The deed was done; and relatives and friends gathered about them with kindly salutations and good wishes.

Mr. Dinsmore was the first to salute the bride. "God bless and keep you, my daughter," were his tenderly whispered words.

"Dear, dear papa," was all she said in response, but her eyes spoke volumes. "I am yours still, your very own, and glad it is so," they said.

Then came Rose with her tender, silent caress, half-sorrowful, half-joyful, and Mrs. Travilla with her altogether joyous salutation, "My dear daughter, may your cup of happiness be ever filled to overflowing;" while Mr. Dinsmore to hide his emotion turned jocosely to Travilla with a hearty shake of the hand, and "I wish you joy, my son."

"Thank you, father," returned the groom gravely, but with a twinkle of merriment in his eye.

Aunt Wealthy, standing close by awaiting her turn to greet the bride, shook her head at her nephew. "Ah, you are quite too old for that, Horace. Mr. Vanilla, I wish you joy; but what am I to call you now?"

"Edward, if you please, Aunt Wealthy."

"Ah, yes, that will do nicely; it's a good name—so easily forgotten. Elsie, dearie, you went through it brave as a lion. May you never wish you'd lived your lane like your auld auntie."

"As if single blessedness could ever be real blessedness!" sneered Enna, coming up just in time to catch the last words.

"Our feelings change as we grow older," returned Miss Stanhope, in her gentle, refined tones, "and we come to look upon quiet and freedom from care as very desirable things."

"And I venture to say that old age is not likely to find Mrs. Percival so happy and contented as is my dear old maiden aunt," remarked Mr. Dinsmore.

"Yet we will hope it may, papa," said Elsie, receiving Enna's salutation with kindly warmth.

But the list of relatives, near connections, and intimate friends, is too long for particular mention of each. All the Dinsmores were there, both married and single; also most of the Allisons. Harold had not come with the others, nor had he either accepted or rejected the invitation.

On first raising her eyes upon the conclusion of the ceremony, had Elsie really seen, far back in the shadow of the doorway, a face white, rigid, hopeless with misery as his when last they met and parted? She could not tell; for if really there, it vanished instantly.

"Did Harold come?" she asked of Richard when he came to salute the bride and groom.

"I think not; I haven't seen him, I can't think what's come over the lad to be so neglectful of his privileges."

Harry Duncan was there, too, hanging upon the smiles of merry, saucy, blue-eyed May Allison; while her brother Richard seemed equally enamored with the brunette beauty and sprightliness of Lottie King.

Stiffness and constraint found no place among the guests, after the event of the evening was over.

In the great dining-room a sumptuous banquet was laid; and thither, after a time, guests and entertainers repaired.

The table sparkled with cut-glass, rare and costly china, and solid silver and gold plate. Every delicacy from far and near was to be found upon it; nothing wanting that the most fastidious could desire, or the most lavish expenditure furnish. Lovely, fragrant flowers were there also in the utmost profusion, decorating the board, festooning the windows and doorways, in bouquets upon the mantels and antique stands, scattered here and there through the apartment, filling the air with their perfume; while a distant and unseen band discoursed sweetest music in soft, delicious strains.

The weather was warmer far than at that season in our northern clime, the outside air balmy and delightful, and through the wide-open doors and windows glimpses might be caught of the beautiful grounds, lighted here and there by a star-like lamp shining out among the foliage. Silent and deserted they had been all the earlier part of the evening, but now group after group, as they left the bountiful board, wandered into their green alleys and gay parterres; low, musical tones, light laughter, and merry jests floating out upon the quiet night air and waking the echoes of the hills.

But the bride retired to her own apartments, where white satin, veil, and orange blossoms, were quickly exchanged for an elegant traveling dress, scarcely less becoming to her rare beauty.

She reappeared in the library, which had not been thrown open to the guests, but where the relations and bridesmaids were gathered for the final good-bye.

Mr. Dinsmore's family carriage, roomy, easy-rolling, and softly cushioned, stood at the door upon the drive, its spirited gray horses pawing the ground with impatience to be gone. It would carry the bride and groom—and a less pretentious vehicle their servants—in two hours to the seaport where they were to take the steamer for New Orleans; for their honeymoon was to be spent at Viamede, Elsie still adhering to the plan of a year ago.

Her adieus were gayly given to one and another, beginning with those least dear; very very affectionately to Mrs. Travilla, Aunt Wealthy, Rose, and the little Horace (the sleeping Rosebud had already been softly kissed in her crib).

Her idolized father only remained; and now all her gayety forsook her, all her calmness gave way, and clinging about his neck, "Papa, papa, oh papa!" she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs.

"Holy and pure are the drops that fall, When the young bride goes from her father's hall; She goes unto love yet untried and new— She parts from love which hath still been true."

It was his turn now to comfort her. "Darling daughter," he said, caressing her with exceeding tenderness, "we do not part for long. Should it please God to spare our lives, I shall have my precious one in my arms in a few short weeks. Meantime we can have a little talk on paper every day. Shall we not?"

"Yes, yes, dear, dear, precious father."

Mr. Travilla stood by with a face full of compassionate tenderness. Putting one hand into her father's, Elsie turned, gave him the other, and together they led her to the carriage and placed her in it. There was a hearty, lingering hand-shaking between the two gentlemen. Mr. Travilla took his seat by Elsie's side, and amid a chorus of good-byes they were whirled rapidly away.

"Cheer up, my dear," said Rose, leaning affectionately on her husband's arm; "it is altogether addition and not subtraction; you have not lost a daughter but gained a son."

"These rooms tell a different tale," he answered with a sigh. "How desolate they seem. But this is no time for the indulgence of sadness. We must return to our guests, and see that all goes merry as a marriage bell with them till the last has taken his departure."



CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

"My bride, My wife, my life. O we will walk this world Yok'd in all exercise of noble aim And so through those dark gates across the wild That no man knows." —TENNYSON'S PRINCESS.

Elsie's tears were falling fast, but an arm as strong and kind as her father's stole quietly about her, a hand as gentle and tender as a woman's drew the weary head to a resting-place on her husband's shoulder, smoothed back the hair from the heated brow, and wiped away the falling drops.

"My wife! my own precious little wife!"

How the word, the tone, thrilled her! her very heart leaped for joy through all the pain of parting from one scarcely less dear. "My husband," she murmured, low and shyly—it seemed so strange to call him that, so almost bold and forward—"my dear, kind friend, to be neither hurt nor angry at my foolish weeping."

"Not foolish, dear one, but perfectly natural and right. I understand it; I who know so well what your father has been to you these many years."

"Father and mother both."

"Yes; tutor, friend, companion, confidant, everything. I know, dear little wife, that you are sacrificing much for me, even though the separation will be but partial. And how I love you for it, and for all you are to me, God only knows."

The tears had ceased to flow; love, joy, and thankfulness were regaining their ascendancy in the heart of the youthful bride; she became again calmly, serenely happy.

The journey was accomplished without accident. They were favored with warm, bright days, clear, starlit nights; and on as lovely an afternoon as was ever known in that delicious clime, reached Viamede.

Great preparations had been made for their reception; banners were streaming, and flags flying from balconies and tree-tops. Mr. Mason met them at the pier with a face beaming with delight; Spriggs with a stiff bow. A gun was fired and a drum began to beat as they stepped ashore; two pretty mulatto girls scattered flowers in their path, and passing under a grand triumphal arch they presently found themselves between two long rows of smiling, bowing negroes, whose fervent ejaculations: "God bless our dear young missus an' her husband!" "God bless you, massa an' missus!" "Welcome home!" "Welcome to Viamede!" "We've not forgot you, Miss Elsie; you's as welcome as de daylight!" affected our tender-hearted heroine almost to tears.

She had a kind word for each, remembering all their names, and inquiring after their "miseries"; every one was permitted to take her small white hand, many of them kissing it with fervent affection. They were introduced to their "new master," too (that was what she called him), and shaken hands with by him in a cordial interested way that won their hearts at once.

Aunt Phillis was in her glory, serving up a feast the preparation of which had exhausted the united skill of both Aunt Sally and herself. Their efforts were duly appreciated and praised, the viands evidently greatly enjoyed, all to their intense delight.

Mr. Mason was invited to partake with the bride and groom, and assigned the seat of honor at Mr. Travilla's right hand. Elsie presided over the tea-urn with the same gentle dignity and grace as when her father occupied the chair at the opposite end of the table, now filled by her husband. Her traveling dress had been exchanged for one of simple white, and there were white flowers in her hair and at her throat. Very sweet and charming she looked, not only in the eyes of her husband, who seemed to find her fair face a perpetual feast, but in those of all others who saw her.

On leaving the table they repaired to the library, where Mr. Mason gave a report of the condition of the people and his work among them, also assuring Mrs. Travilla that Spriggs had carefully carried out her wishes, that the prospect for the crops was fine, and everything on the estate in excellent order.

She expressed her gratification, appealing to Mr. Travilla for his approval, which was cordially given; said she had brought a little gift for each of the people, and desired they should be sent up to the house about sunset the next evening to receive it.

The chaplain promised that her order should be attended to, then retired, leaving husband and wife alone together.

"All very satisfactory, my little friend, was it not?" said Mr. Travilla.

