innocent, that Mr. Benoir was tempted to kiss it again, by way of preface. Accordingly, he did so. "Is that what you call talking seriously," said Sophie, blushing, and hitching the seat further back. "Behave yourself!" "Sophie," said Mr. Benoir, gravely, "you don't know how much I love you!" "Don't I?" said Miss Weldon. "My mem- ory must be very bad then, for you have told me so several times, ifnot oftener." "Sophie," continued the Troubadour. wav- ing down the interruption, "I am going to get married!" "To-"Sophie paused, alarmed. "To'you, my pretty blue-eyes, if you will marry me; to some one else, if you won't. But I am going to be married before the new moon wanes." "Dear mee " said Sophie, pouting again. "What's your hurry? Is thatwhat you have been meditating on all day?" "Yes." Sophie shrugged her pretty shoulders dis- dainfully, but Mr. Benoir's face showed he was quite in earnest. He took both her hands in his, and leaned forward. "My pretty Sophie, will you be my wife?", "Oh, Gaston 1" "Will you be my wife, Sophie?" "Gaston, you know mother will not con- sent." "Let her refuse, then. I am not asking mother, but you. What do you say?" "You know--you know I am willing enough," faltered Sophie, "but how can I when mother-" "Oh, confound your mother I I beg your page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] pardon, my dear Sophie, but really I lose patience when I think of that absurd old woman. What, under Heaven, does she want; surely a son-in-law young, rich, and handsome, ought to satisfy her, and I flatter myself I am all these!" , "You know very well what she wants," said Sophie, a little nettled at his disrespect. "'She wants to know where your riches come from-and so do I!" Mr. Benoir laughed good-Hnaturedly, and chuckled Sophie's dimpled chin. "I dare say you do, my little daughter of mother Eve. Well, when we are a year and a day married, I sh; 11 tell you. Oh, don't pull your hands away, and don't look so deeply displeased. Dear little hand," said Mr. Benoir, kissing the left one, "how well a wedding-ring would become it!" Sophie was not proof against this, and hid -a very roseate face on Mr. Benoir's coat-collar. "Oh, Gaston I what is the use of tallking I You know I can't get married!" "Why not, my darling?" "Because mother-" "There!" cried Mr. Benoir, imperiously, "I won't have it I Let mother go to the antipodes, if she likes. You can marry me, if you love me, in spite of fifty cantankerous old mothers." "Gaston Benoir, stop calling my mother names, if you please. How?" "By eloping!" "Eloping!" repeated Miss Weldon, aghast. "Yes, my love. Running away with me, you know, and being married.,bh special license. Come I don't look so confounded; other girls do it every day, and twice as much, for love, and why not you?" "But.- oh dear me, Gaston--" "Yes, I know, I have taken all that into consideration; but still I maintain my point. ' I love you, as I have told you once or twice before, if you remember, and I want to be married, and this is the only way. That un- reasonable mother of yours is too absurd for anything, so I leave her out of the question. You had better say ' yes', for I never learned to court." "But Gaston, to run away is so shocking I What would everybody say? Oh dear me!" cried Miss Weldon, breathlessly. Mr. Benoir resolutely lifted the flushed face, that was dimpling all over with smiles, in spite of her best efforts to look unspeaka- bly shocked. "Sophie, do you love me?" "Ye-.ees P" "Well, then, don't be talking nonsense! Let everybody say what everybody pleases. Mrs. Gaston Benoir off on her bridal-tour can safely snap her fingers at them. Come, Sophie, consent!" "Oh dear me!" said Miss Weldon, dis. tressed. "I don't know what to do, I'm sure!" "Are you afraid to trust me, Sophie?" "Oh no!" "Then consent, or let us part. I shall never ask you again!" Sophie hid her face in her, hands and wouldn't speak. Mr. Benoir arose sternly. "I wish you a good afternoon, Miss Wel- don. I see we are to part." "No, no!" exclaimed Sophie, starting up, alarmed, as he knew she would. "Don't go, Gaston I I consent; I will do anything, only don't go!" "That is my darling sensible little' girl!" said Mr. Benoir, delighted, and of course re- warding Sophie with an embrace. "I thought you would come to it! Now, when shall it be?" "'Oh, I don't know!" said Sophie, in dis- tress again. "It seems so dreadful, you know!" "Pooh I Stolen kisses are always sweetest. Let me see-not this week-I can't very well, but next will do. Can you be ready by the middle of next week?" "I suppose so. But-oh dear me, Gas- ton--" .. "There!" said Mr. Benoir, impatiently, "you have made that remark several times before, I think, Now for details. We will go out driving some morning and forget to re- turn. A convenient clergyman can be found to perform the ceremony; and then you are Mrs. Gaston Benoir as fast as a wedding-ring can make you, and accountable to no one but me for your actions. You can write a penitent letter to your mother that will melt the obdurate old lady at once. Mothers and fathers always come round, I notice, when it's of no use holding out any longer." "Do you really think so, Gaston?" said Sophie, relenting. "I know so, my dear. Then we will starn on our wedding tour; it shall be where you please-Lapland, if it suits you best, and you shall see, my pretty one, what the world is made of beyond this dull little vil- lage." Bophie's blue eyes sparkled. "I shall like that I But, Gaston-" "Well, my dear?" "How about my clothes. I shall have nothing to wear?" "Never mind," said Mr. Benoir, jingling a handful of eagles in his pocket, " here is the needful. You shall wear satins and velvet night and day, if it pleases you!" "You are a darling," said Sophie, laugh- ing and blushing; "and after the wedding- tour-what then?" "Then we shall come back, perhaps. I am tired of great cities, not to speak of being too well known there, and this quiet place soothes a fellow somehow. I think I shall come back, and buy an estate, and' build a villa, or something of that sort, buried in trees and flower-gardens, and turn gentle- man-farmer. How would you like that?" "Oh, I should like it!" cried Sophie, en- thlusiastically; "but are you really, really rich enough to do all this, Gaston?" "Really rich enough, Mrs. Benoir, and able to do twice as much. 1 have the purse of Fortunatus in my vest-pocket." "I should think so! Gaston, dear," coax- ingly, " tell me where you found it." Gaston, dear, sealed, the pleading lips in very lover-like fashion. "Twelve months after date I. promise to tell Mrs. Benoir the secret of my wealth, for value received. Don't coax, it is of no use. That is all settled now-isn't it?" "I suppose so! You have everything your own way." "And I always mean to have!" thought Mr. Benoir, but he di4 not say so. "What day next week are we to-to-oh, how dreadful it seems!" cried Sophie. "I don't -know exactly-Wednesday or Thursday, very likely. Meantime, you will say nothing of this, of course." , "Of course not! Gaston, I wish-I wish we were not obliged to run away!" "So am I, my pretty fiancee, but necessity knows no law ; so don't distress yourself. And now I think I will step down-stairs and get a glass of wine from mamma-in-law. I feel very thirsty after all this love-making!" Come back soon, Gaston!"Sophie said, shyly. "All right!" said easy Mr. Benoir, saun- tering out ot the parlor, humming a tune. Long after he left her, Sophie Weldon sat there in a blissful dream. It was all very proper, and very maidenly, of course, to be shocked and horrified, and so forth, at a pro- posal to elope; but for all that, little ecstatic thrills were vibrating through her heart at the thought. Not to speak of the romance (and who ever knew of a girl of eighteen who did not think of the romance?) not to speak of A the delight of being married (and who ever - knew ot a girl of eighteen, or twenty-eight, either, who did not want to be married?) there was the glorious prospect of seeing for the first time the great outer world, ol which she had read and heard so much. She would be a rich man's wife- and such a man, too How proud she would be of him, so handsome, so elegant, so gentlemanly, and such a wonderful singer. She would live in a lovely villa, with servants to come at her beck, with a lady's maid; perhaps a carriage to ride in, and satin morning-wrappers, very likely. How the young ladies of St. Mary's N would envy her-they did that now with right good will, but how much more so then! Who knew even what society she might not get into? She and that dark, beautiful Mrs. Arthur Sutherland, whom she admired be- yond everythin., might be bosom4riends yet. A vision rose belore Sophie-the long drawing-room at Maplewood-she had seen it once, and its untold splendor had haunted her ever since. Mrs. Sutherland at the pi- ano; and she (Mrs. Benoir) resplendent in blue velvet and diamond-necklace, listening, while Mr. Sutherland and Mr. Benoir smok- ed their cigars on the lawn, and Mr. Benoir looked by tar the handsomer of the two. Sophie's castle in the air went up faster than ever Aladdin's palace did. The com- mon hotel-parlor, with its faded carpet and shabby chairs; the muddy, sloppy, deserted street; the ceaseless rain and raw wind, were all alike lost to view for the time, and So- phie was happy. What a splendid fellow her lover was!- so like one of those dear, de- lightful, mysterious, dark-looking brigands, she loved so much to reak about. He was handsome enough, and good enough, Sophie knew, for a king, and- "Dear, dear,' dear Gaston! how mu8h I love you!" she thought, with the rosy light in her. face again. Something brought her meditations to an end there-a curious figure fluttering along in the chilly wind. A tall woman, so slen- der as to make her height remarkable- dressed in black, and wearing a, black vail down over her face' Sophie looked at her curiously-the woman came steadily on through the wet and windy twilight. "Why!" exclaimed Sophie, aloud; "she is coming here 1"' Two minutes after, the parlor-door open- ed, and Fanny Weldon came in. * "Sophie, are you here? Qh yes I Please step this way, Ma'am. Sophie, here's a lady says she wants to see you." "To see me.?" said Sophie, rising in her surprise, as the tall woman in black came forward into the room. "Yes, quite alone, if you please," said a voice behind the vail. Fanny took the hint, and retreated. So- phie, still in a state of surprise, presented a chair. "Won't you sit down?" said Sophie ; aid not knowing what else to say, paused, sat dowi4erself. The woman in black took the seat, but still I keeping her vail down, and staring at her x through it, as Sophie felt. "You are Miss Sophie Weldon?" said the a visitor. "r Yes," said Sophie. s The mysterious lady threw back her val \\ / page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] -and Sophie saw a face she had never seen be- tore, and which she never forgot. So hand- some and so taggard, so dark and so fierce, with great hollow black eyes, and thin, com- pressed lips. : "You don't' know me?" said the visitor, staring in a most uncomfortable manner -out of those wild, black eyes. "No," said Sophie; "I don't. I never saw you before, to the best of my knowledge." 4"Nor heard of me? My name is Rebecca Isaacs 1" r / "Nor heard of you," said Sophie, more and more surprised. "s Ah!" said the owner of the black eyes, "4 I thought perhaps you had, knowing Gas- ton Benoir, who knows me so well r" MFr. Benoirl"' said Sophie, startled strangely by the manner of her visitor; *, he knows you-does he" , ' Knows me!" repeated her visitor with a laugh that sounded uncomfortably hard and mirthless; ,' Oh yes I Mr. Benoir knows me very well I You are to be married to him, I hear 1" "Ma'am!" faltered Sophie, very much13car- ed. 'PDon't be alarmed, I beg, Miss Weldon! I won't hurt you, and there is no need of that firightened tace I Yes, I heard that'you were going to be married to Gaston Benoir, and I came here to see!" "Andlwhat business is it of yours?" arose to Sophie's lips; but the dark, haggard face, and big, glitterig, black eyes looked so start- ling in the twilight, that her coiurage failed her. . ' Why do you wish to know " she asked, quite tremblingly, instead. "-Because,I came to forbid the marriage. Gaston Benoir can never make you his wilte." 'Sophie gave a gasping cry, and then sat spell-bound. " "He cannot marry you!" reiterated the woman in black, "because he is bound to an- other-to me 1" "Are you hLis wife?"Sophie gasped, ra- ther than said. "No!" said the woman; ' no wedding- ring ever crossed my finger, but lie is bound to mie by every tie of honor and truth, by ev- ery solemn promise that man can give. He belongs to me, and to me alone. I should have been his wift long, lon'g ago, if he were anything but a false-hearted, lying scoundrel. lIe has no right to marry another, and he ' never shall." The suppressed vehemence of her tone and the white fury throbbing in her face were indescribable. Poor Sophie shrank away from heir, and hid her face in her lbands. Her ,Yi'hrlooked at her with no touch l-of pity in h lamtfing black eyes. G "If you are crying for him," she said, bit. terly, " you had better dry your tears, he is not worth one. He has deceived me, as basely and cruelly as ever woman was de. ceived. He has deceivedyou; for, no longer, ago than last week, he promised solemnly to marry none but me. When were you to be his wife?" "Next week," Sophie sobbed, in an out, burst of girlish distress. "Oh dear me I dear me I I wish I had never been bom!" "Bah!" cried the woman, with supreme scorn; "what do you cold-blooded creatures here in the North know of love, and passion, and bate, and misery, such as we-such as I feel? You sit there crying now, as you would cry, I dare say, for a party, or a new bonnet you had lost, and forget your trouble a month after in a new lover, as you would in a new bonnet. If I could weep as you do, I might forgive Gaston Benoir. I might leave this place, and let him marry his latest fancy. But I cannot weep, and I cannot forgive! Where is he?" "Down Ptairs," said Sophie; whose hand. kerchief was quite drenched with tears; , he will be here in a little while. Wait until he -cotmes; and if what you say be true, let him choose between us. I am sure I cannot say fairer than that." Sophie's sobs here quite drowned her voice, and her visitor broke into a short, disagreea. ble laugh. "Yes, yes, let it be as you say; let him choose between us. Ah! here he comes!" A quick step was taking the stairs three at a time, and he came noisily into the room, whistling an opera-tune. It was so dark, coming out of the lighted hall into the dim parlor, that Mr. Benoir only saw the figure sitting in the chair, and not the other, crouch. ing on a low stool, its face hidden in its hands. Perhaps, too, the wine he had drank -and he had drank a good deal-had raised his spirits and dimmed his vision, for he caught the figure in the chair rapturously in his arms. "My darling Sophie!" he cried; * all in the dark? Why, what's this? Bonnet and shawl on, and quite wet I Now you never mean to say you lhave been out!" Sophie gave a little gasp of consternation, and rose up. The woman in the chair arose at the same instant, and flung him of so vio- lently that he