The eyes of Mrs. Belmont were fixed with their burning gaze upon the face of the speaker, and although her heart beat more quickly and the color deepened on her cheek, yet she did not quail or remove her own calm look from them.
"A little deeper," she thought, "and curiosity will be satisfied." Ah! how little you know those hidden depths! The bloom would die on that full round cheek, and the light of the joyous eyes would be quenched could their gaze penetrate that external covering of affability. Therefore be content.
"What are those memories, child? Tell me all."
Lily hesitated for a moment. The command embodied in the request disturbed her not a little, but she silenced her heart and continued:
"I remember being in a small cottage by the great ocean somewhere; I do not know where, and of being unhappy, yet there were bright spots here and there, standing out with such brilliancy that the darkness seems hidden by them. I loved the ocean, and as I learned the fact that at some time I had been called 'Lily Pearl,' this awoke in me most inconceivable emotions; for this reason, no doubt, connected with a little dream that I had lived down among the pearls, and that a beautiful lady had picked me up from the waves – that dream made me love the music of its waters and long to become a part of the mighty whole. But you are ill!"
She was about to spring from her seat when an iron grasp was laid upon her shoulder and a husky voice demanded her to "sit down!" Still they could not remain longer unnoticed, and were soon surrounded.
"The ride was too much for you," suggested the hostess.
"It is sitting in such a warm room after being out in the cold," suggested another, all of which met with no contradiction, and excusing herself, Mrs. Belmont retired to her private room. There we will leave her alone with her wretchedness and remorse. Dreary companions are they both through the long hours of one wearisome night; but when the morning draws near, and we find that no kind hand for us to clasp is reached down through the dreary shades, the gray dawn shrinks back and the dark pall of despair drops its thick folds around us, shutting out the glorious day beams from our vision, while the night of the soul still goes on! Wearisome night! full of spectral forms which glide in and out through the darkness, bringing from the past unwished for memories which tell us ever of what we are and what we might have been.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LITTLE PARTY AT THE WASHBURN'S
Rose, the youngest and only unmarried of the three daughters, was not at home on the arrival of the visitors. She came the next day, however, as was expected.
"The same wild Rose as ever," the father exclaimed, as he lifted her from the carriage and continued to look after her, as she bounded up the steps of the piazza, upsetting a little urchin on the way, sending him rolling down among the shrubbery at its foot, without stopping to heed the pitiful cry that came up from the thick shade any more than she did the familiar salutation of her father. Yet this insensibility is not unusual to that class of young ladies who have been reared from childhood under the destroying influences of "caste," wherever it can be found. Why should it be otherwise? The first impression made upon the susceptible heart is, "I am your superior; wealth and inherited power have determined our positions. Wealth and poverty cannot affiliate." Thus does the cultivating of selfishness begin which grows and expands until its hard, crooked, knotty branches reach out and smother the more tender plants of kindness and love, which must by necessity droop and become wholly extinct. Yet Rose Washburn was not wholly cruel or selfish. She had been used to seeing the little dark forms that sprung up everywhere all over the plantation rolling about from accident or design. "It did not seem to hurt them," therefore the silvery chords of tenderness and love which ever make such sweet music in the truly feminine heart, had ceased to vibrate as they always do when the spirit of selfishness rusts and corrodes them.
"The same wild Rose of two years ago," echoed Mr. St. Clair, as he met her in the door, imprinting a kiss on her cheek.
"I should think you would not dare touch me, for fear of being scratched," she replied, pettishly, as she bounded past him into the hall.
The young lady was not aware that Anna Pierson, the governess, was one of the guests she was expected to entertain, until entering the parlor a half-hour after her arrival. It was a fact not at all anticipated by the party themselves when the invitation was accepted, but George St. Clair most frankly expressed the opinion that it was a shame to give her no pleasure during the short vacation, and there was no reason under the sun why she should not take the place of Bertha, who had positively refused to accompany them, which Ellen echoed with great earnestness. There were many misgivings, however, in the mind of the humble Anna as to the propriety of accepting, after all, for she well knew that Mrs. Belmont, at least, looked upon her with an unloving eye, and how was she to be made sure that her presence would not be distasteful to those they went to visit? But Ellen laughed away every objection, declaring, "I will not go without you; we will stay at home together."
This, of course, was not to be thought of, and Anna found herself happy in the assurance that, although far from home, she was still with those who loved her.