"Yes, sir, very. I'm so glad to have secured such a man as Mr. Mason to look after the welfare of these poor helpless creatures. And you like the house, Mr. Travilla, do you not?"

"Very much, so far as I have seen it. This is a beautiful room, and the dining-room pleased me equally well."

"Ah, I am eager to show you all!" she cried, rising quickly and laying her hand on the bell-rope.

"Stay, little wife, not to-night," he said, "you are too much fatigued."

She glided to the back of the easy chair in which he sat, and leaning over him, said laughingly, "I'm not conscious of being fatigued, but I have promised to obey and——"

"Hush, hush!" he said flushing, "I meant to have that left out; and did I not tell you you were to have your own way that night and ever after? You've already done enough of obeying to last you a lifetime. But please come round where I can see you better." Then, as she stepped to his side, he threw an arm about her and drew her to his knee.

"But it wasn't left out," she said, shyly returning his fond caress; "I promised and must keep my word."

"Ah, but if you can't, you can't; how will you obey when you get no orders?"

"So you don't mean to give me any?"

"No, indeed; I'm your husband, your friend, your protector, your lover, but not your master."

"Now, Mr. Travilla——"

"I asked you to call me Edward."

"But it seems so disrespectful."

"More so than to remind me of the disparity of our years? or than to disregard my earnest wish? Then I think I'll have to require the keeping of the promise in this one thing. Say Edward, little wife, and never again call me Mr. Travilla when we are alone."

"Well, Edward, I will try to obey; and if I use the wrong word through forgetfulness you must please excuse it. But ah, I remember papa would say that was no excuse."

"But I shall not be so strict—unless you forget too often. I have sometimes thought my friend too hard with his tender-hearted, sensitive little daughter."

"Don't blame him—my dear, dear father!" she said, low and tremulously, her face growing grave and almost sad for the moment. "He was very strict, it is true, but none too strict in the matter of requiring prompt and implicit obedience, and oh, so kind, so loving, so tender, so sympathizing. I could, and did go to him with every little childish joy and sorrow, every trouble, vexation, and perplexity; always sure of sympathy, and help, too, if needed. Never once did he repulse me, or show himself an uninterested listener.

"He would take me on his knee, hear all I had to say, clasp me close to his heart, caress me, call me pet names, joy, sorrow with, or counsel me as the case required, and bid me always come freely to him so, assuring me that nothing which concerned me, one way or another, was too trivial to interest him, and he would be glad to know I had not a thought or feeling concealed from him. I doubt if even you, my friend, have ever known all that papa has been and is to me: father, mother, everything—but husband," she added with a blush and smile, as her eyes met the kindly, tender look in his.

"Ah, that is my blessed privilege," he whispered, drawing her closer to him. "My wife, my own precious little wife! God keep me from ever being less tender, loving, sympathizing to you than your father has been."

"I do not fear it, my husband. Oh, was ever woman so blessed with love as I! Daughter, and wife! they are the sweetest of all names when addressed to me by papa's lips and yours."

"I ought not to find fault with his training, seeing what credit you do it. However, you seemed to me as near perfection as possible before he began. Ah, my little friend, for how many years I loved you with scarcely a hope it would ever be returned in the way I wished. Indeed I can hardly yet believe fully in my own happiness," he concluded with a joyous laugh. The next day Elsie had the pleasure of showing her husband over the house first, and then the estate. Their life at Viamede, for the few weeks of their stay, seemed much like a repetition of her visit there the year before with her father. They took the same rides, walks and drives; glided over the clear waters of the bayou in the same boat; sought out each spot of beauty or interest he had shown her; were, if possible, even more constantly together, reading, writing, or engaged with music in library or drawing-room, seated side by side on veranda or lawn enjoying conversation, book or periodical; or, it might be, silently musing, hand in hand, by the soft moonlight that lent such a witchery to the lovely landscape. A pleasanter honeymoon could hardly have been devised.

In one thing, however, they were disappointed: they had hoped to be left entirely to each other; but it was impossible to conceal their presence at Viamede from the hospitable neighbors, and calls and invitations had to be received and returned. But, both being eminently fitted to shine in society, and each proud to display the other, this state of things did not, after all, so greatly interfere with their enjoyment.

In fact, so delightful did they find their life in that lovely country that they lingered week after week till nearly six had slipped away, and letters from home began to be urgent for their return. Mr. Dinsmore was wearying for his daughter, Mrs. Travilla for her son, and scarcely less for the daughter so long vainly hoped for.

Every day a servant was despatched to the nearest post-office with their mail, generally returning as full handed as he went. Mr. Dinsmore's letters were, as he had promised, daily, and never left unanswered. The old love was not, could not be forgotten in the new. Elsie was no less a daughter because she had become a wife; but Edward was always a sharer in her enjoyment, and she in his.

They were sitting on the veranda one morning when Uncle Ben rode up and handed the mail-box to his master. Mr. Travilla hastened to open it, gave Elsie her letters and began the perusal of his own.

A softly breathed sigh called his attention to her.

"What is it, little wife?" he asked; "your face is grave almost to sadness."

"I was thinking," she answered, with her eye still upon her father's letter open in her hand. "Papa says," and she read aloud from the sheet, "How long you are lingering in Viamede. When will you return? Tell Travilla I am longing for a sight of the dear face his eyes are feasting upon, and he must remember his promise not to part us.

"I am writing in your boudoir. I have been thinking of the time (it seems but yesterday) when I had you here a little girl, sitting on my knee reciting your lessons or listening with almost rapt attention to my remarks and explanations. Never before had tutor so dear, sweet, and interesting a scholar!"

"A fond father's partiality," she remarked, looking up with a smile and blush. "But never, I am sure, was such another tutor; his lucid explanations, intense interest in the subject and his pupil, apt illustrations, and fund of information constantly opened up to me, made my lessons a delight."

"He has made you wonderfully well informed and thorough," said her husband.

She colored with pleasure.

"Such words are very sweet, coming from your lips. You appreciate papa."

"Yes, indeed, and his daughter too, I hope," he answered, smiling fondly upon her. "Yes, your father and I have been like brothers since we were little fellows. It seems absurd to think of him in any other relation."

"But what about going home? isn't it time, as papa thinks?"

"That you shall decide, ma chere; our life here has been very delightful to me, and to you also, I hope."

"Very, if we had your mother and papa and mamma and the children here, I should like to stay all winter. But as it is I think we ought to return soon." He assented, and after a little more consultation they decided to go soon—not later than the middle of the next week, but the day was not set.



CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

"The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side, And hills to the thunder peal replied; The lightning burst on its fearful way While the heavens were lit in its red array." —WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.



"Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge Accurs'd, and in a cursed hour he hies." —MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

They were alone that evening, and retired earlier than usual. They had been quietly sleeping for some time when Elsie was wakened by a sudden gust of wind that swept round the house, rattling doors and windows; then followed the roll and crash of thunder, peal on peal, accompanied with vivid flashes of lightning.

Elsie was not timid in regard to thunder and lightning; she knew so well that they were entirely under the control of her Father, without whom not a hair of her head could perish; she lay listening to the war of the elements, thinking of the words of the Psalmist, "The clouds poured out water: the skies sent out a sound; Thine arrows also went abroad. The voice of Thy thunder was in the heaven; the lightnings lightened the world, the earth trembled and shook."

But another sound startled her. Surely she heard some stealthy step on the veranda upon which the windows of the room opened (long windows reaching from the floor almost to the ceiling), and then a hand at work with the fastenings of the shutters of the one farthest from the bed.

Her husband lay sleeping by her side. She half raised herself in the bed, put her lips to his ear, and shaking him slightly, whispered, "Edward, some one is trying to get in at the window!"

He was wide-awake in an instant, raised himself and while listening intently took a loaded revolver from under his pillow and cocked it ready for use.

"Lie down, darling," he whispered; "it will be safer, and should the villain get in, this will soon settle him, I think."

"Don't kill him, if you can save yourself without," she answered, in the same low tone and with a shudder.

"No; if I could see, I should aim for his right arm."

A moment of silent waiting, the slight sound of the burglar's tool faintly heard amid the noise of the storm, then the shutter flew open, a man stepped in; at that instant a vivid flash of lightning showed the three to each other, and the men fired simultaneously.

A heavy, rolling crash of thunder followed close upon the sharp crack of the revolvers; the robber's pistol fell with a loud thump upon the floor and he turned and fled along the veranda, this time moving with more haste than caution. They distinctly heard the flying footsteps.

"I must have hit him," said Mr. Travilla, "Dearest, you are not hurt?"

"No, no; but you?"

"Have escaped also, thank God," he added, with earnest solemnity.

Elsie, springing to the bell-rope, sent peal after peal resounding through the house. "He must be pursued, if possible!" she cried; "for oh, Edward, your life is in danger as long as he is at large. You recognized him?"

"Yes, Tom Jackson; I thought him safe in prison at the North; but probably he has been bailed out; perhaps by one of his own gang; for so are the ends of justice often defeated."

He was hurrying on his clothes as he spoke. Elsie had hastily donned dressing-gown and slippers, and now struck a light.

Steps and voices were heard in the hall without, while Aunt Chloe coming in from the other side, asked in tones tremulous with affright, "What's de matter? what's de matter, darlin'? is you hurted?"