reeled back. "You have made a slight mistake, Mr. Benoir," said a terribly familiar voice. "I don't happen to be your darling Sophie, so you had better reserve your embraces.,' "Tlhe devil!" exclaimed Mr. Benoir, greet- ing her in his amazement as he had greeted her once before, "Rebecca 1' ,' Exactly,; said Rebecca. "I see you rec / onize me, aithough it is dark, and so does fiss Weldo- Perhaps we had better have a light that you may Make sure." Sophie, was already lighting the lamp. A she placed it on the table, she saw er lover standing, pale and confounded, staring at her dark visitor, whose fierce black eyes never winked. Only for a mioment. Mr. Benoir was not easily discomposed at any time, and X the winee h de &ank wyuarme d his courage. i "Isay, Sop'hie, " he said, turning to his frightened and tearful fiancee, n who is this? : An escaped Bedlamite cg Ir Rebecca talked up to him with so tigerish a glare, that involuntarily he recoiled. t Gaston Benoir," she hissed rather than said, "you know me and I know you. -I know you for a liar a swindler, a gambler, X and a scoundrel. What do you know me for'" , A she-devil!" said Mr. Benoir, " if ever there was one. Suppose I do know you, what the deuce do you mean by coming here and frightening this young lady into fits!" I- V Gaston 1" cried b8ophe, clinging to him, and melting into another outhurst of tears, "she has been saying the most dreadful things. She says you have deceived her. and deceived Me." Deceivedi you 1" said Mr. Benoir, with a short laugh. "4I should like to know how she makes that out." 4 She says-she says," sobbed Sophiie, 4 that you promised to marry her." "' Well," said Mr. Benoir, " suppose I did, and supposing I repent of this promise, what then Yea He looked full at Rebecca, his handsome face contemptuous, defiant. Rebecca stood like a black marble statue. Her face all white and rigid. Her black eyes flaming like the burning stars. "Yes," she repeated, slowly. "What then 2" "Why, then, she may go to Old Nick, where alie belongs, for me," replied the ex- Troubadour. , dophie, my little darling, stop crying. You'll swell your face and redden your eyes and nose, and-won't look pretty, you know. Miss Rebecca Isaacs, or Stone, or whatever you choose to call yourself, it is going to be a stormy night, and pitca- dark, and the sooner you are on the road home the better." The wine Mr. Benoir had drank had made him foolhardy- indeed, or, knowing this woman as he did, he never would have dared to talk like this. She stood before him omi- nously calm, never taking her jet-blaCk eyes off his face-eyes that had, in ithe lamplight, a horribly wolfish, hungry glare. "And this is all you have to say to me, (Gasoea-to me, Rebecca Isaacs I' "All, Miss Isaacs!" "And, a few nights ago, you swore that I, and I onlyj should be your wife-." ' "Did I? Well, I wanted to keep you qiet, I suppose, and I knew that would do it 1 didn't mean it, you know, and I don't." "And you mean to marry her?" Mr. Benoir encircled Sophie with his arm, and bent andkisted the tearful face hiding itself on his shoulder. "My pretty Sophie! I Yes, I mean to mar. ry her. Don't you admire my taste, Rebecca t? Don't you think I shall have a charming little wife?" Rebecca Isaacs walked to the door. With her hand on the knob, she turned and looked at him. Such a looks In either eye, sat a devil. Even Mr. Benoir was discomposed; but, before he could speak, she did. "You have made your choice, Gaston," she said, in that suppressed voice of hers. "You have told the truth for once. Miss Weldon, I congratulate you. Don't you be afraid of my even coming here to alarm you again. I have heard all I wanted to hear, and am mtich obliged to your future husband for his candor. Mr. Benoir, good night." Rebecca!" he called, startled strangely by the tone in which she spoke, by the awful light in her eyes, but Rebecca was gone. Out in the wind and rain, flitting along like a dark ghost through the blind, black night. CHAPTER XXII. DEEPENING MYSTERY. Miss Sutherland and Rebecca, the house- maid, had had another interview on the morning after that confidential talk in the L former's room. This time it was solicited by Rebecca, and the two had come to a thorough understanding. The housemaid had spoken with remarkable plainness; and though t Lucy's blue eyes had glittered a little, sue had taken it all in very good part. ," We had better understand one another perfectly, Miss Sutherland," Rebecca said. - I know your motive in wishing to ferret out i the secret between your cousin's wife and i Gaston Benoir. You hate Mrs. Sutherland, r and you would get her in your power it' you * could, and I don't think you will be over-par- - licular as to the means. I don't want you to a thiuk that I am right-admission could not ,make my belief stronger, as denial could not e make it weakened." 3 "You are bold!" said Lucy Sutherland, d looking at her with that pale glitter in her i- light eyes. ;s '. Yes, Miss Sutherland; a woman is gener- t, ally bold when she is reckless and desperate. I am both, it what you said last niget be e, true. Perhaps you don't understand these things; but when a woman like me, hobt E . v page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] blooded and passionate, sets her whole heart on one stake, and loses, she is not apt to be over-particular what she says or does. If you choose, after this, to let me remain here in my character of housemaid, we may indi- rectly tuther each other's ends; ift you don't-why, no matter. I can ro elsewhere. I came here, not for the situation of chamber- maid, Miss Sutherland, but to attain an ob. ject, as you have already suspected. That object I have attained; and if what you told me be correct, I shall probably leave this place very soon." "Rebecca!"Miss Sutherland exclaimed, With irrepressible curiosity, , who are you- what are you? You are more of a mystery thaneven I took you to be I' "mneed be no mystery; and there is very little romance in my life. 1 an-of Jewish descent;and, through Gaston Benoir's busi- ness-transactions with my father, I first knew him. I have neither father nor mother now. If my father had left me as wealthy at his death as it was supposed he would have done, I should have been that man's wife before Uns. But I was no heiress, and Gaston Be- noir deserted me 1" I "Yes," said Lucy, "for little Sophie Wel- don, who is no heiress either." "I shall soon ascertain that," said Rebecca, not losing herominous calm. "What I want to say to you, Miss Sutherland, is this. I can 'ther your ends by remaining here, if you will permit me.. Shall I remain A J,. "My ends l" said Lucy, with a strange look. "What are my ends?" "The destruction of -your cousin's wife!" "Rebecca 1" "Oh, Miss Sutherland, I quite understand. If you say remain, I remain. If you say go, I go. I am alone in the world, and a reck- less woman. I don't much care what be- comes of me; and I can accomplish what lies before me elsewhere as well as here." "What lies before you? I don't under- stand you, Rebecca." "It is not necessary you should," said Re- bcca, with a dark look. Shall I go or stay?.' "Stay," said Miss Sutherland, , and act as you please; but remember, whatever hapo- pens, I am no accomplice of yours. I know ] nothing of your designs, and wish to know ] nothing. Your suspicious maybe erroneous c or correct; but they are only suspicions. I admit nothing. While you remain here, you J are free to go and come as you please; but it r were better to give the other servants no a grounds tor gossip. You understand?" "I understand. I admire your prudence. and am much obliged to you." l Rebecca bent her head, and quitted the room. All that day, her housemaid's duties rt were performed as usual. There was nothing e to find fault with, nothing slighted or le u If done. The'kitchen-cabinet discovered, per- e haps, that the dark, inscrutable face of the - unsocial housemaid was darker and gloomier even than usual; but they had a wholesale awe of those fierce black eyes of hers, and - prudently criticisedat a safe distance. Later in the afternoon, without asking permission or speaking to any one, she had dressed and d gone out in the rain; and Lucy, quietly ob- s servant, had guessed her errand. The night set in, wild and wet, and windy. , Lucy, for some cause, grew strangely nervous - about the absent housemaid. Every blast of y stormy wind that roared through the rocking trees and shook the old stone louse vibrated r along her nerveswith a fearthatwasnameless. L Suca a stormy night, and such a long, deso- late walk for that girl back from the village. r Suppose she and Glston Benoir had met, and -to meet him Lucy felt certain had been her errand-suppose they quarreled, as quarrel tey were sure to do. Suppose he fllowed her along that dark, forsalken road. aid the mysterious housemaid disappeared as sud- denaly and mysteriously as she had appeared. Months, perhaps, ater this, a woman s body would be found, with a grisly gash across the throat; and some, tattered fragments of a black dress, to identify Rabecca 6tone! Lucy Sutherland whitened at the thought, and waited with a nervous anxiety she nad never felt before in her lite for the coming of her servant. It was nine o'clock, and the storm was rag- ing wild and tempestuous before Rebecca came. ,ucy met her on the stairs, drenched from head to Ioot with the soaking rain, splashed with mud, pale, haggard, and wretched-looking. All her beauty seemed to have gone in a few short hours. No one would have palled the hollow-eyed vision dripping with wet handsome now. "Rebecca I Rebecca!"Lucy said,'breath- lessly, i' where have you been such. a night?" I The girl looked at her with a weisd light in spectral eyes. "You know," she said; " to St. Mary's 1" "You are soaking wet," said Miss Suther- land, hastily, and with very uncommon so- licitude. "Go to your room at once, and change your clothes.". eRebecca obeyed the first part of this in- Junction by brushing past and going to her room. Blut not to cuange her clothes. She seated herself by the window in her dripping garments, and there kept vigil the long night through. Gaston Benoir in his hotel-chain- ber, sleeping the sleep of the just, might pasr- haps have had his dreams diturbeld Uald he known of that ghostly night-watch, and i ' the thoughts the deceived Jewess was think- 1 in. ,or the rest of the week, Rebecca was the same inscrutable mystery to all as before. She went through her daily tasks with faultless and painstaking precision--she was civilly attentive when spoken to, but she never ad- dressed any one of her own accord, and never lingered a moment in the kitchen among her fellows, save when it was absolutely neces- sarv. She sal at the window when her day's duties were done, gazing out with her glitter- ing black eyes, staring at vacancy, and a look of fierce, steady purpose in the compressed mouth. In the keeping of these silent watches, the fierce suppressed spirit within her wore her to a shadow; but to all Miss Sutherland's solicitous inquiries, she always answered "No, she was not ill; she was per- fectly well." What the silent, passionate- hearted girl suffered during these days and nights, her haggard face and hollow eyes alone told. Some one else in that old gray stone man- sion was waning, too, like the waning moon. Eulalie moved about the house slowly and wearily, more like a spirit than a woman. Her wan, moonlight-face startled you out of these profuse jetty ringlets, and the large dark eyes looked at you with a wisttul mourntfulness, very sad to see. The sweet low laugh, the sott singing in the blue sum- mer-twilight, no longer made music in the old rooms. The sunshine seemed to have faded out of her young life forever, and see- ing her in moonlight or twilight, so small, so wan, so fragile, you would have looked to see her float away in the pale mist, like any other spirit. Arthur Sutherland watched his wife fading away, dayby'day, before his eyes, with atrou- ble Heaven only knew. He could guess the cause-this hidden, miserable secret-the mysterious power that unknown man at St. Mary's held over her, and from which she would give him no right to shield her. iHe had not spoken of it to her since; but he never ceased to think of it-to bewilder himself over it all day long, and to have it disturb his dreams by night. There was a mournful ten- derness in his love and care for her now, an unceasing watchfulness, that was very like her grandfather in the old days. He was so unhappy, and so solicitous to hide that un- happiness, and appear as he used to be, that his heart never knew peace of late; and it seemed to himself when he was alone, that he took off a mask and stopped some weary piece of acting. , One evening, almost a week after that night of 'storm and wind, on which Rebecca, the housemaid, had disturbed Mr. Benoir's woos ing a little, he sauntered out into the sunset to smoke an afterF-dinner cigar. A brilliant sunset, the whole Western sky rosy with its glory, and billows of purple and gold sailing through fleecy white. He turned his face terrace-ward, and the sea spread out bethfore him with the reflected hues of the sunset gorgeous on its placid face. The summer-breeze was deliciously cool; and came sweet with the scent of rose and jasminie and southern-wood. Sea and sky melted away far oil into purple mist, in and out of which ships flitted like phantoms, with their white wings spread. The hush of even- tide lay over all, and a pale young crescent- moon glimmered in the blue arch overhead. The beauty of the summer-sunset was inde- scribable, and leaning over the iron railing of the terrace, as he had seen her so often before, stood Eulalie, as he was never in this world to see her again. Long, long after, that vision came back in other summer-sunsets-that let- tle frail figure robed in white, with a shawl of crimson silk tailing off in the grass, and the feathery black ringlets falling low. She looked up with a welcoming smile as he drew near; but she was so colorless, so thin, so worn, that it went to his heart. The great dark .eyes had a look of utter weari- ness, as if the soul looking out of their mournful depths 'were tired of the struggle and longed to be free. "My pale little wife," he said, tenderly; "what shall I do to keep you from fading away into a spirit as you are doing?" Her eyes filled with tears at the loving compassion of his tone, and she clasped her thin hands round his arm. "Arthur dear," she said; "how good you are to me; how true, how patient, how lov- ing; and how ungrateful I am in return." ! Ungrateful, my love I Oh no!" "I have been thinking, Arthur, while I stood here, how happy-oh, how very happy, -I have been In this place. My whole lie seems to come back to me to-night and I wonder why I should have been so blessed, r while thousands of others more deserving f drag out their lives in misery, and want, and wretchedness. I have been too happy, Ar- thur; and 1 have not been good, I have not deserved it, and so I have no reason to com- plain now." . D You not good, my darling," he said, mournfully; "my precious wife, you have been the good angel of all who ever knew I you.", It "No," said the little Creole, shaking her b head, penitently; "no, I have not been so good as I should have been. I know you t must think it very, very bad of me, Arthur, e that I do not tell you this secret of my ife * now. But I cannot, I dare not, and yet you t trust and love me still." page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] "I will trust and love you until death, my darling." / "My poor dear," she said, looking at him with infinite compassion, "you may not have to trust and love me very long then, af- ter all." I Eulalie I Eulalie I what are you saying?" he cried, in affright. "What do you mean?' *'Arthur, dear, would it grieve you very much, very, very much to lose me?" "To lose you, Eulalie?" "Yes, Arthur-if I should die!" Hie caught her suddenly in his arms, his face as white as her dress. "For God's sake, Eulalie, don't say such things I I couldn't bear it-1 will not lose you! Let me take you away from here Let me take you to Cuba.