The penetrating eye of the governess saw the sudden flash of scorn that passed over the face of the new-comer at their introduction; nor did the slight pressure of the finger tips betray a cordial welcome.
"I am so glad to get home again!" she exclaimed languidly, throwing herself upon the sofa. "I have heard nothing for the last week but war, war, war! and if I was ever tired of anything it is that hateful subject. One thing, however, I have made up my mind to do. If those cold blooded northerners should presume to raise their plebeian hands against us, you will see me shoulder my musket and go forth to try my skill in popping over a few of them." She rang the bell violently as the mother replied:
"If I were so tired of a hateful subject I would not again introduce it."
A servant girl entered.
"Roll the sofa up nearer the grate." Then turning to Ellen, she continued:
"I feel chilly after riding. It is provokingly cold just now. Did you suffer much from your long journey? Miss Pierson, I suppose, is used to such weather."
They decided promptly that they both had a "lovely ride," and Rose settled herself down in her warm seat by the fire.
"Where is Mrs. Belmont?" she asked a moment after, "I have not seen her yet. The gentlemen, I reckon, are in the library discussing the war."
The mother thought they were, and added that Mrs. Belmont had gone up stairs sometime before inviting Miss Gaylord to accompany her.
"She seems to have taken a great fancy to your daughter, Mrs. Gaylord," remarked Mrs. St. Clair, "you must be careful, or she will win her from you."
"Lily does not appear at all fickle in her affections; I think I am safe," replied the lady, smiling.
"Are you always so industrious, Miss Pierson?" interrogated Rose, blandly. "I beg your pardon; I forgot for the moment that you are from the land of industry. As true as I live, Ellen, she has drawn you into the same graceless habit. What is that on the table by you? A stocking, 'pon my word!" Ellen only laughed as she held up a portion of a worsted scarf in process of manufacture.
"We plebeians do not call this work; only a little amusement," interposed Anna, without raising her eyes. "We awkward people find it difficult sometimes to dispose of our hands, and so we employ them."
"I suppose so."
A toss of the head and some trivial remark to her mother was the only answer given by the young lady addressed.
The door opened and lunch was announced. The gentlemen entered soon after, and the conversation became spirited and general.
One thing Rose Washburn could not understand, she was heard to declare to Mrs. Belmont, and that was how George St. Clair could "devote so much time and attention to 'that menial.'" Of course it was only his excessive gallantry, but he ought to know that it does him no honor.
Mrs. Belmont fully agreed with her young friend, yet showed no disposition to prolong the conversation. Rose also wondered at the unusual dignity and stateliness of the lady, and with renewed admiration for her queenly bearing she remained silent.
The dinner hour arrived at last. The bell had just called but all were not present, and so they waited. The host was in fine spirits. "Always happy," as he declared, but pretty generally more so as the day continued to advance. He was a lover of good wine, and unless attentively watched by his careful wife would often lose his boasted manliness after dinner. She had determined to use her influence during the stay of her guests to keep him the genial gentleman she so much desired him to be. He had, however, unknown to her, ordered wine to the library in the morning, but was quite sure he had been temperate in his potations.
"What do you suppose they call those two girls 'Rose' and 'Lily' for?" he asked, slapping Mr. St. Clair on the shoulder as the bell rang again and the party arose. "Not because their names are appropriate; that is a fact," he continued, after his boisterous laugh had died away. "You never saw a lily with such black spots on it, did you?"
"I have," remarked the young lady, playfully. "You will discover that my eyes are not 'black,' but a positive 'red brown,' as Aunt Dinah would say. We have lilies in our garden at home with just such colored spots on them, and we call them 'tiger lilies.' Now is not my name appropriate?"
"Ha! ha! just so. And I reckon you have roses with terrible sharp things about them which say as plainly as words can do, 'hands off,' haven't you?"
"He-he-he, sharp-toed slippers," squeaked a piping voice from the stairs where they were passing.
"Yes, and see how you like it," exclaimed Rose, making a spring towards him, but with the sprightliness of a squirrel he darted behind a heavy post of the balustrades, which unfortunately for the occupant of that dainty slipper received the full force of the blow that was not designed for it.
"I like it, Missus," called back the provoking little rascal, as he scrambled on all fours up the broad stairway.
"I'll pay him off," exclaimed Rose, excited with pain and anger. "If I was not so hungry I would do it now."