"No, mammy; but there was a burglar here a moment since," said Elsie. "He and Mr. Travilla fired at each other, and he must be pursued instantly. Send Uncle Joe to rouse Mr. Spriggs and the boys, and go after him with all speed."

Meantime Mr. Mason was knocking at the door opening into the hall, asking what was wrong and offering his services; a number of negro men's voices adding, "Massa and missus, we's all heyah and ready to fight for ye."

Mr. Travilla opened the door, briefly explained what had happened, and repeated Elsie's order for an immediate and hot pursuit.

"I myself will head it," he was adding, when she interposed.

"No, no, no, my husband, surely you will not think of it; he may kill you yet. Or he might return from another direction, and what could I do with only the women to help me? Oh, Edward, don't go! don't leave me!" And she clung to him trembling and with tears in the soft, entreating eyes.

"No, dearest, you are right. I will stay here to protect you, and Spriggs may lead the boys," he answered, throwing an arm about her. "I think I wounded the fellow," he added to Mr. Mason. "Here, Aunt Chloe, bring the light nearer."

Yes, there lay a heavy revolver, and beside it a pool of blood on the carpet where the villain had stood; and there was a bloody trail all along the veranda where he had run, and on the railing and pillar by which he had swung himself to the ground; indeed, they could track him by it for some distance over the lawn, where the trees kept the ground partially dry; but beyond that the rain coming down in sheets, had helped the fugitive by washing away the telltale stains.

Elsie shuddering and turning pale and faint at the horrible sight, ordered an immediate and thorough cleansing of both carpet and veranda.

"Dere's hot water in de kitchen," said Aunt Phillis. "You, Sal an' Bet, hurry up yah wid a big basin full, an' soap an' sand an' house-cloths. Glad 'nuff dat massa shot dat ole debbil, but Miss Elsie's house not to be defiled wid his dirty blood."

"Cold watah fust, Aunt Phillis," interposed Chloe, "cold watah fust to take out blood-stain, den de hot after dat."

"Mammy knows; do as she directs," said Elsie, hastily retreating into her dressing-room.

"My darling, this has been too much for you," her husband said tenderly, helping her to lie down on a sofa.

Chloe came hurrying in with a tumbler of cold water in one hand, a bottle of smelling salts in the other, her dusky face full of concern.

Mr. Travilla took the articles from her. "That is right, but I will attend to your mistress," he said in a kindly tone; "and do you go and prepare a bed for her in one of the rooms on the other side of the hall."

"It is hardly worth while, dear," said Elsie; "I don't think I can sleep again to-night."

"Yet perhaps you may; it is only two o'clock," he said, as the timepiece on the mantle struck the hour, "and at least you may rest a little better than you could here."

"And perhaps you may sleep. Yes, mammy, get the bed ready as soon as you can."

"My darling, how pale you are!" Mr. Travilla said with concern, as he knelt by her side, applying the restoratives. "Do not be alarmed; I am quite sure the man's right arm is disabled, and therefore the danger is past, for the present at least."

She put her arm about his neck and relieved her full heart with a burst of tears. "Pray, praise," she whispered; "oh, thank the Lord for your narrow escape; the ball must have passed very near your head; I heard it whiz over mine and strike the opposite wall."

"Yes, it just grazed my hair and carried away a lock, I think. Yes, let us thank the Lord." And he poured out a short but fervent thanksgiving, to every word of which her heart said "Amen!"

"Yes, there is a lock gone, sure enough," she said, stroking his hair caressingly as he bent over her. "Ah, if we had not lingered so long here, this would not have happened."

"Not here, but elsewhere perhaps."

"That is true, and no doubt all has been ordered for the best."

Aunt Chloe presently returned, with the announcement that the bed was ready; and they retired for the second time, leaving the house in the care of Uncle Joe and the women servants.

It was some time before Elsie could compose herself to sleep, but near daybreak she fell into a deep slumber that lasted until long past the usual breakfast hour. Mr. Travilla slept late also, while the vigilant Aunts Chloe and Phillis and Uncle Joe took care that no noise should be made, no intruder allowed access to their vicinity to disturb them.

The first news that greeted them on leaving their room, was of the failure of the pursuit after the burglar. He had managed to elude the search, and to their chagrin Spriggs and his party had been obliged to return empty-handed. The servants were the first to tell the tale, then Spriggs came in with a fuller report.

"The scoundrel!" he growled; "how he contrived to do it I can't tell. If we'd had hounds, he couldn't. We've none on the place, but if you say so, I'll borrow——"

"No, no! Mr. Travilla, you will not allow it" cried Elsie, turning an entreating look upon him.

"No, Spriggs, the man must be greatly weakened by the loss of blood, and, unable to defend himself, might be torn to pieces by them before you could prevent it."

"Small loss to the rest of the world if he was," grumbled the overseer.

"Yes, but I wouldn't have him die such a death as that; or hurried into eternity without a moment for repentance."

"But might it not be well to have another search?" suggested Elsie. "He had better be given up to justice, even for his own good, than die in the woods of weakness and starvation."

"Hands are all so busy with the sugar-cane just now, ma'am, that I don't see how they could be spared," answered Spriggs. "And tell you what, ma'am"—as if struck with a sudden thought—"the rascal must have a confederate that's helped him off."

"Most likely," said Mr. Travilla. "Indeed, I think it must be so. And you need give yourself no further anxiety about him, my dear."



CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

"Revenge at first though sweet, Bitter erelong, back on itself recoils." —MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

At the instant of discharging his revolver, Jackson felt a sharp stinging pain in his right arm, and it dropped useless at his side. He hoped he had killed both Mr. Travilla and Elsie; but, an arrant coward and thus disabled, did not dare to remain a moment to learn with certainty the effect of his shot, but rushing along the veranda, threw himself over the railing, and sliding down a pillar, by the aid of the one hand, and with no little pain and difficulty, made off with all speed across the lawn.

But he was bleeding at so fearful a rate that he found himself compelled to pause long enough to improvise a tourniquet by knotting his handkerchief above the wound, tying it as tightly as he could with the left hand aided by his teeth. He stooped and felt on the ground in the darkness and rain, for a stick, by means of which to tighten it still more; for the bleeding, though considerably checked, was by no means stanched. But sticks, stones, and every kind of litter, had long been banished thence; his fingers came in contact with nothing but the smooth, velvety turf, and with a muttered curse, he rose and fled again; for the flashing of lights, the loud ringing of a bell, peal after peal, and sounds of running feet and many voices in high excited tones, told him there was danger of a quick and hot pursuit.

Clearing the lawn, he presently struck into a bridle-path that led to the woods. Here he again paused to search for the much-needed stick, found one suited to his purpose, and by its aid succeeded in decreasing still more the drain upon his life current; yet could not stop the flow entirely.

But sounds of pursuit began to be heard in the distance, and he hastened on again, panting with weakness, pain and affright. Leaving the path, he plunged deeper into the woods, ran for some distance along the edge of a swamp, and leaping in up to his knees in mud and water, doubled on his track, then turned again, and penetrating farther and farther into the depths of the morass, finally climbed a tree, groaning with the pain the effort cost him, and concealed himself among the branches.

His pursuers came up to the spot where he had made his plunge into the water; here they paused, evidently at fault. He could hear the sound of their footsteps and voices, and judge of their movements by the gleam of the torches many of them carried.

Some now took one direction, some another, and he perceived with joy that his stratagem had been at least partially successful. One party, however, soon followed him into the swamp. He could hear Spriggs urging them on and anathematizing him as "a scoundrel, robber, burglar, murderer, who ought to be swung up to the nearest tree."

Every thicket was undergoing a thorough search, heads were thrown back and torches held high that eager blacks eyes might scan the tree-tops, and Jackson began to grow sick with the almost certainty of being taken, as several stout negroes drew nearer and nearer his chosen hiding-place.

He uttered a low, breathed imprecation upon his useless right arm, and the man whose sure aim had made it so. "But for you," he muttered, grinding his teeth, "I'd sell my life dear."

But the rain, which had slackened for a time, again poured down in torrents, the torches sputtered and went out, and the pursuers turned back in haste to gain the firmer soil, where less danger was to be apprehended from alligators, panthers, and poisonous reptiles.

The search was kept up for some time longer, with no light but an occasional flash from the skies; but finally abandoned, as we have seen.

Jackson passed several hours most uncomfortably and painfully on his elevated perch, quaking with fear of both man and reptile, not daring to come down or to sleep in his precarious position, or able to do so for the pain of his wound, and growing hour by hour weaker from the bleeding which it was impossible to check entirely.

Then his mind was in a state of great disturbance, His wound must be dressed, and that speedily; yet how could it be accomplished without imperiling life and liberty? Perhaps he had now two new murders on his hands; he did not know, but he had at least attempted to take life, and the story would fly on the wings of the wind; such stories always did.

He had been lurking about the neighborhood for days, and had learned that Dr. Balis, an excellent physician and surgeon, lived on a plantation, some two or three miles eastward from Viamede. He must contrive a plausible story, and go to him; at break of day, before the news of the attack on Viamede would be likely to reach him. It would be a risk, but what better could be done? He might succeed in quieting the doctor's suspicions, and yet make good his escape from the vicinity.