-to Europe-any- where out of this-anywhere from this man!" Again she shook her head. "It would do no good, Arthur. He would follow me to the ends of the earth to wreak his revenge 1" "His revenge I My love, how did you ever injure him " "I, Arthur I Oh, it is not that-it is not I who injured him I But it is all the same- the punishment falls on me I Arthur-dear- est, best husband that ever was in this world -it is very hard; but I fear, I fear we must part soon. Oh, Arthur I once I thought as you do-that I could not lose you; and yet now-" Her head dropped on his arm, and her. voice died away. She was not crying; her despair was beyond that relief. "1 will know what all this mystery means!" Arthur Sutherland cried, with clenched teeth. "I will see this Gaston Benoir at once, and end this horrible mystery. I shall not ask you to tell me, Eulalie; ff you have promis- ed the dead, keep your promise; but he shall I I will endure this no longer!" He started up while he spoke, but she clung to him, her beseeching eyes lifted to his face. "For my sake, Arthur-if you ever loved me-wait I You shall know, you shall know very soon; but be patient a little while yet, dear I You are happier now than you will- be, my poor Arthur, when you know the truth!" "Eulalie," said Arthur, "if you were an adept in the. art of torturing, you could not succeed better. No certainty, let it be ever so dreadful, could be worse than this sus- pense!" "Perhaps not," said Eulalie, sadly; "but wait, Arthur, for my sake You will not have to yait very long. The sun has set, and it is growing cold; let us go back to the house." Clinging to his arm, she went slowly back r to the house with him. For the last timer But she knew it not, only conscious of being weary and cold, and shivering in the warm t air. They walked to the house as they never -were to walk together again in this world- silent and sad, but all unconscious that the dark clouds gathering in their siy were at the blackest, and the Storm so awfully near r at hand. Mr. Sutherland spent a wakeful night, and descended when the breakfast-bell rang, pale, jaded, and unrefreshed. Mrs. Sutherland never got down before luncheon-time of late, so Lucy and he breakfasted alone. His let- ters lay beside his plate as usual, quite a little heap of them, and he opened and read, while he sipped his coffee and ate his toast. There was one from his mother, which he read aloud to Lucy-she and Augusta were still at Cape May, and passing the warm weather very pleasantly. Philip Sutherland was still their cavalier, and was as lazy and good for nothing, and as vehemently scolded by Augusta as ever. The last letter of the heap rather surprised Mr. Sutherland. It was?n an unknown hand, post-markedit. Mary's, and bore date the preceding day. "Who have we here?" he said, with a puzzled face, "I have no correspondents in St. Mary's who write like this. Ah!" He stopped suddenly and tore it open. He glanced at the top. It began formally, , Sir". He glanced at the signature-"A Friend". The letter was anonymous, and he had ex- pected to see the name of Gaston Benoir. Very much Surprised, Mr. Sutherland be- gan the letter at once, his face growing dead- ly pale as he read: "The wite of Arthur Sutherland-the descendant of a long line of proud and honorable men-should be like CUasar's, beyond reproach, If Mr. Sutherland chooses to see an interesting sight, let him be in hid- ing to-night at nine o'clock, near the old summer- house in the grounds. He will see. if he chooses to use his eyes. his wife stealing isecrecy 'ad darkness like A guilty thing, to meet the handsomest man ia S. Mary's-Gaston Senoir. It is not the first time that his charming Creole wife has stolen to meet this dark Adonis, though Mr. Sutherland may not know it. Mr. Benoir counts his dollars by the thousand since his first meeting with Mrs. Sutherland, and that Mr. Suth- erland will investigate the matter is the sincere ad- vice of A FRIEND." Arthur Sutherland's face was as white as that of a. dead man's, as he finished the anonymous epistle. An anonymous letter is the act of a coward and a villain, and no one. knew it better than he; but for all they are despised, they rarely fail to have their effect. Was his with and& Gastoa Benoir th3 theme of village gossip already? Was he, when he rode through St. Mary's, pointed out and pitied as the betrayed husband, tie confidinig ftol, who was blind where every one else saw? Could Eulalie be capable of deceit For one brief instant his faith in her was i staggered-tor one only; then all his love he and trust in the bright, beautiful creature he had won from her tropic home to bless his h life came doubly back. He crushed the let- - ter in his hand, and rose Irom the table, the ix pallor of his face turning to indignant red. ix ",I will show the villainous letter to Eula- t lie," he thought. "I will see the indignant tl truth flashing out of her glorious eyes." s1 Never looking at or thinking of his cousin, se who sat regarding him in calm astonish- s ment, he hurried to his wife's apartment,. with the crushed letter in his hand. But g Eulahe was asleep, sweetly and peacefully M as a little child, .her head pillowed in her l arm, her beautiful hair all tossed over the s white pillows. She looked so good and in- nocent, so much of a child in her slumber, 1 and yet with something Of the sadness of her t waking life haunting her sleep, too. His 1 heart smote him for oven that momentary suspicion, and he stooped hnd softly kissed the pale face. . "My innocent darling I my poor distressed a little child-wife I I will disbelieve my eyes 1 and ears and-all my senses; but I will never i believe you guilty. Whatever this horrible secret between you and this man, the damn- } ing insinuation this foul letter conveys is false. If I had the writer here, I would 1 throttle him?" E Mr. Sutherland did not return to his un- finished breakfast. He wandered aimlessly out into the grounds, and, almost without knowing it, toward the old summer-house. He had never been there since the night in which he had found Philip Sutherland battling with his trouble in the cold ground; and there was something ghastly to him in the place-as if poor Philip were dead, and his spirit haunted it still. The sylvan silence ofl the spot was only broken by the singing of the birds, the waving of the trees, and the musical murmur of wind and sea; and it looked by day-all wreathed in green and scented with roses-a fit spot, indeed, for a lover's rendezvous. No shadow of the awful deed so soon to be done there hovered darkly anywhere, to mar its peaceful beauty. The floor of the summer-house bore evi- dence of' man's occupation; for stumps of half-smoked cigars littered it in all d'irec- tions, and a soiled novel, of the yellow-cover species, and half a dozen sporting-papers, lay around. But there was nothing in this. Mr. Benoir, of course, had been there; he knew that already; and Mr. Benoir was al- ways smoking and reading. He turned out of the place, and loitered up and down the terrace, and through the leafy arcades and green woodland aisles of his ancestral home, trying to forget that cowardly letter, but all in vain. The words seemed branded in his heart, and tPrtured him almost as much as if they had been burned into his flesh with red- hot iron. Hlliswife-his pure, beautiful Eu- lalie-the talk of St. Mary's-she, the bene- Iatress of all there who were poor, or suffer- ing, or distressed, whispered of as-oh I the thought was maddening. He leaned against the trunk of a tree, in such bitter, bitter shame. and humiliation as only proud and sensitive men can feel, and they alone, in such supreme moments. "I love her," he said, with passionate grief, "as well as ever man lovedwoman; but I would rather see her in her coffin than like this. O my wife I my wile that you should have fallen so low 1" Once or twice during these wretched, aim- less wanderings he had started up to return to the chamber of his wife and show her the letter; but he always stopped short on the way. My poor girl!" he thought, with infinite compassion, "she has enougu to bear already without this. No, I will never tell her of this vile letter and may Heaven confound its writer, whoever it may be!" Later in the dlay, Mr. Sutherland mounted his horse and set off at mad gallop-any- where from his own thoughts. He rode through St. Mary's with a defiant face, and saw Mr. Benoir, handsome as Lucifer before his fall, sitting on the hotel-piazza, smoking and reading the morning-paper. He looked tup and raised his hat, and Mr. Sutherlandis reply was a scowl. Mr. Benoir looked after thim with infinite unconcern. "Go it!" said Mr. Benior, apostrophizing the receding figure. "' Look as black as you ilike, my turn is very near at hand. I dare ,say I should have postponed it longer, for athe fin of tormenting that little beauty of yours; but I want to wind up matters, and , run away with Sophie. The sooner we are ; out of the claws of that wild-cat Rebecca, the , better." r Mr. Sutherland returned to dinner, and e found his wife not yet out of her room; She 1 was lying on a sofa, dressed, when he enter- ed the apartment, suffering from one of her i- bad headaches. "f "Go down to dinner, Arthur," she said, :- "and don't keep Lucy waiting. I do not wish ;r any. Trifine will fetch me a cup of tea." i, "Then I shall stay with you, my love." S. "No, no!" said Eulalie, hurriedly. "I le had rather you went down. You know I am 1- always better alone When my head aches." t. She said it without looking at him, her ie pale face hidden in the cushions. Arthur id descended to dinner with a very grave facei ke, and his appetite effectually taken away. He "sat down to read when it was over-that iS, page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] he held a book up before his face, and'never said a word. How long he sat staring at it he never knew-half a century or so, it seemed to him, when Lucy, who had been out of the room for some moments, entered, with a face full of concern. How very rash-of Eulalie, Arthur," she said "with her bad headache, too. She will get her death." Her Cousin looked up fr6m his book, his heart seeming suddenly to stand still. "I suppose she thinks it will do her head- ache good," went on Lucy, ,"but she has just gone out -toward -the terrace, I think. At is very foolish of 'her, and you had better go and fetch her back." Arthur arose-his face very, very pale, and went out, without a word. The night was cloudy and the moon overcast, but the starlight was bright, and he walked straight to the terrace. No one was there, and he struck into the woodland path' leading to the summer-house. All was dark and silent as the grave. . He took his station under the denser shadow of the trees, his arms folded- to wait. From his post he could see the summer-house door, and no one could leave it without passing him. How long he wait- ed---what -he endured-keeping that horrible watch, Heaven only knows; but the door opened at last., And yes-there was no doubting it now-his wile came forth shroud- ed in black, and Gaston Benoir stood behind her. The man's parting words were spoken I lud, but in the hush of the night, he heard him distinctly:; "Good-nigtht, my pretty Eulalie, I am iorry, very sorry indeed, to distress you like this, but there is no help for it. cannot stand the pride of that aristocratic husband of yours any longer, my dear, so I shall have the pleasure of lowering it to-morrow by telling him your romantic little history. Good-night. my little beauty, and a thousand thanks for the money." Bulalie flitted past him-her dress brush- ing him, but he was undiscovered. He saw t Gaston Benoir re-enter the summe -house i and close the door, and for one moment his u impulse was to rush in and throttle him. t But, he held himself back, though his teeth ' were clenched, and cold drops stood on his "To-morrow I to-morrow!" he thought .' To-morrow I shall know all!" , CHAPTER XXm. a EULALIE'S FLIGHT. S The old-fashioned clock in the entrance- t all struck ten, and eleven; and Arthur 1] Butherland did not re-enter. Lucy, going her rounds to close up for th6 night, was grow- ng uneasy. She knew Eulahle was in her b r chamber, for she had caught a glimpse of her it going spiritlessly up-stairs; but her huband it -where was he? She was just thinking of I sending one of the men-servants out to look I, for him when the front-door opened, and he entered. Lucy fairly recoiled at her own e diabolical, success, tor his face was ghastly, 1 and he strode past her and into the drawing. room as if he did not see her-as a man might 3 do, walking in his sleep. She dared not follow him: there was something in his face she - had never seen in it before, and that awed s her. There is a dignity about supreme trou. bles that awes involuntarily. Lucy felt it, r and went softly up-stairs. "It has come," shesaid to herself. "My , revenge, so long and patiently waited for. M y letter has succeeded beyond nmy hopes. He cannot doubt the evidence of his own ; eyes. I wonder what the end will be?" Lucy was a long time falling asleep that night; and when she did sleep, her dreams were uneasy and disturbed. Her colSi's white stern lace glimmeredghost like through them all, mingled strongly with the fierce black eyes of Rebecca. It was a relief when morning came, and she arose to see the sun of a new day streaking with bars of fiery red the eastern sky. But, unrefreshing as Lucy's slumbers were there was one down-stairs who paced rest- lessly up and down the long drawing-room the whole night through. ie could nbt go to his room. fHe could not face his wife yet His strong faith was shaken as, only a few hours before, he had thought nothing could shake it. The image of his wife, stealing, as the letter had said, in secrecy and darkess, like a guilty thing, to meet this unknown man, was ever before him, until he felt as if he were going mad. Nothing could excuse such an act; no secret could extenuate it. She had degraded herself--she had degraded him, as no butherland had ever been degraded before. And yet, strange inconsistency! feel- ing all tins, he had never loved her better than now. Through the long hours of that miserable night, he paced up and' down, up and down, trying to calm himself with the thought that to-morrow would reveal all. And then, when the secret was known, whatever it was, the suffering it could inflict would be nothing to what he was enduring now. He would