The laugh became general, and to avoid further remark the young lady joined in with them. Yet her cheek burned and she found it difficult to throw aside the unpleasant incident or make herself believe that George St. Clair, who was unusually attentive to her, did not also remember. But the hour of feasting passed agreeably enough, and when the ladies arose to retire, the young gentleman, who seldom took wine, asked the privilege of going with them. This broke up the after dinner tete a tete, and they all returned to the parlor. Anna stood by the window looking out over the beautiful landscape, when a voice near her asked in low tones:
"Are you very unhappy here, Anna?" She hesitated a moment before answering, as she looked into the manly face beside her. It was full of truth and anxiety.
"I am very happy, and have to thank you for my pleasure," was the quiet response.
"I feared I should have to crave your pardon, as I perceive that Miss Rose does not look upon you kindly."
"You may think it strange, but even this does not give me pain; it only amuses me."
"That is right. I rejoice that I have not been the means of troubling you when so much desiring your pleasure."
"Do you play?" inquired Rose, coming up to the window where the two were standing. "I think Ellen has told me that music is one of the branches you teach."
"Yes; and I play a little occasionally, as example is more forcible than theory," was the mischievous response. "Mr. St. Clair, however, will, without doubt, prefer hearing you, as my attempts would be only a story many times told."
George looked into the beaming face of his companion, and his own caught the light. "She spoke truthfully when she said she enjoyed it," he thought, and taking the hand of the hostess' daughter, drew her arm within his own and led her away to the piano.
"Rose sings very well," remarked Mr. St. Clair to Mrs. Belmont, who was sitting beside him on the sofa.
"One more," called out the father, as the last words of the song "Will You Sometimes Think of Me?" died away or were swallowed up in the dense volume of the elaborate accompaniment.
"What would you like, Father? 'Do They Miss Me at Home?'"
The remembrance of these words as sung in a distant home brought tears into the eyes of one of her listeners, as the scenes of that last night came rolling in upon the mind, and when at last the voice of Mr. St. Clair was heard calling: "Now, Anna, for Cathesdra," she arose mechanically to obey while the dew of love still glistened in her mild blue orbs. "It is my favorite, you know," remarked the old gentleman, apologetically.
"And it is my delight to gratify you," was the characteristic response.
Anna never sang better. There was something in the wail of the poor exile pining for the scenes of her Italian home which chimed in smoothly yet pensively with the low sighing of her own heart, and when the words "O let me die where my mother died," came bubbling up from the full font of her filial affections, a burst of applause mingled harshly with her flute-like tones. The hand that clasped hers as George St. Clair led her back to the window where they had been standing some time before, did not seem at all willing to relinquish its task when its duty was over; and not until he espied a smile ripple over her illumined features did he speak.
"A little homesick," he remarked, quietly, and changed the subject.
Mrs. Gaylord always retired early, and Lily, either from force of habit or affection, seldom failed to sit by her to talk or read until quietly resting for the night. That evening, as the pale face settled itself into the snowy pillow, the young girl stooped to kiss the weary brow as she asked:
"Do you see anything peculiar about Mrs. Belmont? I do not like to be prejudiced, but somehow she strikes a chill over me every time I catch her gaze fastened upon me; and yet there is a fascination about her from which I find it impossible to disentangle myself. She commands me with the beck of her hand, while a look consigns me to silence, and yet I have met her so recently. Can you tell me what it all means?"
"You love her, my child."
"O no; it is not that. I almost fear her."
"Then she loves you."
"I do not think she does. For some reason I cannot divine she seems greatly interested in my early history. I told you of her strange conduct last evening. To-day she inquired if I had any idea where upon the Atlantic shore my childhood's home had been situated; and when I answered that I had no idea whatever, I could but notice the gleam of joy that flashed over her face. I should have called it satisfaction, if I had found a reason for supposing that the attitude of indifference she assumed was not perfectly legitimate. But I am wearying you when you ought to be resting. All of these are 'idle dreamings,' as Willie would say, so good night," and with another kiss the young girl stole noiselessly from the room.
Mrs. Gaylord, however, could not sleep. It did not seem at all like dreaming to her, and an indescribable sensation of fearful forebodings had taken possession of her, as one feels sure that a storm is approaching, although far away. "But it is only for a week," she concluded, "then she will forget it all and rest."
Ellen St. Clair and Anna roomed together by special request, and long that night did the two friends lie side by side and talk.
"I do wonder so much," said Anna, at last "how Mrs. Washburn could have given her love to one so unlike herself in everything."