The storm had spent itself before the break of day, and descending from his perch with the first faint rays of light that penetrated the gloomy recesses of the swamp, he made his way out of it, slowly and toilsomely, with weary, aching limbs, suffering intensely from the gnawings of hunger and thirst, the pain of his injury, and the fear of being overtaken by the avengers of his innocent victims. Truly, as the Bible tells us, "the way of transgressors is hard."

The sun was more than an hour high when Dr. Balis, ready to start upon his morning round, and pacing thoughtfully to and fro upon the veranda of his dwelling while waiting for his horse, saw a miserable looking object coming up the avenue: a man almost covered from head to foot with blood and mud; a white handkerchief, also both bloody and muddy, knotted around the right arm, which hung apparently useless at his side. The man reeled as he walked, either from intoxication or weakness and fatigue.

The doctor judged the latter, and called to a servant, "Nap, go and help that man into the office." Then hurrying thither himself, got out lint, bandages, instruments, whatever might be needed for the dressing of a wound. With the assistance of Nap's strong arm, the man tottered in, then sank, half fainting, into a chair.

"A glass of wine, Nap, quick!" cried the doctor, sprinkling some water in his patient's face, and applying ammonia to his nostrils.

He revived sufficiently to swallow with eager avidity the wine Nap held to his lips.

"Food, for the love of God," he gasped. "I'm starving!"

"Bread, meat, coffee, anything that is on the table, Nap," said his master; "and don't let the grass grow under your feet."

Then to the stranger, and taking gentle hold of the wounded limb: "But you need this flow of blood stanched more than anything else. You came to me for surgical aid, of course. Pistol-shot wound, eh? and a bad one at that."

"Yes, I——"

"Never mind; I'll hear your story after your arm's dressed and you've had your breakfast. You haven't strength for talk just now."

Dr. Balis had his own suspicions as he ripped up the coat sleeve, bared the swollen limb, and carefully dressed the wound; but kept them to himself. The stranger's clothes, though much soiled and torn in several places by contact with thorns and briers, were of good material, fashionable cut, and not old or worn; his manners were gentlemanly, and his speech was that of an educated man. But all this was no proof that he was not a villain.

"Is that mortification?" asked the sufferer, looking ruefully at the black, swollen hand and fore-arm, and wincing under the doctor's touch as he took up the artery and tied it.

"No, no; only the stagnation of the blood."

"Will the limb ever be good for anything again?"

"Oh yes; neither the bone nor nerve has suffered injury; the ball has glanced from the bone, passed under the nerve, and cut the humeral artery. Your tourniquet has saved you from bleeding to death. 'Tis well you knew enough to apply it. The flesh is much torn where the ball passed out; but that will heal in time."

The doctor's task was done. Nap had set a plate of food within reach of the stranger's left hand, and he was devouring it like a hungry wolf.

"Now, sir," said the good doctor, when the meal was finished, "I should like to hear how you came by that ugly wound. I can't deny that things look suspicious. I know everybody, high and low, rich and poor, for miles in every direction, and so need no proof that you do not belong to the neighborhood."

"No; a party of us, from New Orleans last, came out to visit this beautiful region. We were roaming through a forest yesterday, looking for game, when I somehow got separated from the rest, lost my way, darkness came on, and wondering hither and thither in the vain effort to find my comrades, tumbling over logs and fallen trees, scratched and torn by brambles, almost eaten up by mosquitos, I thought I was having a dreadful time of it. But worse was to come; for I presently found myself in a swamp up to my knees in mud and water, and in the pitchy darkness tumbling over another fallen tree, struck my revolver, which I had foolishly been carrying in my coat pocket: it went off and shot me in the arm, as you see. That must have been early in the night; and what with loss of blood, pain, fatigue, and long fasting, I had but little strength when daylight came and I could see to get out of swamp and woods, and come on here."

The doctor listened in silence, his face telling nothing of his thoughts.

"A bad business," he said, rising and beginning to draw on his gloves. "You are not fit to travel, but are welcome to stay here for the present; had better lie down on the sofa there and take a nap while I am away visiting my patients. Nap, clean the mud and blood from the gentleman's clothes; take his boots out and clean them too; and see that he doesn't want for attention while I am gone. Good-morning, sir; make yourself at home." And the doctor walked out, giving Nap a slight sign to follow him.

"Nap," he said, when they were out of ear-shot of the stranger, "watch that man and keep him here if possible, till I come back."

"Yes, sah."

Nap went back into the office while the doctor mounted and rode away.

"Humph," he said, half aloud, as he cantered briskly along, "took me for a fool, did he? thought I couldn't tell where the shot went in and where it came out, or where it would go in or out if caused in that way. No, sir, you never gave yourself that wound; but the question is who did? and what for? have you been house-breaking or some other mischief?" Dr. Balis was traveling in the direction of Viamede, intending to call there too, but having several patients to visit on the way, did not arrive until the late breakfast of its master and mistress was over.

They were seated together on the veranda, her hand in his, the other arm thrown lightly about her waist, talking earnestly, and so engrossed with each other and the subject of their conversation, that they did not at first observe the doctor's approach.

Uncle Joe was at work on the lawn, clearing away the leaves and twigs blown down by the storm.

"Mornin', Massa Doctah; did you heyah de news, sah?" he said, pulling off his hat and making a profound obeisance, as he stepped forward to take the visitor's horse.

"No, uncle, what is it?"

"Burglah, sir, burglah broke in de house las' night, an' fire he revolvah at massa an' Miss Elsie. Miss dem, dough, an' got shot hisself."

"Possible!" cried the doctor in great excitement, springing from the saddle and hurrying up the steps of the veranda.

"Ah, doctor, good-morning. Glad to see you, sir," said Mr. Travilla, rising to give the physician a hearty shake of the hand.

"Thank you, sir. How are you after your fright? Mrs. Travilla, you are looking a little pale; and no wonder. Uncle Joe tells me you had a visit from a burglar last night?"

"A murderer, sir; one whose object was to take my husband's life," Elsie answered with a shudder, and in low, tremulous tones, leaning on Edward's arm and gazing into his face with eyes swimming with tears of love and gratitude.

"My wife's also, I fear," Mr. Travilla said with emotion, fondly stroking her sunny hair.

"Indeed! why this is worse and worse! But he did not succeed in wounding either of you?"

"No; his ball passed over our heads, grazing mine so closely as to cut off a lock of my hair. But I wounded him, must have cut an artery, I think, from the bloody trail he left behind him."

"An artery?" cried the doctor, growing more and more excited; "where? do you know where your ball struck?"

"A flash of lightning showed us to each other and we fired simultaneously, I aiming for his right arm. I do not often miss my aim: we heard his revolver fall to the floor and he fled instantly, leaving it and a trail of blood before him."

"You had him pursued promptly, of course?"

"Yes; but they did not find him. I expected to see them return with his corpse, thinking he must bleed to death in a very short time. But I presume he had an accomplice who was able to stanch the flow of blood and carry him away."

"No, I don't think he had; and if I'm not greatly mistaken I dressed his wound in my office this morning, and left him there in charge of my boy Nap, bidding him keep the fellow there, if possible, till I came back. I'd better return at once, lest he should make his escape. Do you know the man? and can you describe him?"

"I do; I can," replied Mr. Travilla. "But, my little wife, how you are trembling! Sit down here, dearest, and lean on me," leading her to a sofa. "And doctor, take that chair.

"The man's name is Tom Jackson; he is a noted gambler and forger, has been convicted of manslaughter and other crimes, sent to the penitentiary and pardoned out. He hates me because I have exposed his evil deeds, and prevented the carrying out of some of his wicked designs. He has before this threatened both our lives. He is about your height and build, doctor; can assume the manners and speech of a gentleman; has dark hair, eyes, and whiskers, regular features, and but for a sinister look would be very handsome."

"It's he and no mistake!" cried Dr. Balis, rising in haste. "I must hurry home and prevent his escape. Why, it's really dangerous to have him at large. If he wasn't so disabled I'd tremble for the lives of my wife and children.

"He trumped up a story to tell me—had his revolver in his coat pocket, set it off in tumbling over a log in the dark, and so shot himself. Of course I knew 'twas a lie, because in that case the ball would have entered from below, at the back of the arm, and come out above, while the reverse was the case."

"But how could you tell where it entered or where it passed out, doctor?" inquired Elsie.

"How, Mrs. Travilla? Why, where it goes in it makes merely a small hole; you see nothing but a blue mark; but a much larger opening in passing out, often tearing the flesh a good deal; as in this case.

"Ah, either he was a fool or thought I was. But good-bye. I shall gallop home as fast as possible and send back word whether I find him there or not."

"Don't take the trouble, doctor," said Mr. Travilla; "we will mount and follow you at once, to identify him if he is to be found. Shall we not, wife?"

"If you say so, Edward, and are quite sure he cannot harm you now?"

"No danger, Mrs. Travilla," cried the doctor, looking back as he rode off.



CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

"Oft those whose cruelty makes many mourn Do by the fires which they first kindle burn." —EARL OF STIRLING.

"As crimes do grow, justice should rouse itself." —JOHNSON'S CATILINE.

Jackson thought he read suspicion in the doctor's eye as the latter left the office; also he felt sure the physician would not ride far before hearing of the attack on Viamede, and would speedily come at the truth by putting that and that together; perhaps return with a party of avengers, and hang him to a tree in the adjacent forest.