take his poor little wife far awayfrom St. Msry's and those who dared talk of her, and be happy and at peace again, as ix the early days of their union. No more secrets to keep them asunder, no miserable torturing doubts and fears to wear away their lives. Alas I and alas! for human dreams I Lucy Sutherland found her cousin aslee on one of the sofas when, longaiter the usual breaklast-hour, she went there in search of him. He looked so pale and careworn in f his sleep that her woman's heart, made of v flint for Eulalie, melted at the suffering of the man she loved. . "Poor fellow l' she thought. "Poor Ar- thin I, how happy he might still be if that wretched Creole had never come with her sorcery to blight his life!" It was nearly noon when Arthur awoke and sat up, with his bewildered face. A mo- ment later, and he remembered how he must have fallen asleep there, in the cold, gray dawn of the morning, and he rose up with a dull sense of trouble vaguely at his heart. Then the remembrance of Gaston Benoir and his words came back, and he knew that the day had come that was to unfold the mystery of his wife's life. He was stretching I his hand out to the bell when Lucy entered. "Awake at last?" she said, smiling. "How did you happen to all asleep here, Arthur?" "I hardly know," said Mr. Sutherland. "Has there been any one here inquiring for me this morning?" '"No!" "No one!" said her cousin, a little disap- pointed. "I expected a-a person-a gentle man to call. In fact, Lucy," said Arthur- rising, I expect Mr. Benoir this morning; and it he comes, show him into the library." Lucy dropped her eyes, with an inconceiv- ably calm face, and bowed assent. ,' Shall I send your breakfast into the library?" she asked. , it you please. Has Eulalie risen yet?" "I have not been in Mrs. Sutherland's room this morning. Do you Wish me to as- ceitain?" "Oh no!" A momentary desire to ascertain for him- self made him hesitate on his way to the library, but it was only momentary. -Better not meet her until he should know all, until the worst that could come was over, and when he could take her in his arms and bid her fear no more. Lucy dispatched coffee and rolls to the library, and Mr. Sutherland sat in his easy- chair, and resolutely wrenched his thoughts from the trouble of his lite and fixed them on commonplace things. He wrote letters, he looked over neglected accounts, he read the papers the morning-mail had brought, listen- ing all the while tor a ring at the bell and a step in the hall that should announce the man for whom he waited. But hour after hour passeJ, the long aunshiny afternoon wore away, and no one came. With every hour, he was growing more and more im- patient; and when five o'clock came and still no visitor, his impatience reached its climax. "I will wait no longer," he said. "I will go in search of lhim. Another such day would drive me mad l" He rang the bell and ordered his horse. As he was putting on his hat in the hall, he met Lucy, ever omnipresent. "I will be back before dinner, if possible, Lucy," he said. "Has my wife come down yet?" *' Notyet." Mr. Sutherland passed out. His wife's non-appearance was not so un- usual of late as to surprise him. So he mount- ed and rode away. Lucy looked after him thoughtfully. "Gaston Benoir has not come to him," she said, to herself; "so he is going to Gaston Benoir. Oh, if I only knew what this secret Mr. Sutherland rode direct to the village- hotel. Mrs. Weldon met him as he entered, and dropped her best courtesy. "Is Mr. Benoir here," asked Arthur, abruptly. "Mr. Benoir! Oh dear no, Sir; and I was just saying to my Sophie it was the oddest thing what has become of him. Mr. Benbir ain't been here since yesterday-evening." ' "' No?" said Arthur, surprised. "Was he not here last night?" "Never came here last night, Sir. for the first time since he's been my boarder. That little fool, Sophie, is as dreadfully cut up about it as if everv friend she ever had was dead. She says she knows something has happened to him, or he would never stay away. There she sits, all of a tremble, and as pale as a corpse, crying and moaning, and taking on until I could box her ears-I could." "It is strange," said Mr. SttherlarKl thoughtfully, "very strange. I expected to see him to-day on a little matter of business; and as he failed to come, I rode over here, sure of finding him. You have no idea where he has gone?" "Not the least, Sir! He ain't got many acquaintances in the village, and always kept regular hours, I must say." Arthur turned away disappointed, and went out. Could it be that Gaston Benoir had fallen asleep in the summer-house, as he had fallen asleep in the drawing-room.' Dur- ing the hours he had lingered inthe grounds, he had not seen him come forth; and yet if it were so, he could not surely sleep there all day. He mounted his horse, and rode back to Maplewood, puzzling himself over this new perplexity, and wondering if the man had come in his absence. He sought out Lucy as soon as he arrived, and anxiously in- ' quired. "No," said Miss Sutherland. "No one [ has called."' page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] y Artliur 'toodlookingat' her, blanklyA ";? And I think," continued the young' lady, "you should see why Mrs. Sutherland does ,-not come down. Her door is locked on the inside, and she will neither answer nor admit i any one. Trifine says she has eaten nothing to-day." "Good heavens!" cried Arthur, aghast. "Eaten nothing to-day Why did you not tell me this before I went out?" "Because I did not know. Tr'fine came to me full of alarm, an hour ago, to say she had tried half a dozen times to gain admit- tance without success. I then went to Eula- lie's room myself, and rapped and called re- peatedly, but all in vain. There was no an- swer, and the door was not opened." Arthur waited to hear no more. He hur- ried up to his Wife's room and knocked. There was no reply. He turned the handle -the door was locked. He called 'her by name-once, twice, louder and louder-and still all remainedjas silent as the tomb. Lucy had come up-stairs after her cousin, and stood breathless and expectant behind As he turned round, she involuntarily re- coiled at the ghastly pallor of his face. "Is there any key to fit this door?" he asked, hoarsely, " or must I break the lock." "Wait one moment," Lucy said. "I think I can find you a key." She ran down-stairs, and-was back almost directly. He heart was beating so fast that she laid her hand on it hard to still its wild throbbing. Whether it was hope' or fear that set it throbbing so tumu1ltuously, she hard- ly dared ask herself. What would they find when that door was opened? The fairy fil- ure of the Creole-wife, perhaps, lying still and cold on the floor-all her troubles over forever. The key fitted the lock. Arthur threw open the door and entered before her. No I Her first feeling was actually one of relief-no stark dead figure lay before them; the room was quite empty. The bed was un- disturbed and unslept in. A few dresses and. articles of wearing-apparel lay scattered about, and on the toilet-table lay a letter. It was addressed to Arthur, in his wife's hand. Still wearing that fixed deathly pallor, he tore it open and read: !"MY DEAR DEAR HUSBAND:--I may call you so tilll, for the east time, since you will know all before you .see this. There was but one way of escape left for me--flight;, nd lhave taken it. Have no fear for me; do not seek m*; nothing can happen, however' dreadful, half so terrible as the fate from which I fly. Oh, if you only knew what I have suffered, what I am sufeiilng as I write this, you wouldknow how much I need your pity and love, when, perhaps, forever I lost both. Oh, Arthur! Arthur! It I had only been fim when you came to Cuba, and refused to wary you, how much misery, and shame and degradation you might have been spared! But I loved you so well -oh so well! and I was so selfish in my love, and hoped so wildly that my enemy would never cross my path, that Iyielded, and have blighted your life as well as ) my own. Arthur, dearest, it was not the lightning that struck me down that night years ago ; it was the first shock of knowing what you know now. "My love, mylove, farewell! How blessed I have been as your wife, no woman can ever tell; how dear you are to met how grateful I am to you, Heaven alone i knows. Believe all Gaston Benoir tells you- it is true. You will not blame me for this flight; better I should fly than be torn frpm you as-. Oh. the thought is maddening. Farewell, my darling Thinm of me as tenderly as you can and that God may grant me a short life shall ever be t prayer of your -b : , EULALIE.' Arthur Sutherland looked up from the let- ter like a man who has been stunned by a blow. "'Gone!" he said, looking at Lucy, in a be- wildered sort of way; "gone!" "Who, Eulalie?"Lucy asked, pale, and breathless. "Oh, Arthur! where has she gone?"i - Her words seemed to recall him to him- self. Without replying, he read the letter over and over again-until all was clear to his, at first, stunned senses. He turned to Lucy, with a face that seemed changed to marble. "Lucy, my wife has gone." "Gone l" she vaguely repeated. "Fled-ran away I For God's sake don't ask me to stop and explain now, but try to help me if you can. When did you see her last?" "Last night." "Has no one seeni her since?" "No one." Mr. Sutherland strode from the room, and down-stairs, leaving his cousin hopelessly dazed. His only thought was to find her- earth or sea, or all the secrets under heav- en, could never part him from her. He put on his hat and overcoat, and hurried round to the stables. Before he could reach them, a man came rushing out from among the trees, beyond the terrace, with a very white and startled face. It was one of the garden- ers; and at sight of his frightened looks, Ar- thur involuntarily stopped. "What is it, Richards?" he said. "For the Lord's sake, Mr. Sutherland!" cried the man, his very lips white with fear; "come here and see what has been done!" Arthur turned and followed him-too be- numbed by his late shock even to wonder what this new mystery meant. The man led the way straight to the summer-house-the door lay open, and the tranquil evening-light filled it. " Look there, Mr. Sutherland," said the gardener, all pale and trembling, and not go- me in. The summer-house was not vacant. A mani sat in a chair before the table, across so which his head and arms had fallen, in co a painfully unnatural and rigid position. There was a pool of blood on the floor, in w which his feet were dabbled, and a murder- m ous-looking poniard, crimson to the hilt, c lay near, as if it had been flung. o/ Arthur turned to the man with a face full w of horror. "What is this, Richards?" he said; " what does it mean?" "Murder, Mr. Sutherland," said the man, in an awful voice; "a murder has been done here I I daren't go in!" ti Mr. Sutherland entered. He knew at the first glance who the murdered man was, but 1 he resolutely lifted up the bowed head. The t amber evening-light, sifting through the I trees, fell full on the rigid face, more beauti- d ful in death than it had been in life. There, a in the trysting place where Eulahe had met t him, Gaston Benoir lay stark and dead I CHAPTER XXIV. AFTER THE INQUEST. . A stormy evening, the close of a stormy t day. Rain, rain, rain, from early morning- rain and wind now, and night closing down i black and wild. The long forlorn blasts, r sweeping up from the sea, shook the doors, and rattled the windows of the old stone a mansion. The sea itself roared with a dull incessant thunder-like sound, and the rocking pine-woods, and the giant maples and hem- locks around the house, echoed back the deafening refrain. A wild night there, on the rock-bound coast of Maine-a terrible night for vessels drifting near those low lee shores-a terrible night for any human crea- ture to be abroad. Arthur Sutherland sat alone in the library on this tempestuous summer-night. The rainy day was chilly and raw, and even thoughtful Lucy had caused a fire to be lit for his comfort. He sat before it now, star- ing into -the red coals, with a gloom on his face darker than the gloom of the rainy night. He sat there in the dull silence of the house, listening blankly to the ceaseless rain lashing the glass, and the uproar of the wind and sea. He sat there as he had sat for hours and hours, us he might sit all night, if undisturbed. An awful hush lay over the old house. Ever silent, the silence that reigned there now was something new and ghastly; for in ono of the disused rooms the body of the dead man lay. The servants gathered in groups, and talked in whispers, and passed the door of that room with awe-struck faces. The solemn majesty of death pervaded the house, and voices were hushed, and footfalls softened, as if all the uproar of the elements' could have awakened that rigid sleeper. "The inquest had been held that cay, and was over but a few hours previously. The matter had been investigated with the utmost care, but no light whatever could be thrown on the mysterious tragedy. The last person who tad spoken to the dead, man, the previ- ous evening, was Sophie Weldon; but Sophie had fallen down in a dead faint on first hear- ing the news, and had been so frantic and hysterical ever since, that her appearance at the examination was quite out of the ques- tion. Mrs. Weldon had seen him leave the house about dark, and take the road leading to Maplewood, and had been very much sur- prised at his non-return, but had never dreamed of any evil happening to him; and you might have knocked her down with a feather when she heard the shocking news. One of the servants of the house, Rosa, the pretty waitress, had seen Mr. Benoir between eight and nine o'clock on the night of the tragedy. She, Rosa, was standing under the willow-trees near the terrace, talking ' to-to Mr. S. Doolittle, the baker, when Mr. Benoir had walked past, and leaned over the iron railing, looking at the water. Mr. Be- noir was smoking, and she knew him very well by the starlight. She was not surprised at seeing him there, for he was in the habit of coming; but she did wonder a little at his coming so late, and had left Mr. Doolittle, the baker, and ran into the house, lest he should see her. I Richards, the uAder-gardener, was ques- tioned after Rosa. Richards said. he had been trimming vines all day, and his work - brought him at last, late in the evening, to the old summer-house. It was an out-ot-the- y way place, where none of them ever went, e being kind of dark and lonesome-like, shut a in among the trees; but he had gone that it evening, intending to come out by the terrace. r- In passing, he had opened the door to throw s in some tools, and had seen the deceased y lying across the table, as Mr. Sutherland 'f had found him. He recognized him at once, s knowing the gentleman was in the habit of e coming there to read and smoke-an odd r fancy, by the way, he, Richards, had always if thought it. At first, he had supposed him to be asleep; but a second glance revealed the e. blood, the poniard, and the truth. He had e dropped his tools and ran for it, and had n espied Mr. Sutherland at the stables, and had le brought him at once to the scene of the n tragedy. d Mr. Sutherland, very, very white, every- s. body remarked, corroborated this. On his ie way to the stables, he had seen Richards run. Is ning from the summer-house, pale and fright- page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] ened; had followed him there at his request, and seen the murdered man. He had imme- diate notice sent to the proper officials, and had himself examined the wound. He agreed with the doctor, that it was then many hours old- the blood had ceased to flow, and was partly congealed on the floor. Itwas evident he had been struck from be- hind by a strong, sure hand,--and the dagger had gone straight to his heart. Death must have been almost instantaneous; but he had been struck again and again to make sure. He (Mr. Sutherland) knew Very little of the murdered man. He was aware he had been in the habit of coming to Maplewood for some lime past; he had asked permission of the gardener, pand it had been accorded. Mr. Sutherland had heard he was a native of Louisiana, and knew no more. Nothing further could be elicited-nothing. to show the murderous hand that had plunged the steel into his heart. Mrs. Wel. don told them all she knew of him; but that threw no light on the murder. M1r. Benoir's belongings were searched; but there was nothing to enlighten them either. There were letters enough about all manner of things, but none to serve their purpose. Mrs. Weldon gave it as her opinion that the poor fellow had been stabbed. for his money and jewelry. He was known to be in the habit of lato of carrying large sums about him; also a valuable watch and a diamond- ing. None of these things had been found on the body-money, ring, and watch were all gone. What other motive but the motive of gain could any one in St. Mary's have lbr murdering an inoffensive stranger? There was something in this; and the per- plexed jury, after a long, debate, returned their verdict, that Gaston Benoir had been wilmlly murdered by some person or per- sons unknown. Then the coroner and his twelve satellites adjourned to the dining-. room for refreshment, and shook hands with Mr. Sutherland, and inquired for the health of Mrs. Sutherland, who was known to be' delicate, condoled with him on having his home so foully desecrated, and departed. 