"It was strange. I have heard my mother tell the story many times. You know they were very dear friends in their school days, and have always kept their affections warm and bright by frequent communications and visits. If it were not for that tie I hardly think we should be drawn here for so long a time. But I hope you enjoy it just a little."
"More than that. I shall always remember you with love for giving me this pleasure. But you have excited my 'plebeian' curiosity regarding this strange marriage. Will you satisfy it?"
"O yes. Know, then, that Mary Gaylord was the daughter of a Virginia planter, who was very wealthy, and fearing to send his daughter north on account of the enmity existing between the sections, he posted her off to Augusta, where she found a husband who did not at all suit his taste. It was an elopement, I believe, and after all was over it was ascertained that the boasted wealth of the newly made groom consisted in the prospect of a few acres of pine swamp, which would probably become altogether unproductive before it should pass into his possession. The father, however, at last relented, and revoked his decree to cast her off forever, and gave them a few thousand with which he has by dint of buying and selling amassed quite a large fortune. This added to the estate that has since been left him by his father, has placed him on an equal footing with the planters of the State. Were it not for the wealth he is supposed to possess, Jack Washburn would hardly be tolerated in good society. I have heard, Anna, that in your section of country worth, not wealth, is more generally the passport up the ascending scale."
"This should be true, but there is not such a vast difference between us. The social edicts are about the same. I often wonder how it will be when, as the Bible tells us, there will be a new earth, and we shall live in the society of the 'Sons of God.'"
Ellen laughed.
"Not much like the present state of affairs, I reckon. One thing I am sure of, there will be no master, no slave, nor shall there be war any more. It is dreadful to think of. Do you believe, after all, that the north will be so foolish as to fight? George says he is sure of it, but I hope he is not a prophet."
"You, I am convinced, will pardon almost anything in me, even if I tell you that I am of the opinion that God has this whole matter in hand, and will work it our according to His wise purposes. There have been a million prayers going up to Him for a century or more out of crushed hearts, dripping with the bitterest tears ever shed by human eyes, and will He not hear? Whether there is war or not, His will be done."
"Mrs. Belmont would call that treason, dear Anna, but I feel that it is true. If there is a pitying Father anywhere He will defend and protect His children and bring the guilty to their reward when the proper time comes, and in my opinion the 'mistress of Rosedale' will be obliged to put her keen eyes to a good use if she at last finds a way to escape. But I am getting sleepy; good night," and in a few moments Ellen St. Clair had forgotten the wonder she had planted in the bosom of her companion.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE DEATH OF UNCLE BOB
"There is no such thing as a trifle in the world," says the Spanish proverb. "When we remember how inextricably the lives of all mankind are tangled together, it seems as if every word and action moved a lever which set in motion a gigantic machine whose effect is beyond our control." Such has been the workings of those of whom our little history treats, and yet the labor is not completed.
Charles Belmont would arrive before dinner the next day after the incidents of our last chapter, and Ellen St. Clair was expected, of course, to be nervous and excited; but much to the chagrin of the mother of the young gentleman, at least, she was neither. One might well accuse her of indifference or disinterestedness, so calm and quiet did she appear. It was proposed that they should ride over to the depot to meet him, but she thought it "tiresome."
"Then let us go to the village for the letters," suggested Rose; but even that was "unnecessary," and, besides, it was Jim's work, and for one she did not "like to infringe upon the rights of others," she declared, with the merriest of laughs.
"Then," said George, coming to the rescue, "we will take Anna out and show her the orange groves."
"That is just the thing; a walk was what was most needed."
"And Ellen is suited at last," exclaimed Rose, in a pet.
"But you will go without me. Southern luxury is no rarity to one who has always been used to it;" and the insinuating eyes darted to the calm face of her for whom the pretty speech was intended. "I will remain within doors, and listen to the chit-chat of the old ladies, or it may be, finish the 'Missing Bride,' which I consider far more agreeable."
"Do you find entertainment in the works of Mrs. Southworth? There are those who consider them rather effervescent – to speak mildly."
"Of whom you are included."
"Certainly so," replied George St. Clair with a touch of irony in his voice, it must be confessed, for he had seen the glow deepen on the cheek of Anna too many times beneath her scathing words, not to realize the uprising of his knightly indignation, which submerged, for the moment, his native gallantry. But one glance into the mirthful face of his companion, who was already equipped for her walk, brought to his mind her previous assertion, that she really enjoyed it; and he smothered the glowing fire and stepped into the hall for his hat.