"I must get out o' this before I'm an hour older," said the scoundrel to himself. "Oh, for the strength I had yesterday!"

"Why don't you lie down, sah, as Massa Doctah tole ye?" asked Nap, returning. "Massa always 'spects folks to do prezactly as he tells dem."

"Why, Sambo, I'm too dirty to lie on that nice sofa," replied Jackson, glancing down at his soiled garments.

"Sambo's not my name, sah," said the negro, drawing himself up with dignity; "I'se Napoleon Boningparty George Washington Marquis de Lafayette, an' dey calls me Nap for short. If ye'll take off dat coat, sah, an' dem boots, I'll take 'em out to de kitchen yard an' clean 'em."

"Thank you; if you will I'll give you a dollar. And if you'll brush the mud from my pants first, I'll try the sofa; for I'm nearly dead for sleep and rest."

"All right, sah," and Nap went to a closet, brought out a whisk, and using it vigorously upon the pantaloons, soon brushed away the mud, which the sun had made very dry. A few blood stains were left, but there was no help for that at present. The coat was taken off with some difficulty on account of the wounded arm, then the boots, and Jackson laid himself down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Nap threw the coat over his arm, and taking the boots in the other hand went softly out, closing the door behind him. "Safe 'nuff now, I reckon," he chuckled to himself; "guess he not trabble far widout dese."

He was hardly gone, however, when Jackson roused himself and forced his weary eyes to unclose. "As dangerous as to go to sleep when freezing," he muttered. He rose, stepped to the closet door, and opened it.

A pair of boots stood on the floor, a coat hung on a peg. He helped himself to both, sat down and drew on the boots, which were a little too large but went on all the more readily for that. Now for the coat. It was not new, but by no means shabby. He took out his knife, hastily ripped up the right sleeve and put it on. It fitted even better than the boots.

Nap had brought a bottle of wine and left it on the office table, forgetting to carry it back to the dining-room. Jackson took it up, and placing it to his mouth drained the last drop. Then putting on his hat, he stole softly from the house and down the avenue.

To his great joy a boat was just passing in the direction to take him farther from Viamede. He signaled it, and was taken aboard.

"Been getting Dr. Balis to patch up a wound, eh, stranger?" said the skipper, glancing at the disabled arm.

"Yes;" and Jackson repeated the story already told to the surgeon.

The skipper sympathized and advised a rest in the cabin.

"Thank you," said Jackson; "but I'm only going a few miles, when I'll reach a point where, by taking to the woods again, I'll be likely to find my friends; who are doubtless anxious to know what has become of me."

"Very well, sir, when we come to the right place, just let us know and we'll put you off."

Evidently the skipper had heard nothing to arouse his suspicions. Jackson was landed at the spot he pointed out—a lonely one on the edge of a forest, without question or demur, and the boat went on its way.

He watched it till it disappeared from view, then plunging into the woods, presently found a narrow foot-path, pursuing which for an hour or so he came out into a small clearing. At the farther side, built just on the edge of the forest, was a rude log cabin. A slatternly woman stood in the open doorway.

"So ye did get back at last?" she remarked, as he drew near. "I'd most give ye up. What ails your arm now?"

He briefly repeated his story to the doctor and skipper; then asked hurriedly, "Is my horse all right?"

The woman nodded. "I've tuck good care on her. Now where's the gold ye promised me?"

"Here," he said, taking out, and holding up before her delighted eyes, several shining half-eagles; "have my horse saddled and bridled and brought round to the door here as quickly as possible, and these are yours."

"I'll do it. Bill," to a half-grown youth who sat on a rude bench within lazily smoking a pipe—"run and fetch the gentleman's hoss. But what's yer hurry, mister?"

"This," he answered, pointing to the disabled limb; "it's growing worse, and I'm in haste to get home, where I can be nursed by mother and sisters, before I quite give out."

"She's a awful sperited cratur, and you'll have a hard job o' it to manage her, with one hand."

"I must try it, nevertheless; I believe I can do it too; for she knows her master."

"She'll go like lightnin'," said the boy, as he brought the animal to the door; "she's been so long in the stable, she's as wild and scary as a bird."

Jackson threw the gold into the woman's lap, turned about and taking the bridle from the boy, stroked, patted, and talked soothingly to the excited steed, who was snorting and pawing the ground in a way that boded danger to any one attempting to mount.

His caresses and kindly tones seemed, however, to have a calming effect; she grew comparatively quiet, he sprang into the saddle and was off like an arrow from the bow.

It was about that time the doctor returned to his office to find it deserted. Nap was summoned.

"What's become of the man I left here in your charge, sirrah?" asked the doctor sternly.

"Dunno, sah, Massa Doctah," answered Nap, glancing in astonishment from side to side. "To't he heyah, sah; 'deed I did. Took he coat an' boots to clean 'em; to't he safe till I fotch 'em back; wouldn't go off without dem."

The doctor stepped to the closet. "Yes, my coat and boots gone, bottle of wine emptied, no fee for professional aid—a fine day's work for me."

"Massa Doctah! you don't say de rascal done stole yer coat an' boots? Oh, ef I cotch him, I——" and Napoleon Bonaparte George Washington Marquis de Lafayette looked unutterable things.

"Better take care I don't get hold of you!" cried the irate master. "Go and tell Cato to saddle and bridle Selim and bring him to the door as quickly as possible; and do you find out if anybody saw which way the rascal went. He must be caught, for he's a burglar and murderer!"

Nap lifted his hands and opened mouth and eyes wide in surprise and horror.

"Begone!" cried the doctor, stamping his foot, "and don't stand gaping there while the scoundrel escapes."

Nap shuffled out, leaving his master pacing the office to and fro with angry, impatient strides.

"What is it, my dear? what has gone wrong?" asked his wife, looking in upon him.

"Come, sit down on the sofa here and I'll tell you," he said, his excited manner quieting somewhat at sight of her pleasant face.

She accepted the invitation, and seating himself beside her he briefly related all that he knew of Jackson and his attack on Mr. Travilla.

He had hardly finished when Nap returned with the news that several of the negro children had seen a man go down the avenue and get aboard a passing boat.

"Ah ha!" cried the doctor, jumping up; "and which way was the boat going?"

"Dat way, sah," replied Nap, indicating the direction by a flourish of his right hand.

At that moment Mr. and Mrs. Travilla rode up, and Dr. and Mrs. Balis hastened out to greet them.

"He's gone; took the morning boat," cried the doctor.

"Good!" said Mr. Travilla, "we have only to head him with a telegram, and he'll be arrested on stepping ashore; or on board the boat."

"Unless he should land in the next town, Madison, which the boat, having a good hour's start of us, would reach before the swiftest messenger we could send; probably has already reached."

"Then the best plan will be for me to ride on to Madison, give notice to the authorities, have it ascertained whether our man has landed there, and if not telegraph to the next town and have them ready to board the boat, with a warrant for his arrest, as soon as it arrives."

"Yes; and I'll mount Selim and go with you," answered the doctor. "I probably know the road better than you do. And our wives may keep each other company till we return."

"What do you say, Elsie?" asked Mr. Travilla.

"That I will go or stay as you think best."

"We must ride very fast; I think it would fatigue you too much; so advise you to stay with Mrs. Balis, and I will call for you on my return."

"Do, Mrs. Travilla! I should be delighted to have you," urged Mrs. Balis; "and you can tell me all about last night. What a trial to your nerves! I don't wonder you are looking a little pale this morning."

"Thank you, I will stay," said Elsie; and instantly her husband, giving his horse into Nap's charge for a moment, sprang to the ground and lifted her from the saddle. "Don't be anxious, little wife," he whispered, as the soft eyes met his with a fond wistful look, "I am not likely to be in danger, and you know the sweet words, 'Not a hair of your head shall fall to the ground without your Father.'"

"Yes, yes, I know, and will trust you in His hands, my dear husband," was the low-breathed response.

Another moment and the two gentlemen were galloping rapidly down the avenue side by side. The ladies stood on the veranda, watching till they were out of sight, then went into the house.

"Now, my dear Mrs. Travilla, shall I just treat you as one of ourselves, and take you into my own breezy room?" asked Mrs. Balis, regarding Elsie with an affectionate, admiring look.

"It is just what I should like, Mrs. Balis," Elsie answered, with a smile so sweet that her hostess put her arm about her and kissed her.

"I can't help it," she said; "you take my heart by storm with your beauty, grace, and sweetness."

"Thank you, and you need not apologize," Elsie said, returning the embrace; "love is too precious a gift to be rejected."

"I think Mr. Travilla a very fortunate man, and so does my husband."

"And am not I a fortunate woman, too?"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Travilla is most agreeable and entertaining, handsome too; and indeed I should think everything one could wish in a husband; as mine is," she added laughingly. "I presume neither of us would consent to an exchange of partners. Are you fond of children, Mrs. Travilla?"

"Very."

"Shall I show you mine?"

"I should like to see them, if you please."

Mrs. Balis at once led the way to the nursery, where she exhibited, with much motherly pride and delight, her three darlings, the eldest five, the second three years of age, the third a babe in the arms. They were bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked children, full of life and health, but to Elsie's taste not half so sweet and pretty as Rosebud.