'St. Mary's was in a state of unprecedented excitement. A murder there was something that had never occurred within the memory of man, and they could think or talk ofi nothing else now. The murdered man be- came all at once the theme of. every tongue, gentle and simple, far and wide. The mys- tery in which the whole was shrouded deep- i ened the ghostly interest; and every scrap of the scanty information that had come out at the inquest was retold with appetizing relish. The unknown murderer and the chosen bride of the ded man shared the I public celebrity-that poor widowed bride- ... , elect, who had shut herself up in her room Whenshe came out of her hysterics, to do I battle with Ler grief alone. Wonderful to relate, the news of Eulalie's flight had not yet escaped. It was a secret even in the house; although Hortense, the nurse, and Trifine, the lady s-maid, were be. ginning to wonder audibly what had become of their mistress. The household had grown tso used of late to Mrs. Sutherland's passing whole days in the seclusion of her chamber that they ceased to comment on her absence. She was so frail and fragile, so pale and Wan, that they took it for granted the shock of hearing a murder' had been, done at her threshold had been too much for her feeble nerves, and that she was ill in her room. Trifine had asked her master if Madam did not require her, and had been told so curtly "No 1" that she had retired in displeasure un- til further notice. Mr. Sutherland, half stupefied by the shocks of his wife's flight and the discovery of the murder following so close upon one another, had been utterly unable to discover anything of that flight, or the direction in which she had gone. Hortense ansus- piciously answered his indirect inquiries, and told him how on that night, about ten o'clock, her mistress had entered the nursery, where she and baby slept. Baby and nurse had retired for the night-baby was sleeping, and nurse was half asleep. Mrs. Sutherland had bent over the crib, and kissed baby again and again, and once Hortetse had fancied she was crying; but, before she could make sure, Madam was gone. That was all. It was evidently her farewell to her child, and she had stolen out of the house at night and fled-where? Arthur had had' an interview with his cousin in her room,- which she had never left since the news of the murder. She had dropped into a seat, as if struck down by a blow, when she first heard it, and she had kept her room since in a sort of trance of horror. It surprised every one; they had known her so cool, so phlegmatic, so insen- sible to all shocks, that the manner in which this affair prostrated her was really astound- ing. Could Miss Lucy, the servants whis- pered, seeing this change in her, have fallen in love in secret with the handsome stranger Arthur, too benumbed himself to notice anything, had sought his cousin in her room, and found her sitting with a stony face, and a stare of rigid horror in her blue eyes. Always pale, there was something livid in the face she turned to him now. "Lucy," he said, hurriedly, " who in the house besides ourselves know of my wife's fli-absence?" "No one but ourselves," Lucy replied, in a voice that somehow did not sound like hers. 6"Then for Heaven's sake let it be kept a secret for a day or two, if possible. Offer any plea you choose-illness, the shock of this horrible tragedy-anything to keep the servants out of the room ani lull suspicion for the present. Who can tell what construction slanderous tongues may not put upon her flight, coming as it does at the same time as the murder. Will you do this for me, Lucy?" "If I can. But this concealment cannot last long." "I do not wish it to. The inquest over, and all the world may know of it if it chooses. As soon as it ends, I shall start in pursuit. I shall search to the bounds of the earth, and find her, or never return 1" He did his best to control himself and speak calmly; but the agitation he felt show- ed itself in the quivering of' his lips and the trembling of his voice, in-spite of every ef- fort. "Have you no idea," said Lucy, looking at him steadily, " where She has gone?" "None whatever. My poor little girl' knew so few-was intimate with none, and Heaven alone knows what will become of her. But keep her flight a secret, Lucy. It would drive me mad to know that my pure darling's name was on every tongue in St. Mary's, and have it coupled, perhaps, as it might be, with the dead man's." Lucy Sutherland shivered, and that look of indescribable horror came into her blue eyes again. "It was awful-it was awful!" she said in a shuddering voice. "Stabbed in the back and stabbed straight through the heart! Arthur 1" she cried suddenly, " will I have to appear at the inquest? Will I have to give evidence?" "Certainly not!" said her cousin, sur. prised at her look of wild affright. "You cannot possibly know anything of the mur- der." "No, no!" cried Lucy, distractedly, " how should I? H was only afraid I might have to tell that Eulalie knew him, and cause her to be summoned. Don't let them ask for me, Arthur." "My dear Lucy," said Arthur, more and more surprised at his calm cousin's very un- wonted energy, " you shall not appear. There is no cause for this alarm, believe me; there are witnesses enough without; and whatever you do, pray, pray never allude to my wife's name in connection with this man." Lucy dropped her head on the table, shiv- ering stil with nervous terror. "'Whatever secret existed between my wife and this dead man," went on Mr. Suth- Orland, still striving ineffectually to steady his voice, "was one that involved the honor of othbers-the dead perhaps-but 'not her own. I need not tell you, .Lucy, who knew her so well, that no creature in this lower world was ever purer, truer, more loving and gentle, than my poor lost darling. Lucy you believe this, do you not?" Lucy murmured something, her cousin could not very clearly make out what, for she never lifted her face from the table. "If you will stay in her room instead of your own," said Mr. Sutherland, " the serv- ants, who are ever inquisitive, will think you remain there with her, and not conject- ure, as they will be sure to do otherwise,. about her being left alone. If 'lrifine or Hortense want admittance, you canl open the door and dismiss them." "Yes," said Lucy, without looking up. "After the inquest," coninued her cousins "I shall quit Maplewood-forever, perhaps,. certainly until I have found my wife. Let them say what they please th6n-we will both be beyond the reach of their poisonous tongues. You, my good little steward, will remain here and take care of the old place, as usual, and be a mother to my child until its own mother returns. Will you not, Lucy?" "I would do anything for you, Arthur." "Thank you, Lucy. I don't know what we should ever have done without you- what I should do now. Keep the secret of my wife's flight, watch over my child when I am gone, and you will have my everlast- ing gratitude and love." Lucy did not speak-she did not lift her head; and Arthur quitted the room. Half an hour after, she shut herself in Mrs. Buth- land's chamber, and never left it until the inquest was over. She kept herself locked in, seeing no one but her cousin, who came up now and then, looking so haggard and, utterly wretched that even Lucy was shocked. So it happened-thanks to these precau- tions, that Eulalie's ffight was still undiscov- ered this stormy evening that closed the in- quest. Arthur, half mad with impatience to depart, would have started on his wild goose-chase within the hour, heedless of closing night and lashing tempest; but the shocks of the last two days, the anxiety of previous weeks, were proving more than he' had power to bear. His head throbbed and ached with a dull burning pain that nothing could soothe, and that rendered him utterly unable to depart that night. "I shall rest to-nights" he thought, press- ing his beating temples between his hands, "and start early to-morrow. My poor little wife, my precious darling-it sets me wild to. , page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] think of her wandring alone, friendless- and yet what can I de" He sat there alone in the library, now that all was over;, looking into the ruddy fire and seeing horrible pictures in the gloomy coals. Pictures of a little figure wandering heart- broken, footsure, and, weary, frightened among crowds, alone in noisy city-streets, unprotected in the big pitiless world; worse, perhaps, ill unto death among cold unfeeling strangers, deliriously calling on him, from whom she had fled, to help her. Arthur Sutherland groaned aloud in his torture, and covered his face to shut out the dreadful visions. Where, in all the gieat wide world, should he seek, when to-morrow came? He had been sitting in his misery, how long he did not know, when a knoc at the door aroused him. "o Com in," he said, looking up, and Rosa entered. * "Please, Mr. Sutherland, here's Miss Sophie Weldon from St. Mtry's, and she wants to see you very much." The soundtof Soplie Weldon's name recall. ed Arthur to the knowledge that-others in the world were as miserable as himself. He was hardly surprised to hear that she was there, although that morning he had teen told she was unable to leave her room. "Fetch her here at onwe, poor child 1" said Mr. Sutherland. And Rosa departed, and,five minutes afterward, ushered in Miss Weldon, shut the door, and withdrew. "My poor Sophie-my dear girl!"Mr. Sutherland was beginning, advancing toward her; and there he stopped in blank dismay. For his visitor stood before him so deathly white, so awfully corpse-like, that it might have startled stronger nerves. She was drenched through and through, splashed with mud; her hair, her pretty golden curlst all tossed and disordered about her face. She stood before him in the doorway, so unlike herself, so broken, so haggard, so lost-look- ing, that his heart mqeted within him. "My poor, poor Sophie," he said taking her hands, and leading 'her up to the fire. "Heaven knows how sorry I am for you! My poor girl I Why did they let you come out such a night?" 4"They don't know I have come," she said, shivering and crouching in a strange miser. able way over the fire; " but I heard he was to be buried to-morrow, and I feel as if I must see him or die I Oh, Mr. Sutherland, I was to have been his wite!" She broke out into such a dreadful fit of weeping as she said It, that Arthur quite for- got his own trouble in view of her passionate despair. There were tears in his eyes for the first time; but he could do nothing, only sit there holding her hand, ana repeating ten- derly: "My poor Sophie! My poor, dear child!" The outhurst of womanly weeping, violent and hysterical though it was, did the girl good, for she lifted her tear-stained face and swollen blue eyes presently to his. "I could not let you bury him without one look; and 1 have walked all the way from St. MarY's to-night to see him!" i"Wa&ed l" repeated Mr. Sutherland, heor. rifled. "Yes," said Sophie, looking down at her soaking garments. "I stole out; they would not let me come. Oh, Mr. Sutherland, you don't know how I loved him!" She broke down again in another paroxysm of stormy tears. "My poor, poor girl!" said Mr. Sutherland. "I am sorrier -for you than I can say. Yes it is very hard to. lose those we love; and he met with a terrible end indeed." "Oh, how could she do it I how could she do it!" sobbed Sophie, passionately; " how could she kill himf? how could-oh, Gaston, G aston 1" The hysterical sobs grew more hysterical. Mr. Sutherland sat looking at her, petrified "How could she kill him I!" he repeated. "In Heaven's name, Sophie, of whom are you speaking?" "That woman!"Sophie gasped between the choking sobs. "That tasl, dark woman, dressed in mourning; and with those dread. ful black eyes. Oh, how could she do it- how could she kill him?" "Sphie," said Mr. butherland, very grave- ly ; " you must explain this. A tall woman dressed in mourning kill your lover! W ho was she?" "I don't know I I don't know! She told me her name, and I forgot it; but it was Re- becca-something. Gaston would never tell me anything about her, and she killed him for revenge. Oh, what shall I do I what shall I do!" It was a long time before Mr. Sutherland could get any coherent explanation from the distracted Sophie; but at last, when she had wept until she could weep no more, he man- aged to make out the story intelligibly. "But there is nothing in all this, my dear 'Sophie," he said, anxiously, ", to prove that this woman killed Gaston Benoir." "She did-she did!" shrilly cried Sophie; "she was fierce and jealous, and there was no one else to do it. Oh, Mr. Sutherland, if you had seen her eyes that evening, like two balls of fire-you would know as well as I that she murdered him!" "And you don't know her hame?" "No; except that it was Rebecca.' The memory of the tall, dark housemaid, who looked like an Indian princess, and had fierce black eyes, flashed through his mind at mention of the name. "Was it Rebecca Stone?" "No," said Sophie; " it was not Stone. I forget it. Oh, Mr.' Sutherland, take me to Gaston, please; won't yo?" "Certainly, 'my dear Sophie," said Mr. Sutherland, rising; " come this way." He led her to the disused room where lay all that remained of her handsome lover. The room was weirdly lit up by a lamp, and the shadows'lurked dark and spectral in the dim corners. The uproar of wind and rain sounded tar louder here than in the sheltered and curtained library; and the blast went shrieking by, like the cry of an evil spirit. Something solemn and white lay on a long table, at sight of which Sophie began to trem- ble and shrink. 