Lily was bathing the aching head of her suffering mother, and could not be prevailed upon to leave her post, and so the three started on without her. On the piazza, however, they encountered "Toddy," who was rolling in the sunshine and trying to sing like Aunt Millie.
"Here, you rascal," called George, "come and show us where we can find the store-house. I want you to see first how they prepare and store away the cotton," he continued, turning to Anna.
"Wants to see where dey works 'em?" asked Toddy with a very knowing look.
"Yes, where the gins are."
"Yes, massa." And the boy started off in a rollicking trot, much to the amusement of the young people who followed close after him. On he went, slapping his sides at every step, and casting a sly look over his shoulder at the ladies.
"Here, you monkey – don't you ever walk?" again called George, as he was getting far ahead.
"Yes, massa."
"When, I should like to know?"
"When Miss Rose wants dis child to hurry quick," he shouted back, at the same time bestowing one of his side-long glances.
There was another merry laugh when Anna inquired:
"What do they call you Toddy for? It seems like a queer name for a little boy."
"Don' know Missus; 'spects it's 'cause massa likes me."
This was too much even for the staid bachelor, and he joined heartily in the laugh that followed this bit of wit.
"I reckon they do not give you many whippings," suggested Ellen.
"Right smart, sometimes, Missus."
"Where are you taking us, madcap? Here, this is the way to the gin house."
"Yes, massa," and turning in the direction designated he proceeded with the same swinging trot as before. "Uncle Bob drefful bad ober dar," he added a moment after, pointing to a small cabin a little apart from the rest. "Reckon he's goin t' die," and he renewed with vigor the peculiar movement of his strange gait, yet this time the drumming of his chubby hands kept up a running accompaniment to the song he had left unfinished when disturbed in the attempt to imitate poor Aunt Millie.
Anna did not join in the amusement of the moment, for her thoughts were with the old man who "was mighty bad ober dar," and she longed to visit him in his humble home. She walked through the extensive warehouse, listened to the explanations regarding the work of the world-famed cotton gin, looked at the huge piles of bales not yet shipped, yet felt no interest in what she heard or saw, so great had become her desire to go to the little cabin where the poor negro was dying; and when they again emerged into the open air, she said, calmly:
"Why not make a visit to the sick now? I have heard so much in the north about the piety and resignation of the negro people in the dying hour that I long to witness it for myself."
The young man looked into the face of the speaker with a shadow of perplexity covering his own. Ellen, however, quietly remarked:
"All of these things have been greatly exaggerated, without doubt, and yet I shall never forget how triumphantly old Peter went home. I was quite small, but my heart learned a great lesson from that death. If you desire, Anna, I will go with you."
"I think, ladies, you had better commission me to carry the wine and oil, for having had one peep into the sensitive nature of our northern friend, I must consider you very thoughtless, my sister, in forwarding her desires."
This was said with apparent carelessness, yet Anna did not fail to perceive that he did not want them to go. Still she was not willing to give it up, and, laying her hand on his arm, she said, playfully:
"Miss Rose will require a little of your Samaritan kindness, if she is still weeping over the tortures of the 'Missing Bride,' and if you will pardon us we will go to the cabin while you administer balm in another direction. To-morrow, remember, we are to finish our rambles through the orange groves."
"Of course he will excuse us," interposed Ellen, "we will not remain a great while." And with a "Just as you please, ladies," their chaperon, with a most obsequious bow, walked away.
"He hasn't gone to the house at all," remarked the sister looking after him, but Toddy unperceived by either had appeared on the scene and with one of his knowing glances remarked quaintly: "Miss Lily ober dar wid de turkeys; I seed her goin' down de walk. Dis be ole Bob's," and rolling up to the door he opened it, then stepped back for the ladies to enter. "A little gentleman after all," remarked Anna sotto voce; but they were in the room where in the farther part lay the old man with closed eyes apparently asleep. "Do not disturb him," whispered Ellen approaching the bedside; but the large eyes opened as she drew near and a smile spread itself over the thin features.