Mrs. Balis next conducted her guest to her boudoir; a servant brought in refreshments, consisting of a variety of fruits, cakes, and confections, with wine sangaree and lemonade. After partaking of these, the ladies had a long talk while awaiting the return of their husbands. The gentlemen were gone much longer than had been anticipated, and I am not sure the wives did not grow a little uneasy. At all events they left the boudoir for the front veranda, which gave them a view of the avenue and some hundred yards of the road beyond in the direction from which the travelers must come. And when at length the two were descried approaching, in a more leisurely manner than they went, there was a simultaneous and relieved exclamation, "Oh, there they are at last."

The ladies stood up and waved their handkerchiefs. There was no response; the gentlemen's faces were towards each other and they seemed to be engaged in earnest converse.

"Unsuccessful," said Mrs. Balis.

"How do you know?" asked Elsie.

"There's an air of dejection about them."

"I don't see it," returned Elsie, smiling. "They seem to me only too busy talking to notice our little attention."

But Mrs. Balis was correct in her conjecture. The boat had passed Madison some time before the gentlemen arrived there, had paused but a few minutes and landed no such passenger. Learning this they then telegraphed the authorities of the next town; waited some hours, and received a return telegram to the effect that the boat had been boarded, no person answering the description found; but the captain gave the information that such a man had been taken on board at Dr. Balis' plantation, and set ashore at the edge of a forest half-way between that place and Madison.

On receiving this intelligence Mr. Travilla and the doctor started for home, bringing with them a posse of mounted men headed by some of the police of Madison.

Dr. Balis had taken with him to Madison the blood-stained coat of Jackson. From this the hounds took the scent, and on arriving at the wood mentioned by the skipper, soon found the trail and set off in hot pursuit, the horsemen following close at their heels.

Our gentlemen did not join in the chase, but having seen it well begun, continued on their homeward way.

"And you did consent to the use of hounds?" Elsie said inquiringly, and with a slightly reproachful look at her husband.

"My dear," he answered gently, "having been put into the hands of the police it has now become a commonwealth case, and I have no authority to dictate their mode of procedure."

"Forgive me, dearest, if I seemed to reproach you," she whispered, the sweet eyes seeking his with a loving, repentant look, as for a moment they were left alone together.

He drew her to him with a fond caress. "My darling, I have nothing to forgive."

In the cabin at whose door Jackson had made his call and remounted his steed, a woman—the same with whom his business had been transacted—was stooping over an open fire, frying fat pork and baking hoe-cake. Bill sat on his bench smoking as before, while several tow-headed children romped and quarreled, chasing each other round and round the room with shouts of "You quit that ere!" "Mammy, I say, make her stop."

"Hush!" cried the woman, suddenly straightening herself, and standing in a listening attitude, as a deep sound came to the ear, borne on the evening breeze.

"Hounds! bloodhounds!" cried Bill, springing to his feet with unwonted energy. "And they're a-comin' this way; makin' straight for the house," he added, glancing from the door, then shutting it with a bang. "They're after that man; you may depend. He's a 'balitionist, or a horse thief, or somethin'."

The children crouched, silent, pale, and terror-stricken, in a corner, while outside, the deep baying of the hounds drew nearer and nearer, and mingling with it came other sounds of horses' hoofs and the gruff voices of men. Then a loud "Halloo the house!"

"What's wanted?" asked Bill, opening the one window and putting out his head.

"The burglar you're hiding from justice and the hounds have tracked to your door. A fellow with his right arm disabled by a pistol-shot."

"He isn't here, didn't step inside at all; don't ye see the hounds are turning away from the door? But you kin come in an' look for yourself."

One of the men dismounted and went in.

"Look round sharp now," said the woman. "I only wish he was here fur ye to ketch um: if I'd know'd he was a burglar, he would never hev got off so easy. He jest come for his beast that he left with us four days ago, and mounted there at the door and was off like a shot."

"Which way?" asked the man.

She pointed in a southerly direction. "It's the way to Texas, ain't it? an' he's got four or five hours the start o' ye, an' on a swift horse; he'll be over the border line afore ye kin ketch up to him."

"I'm afraid so, indeed; but justice can follow him even there," replied the officer, hastening out, already satisfied that the one bare room did not contain his quarry.

He sprang into the saddle, and the whole party galloped away in the wake of the dogs, who had found the trail again and started off in full cry.

The party had a hard ride of some hours, the hounds never faltering or losing the scent; but at length they were at fault. They had reached a brook and here the trail was lost; it was sought for on both sides of the stream for a considerable distance both up and down, then abandoned in despair.

The wily burglar had made his steed travel the bed of the stream, which was nowhere very deep, for several miles; then taking to the open country again and traveling under cover of the darkness of a cloudy night, at length, in a condition of utter exhaustion, reached a place of safety among some of his confederates; for he had joined himself to a gang of villains who infested that part of the country.

But "Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished." Few if any of them would escape a violent and terrible death at the last; and—"after that the judgment"; from which none may be excused.



CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

"His house she enters, there to be a light Shining within, when all without is night; A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasure, and his cares dividing." —ROGERS' HUMAN LIFE.

At the set time our friends turned their faces homeward, leaving their loving dependents of Viamede all drowned in tears. In the six weeks of their stay, "Massa" an' "Missus" had become very dear to those warm, childlike hearts.

Elsie could not refrain from letting fall some bright sympathetic drops, though the next moment her heart bounded with joy at the thought of home and father. The yearning to hear again the tones of his loved voice, to feel the clasp of his arm and the touch of his lip upon brow and cheek and lip, increased with every hour of the rapid journey.

Its last stage was taken in the Ion family carriage, which was found waiting for them at the depot.

Elsie was hiding in her own breast a longing desire to go first to the Oaks, chiding herself for the wish, since her husband was doubtless fully as anxious to see his mother, and wondering why she had not thought of asking for a gathering of both families at the one place or the other.

They had left the noisy city far behind, and were bowling smoothly along a very pleasant part of the road, bordered with greensward and shaded on either side by noble forest trees; she with her mind filled with these musings, sitting silent and pensive, gazing dreamily from the window.

Suddenly her eyes encountered a well-known noble form, seated on a beautiful spirited horse, which he was holding in with a strong and resolute hand.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, with a joyous, ringing cry; and instantly he had dismounted, his servant taking Selim's bridle-reins, the carriage had stopped, and springing out she was in his arms.

"My dear father, I was so hungry to see you," she said, almost crying for joy. "How good of you to come to meet us, and so much nicer here than in the crowded depot."

"Good of me," he answered, with a happy laugh. "Of course, as I was in no haste to have my darling in my arms. Ah, Travilla, my old friend, I am very glad to see your pleasant face again." And he shook hands warmly. "Many thanks to you (and to a higher power)," he added reverently, "for bringing her safely back to me. She seems to have been well taken care of; plump and bright and rosy."

"I have been, papa; even you could not be more tender and careful of me than—my husband is."

Her father smiled at the shy, half-hesitating way in which the last word slipped from the rich red lips, and the tender, loving light in the soft eyes as they met the fond, admiring gaze of Travilla's.

"No repentance on either side yet, I see," he said laughingly. "Travilla, your mother is in excellent health and spirits; but impatient to embrace both son and daughter, she bade me say. We all take tea by invitation at Ion to-day; that is, we of the Oaks, including Aunt Wealthy and Miss King."

"Oh, how nice! how kind!" cried Elsie.

"And to-morrow you are all to be at the Oaks!" added her father. "Now shall I ride beside your carriage? or take a seat in it with you?"

"The latter, by all means," answered Travilla, Elsie's sparkling eyes saying the same, even more emphatically.

"Take Selim home, and see that both he and the family carriage are at Ion by nine this evening," was Mr. Dinsmore's order to his servant.

"Ah, papa! so early!" Elsie interposed, in a tone that was half reproach, half entreaty.

"We must not keep you up late after your journey, my child," he answered, following her into the carriage, Mr. Travilla stepping in after.

"The seats are meant for three; let me sit between you, please," requested Elsie.

"But are you not afraid of crushing your dress?" asked her father jocosely, making room for her by his side.

"Not I," she answered gayly, slipping into her chosen place with a light, joyous laugh, and giving a hand to each. "Now I'm the happiest woman in the world."

"As you deserve to be," whispered her husband, clasping tight the hand he held.

"Oh, you flatterer!" she returned. "Papa, did you miss me?"

"Every day, every hour. Did I not tell you so in my letters? And you? did you think often of me?"

"Oftener than I can tell."

"I have been wondering," he said, looking gravely into her eyes, "why you both so carefully avoided the slightest allusion to that most exciting episode of your stay at Viamede."

Elsie blushed. "We did not wish to make you uneasy, papa."

"Of course, you must have seen a newspaper account?" observed Mr. Travilla.

"Yes; and now suppose you let me hear your report. Did the villain's shot graze Elsie's forehead and carry a tress of her beautiful hair?"

"No, no, it was only a lock of her unworthy husband's hair—a much slighter loss," Travilla said, laughing. "But perhaps the reporter would justify his misrepresentation on the plea that man and wife are one."

"Possibly. And did your shot shatter the bone in the rascal's arm?"

"No; Dr. Balis told me the ball glanced from the bone, passed under the nerve and severed the humeral artery."