4Courage, Sophie," Arthur whispered; "4 don't be afraid!" He drew down the sheet and held up the lamp. In the still majesty of death the dark beautiful face was perfect. It might have been carved in marble, in its infinite repose and calm. The inconceivable solemnity of that still face, unmarred by one look of pain, struck with the coldness of death to the heart of the girl who had loved him. The room reeled suddenly under her feet, she gave one gasping cry, and fell back as cold and lifeless as the dead man, in the arms of Mr. Suther- land. C-HAPIER XXV. DARK DAYS. While that day of rain and wind d'arkened down into rainier and windier night, Lucy Sutherland sat at the chamber-window of her cousin's wife, looking blankly out at the storm. That fixed expression of intense hor- ror dilated her eyes, and blanched her face to an awful bluish pallor still. Some horri- ble knowledge that was not the bare fact of a murder having been done so near, or the murdered man's body lying below, or the flight of Eulalie, must assuredly, have come to disturb her immovable calm like this. She sat looking, not at the stormy twilight, the drenched earth, and sky of ink, but far off over the top of the pine-woods into the black vacancy beyond. She had not eaten or drank that day-the horror within her deadened every sense of ordinary need. Trifine and Hortense had both been at the door, and been dismissed-their services were not required. Now in the dismal twi- light there was a low knock at the door. Lucy arose, and opened it, thinking to see the nurse, or maid, or perhaps her cousin, -but it was none of them. Rebecca, the housmaidl, stood before her like a tall, dark ghost. If it had been indeed a ghost-the ghost of the murdered man in the room be- low-Miss Sutherland could not have recoil- ed more palpably, nor with a look of greater horror. Rebecca came in, shut the door, and stood with her back to it, while Lucy retreat- ed as far from her as the room would per- mit, never taking her wildly-dilated eyes off he , 'Aee "'Jave I frightened you, Miss Suther- land?"Rebecca said, advancing; but Lucy held out both hands, with a sort of cry, to keep her off. "Don't come near me-don't!" she cried; "you murderess!" "Miss Sutherland!" "Keep off l"Lucy shrilly repeated; "you horrible woman; it' you come one step near- er, I will alarm the house!" Rebecca stood still, her dark complexion slowly fading to a dull, sickly yellow; her eyes in the spectral twilight fixed on Miss Sutherlanduielth an awfully wolfish glare. "You devil!"Lucy cried, trembling from head to foot; in fear and horror, "in wom- -an's form. I know what you have done I You murderess 1" she hissed the words through her closed teeth. "I am afraid to live under the same roof with you. If you do not leave this house to-night, I will de- nounce you to-morrow morning as the acsas- not afraid of you. You will not denounce me-but pay me what you owe, and I will leave, this house to-night!" Lucy took out her purse, and pushed two or three bills to the extreme edge of the ta- ble. Rebecca took them-looked to see that they were all right, and put them In her pocket. "Thank you, Miss Sutherland," she said, moving toward the door; "and good bye I am not afraid of you, mind, and I shall not forget the hard names you have called me I It is not a very pleasant night to be abroad in, but I dare say I can bear it I Good-bye, Miss Sutherland, I wish your cousin joy of his second wife!" The death's-head stare with which she had been retarding her relaxed, and Rebecca was gone. As she vanished in the gloom of the staircase, it seemed to Lucy that an evil spirit had quitted the room and disappeared into its native element. She locked the door, and resumed her sect again by the window, her face hidden in her hands, miserable and remorseful. LHer nature, warped by jealousy, was not yet wholly bad, since her conscience stung her so keenly now. She felt as thouglt she were a murderess herself; and she would have given all she had ever so wickedly longea for, to restore her cousin's wile to her home and Gaston Bcnoir back to life. The dreary twilight blackened entirely Out, page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] and night closed down in windy gloom. She sin of Liaston Benoir!" . "Prove it!" said Rebecca, with\ a sneering smile. "I am not aftaid of you, Miss Suth- erland, and you know it! Have you forgot- ten that little compact we made a few days ago? No, I see you have not. You call me hard names, and I'don't retaliate; but don't you go too far-mind, I warn you! I am kept no count of the wretched hours, and she never stirred until there came a knock at the door. She arose, groped her way to it in the darkness, and opened it. The hall without was brightly lighted, and Rosa stood there, flurried and anxious. "Oh, Miss Lucy, if you please, Mr Suther- land says will you come down to the library. Miss Weldon, she's in a fainting-fit, and we can't none of us fetch her to l" "Miss. Weldon!" exclaimed Lucy. "Yes, Miss, from St. Mary's I She came up here, I heard master tell cook, to see her dead lover before he was buriedoand tainted stone-cold at the first sight! We can't fetch her to, and would you come and try, Miss, master says." Lucy's reply was to brush past the girl, and run down stairs. Hortense and Trifine were bending over poor Sophie, who lay vely corpse like indeed on a lounge. Mr. Suther- land stood looking on, with a distressed face. "Try what you can do for her, Lucy," he said, " all. our efforts to restore her are un- availing." Cologne, sal volatile, and cold water were resorted to, and presently Sophie's blue eyes opened on this mortal life once more. But she was all wild and incoherent, and clung to Miss Sutherland in such palpable affright, that it was long before they could soothe her to calmness. "Come with me, Sophie," said Lucy, gen- tly. "Come up-stairs to my room. You are too tired and wet, and must rest." Sophie allowed herself to be led away; and : with the assistance of Rosa, Miss Sutherland 4 got off her wet garments, and saw her at last safely in bed. Poor Sophie, quite exhausted, dropped asleep almost immediately, and Rosa 4 was leaving the room, when Miss 'Sutherland i detained her. "Rosa, have you seen Rebecca this even- ing?" ", Yes, Miss," said Rosa; ,' and she's gone." "Gone!" "Yes, Miss; and for good, I take it I All her things are packed up, and sue asked X William to letch them to the station to-mor- ] row. She told William she had got dis-j charged!" d"So she has," said Lucy, quietly. "That swill do." - I Rosa departed; and Lucy, lowering the light so as not to disturb the sleeping girl, went'down-stairs again to the library. She found her cousin walking gloomily up and down. l "I wanted you, Lucy," he said. "I shall depart to-morrow, before, you are up. You will be good enough to see that a few indis. pensable things are packed, as I shall take as little baggage with me as possible. I shall write to my mother, and then retire." Lucy looke'I at him, anxiously; he was so pale, and haggard, and hollow-eyed, that she could hardly realize that a few days had wrought the change. "Are you sure you will be able to travel to-morrow, Arthur? I never saw you look- ing so ill!" He pressed his hand to his forehead, throb- bing, and beating, 'and burning hot. "1 must go!" he said. "There is no help for it. I have been detained here far too long already. The Reverend Calvin Masterson is to see about the burial, and take all trouble 'off your hands. I shall go to-morrow, if I can stand 1" Lucy would, have asked where, but her cousin's face warned her/it would be in vain. "Lest you should feel lonely at first aftier this terrible event," Mr. Sutherland went on, still walking up and down, "I shall ask my mother to return here for a time. I shall en- ter into no explanation as to the cause ot my wife's leaving home-I do not know the cause myself I I am going to find her; and itf she is on the earth, I shall find her before I come back!" Lucy arose. "Have you any directions to give ere you go?" she calmly inquired. None; I leave all to you-my good, pru- dent, little cousin I God bless you, Lucy I Pray for. my success when I am gone 1" He wrung her hand,. and let her to; and Lucy Sutherland went slowly up-stairs, feel- ing as though that blessing were a burning curse. But Mr. Sutherland did not depart on his long journey to-morrow; for when to-morrow came, he was raving and tossing deliriously, in a burning tever. He had sat up and endeavored to write to his mother, the words swimming in a hot mist before his eyes; and he had to go to bed with that burning, beating in his 'temples worse. And so next morning, when the time for starting came, he was raving incoherently of his lost wife and the murdered man, and the journey was indefinitely postponed. Lucy Sutherland, as thin as a shadow her- self, took her place by the bedside, and be- came the tenderest and most devoted o9 nurses. She hardly ever left him night or day, and no man was ever nursed by mother or wife with more loving care than Arthur by this quiet cousin. Early in the first day of Mr. Sutherland's illness, the Reverend Calvin Masterson, ac- companied by the undertaker, and two or three of the village-officials, came to Maple- wood; and the mortal remains of Gaston Be- noir were hidden beneath the coffin-lid. A crowd of idleis straggled after the hearse as it lumbered slowly alongto St. Mary's Oeme- tery. There was but one mourner, poor Sophie Weldon, who was driven in one of the Maple- wood carriages, to see her lover laid in the ground. Only one mourner, but Sophie's tears never ceased to flow all the time of that dreary drive. The weather was as gloomy as the lonely, funeral-cortege; a dull, blankly hopeless day of fog, and mist, and drizzle, and cold around.. "Ashes to ashes-dust to dust," read the Reverend Calvin Masterson, shivering in the raw wind, and then the sods went rattling down on the coffin-lid; and in ten minutes it was all over, and every body was going home but Sophie, who knelt down by the new- made grave, and laid her poor, tear-stained face on the wet grass. It was all over-and- the man 'who had been the terror and blight of Gustavus lRohan's life, and that of his granddaughter, was harmless enough now in his last, long home. But the gloom of the murder hung over the' old stone-mansion still-its awfunl shadow brooded darkly yet around the place. The Mspirit of the dead man seemed to haunt the ghostly rooms, so grand, solonely, so desert- ed. Not a servant In the house would have entered the room where he had lain for a for- tune, after nightfall; and even 'in broad day- light, they hurried by with paling cheeks: and frightened glances. Maplewood had gained all it wanted to make it perfect-it had become a haunted house. / The story of the murder was not the only astounding theme St. Mary's had to gossip about; for the flight of Eulahle was known to every man, woman, and child in the place. Lucy was coldly reticent; her own opinion was, she told Mr. Masterson and Colonel Madison, that Mrs. Sutherland's mind was disordered, and had been for some time past. But St. Mary's did not believe that any more than Mr. Masterson or Colonel Madison did, and began coupling in whispers her name. with the name of the dead man. Somehow, it came out that Mr. Benoir's diamond-ring had been given him by Mr Sutherland's wife. It came out, too, that there had been stolen meetings by night in the grounds, that they had been in the oil summer-house together on the evening of the tragedy, and that Mrs. Sutherland had run away that very night. How it was all discovered, no one seemed to know: but it was on every tongue, and dark suspicions were beginning to be whispered ominously about. Lucy, sitting in her cou- sin's darkened room, heard all; but her pale, quiet face told no tales. Whether she exult, ed in her hidden heart, whether she was re- pentant or remorseful, none knew but Heav- en and herself. She kept her ceaseless watch by her cousin's sick-bed, by night and by day, never wearying, never flagging, listen. ing with that pale still face to- 1s wild rav- ings, and bathing his flushed face and burn- ing hands. His talk was all rambling and incoherent-now of Eulalie-now of Isabel -now of his Schoolboy-days-and now of Lucy herself, his good, patient, kind, little cousin. It was weary, weary work sitting. through the long days and longer nights lis tening to his idle babbling, but Lucy loved himhn and never deserted her post. I A week later, and Mrs. Sutherland, August ta, and Philip arrived, in a state of hopeless bewilderment and consternation. What did it all mean-a murder committed-Eulalie run away-Arthur down with brain-fever I Mrs. Sutherland poured out a torrent of ques- tions before she had been five minutes in her son's sick-room. Lucy's armor of reticence was not to be broken down. Grudgingly enough, coldly enough, she told what she couldnot help telling, and no more. Yes it was all quite true, the murder, the flight, and the illness; but how they were connect. ed with each other, she could not tell. She certainly believed Eulalie knew Gaston Be- noir intimately-the man wore her ring open- ly, and she had been seen to meet him by night, and by stealth, in the grounds. She had been with him the night of the murder and of her flight; and, taking all things into consideration, it was really very strange, but she positively kne w nothing. Mrs. Arthur Sutherland kept her own secrets, and kept them well-her husband knew no more than they did. Eulahe had fainted the first timo she saw Gaston Benoir-the mention of his name in the most casual way had always been sufficient to throw her into a state of the greatest agitation. Beyond these facts, she knew nothing. Mrs. Sutherland listened, pale, indignant, hauhty. Augusta, in open-eyed wonder. Philip Sutherland, moodily silent. *"'The man, you say, was young and hand- some?"Mrs. Sutherland asked, with afrown, "i Eminently handsome, and about thirty, I should judge 1" "There i no trusting these foreigners!" said Augusta, witn a spiteftul remembrance of the woman who had once been her rival ; page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] I dare say this handsome Louisianian had been a lover oi hers before any of us saw her I1 Arthur's mother took the post of head- nurse at once, and Lucy was deposed. After that first day, the name of the absent wife was by tacit consent avoided by all.' If she had been dead and lying in the churchyard, her memory could not have been more a thing of the past than it was. September glowed it- self out in the sunny summer-sky, and Octo- ber, bright and brown, was there before Ar- thur Sutherland. came slowly out of