"De young ladies from de house has come to see you," said the girl in attendance. "Bress ye'se honey. I'se most home, got most t'ro' wid de work and de cryin'! Old Bob's done heaps of dem both – bress de Lord!" And the heavy lids drooped again over the large eyes where such a joyous light seemed burning. Anna could not resist the impulse to take the bony hand of the dying man in her own, and as it lay in her warm clasp he looked again upon her. "Does ye pray, honey? De good Lord help ye! It's but a little way down to de ribber whar old Bob's a-goin'! Poo' massa! I'se told de Lord all 'bout him. It's de liquor what keeps de good away – but den I'se most t'ro' – goin' home – bress de Lord!" A spoon was placed to his lips and as he swallowed the few drops he murmured: "Poo' massa! It's de liquor," and his voice died away in a prayer Anna was sure for his lips moved almost imperceptibly. There was a moment's silence, then Anna as she raised the hand she had been holding from the feebly heaving breast asked softly: "What are all the sorrows of life to you now? With heaven so near can you feel sad for a moment over what has past? Are you very happy poor, dying saint?" O that look! "It must have been a ray that had darted through the opening gate that so lighted up the wan features," said Anna after, "for it was like nothing I ever saw before." The poor girl by his side was weeping quietly, but she caught the glance of the heavenly eyes, and laying her hand on the white head said soothingly: "Dar's a crown for poor old Bob where dis head won't ache no mo';" and the fervent "bress de Lord!" fell again from the thin lips.
"Are you not afraid to stay here alone?" whispered Ellen.
"O, no; de Lord and de holy angels are close by, and Fanny will be here when de days work is t'ro'. But Bob an I isn't 'fraid. We'll both be dar by and by." Fearing to intrude longer upon the last moments of a departing soul the two stole noiselessly from the humble room which was so soon to prove the gate of heaven to the liberated spirit, and they stepped out into the cool, bracing air, yet not a word was spoken.
"There come the carriages from the depot," remarked Ellen as they turned towards the house. Yes, Charles Belmont had arrived; as also Mr. St. Clair, in company with the host, from where they had been taking a drive over a neighboring plantation; and shortly after a merry party, to all appearance, sat down to a bountiful dinner. How little we know of the grief, bitterness, disappointment, anger and rage that can be crowded into one dark chamber of the soul over which the spirit of evil keeps its faithful watch, holding in its right hand the keys of its secret domain!
"Old Bob gone dead, sure," piped a voice through a narrow aperture of the door close to the master's chair.
"Get out you scoundrel!" exclaimed the host, at the same time throwing a chicken bone at the intruder's curly head which failed in its aim, while the gleeful "he-he-he!" mingled itself with the sound of Toddy's rapid scrambling up the broad staircase outside.
"Did you know Bob was so bad?" inquired the wife, stopping for a moment in her duties as hostess.
"Bad? Bob wasn't bad about anything! But I knew he was going this morning, the old boy! Well, he did have one fault; he loved his good-for-nothing old master and I reckon things won't go quite as brisk now that he has gone."
"One of the faithful ones, I take it?" interrogated Charles Belmont.
"Yes, and a pet of my father's, who, when he was dying, told me to be good to 'Bob' and I reckon I've done it;" and the little ripple caused by the departure of a human soul closed up, and the dinner with its accompaniments of mirth and laughter went on as though the waters had never been stirred. Death! Mrs. Belmont retired to her room almost immediately after the party returned to the parlor, for a flood of contending emotions had rolled in upon her guilty soul at the very thought of the "king of terrors." Then, too, there came to her through the surgings of the inward tempest the last words of him who was sleeping in the shadows at Rosedale, "teach the children to be true, noble and better than we have been, for somehow I can but feel that Aunt Vina is right 'we must have the Lord sometime or be wretched!'" "The Lord! Wretched! Am I not all that now?" and the miserable woman paced the floor as her thoughts went on. Where was Lillian? She was to teach to be good and noble! Under that very roof was her child! The babe she had so desired to thrust out of sight – out of the world! Every motion of the childish figure – every look sent a barb of anguish to her already tortured soul! "It will all be brought to light" something had continually whispered to her awakened conscience for the last two days, and how could she ever meet it? How gladly she would have throttled the power that was so resistlessly carrying her forward! O the agony of a sin-cursed soul! The stately lady stood by the window and looked out upon the scenes before her. Yonder were the rays of the setting sun yet lingering in the tree-tops; near was the rude cabin where the still form of the humble slave was lying. How joyfully would the proud, haughty mistress of Rosedale at that moment have exchanged places with the poor despised menial! But she must live; the future was unfolding itself to her every moment and what was to be done? Again the record of a mortal life was sadly closed, for on its pages was written the guilt of a perjured soul!