"It's a wonder he didn't bleed to death."

"Yes; but it seems he had sufficient knowledge and presence of mind to improvise a tourniquet with his handkerchief and a stick."

"What rooms were you occupying?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Come, just tell me the whole story as if I had heard nothing of it before."

Travilla complied, occasionally appealing to Elsie to assist his memory; and they had hardly done with the subject when the carriage turned into the avenue at Ion.

"My darling, welcome to your home," said Travilla low and tenderly, lifting the little gloved hand to his lips.

An involuntary sigh escaped from Mr. Dinsmore's breast.

"Thank you, my friend," Elsie replied to her husband, the tone and the look saying far more than the words. Then turning to her father, "And to-morrow, papa, you will welcome me to the other of my two dear homes."

"I hope so, daughter; sunlight is not more welcome than you will always be."

What joyous greetings now awaited our travelers. Elsie had hardly stepped from the carriage ere she found herself in Mrs. Travilla's arms, the old lady rejoicing over her as the most precious treasure Providence could have sent her.

Then came Rose, with her tender, motherly embrace, and joyous "Elsie, dearest, how glad I am to have you with us again."

"Oh, but you've missed us sadly!" said Aunt Wealthy, taking her turn; "the house seemed half gone at the Oaks. Didn't it, Horace?"

"Yes; the absence of our eldest daughter made a very wide gap in the family circle," answered Mr. Dinsmore.

And "Yes, indeed!" cried Horace junior, thinking himself addressed. "I don't believe I could have done without her at all if she hadn't written me those nice little letters."

"Don't you thank me for bringing her back then, my little brother?" asked Mr. Travilla, holding out his hand to the child.

"Yes, indeed, Brother Edward. Papa says I may call you that, as you asked me to; and I'll give you another hug as I did that night, if you'll let me."

"That I will, my boy!" And opening wide his arms he took the lad into a warm embrace, which was returned as heartily as given.

"Now, Elsie, it's my turn to have a hug and kiss from you," Horace said, as Mr. Travilla released him; "everybody's had a turn but me. Miss King and Rosebud and all."

Elsie had the little one in her arms, caressing it fondly.

"Yes, my dear little brother," she said, giving Rosebud to her mammy, "you shall have as hard a hug as I can give, and as many kisses as you want. I love you dearly, dearly, and am as glad to see you as you could wish me to be."

"Are you much fatigued, Elsie dear?" asked Rose, when the greetings were over, even to the kindly shake of the hand and pleasant word to each of the assembled servants.

"Oh, no, mamma, we have traveled but little at night, and last night I had nine hours of sound, refreshing sleep."

"That was right," her father said, with an approving glance at Travilla.

Mrs. Travilla led the way to a suite of beautiful apartments prepared for the bride.

Elsie's taste had been consulted in all the refitting and refurnishing, and the whole effect was charming. This was, however, her first sight of the rooms since the changes had been begun.

The communicating doors were thrown wide, giving a view of the whole suite at once, from the spot where Elsie stood between Mr. Travilla and his mother. She gazed for a moment, then turned to her husband a face sparkling with delight.

"Does it satisfy you, my little wife?" he asked, in tones that spoke intense enjoyment of her pleasure.

"Fully, in every way; but especially as an evidence of my husband's love," she answered, suffering him to throw an arm about her and fold her to his heart.

There had been words of welcome and a recognition of the younger lady as now mistress of the mansion, trembling on the mother's tongue, but she now stole quietly away and left them to each other.

In half an hour the two rejoined their guests, "somewhat improved in appearance," as Mr. Travilla laughingly said he hoped they would be found.

"You are indeed," said Aunt Wealthy, "a lily or a rose couldn't look lovelier than Elsie does in that pure white, and with the beautiful flowers in her hair. I like her habit of wearing natural flowers in her hair."

"And I," said her husband, "they seem to me to have been made for her adornment."

"And your money-hoon's over, Elsie; how odd it seems to think you've been so long married. And did you get through the money-hoon without a quarrel? But of course you did."

Elsie, who had for a moment looked slightly puzzled by the new word, now answered with a smile of comprehension, "Oh, yes, auntie; surely we should be a sad couple if even the honeymoon were disturbed by a disagreement. But Edward and I never mean to quarrel."

Mr. Dinsmore turned in his chair, and gave his daughter a glance of mingled surprise and disapprobation.

"There, papa, I knew you would think me disrespectful," she exclaimed with a deep blush; "but he insisted, indeed ordered me, and you know I have promised to obey."

"It is quite true," assented Mr. Travilla, coloring in his turn; "but I told her it was the only order I ever meant to give her."

"Better not make rash promises," said Mr. Dinsmore, laughing; "these wives are sometimes inclined to take advantage of them."

"Treason! treason!" cried Rose, lifting her hands; "to think you'd say that before me!

"'Husband, husband, cease your strife No longer idly rove, sir; Tho' I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir.'"

There was a general laugh, in the midst of which the tea-bell rang.

"Come," said the elder Mrs. Travilla good-humoredly, "don't be setting a bad example to my children, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, but let us all adjourn amicably to the tea-room, and try the beneficial effect of meat and drink upon our tempers."

"That's a very severe reproof, coming from so mild a person as yourself, Mrs. Travilla," said Rose. "My dear, give your arm to Aunt Wealthy, or our hostess. The ladies being so largely in the majority, the younger ones should be left to take care of themselves; of course excepting our bride. Miss King, will you take my arm?"

"Sit here, my daughter," said Mrs. Travilla, indicating the seat before the tea-urn.

"Mother, I did not come here to turn you out of your rightful place," objected Elsie, blushing painfully.

"My dear child, it is your own place; as the wife of the master of the house, you are its mistress. And if you knew how I long to see you actually filling that position; how glad I am to resign the reigns to such hands as yours, you need not hesitate or hold back."

"Yes; take it, wife," said Mr. Travilla, in tender, reassuring tones, as he led her to the seat of honor; "I know my mother is sincere (she is never anything else), and she told me long ago, even before she knew who was to be her daughter, how glad she would be to resign the cares of mistress of the household." Elsie yielded, making no further objection, and presided with the same modest ease, dignity, and grace with which she had filled the like position at Viamede. The experience there had accustomed her to the duties of the place, and after the first moment she felt quite at home in it.

Mr. Dinsmore's carriage was announced at the early hour he had named. The conversation in the drawing-room had been general for a time, but now the company had divided themselves into groups; the two older married ladies and Aunt Wealthy forming one, Mr. Travilla and Miss King another, while Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter had sought out the privacy of a sofa, at a distance from the others, and were in the midst of one of the long, confidential chats they always enjoyed so much.

"Ah, papa, don't go yet," Elsie pleaded, "we're not half done our talk, and it's early."

"But the little folks should have been in their nests long before this," he said, taking out his watch.

"Then send them and their mammies home, and let the carriage return for you and the ladies; unless they wish to go now."

He looked at her smilingly. "You are not feeling the need of rest and sleep?"

"Not at all, papa; only the need of a longer chat with you."

"Then, since you had so good a rest last night, it shall be as you wish."

"Are you ready, my dear?" asked Rose, from the other side of the room.

"Not yet, wife; I shall stay half an hour longer, and if you ladies like to do the same we will send the carriage home with the children and their mammies, and let it return for you."

"What do you say, Aunt Wealthy and Miss Lottie?" inquired Mrs. Dinsmore.

"I prefer to stay and talk out my finish with Mrs. Travilla," said Miss Stanhope.

"I cast my vote on the same side," said Miss King. "But, my dear Mrs. Dinsmore, don't let us keep you."

"Thanks, no; but I, too, prefer another half hour in this pleasant company."

The half hour flew away on swift wings, to Elsie especially.

"But why leave us at all to-night, auntie and Lottie?" she asked, as the ladies began their preparations for departure. "You are to be my guests for the rest of the winter, are you not?" Then turning, with a quick vivid blush, to Mrs. Travilla, "Mother, am I transcending my rights?"

"My dearest daughter, no; did I not say you were henceforth mistress of this house?"

"Yes, from its master down to the very horses in the stable and dogs in the kennel," laughed Mr. Travilla, coming softly up and stealing an arm about his wife's waist.

Everybody laughed.

"No, sir; I don't like to contradict you," retorted Elsie, coloring but looking lovingly into the eyes bent so fondly upon her, "but I am—nothing to you but your little wife;" and her voice sank almost to a whisper with the last word.

"Ah? Well, dear child, that's enough for me," he said, in the same low tone.

"But, Lottie," she remarked aloud, "you are tying on your hat. Won't you stay?"

"Not to-night, thank you, Mrs. Travilla," answered the gay girl in her merry, lively tones.

"You are to be at the Oaks to-morrow, and perhaps I—well, we can settle the time there."

"And you, auntie?"

"Why, dearie, I think you'd better get your housekeeping a little used to your ways first. And it's better for starting out that young folks should be alone."

Mr. Dinsmore had stepped into the hall for his hat, and while the other ladies were making their adieus to her new mother, Elsie stole softly after him.

"My good-night kiss, papa," she whispered, putting her arms about his neck.

"My dear darling! my precious, precious child! how glad I am to be able to give it to you once more, and to take my own from your own sweet lips," he said, clasping her closer. "God bless you and keep you, and ever cause His face to shine upon you."



CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

"O what passions then What melting sentiments of kindly care, On the new parents seize." —THOMPSON'S AGAMEMNON.

"There is none In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother's heart!" —MRS. HEMANS.

Finding it so evidently the wish of both her husband and his mother, Elsie quietly and at once assumed the reins of government.

But with that mother to go to for advice in every doubt and perplexity, and with a dozen or more of well-trained servants at her command, her post, though no sinecure, did not burden her with its duties; she still could find time for the cultivation of mind and heart, for daily walks and rides, and the enjoyment of society both at home and abroad.

Shortly after the return of the newly married pair, there was a grand party given in their honor at Roselands; another at Ashlands, one at Pinegrove, at the Oaks, and several other places; then a return was made by a brilliant affair of the kind at Ion.

But when at last this rather wearying round was over, they settled down to the quiet home life much more congenial to both; always ready to entertain with unbounded hospitality, and ignoring none of the legitimate claims of the outside world, they were yet far more interested in the affairs of their own little one, made up of those nearest and dearest.

They were an eminently Christian household, carefully instructing their dependents in the things pertaining to godliness, urging them to faith in Jesus evidenced by good works; trying to make the way of salvation very clear to their often dull apprehension, and to recommend it by their own pure, consistent lives.

Night and morning all were called together—family and house servants—and Mr. Travilla read aloud a portion of Scripture, and led them in prayer and praise. Nor was a meal ever eaten without God's blessing having first been asked upon it.

There was but one drawback to Elsie's felicity—that she no longer dwelt under the same roof with her father; yet that was not so great, as a day seldom passed in which they did not meet once or oftener. It must be very urgent business, or a severe storm, that kept him from riding or driving over to Ion, unless his darling first appeared at the Oaks.

Aunt Wealthy and Lottie came to Ion within a fortnight after the return from Viamede; and while the former divided the rest of her stay at the South between Ion and the Oaks, Lottie spent nearly the whole of hers with Elsie.

In May, Harry Duncan came for his aunt, and Miss King returned with them to her paternal home. Our friends at Ion and the Oaks decided to spend their summer at home this year.

"We have traveled so much of late years," said Rose, "that I am really tired of it."

"And home is so dear and sweet," added Elsie. "I mean both Ion and the Oaks, Edward and papa; for somehow they seem to me to be both included in that one dear word."

"That is right," responded her father.

"Yes; we seem to be all one family," said Mr. Travilla, contentedly, fondling Rosebud, whom he had coaxed to a seat upon his knee; "and like a good spouse, I vote on the same side with my wife."

"I too," said his mother, looking affectionately upon them both. "I have no inclination to travel, and shall be much happier for having you all about me."

The summer glided rapidly by, and vanished, leaving at Ion a priceless treasure.

It was a soft, hazy, delicious September morning; Elsie sat in her pretty boudoir, half-reclining in the depths of a large velvet-cushioned easy chair. Her husband had left her a minute before, and she was—no, not quite alone, for her eyes were turning with a sweet, new light in them, upon a beautiful rosewood crib where, underneath the silken covers and resting on pillows of eider-down, lay a tiny form, only a glimpse of the pink face and one wee doubled-up fist to be caught through the lace curtains so carefully drawn about the little sleeper.

A familiar step was heard in the outer room. The door opened quietly, and Elsie looking up cried, "Papa," in a delighted yet subdued tone.

"My darling," he said, coming to her and taking her in his arms. "How nice to see you up again; but you must be careful, very, very careful, not to overexert yourself."

"I am, my dear father, for Edward insists on it, and watches over me, and baby too, as if really afraid we might somehow slip away from him."

"He is quite right. There, you must not stand, recline in your chair again, while I help myself to a seat by your side. How are you to-day?"

"I think I never felt better in my life, papa; so strong and well that it seems absurd to be taking such care of myself."

"Not at all; you must do it. You seem to be alone with your babe. I hope you never lift her?"

"No, sir, not yet. That I shall not has been my husband's second order. Mammy is within easy call, just in the next room, and will come the instant she is wanted."

"Let me look at her; unless you think it will disturb her rest."

"Oh, no, sir." And the young mother gently drew aside the curtain of the crib.

The two bent over the sleeping babe, listening to its gentle breathing.

"Ah, papa, I feel so rich! you don't know how I love her!" whispered Elsie.

"Don't I, my daughter? don't I know how I love you?" And his eyes turned with yearning affection upon her face, then back to that of the little one. "Six weeks old to-day, and a very cherub for beauty. Aunt Chloe tells me she is precisely my daughter over again, and I feel as if I had now an opportunity to recover what I lost in not having my first-born with me from her birth. Little Elsie, grandpa feels that you are his; his precious treasure."

The young mother's eyes grew misty with a strange mixture of emotion, in which love and joy were the deepest and strongest. Her arm stole round her father's neck.

"Dear papa, how nice of you to love her so; my precious darling. She is yours, too, almost as much as Edward's and mine. And I am sure if we should be taken away and you and she be left, you would be the the same good father to her you have been to me."

"Much better, I hope. My dear daughter, I was far too hard with you at times. But I know you have forgiven it all long ago."

"Papa, dear papa, please don't ever again talk of—of forgiveness from me; I was your own, and I believe you always did what you thought was for my good; and oh, what you have been, and are to me, no tongue can tell."

"Or you to me, my own beloved child," he answered with emotion.

The babe stirred, and opened its eyes with a little, "Coo, coo."

"Let me take her," said Mr. Dinsmore, turning back the cover and gently lifting her from her cozy nest.

Elsie lay back among her cushions again, watching with delighted eyes as her father held and handled the wee body as deftly as the most competent child's nurse.

It was a very beautiful babe; the complexion soft, smooth, and very fair, with a faint pink tinge; the little, finely formed head covered with rings of golden hair that would some day change to the darker shade of her mother's, whose regular features and large, soft brown eyes she inherited also.

"Sweet little flower blossomed into this world of sin and sorrow! Elsie, dearest, remember that she is not absolutely yours, her father's, or mine; but only lent you a little while to be trained up for the Lord."

"Yes, papa, I know," she answered with emotion, "and I gave her to Him even before her birth."

"I hope she will prove as like you in temper and disposition as she bids fair to be in looks."

"Papa, I should like her to be much better than I was."

He shook his head with a half-incredulous smile. "That could hardly be, if she has any human nature at all."

"Ah, papa, you forget how often I used to be naughty and disobedient; how often you had to punish me; particularly in that first year after you returned from Europe."

A look of pain crossed his features. "Daughter, dear, I am full of remorse when I think of that time. I fully deserved the epithet Travilla once bestowed upon me in his righteous indignation at my cruelty to my gentle, sensitive little girl."

"What was that, papa?" she asked, with a look of wonder and surprise.

"Dinsmore, you're a brute!"

"Papa, how could he say that!" and the fair face flushed with momentary excitement and anger towards the father of her child, whom she so thoroughly respected ind so dearly loved.

"Ah, don't be angry with him," said Mr. Dinsmore; "I was the culprit. You cannot have forgotten your fall from the piano-stool which came so near making me childless? It was he who ran in first, lifted you, and laid you on the sofa with the blood streaming from the wounded temple over your curls and your white dress. Ah, I can never forget the sad sight, or the pang that shot through my heart with the thought that you were dead. It was as he laid you down that Travilla turned to me with those indignant words, and I felt that I fully deserved them. And yet I was even more cruel afterwards, when next you refused to obey when I bade you offend against your conscience."

"Don't let us think or talk of it any more, dear father; I love far better to dwell upon the long years that followed, full of the tenderest care and kindness. You certainly can find nothing to blame yourself with in them."

"Yes; I governed you too much. It would probably have ruined a less amiable temper, a less loving heart, than yours. It is well for parents to be sometimes a little blind to trivial faults. And I was so strict, so stern, so arbitrary, so severe. My dear, be more lenient to your child. But of course she will never find sternness in either you or her father."

"I think not, papa; unless she proves very head-strong; but you surely cannot mean to advise us not to require the prompt, cheerful, implicit obedience you have always exacted from all your children?"

"No, daughter; though you might sometimes excuse or pardon a little forgetfulness when the order has not been of vital importance," he answered, with a smile.

There was a moment's silence: then looking affectionately into her father's face, Elsie said, "I am so glad, papa, that we have had this talk. Edward and I have had several on the same subject (for we are very, very anxious to train our little one aright); and I find that we all agree. But you must be tired acting the part of nurse. Please lay her in my arms."

"I am not tired, but I see you want her," he answered with a smile, doing as she requested.

"Ah, you precious wee pet! you lovely, lovely little darling!" the young mother said, clasping her child to her bosom, and softly kissing the velvet cheek. "Papa, is she really beautiful? or is it only the mother love that makes her so in my eyes?"

"No; she is really a remarkably beautiful babe. Strangers pronounce her so as well as ourselves. Do you feel quite strong enough to hold her?"

"Oh, yes, sir; yes, indeed! The doctor says he thinks there would now be no danger in my lifting her, but——" laughingly, and with a fond look up into her husband's eyes, as at that moment he entered the room, "that old tyrant is so fearful of an injury to this piece of his personal property, that he won't let me."