the weary, delirious dreamland in which he had been straying so long. Life and death had had a hard struggle bfor victory, but he was passing from the dark valley in the end. Very slowly, wan and wasted; too languid even to speak at first, but surely getting bet- ter. When he could speak, his first question was of his wife. It was Lucy he asked, sit- ting at his pillow. "e No," Miss Sutherland said; "we have heard nothing whatever, as yet. Philip left here a month ago to search for her, but all his searching has been fruitless!" To his mother or sister, Arthur never spoke of his lost wife. He felt instinctively that they believed her guilty, and he was too weak, and tired, and spiritless to enter into explanation or defence. But his mind rarely wandered from her. He lay in his darkened chamber, and thought of her through the long days and longer xights; thought of her, poor little beauty t as he might have thought of her dead-sadly, lovingly, forgivingly. His convalescence was wearisomely slow. October was at its close before he could cross the threshold, and breathe the fragrant sea- air once more. Such a pale shadow of the handsome Arthur Sutherland of other days I auch a wreck of his bright young manhood! such a weak, broken, saddened, man! He wandered up and down the maple-groves, he loitered on the grassy terrace, looking with wistful, dreary eyes at the silvery horizon far away, and dreaming of the days When he had lingered here with his dark-eyed darling at his side. How long ago it seemed-years and years instead of months; and she had i vanished out of his life, and left him a deso- lata and careworn man. Phillip Sutherland, faithful to the memory of the woman he had once loved, was still on the search, and still in vain. He wrote reg- ularly to Maplewood, but his letters brought no news ofthe lost wife. If the earth had opened and swallowed her, she could not have more completely vanished from human ken .. One dreary November-evening, Artlur sat alone in the library, watching the short day fade out of the ileadlen sky. The' view frohil the .:winow was desolation itself, the treies I hiolding out gaunt, stripped arms, that rattled like dry bones in the shrill blast. The dead leaves whirled away in crazy circles, and the gray sea swept moaning up on the gray sands under the low-lying gray sky. it was all desolate-as desolate as his own heart, and he turned away with a long, weary sigh, as the door opened and his stately mother came in. "A letter for you, Arthur," she said, hold- ing one out. From Philip?" he eagerly asked. "'No; from a woman, i should judge from the writing, and post-marked New York.", The letter was in a hand unfamilar to Mr. Sutherland. His mother stood before the fire, looking thoughtfully into the red coals while he read. Presently, a cry, sharp and sudden, made her turn round; her son, with a wildly-startled face, was staring at it with dilated eyes. "What is it, Arthur?" she asked, in alarm. "Any news of-" She stopped with the name on her lips, as Arthur arose impetuously. Where is Lucy?" he demanded, crum- pling the letter in his hand. "In the dining-room. Arthur-" But Arthur was gone. Striding straight to the dining-room, he found Lucy sewing by the last rays of the daylight. She'lifted her calm eyes as he excitedly held out the letter. "Read it, Lucy!" he said. , I know it is false in what it says of you; but read it, and tell me if we have indeed found the murderer of Oaston Benoir!" Lucy's fixedly-pale face could grow no more colorless than it habitually was; but the han4 she held out for the letter trembled like a leaf. Arthur stood looking at her with eager eyes while she read. ARTHUR SUTHERLAND, EsQ.--$R :--Having placed a safe distance oet een you and myself, and being about to start for a foreign land, I may safely make my last dying speech and confession. You would tike to know who murdered Gastoh Benoir, wouldn't you? Well, you shall! I did it-yes, I -and I exult in the act! I stabbed lim that night in the summer- house; and I robbed him of your wife's ring, his watch, and five thousandt dollars, which little fortune your pretty wife had just given him. I did it, Mr. Sutherland, and I would do it again. He deceived me from first to last! I swore revenge, and I kept my word! Do you think I was going to be cast off and flung aside with scorn for that little insipid non- entity, Sophie Weldon? Gaston Benoir should have known me better; but he was a villain and a liar, and he has paid the penalty! Do they suspect your wife -your pretty little frightened black-eyed wife? I know one who does not-that sleek white cat your cousin, Miss Lucy Sutherland. She could have told you all from the first, who avenged herself on Gaston lienoir; but she didn*t, did she? Do you suppose It was for love of me, or for hatred of your wife that she kept my secret? You don't know that she did hate her, do you? Anyimore than you know'she was ever madly in love with yoursell? No, and I dare say you won't believe it now; but it is true nevertheless, Make her Mrs. Arthur Sutherland, Number Two, and slie will have the desire of her life'at last. Now, Mr. Sutherland, as a friend, I advise you not to waste time and money searching for nm. You won't finl me! When you discover last year's snow -last summer's partridges-then you may look for REBsccA ISAACS alias STONE. CHAPTER XXVI. FOUND AND LOST. Lucy looked up from the letter, her blue eyes ilhshing, her thin lips trembling. Once, twice, she essayed to speak, but rage and bit- ter mortification choked ier voice. To the unspeakable consternation of her cousin, she crumpled up the letter and flung it across the room, and covering her face with both hands, burst out into a passionate fit of cry- ing. Arthur stood confounded. He had ex- pected to see her horrified, indignant, angry perhaps, but not like this. He had, never seen Luc y-calm, placid Lucy-weep before; and now her sobs seemed to rend and tear her frail body with their strength. It was such another outhurst as had happened. once, years before, in her mother's house-a wild tempest of tears. Perhaps she had never wept since then; but the humiliation was so bitter, the mortification so keen, that she could not have stayed those tempestuous sobs to have saved her life. "Lucy, Lucy!"Arthur cried, "for Heav- en's sake, don't I You distress me more than I have words to say I Lucy, my dear cous- in-" She sprang to her feet like a tigress-dash- ing fiercely away her tears from her flashing eyes, showing him her real nature for the first time. "How dare you speak to me P" she ex- claimed. "How dare you, Arthur Suther- land! How dare you insult me by showing me that horrible, lying letter!' How dare. you do it!" "My dear Lucy-" "Don't speak to me! *Don't call me your dear Lucy! Arthur Sutherland, I hate you I I hate you I and I will never sleep another night under your roof " he was standing between her and the door, and she thrust hinm aside with-a frantic vio- lence that made him reel, and rushed out of the room. Mrs. Sutherland, in a state of pale and haughty amaze, was in the door- way, but Lucy flung past her quite frantic- ally. - My dear Arthur," said his mother, enter- ing, ,. what on earth does this all mnean?" Arthur looked at her still with that utterly confounded face. "Is that Lucy?", he cried, staring hopeless- ly after her. "Hs she gone mad r" "It looks exceedingly like it!" said Mrs.. Sutherland, frowning. "What have you been saying to her, Arthur?" Arthur put the old housemaid's letter in his mother s hand. Mrs. Sutherland read it with wide-open eyes of wonder. "Good Heavens, Arthur! I what a horrible letter! Who is Rebecca Isaacs?" Arthur related all that he knew of the stately housemaid with the fiery black eyes. "I thought from the first she was no ordi- nary servant," he said, "but this confession makes her out a devil. As to what it says of poor Lucy, of course that is all spite. She was dismissed, 1 believe, and this is her re- venge." "Spite!" said Mrs. Sutherland, all her old dislike of her niece-in-law strong within her. "One part of the letter is as true as the others, It was the consciousness of guilt that made that little hypocrite fly out at you in this revolting manner. The vile, disgrace- ful creature-"But her son interrupted her with a look of pain. "Hush, mother. Poor Lucy, don't think so ill of her. What had I better do with this letter?" "Show it to the Coroner, of course! and let detectives be set on the track of the murderess at once." ' But the letter involves Lucy-"Mr. Sutherland hesitated. "What of that!" said hismother, sharply. "Is Lucy's good name of more importance than that of your wife? Don't you know she is suspected of the murder? Don't be absurd! Drive to St. Mary's immediately, and doas I tell you!" Mr. Sutherland obeyed; going up to Lucy's room first, however, and doing his utmost to obtain an entrance. Lucy was ob- durate, her door was locked, and she would neither open it nor answer him; so there being no help for it, he drove off to St. Mary's to follow his mother's counsel. The matter involved some hours; it was very late when he returned, but his mother was waiting up to tell him Lucy had gone. "Gone 1"Arthur repeated, aghast. "Yes, bag and baggage, and Maplewood Is well rid ot her! There I don't talk to me about her. I. have no patience to think of her. Go to bed, you look done to death." Arthur's pained face showed what he felt, b ut he said little. He had made up his mind to start next day on his long-deterred journey in s(areh of his wile, and he obeyed his mother's directions, and retired at once. Mrs. Sutherland's expostulations next day were in vain her son would go, and went, and she and Augusta were lelt In desolate November to mope their lives away in the dreary solitude of the forsakenu oldhomO.- stead. page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] What a wild-goose chase it was-wander- ing hither and thither in search of the poor little lost wife. Such a weary, fruitless, dis- piriting search, with no more trace of her to be found than if she had never existed. November wore dismally out. December came, and Christmas was near. Mr. Suther- land was in Montreal-some faint hope that Eulalie might have gone to her old convent- home had taken him there; but the hope, like all his other hopes, was delusive. He was sitting gloomily in his room, watching the passers-by on the street; when, to his astonishment, Philip Sutherland walked in. "Phil," he said, "you here?" "1 have come after you," Philip said gravely. "Your mother is very ill-a severe cold and inflammation of the lungs. You must return to Maplewood at once!" Nothing less than his mother's danger could have induced Arthur to go home. But there was no hesitating in such a case, and before evening the tram that bore them on their homeward way was flying along through the snowy valley of old Vermont. To Arthur's great relief, his mother's ill- ness had taken a favorable turn since Philip's departure, and a week after their arrival she was out of danger. "There is no longer need of my presence here," Arthur said to his cousin, when the crisis was over. "I shall leave again to- morrow." The two young men sat in the library be- fore the blazing fire. It was a snowy even- ing and piercingly cold ;. Maplewood lay in a ghostly shroud of white-the wintry blast shook the old house to its foundations. "So soon," said Philip. " 1-I thought you would have stayed till after Christmas." He seemed so weary as he said it, that Arthur looked at him in surprise. "Why should I stay? There is no need of my presence here, and I shall never give up my search for my lost wife while life lasts." "Well," said Philip, " it seems despicable, I dare say, to speak of one's self and one's hopes when other people are so miserable; but if you go away'so soon, there is no help for it. Arthur, you're a good-fellow, I know, and--and-in short," said Doctor Suther- land, desperately, "will you give me Au- gusta?" Imagine Arthur Sutherland's surprise. imagine Philip Sutherland's flood of expla- nations. He had held out long, but Augusta had brought him to it at last. "4 She's such a good little thing," Philip said, "and willing to watt tor me half a dozen years, if necessary. She does not mind my being poor; 'and I trust you won't either, Arthur, old boy. I dare not speak to my stately aunt. I should be annihilated at the first word; but if you are agreeable, I wont despair.', My dear Phil!" said Arthur, very much surprised. "I give you my word, I never dreamt of such a thing. It Augusta be wil- inag, I certainly have no objection; but really this is about the last idea that would have come into my head. Why, Augusta is perpetually quarreling with you." "Yes, I know," said Doctor Sutherland, ruefully, "she is a little cantankerous, is gusty at times; but somehow I have grown used to it, and I don't think I should enjoy life without it. So it's all right, Arthur, old boy." Arthur held out his hand. "You have my best wishes! I shall use my influence with higher powers too, and you may not have to wait so very long after Philip shook his cousin's hand with an energy that told volumes, and then hurried off to relate the good news to expectant Au- gusta. Left alone, Arthur drew closer to the fire, and fell into his old habit ot staring at the coals. There was an oppression on his mind this night, heavier even than the oppression that never left it now. A dim foreshadowing of some trouble darker than any that had come yet weighed like lead on his heart. He sat alone there by the fire, that vague op- pression deepening and darkening wita every passing. hour, until he could endure it no longer, He walked to the window and looked out. It had ceased snowing, and the stars were clearing sharp and bright through the blue sky. A cold, new moon loomed ghostly in the snow, and the skeleton-trees rattled taeir bare arms in the piercing wintry wind. "A cold. clear night," thought Mr. Suther- land; "I shall have a fine day for my jour- ney to-morrow." With these words in his mind, he was turn- ing away from the window, when he sudden- ly stopped. One of the men-servants, crossing the belt of snowy ground between the trees, and di- rectly in front of the window, struck against something lying half-buried in the snow, and fell. Picking himself up again, he stooped to examine tWe object. A second after, with a yell that might have been heard half a a mile off, he sprang back, and fled like a madman..* Mr. Sutherland opened the window, step- ped out, and confronted him as he turned the corner of the house, with a face as white as the snowy ground, and with dilated eyes of horror. Tho hand of his master on his collar brought him up, all standing. "Wha'a the matter, Richards r" asked Mr. Sutherland, quietly. "What was that you fell over?" . "A dead woman," cried Richards, with chattering teeth. "Good Lord preserve us! That's the second I've found!" "A dead woman!" said Arthur, recoiling; "what do you mean?" "Frozen to death, Sir," said Richards; "you can look for yourself." Arthur dropped the man's collar, and strode through the glazed- snow to where the dark object lay. A. woman-her garments flutter- ing where they were not frozen in the wind -a woman lying on her face as she must have fallen. Ricnards stood behind his master, shaking more with tear than cold. "Help me carry her into the house," said Mr. Sutue rland; "she may not be quite dead yet." It was no easy task to lift her, though she; was smalL Her dress and shawl-poor and" thin both, were so frozen with the snow; but they did manage it at last. Very gently Ar- thur raised her and turned her tace, so that the cold, pale moonbeams fell upon it. Oh! that sight I With a dreadful cry that Rich- ards never forgot, she fell a stitf and irozen corpse from his arms: "Great God' Eulalie!" CHAPTER XXt1. AFTER EIGHT YEoABS. In the parlor-window of a Broadway- hotel, a gentleman sat one May-morning looking, very thoughtfully out at the crowded Boulevard. Up and down, up and down, in in the bright sunshine, ceaselessly the tide of human lhe flowed, an ever-shifting pano- rama. The gentleman was not old-not much over thirty; but there were threads of gray in his hair, and deep-plowed lines marking his lace. A tall and distinguished man, with a certain air militaire about him, bronzed and bearded under a Southern sun. The sun- burnt face was very grave, and his eyes had a misty, far-off look, as if he were gazing more into the dim past than the sunlit street outside his window. He was thinking so deeply that he did not hear his door open, nor a visitor enter, until a hand fell on his shoulder, and a familiar voice sounded on his ear: "Arthur Sutherland, turn round and greet an old friend." The sunburnt gentleman started to his feet, and cordially grasped the extended hand. "Phil, my lear old boy i" That was all; but they shook hands with a vigor that often speaks more than words; and there was. something like tears in Phil Sutherland's eyes. "It is goou to see your heb' est face after three years' absence," he said, laughing, to hide it. "I didn't know but your military honors, mon Colonel, may have made you forget country-cousins; but, seeing your name among the arrivals, I ran the risk." "I should think so! How is my mother and Augusta, and the little people?" "Never better! Eulalie has grown out of all knowledge; and your namesake, Master Arthur, does his best to keep pace with her." "And how does doctoring thrive in St.. Mary's, Phil? "Well, on the whole, it is not to be com- plained of. There are always measles, and whooping-cough, and croup, and scarletina, and: rheumatism, and other little things of that sort, to keep a man busy. I can't com- plain, really." "You cold-blooded rascal! How does the old place look?" "Capitally I and so does Augusta; weighs one hundred and fifty, ifshe does an ounce. I am up on business for a day or two, and re- turn to-morrow. You will accompany me, I hope, or you need never look to be forgiven, in this world or the next!" - "Perhaps I shall," said Arthur. "I have one or two friends to call on, and a little business to transact." 4 By-the-by," said Doctor Phil, carelessly, "I was speaking to one of your friends yes- 'terday-a very old one, too! Mrs. Captain Andersly - Miss Isabel Vansell that was. Perhaps you have forgotten her 1" "No," said Arthur, not looking at him. "She is well?" "Quite well, and as young and pretty as ever; and blushed, she did, 1 assure you, at the mention of your name 1" ",Bah I Captain Anderly was a fine fel- low. I knew him well, and was truly griev- ed to hear of his death! Is it medical bus- iness that has brought you to New York, Phil?" Phil explained, and they fell into desulto- -ry talk. Presently the Doctor arose to take his leave. "It reminds me of ten-years ago, Arthur," he said; , do you recollect the day I came to. see you here, after your return to Europe, and we talked of going back to Maplewood together?" "Yes," Arthur said, very gravely; and Phil, recollecting himself, blusued, inward- ly, at his own stupidity. "Then you return with me to-morrow to Maplewood," he said, taking his hat. Arthur replied in the affirmative, and Phil departed. I Once more alone; Arthur's thoughts went back into the train Philip's entrance had dis- turbed. "'Ten years ago." No need of Phil's' r- As page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] minding him of that. Ten years ago he had! sat looking out on sunlit Broadway, and 1 dreaming of Isabel Vansell's azure eyes and I golden hair. Ten years ago, and the woman ] who had been his fate was all unknown i Such an enchanted, blissful, stormy, and tragical time as followed. Eight years ago, 1 and his little Creole wife's unhappy story was ended, and she lay quietly to rest in St. Mary's Cemetery. He had been a wanderer over the world 'since-he had faced death and Southern bullets many a time, but that was all ended, too. And now he sat here, as he had sat ten years ago, looking out on the same men and women, perhaps, as if the dead decade had been only a dream. As on that day, Isabel Vansel's image was upper- most in his mind. The fair serene face, the seraphic eyes, soothed him only to think of. She, too, had wedded-she, too, was widow- ed. Had te tim ecome for the words left unsaid ten years ago to be said now. Half an hour after, Arthur Sutherland was ringing the door-bell of Mrs. Anderly's house. Mrs. Anderly was at home, and in the morning-room, and the servant ushered 1im in. Had the past come back to her, too? She was standing as he had left her- standing ten years ago, in the hallo of sun-. shine, among her geraniums and canary- birds. Not aiday older, not a whit less love- ly-the milk white skin smooth as satin, the rose-bloom unfaded, the tCnseled hair as bright. His dove-eyed Madonna- his stain- less ideal. Only not robed in Madonna white-widow's weeds trailed the rich car- pet, and he was speaking to MUrs. 'Anderly, not Miss Vansell. They wer very quiet, both-whatever they ielt, no outward sign testified, as. they talked orthodox commonplace platitudes. Arthur Sutherland had faced the Southern bullets unflinchingly, but he found it hard to face his blue-eyed ideal, and say the words that filled his heart. All the old love came back, as if he had indeed left her yesterday; as if those ten dead years had never come between them. He said so ait last. "How familiar it all is, Isabel-ah I I beg your pardon, Mrs. Anderly."1 The rose- oloom brightened on the pearly cheeks, "Call me Isabel," she said, softly; "I like it best. Do you mean this room:'d ",This room-the flowers and the birds, and you, Isabel." Her hands, lying idly in her lap, began to flutter. ' Do you not find me changed-?" she ask- ed, not looking at him. "Only in this," touching the black dress; "you wore White when last we parted." Her head dropped, and the rosy light was at its brightest. The fluttering hands were clasped iu his. "May I say to-day what I meant to say then, Isabel-that I love you?" The words were spoken, and the fluttering hands were not withdrawn. He was an- swered. "Oh, Isabel," he said; "if I had spoken ten years ago, what would your answer have been?" "What it is now," she softly replied; "yes!" Then there was another interval of si- lence, but silence' was better than talk just then. Presently, Arthur bent over the gold- en head nestling on his shoulder. , And Captain Anderly, my dearest?" "My husband was very good to me," she answered, simply; "and loved me very much. 'I was truly sorry when he died But, Arthur-" *' Well, darling." "' They say"-with a little tremor of the voice-" you loved your wife so very, very much, tiat--that--" "Well, Isabel, you are not jealous, I hope." "Oh, no I but perhaps you will never love me as you did her 1" He stooped and kissed her. "I shall love you with all my heart but, Isabel, promise me one thing!" "Anything, Arthur!" . "That you will never have any secrets from me I A hidden secret that should have been told me was the cause of all the misery of my married life. If I had only been told it, the tragical story you have heard might never have been I Some day, when you are my wife, you shall know all-there need be no concealmnent tfrom you. Promise, Isabel!" "I promise dear Arthur!" "Anid you will come back 'with me 'to Maplewood-when?" ' Oh, I don't know I Some time this sum- mer, if you like." Not so long. Say in a month,. Isabel!" "4 But, Arthur-" t "Why, dearest," he pleaded; " why need we wait? Fate has separated us a long time, and life is too short to be spent in waiting. I want to take you to. my old home, where I have been so supremely happy and supreme- ly miserable. Let me take you to Maple- wood-my love--my wife, before the May- moon wanes. And so it was settled, and there was a quiet wedding in New York ; and early in June, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sutherland went down to the old homestead, which he had left eight years ago, and never seen since. Mrs. Sutherland, Senior, and Doctor and i Mrs. Philip Sutherland, were there to greet them. There weie the " little- peopled' too. 3 Doctor Phil's two flaxen-hahed, blue-eyed e boys, plump and rosy like mammin, and a shy, still, little dark tairy, with a moonlight sort of face, looking out of tangled black ringlets, and a pair of wonderful black eyes, Eufalie Sutherland-the living image of her beautiful dead mother. A pale melancholy child-heiress of fabulous wealth, owner of wondrous beauty; but a pensive subdued little creature, fragile as a lily. Isabel Suth- erland drew the shrinlking child toward her, and stooping to kiss her, something fell, on her face and wet it. That tear-that smile which followed, made them mother and daughter at once. "Isabel," Arthur said, "I have something to tell you-have I not?" His wife looked up from her embroidery with a smile. They were sitting together alone, in the misty June-twilight, at the open drawing-room window, about a week after their arrival. "The story of poor Eulalie's secret, which I never knew myself until she lay dead. Isa- bel, I can tell you that secret in four words -she was a slave!" "A-what?" repeated Isabel, vaguely. "A slave ; the daughter of a slave-mother, and exposed to the same fate herself. This is how it was:-Gustavus Rohan, her grand- 1 father, a weatlhy Louisania planter, had one son, Arthur, who fell madly in love when very young, with a lovely quadroon girl, the prop. erty of a neighboring planter, between whom and Mr. Rohan there had existed a bitter feud for years, The quadroon girl was the pet of her mistress, and as educated and re- fined as the lady's own daughter might have been, but what of that? she was a slave. The father of Arthur Rohan forbade his son's visiting Eulalie Benoir, under pain of being ' disinherited, and the result was a secret mar- riage and an elopement. The planter who had lost his pretty slave, the father who had lost his son, made every effort to trace the fugi- tives, but in vain. Nothing was heard of either for upward of a year, when Mr. Ro- han' received la letter from Cuba. It was written by his son's wife, and full of sorrow. ful tidings. The young husband was dead- she believed herself to be dying, and she wrote to beg him to forgive his dead son, and protect that son's infant-child. Mr. Rohan departed for Cuba at once, in time to see the poor mother die, and receive from her arms the black-eyed baby that became the idol of his life. he would not return to his Louis. anian home, lest his enemy there should dis- cover that the child he loved already was the daughter of his runaway slave. So in Cuba he remained, and there "Eulalie grew into the lovely creature whose picture you have seen, whose living image you behold in her child. There she grew up, to be idolized with such entire love, such absorbing devo- [TB tion, as few in this world ever knew. That very intensity of love made the old man's misery. Day by day the fear grew- upon him that he was destined to lose her too, this idol of his heart, and by a fate worse than death. She would be torn from him; she, the child of a sla e, and a slave herself, was entirely at the mercy of his relentless enemy if discovered. There was but one chance ot that discovery, and that was through Eula- lie's own uncle, her mother's brother and ,only relative. He was several years younger than that unfortunate youna mother, most crafty, cruel, spiteful, and malicious. He had all his master's hatred of the Rohans--am. gravated tenfold by his sister's flight. Ioe never believed in her marriage, of which there was no proof; and by some means or other-perhaps his sister had written to him also-he discovered that she had left a 'child, a daughter. That was enough. He was on her track from that moment. To discover that daughter; and revenge himself on the the Rohans by tearing her from her grand- father, and reducing her to the same level as himself, became the baleful object of his life. Mr. Rohan knoew all this-Eulalioe knew nothing of her dire story: she thought, as we all did, that her birthplace had been Louis- iana, her mother a French Creole lady. Her grandfather never undeceived her until she was my betrothed wife, and the shock struck her down like a thunderbolt. She was taken to Cuba. I followed her-and, half a year after, still ignorant of the secret, I married her. What followed, you havo al- ready heard. Gaston Benoir found her out here, and began his work of vengeance. On the eve of telling me all, and afterward, I have no doubt, taking steps to tear her from me, he was struck down himself by a woman he had deceived; and with him died the fear of Eulalie's life. But not in time to save her -she had fled already, and all search for her was vain. Her tragical end you know; and in a letter to me, hidden in the breast of her dress, I read what I have told you. Where sae had been in the interval of her flight, I have never discovered. Wherever she was, and it could not have been far distant, she must have wandered forth in an almost dying state-delirious, perhaps-and fallen down where we foundher. -What I suffered, Isa. bel, after that horrible night, is known only to heaven and myself." Two soft arms went round his neck, two loving lips touched his. "Dear Arthur," the sweet low voice of his wife said; " it is all over-let us forget it from this hour. You have a Eulalie on earth and a Eulalie in heaven; and remem- ber, 4 After tears and weeping He poureth in joyfulness 1'" BiD.1 page: 120 (Advertisement) -121[View Page 120 (Advertisement) -121] FREDERIC A. BRADY, Publisher & Bookseller, No. 22 ANN STREET, New-Yorlk, Gives prompt and particular attention to the immediate execution of every ords, which may be entrusted to his care, and the same forwarded, by mail or express, o0 the day it is received. Having full and complete arrangements for that purpose, he is prepared to furnish Any Book, no matter by whom published, at the Publishers' Lowest Cash Prices. , BOOKBELLERS, COUNTRY MERCHANTS, CANVASSERS, PEDLARS, NEWS-AGENTS &0, In any part of the United States, will find that by sending their orders DIREOT TO ME that the same will be as expeditiously and carefully attended to as if they were in New-York City themselves, as my business is entirely and always undo my personal supervision. Wr' AU Orderj for my Publications should be sent to me direct to prevent delay. PRINTS, MAPS, PLAYING-CARDS, All ln.1as o:f Stationery, co-., cc., Will be purchased for my customers, carefully packed and sent with their orde obr books. jw Send (Cuh Orders to FBEIDERIC A. BRADY, "'b)ishe & Soo( k elet, No. 22 Ann Street, i. Y.
