"God grant all your bright visions may be realized, Annie!" said the aunt fervently.

"Now, while you prepare our evening meal, I'll run out and look at some of my old haunts," said Annie, forcing back a tear, and trying to assume a cheerful countenance.

So she wandered forth, while the grief-stricken woman spread the simple board; but she could not relish the clear, dripping honey-comb sent by the kind Aunt Rachel, and long after Annie slept in her little cot-bed, did the old lady kneel over her sleeping form, weeping and praying for her darling child. Annie spent the ensuing day with her aunt at the cottage, and toward evening took a tearful leave, and bade adieu to Scraggiewood.



CHAPTER VI.

"And there was envy in her look, And envy in her tone, As if her spirit might not brook, A rival near the throne."

"But don't you see, Dr. Prague, it won't do at all to admit her into society on the same footing with our Catherine? For my part I don't see how you could, for a moment, harbor so low an idea."

In a far away period of time, the present honorable Mrs. Dr. Prague had—shall we write it?—cut shoe-strings in her father's shop, and why should not she be a competent judge of the low and common, since experience is regarded as the "best teacher" in almost all matters beneath the sun?

"I say," she reiterated, finding her remark elicited no response from her worthy husband, "Annie Evalyn is not to be compared to our Catherine."

"I'm aware of that," was the answer in a dry tone.

"And don't you notice how the minx tries to put on the lady?"

"Not at all, madam; why should she strive to assume what is her natural garb?"

"Now really, Hippe, you are getting incorrigible."

"Hippe" was a term of endearment, Mrs. Dr. Prague was accustomed to apply to her husband when she wished to be very killing and condescending, his Christian name being Hippocrates.

To this winning speech, however, the insensate Dr. vouchsafed no reply; so his lovely wife tacked about and said, "Well, Dr., to come to the point, this governess is a dangerous rival for your daughter."

"I know it," responded the good man, cutting up an orange, and passing a silver plate containing several slices to his fair lady; "here, Mrs. Prague, do regale yourself on this luscious fruit. It is the finest I have tasted this season."

"Dr. Prague, when I am discussing matters of importance, I do not wish to be insulted by such frivolities."

"Indeed, madam," said the doctor, withdrawing the plate, and proceeding leisurely to the gratification of his own palate.

There was a silence of some minutes, and then the lady, after fidgeting and arranging the folds of her brocade silk, resumed the conversation by saying, in a huffy tone, "May I inquire what you intend to do about it, sir?"

"Begging your pardon, madam," said the doctor, looking up from his orange, "of what were you speaking?"

The lady frowned frightfully at this fresh instance of his inattention to her discourse.

"I only wished to know if you thought of marrying Frank Sheldon to Annie Evalyn, in preference to your own daughter," she exclaimed, in a biting, sarcastic tone. The matter but not the manner of this speech seemed to rouse the doctor's attention.

"Frank Sheldon! Frank Sheldon!" he said quickly; "has he arrived from his travels then?"

"No, but he will arrive some time."

"O, yes, I trust so! But speaking of Annie,—our Annie you know, for I'm proud that we have such a treasure beneath our roof——"

"Dr. Prague! are you mad? A paltry governess a treasure! I consider it a shame and disgrace to our house, that a poor, low, dependent, is allowed an equality in the family, and admitted through our influence to the first classes in society. And I'm not the only one that marks the shocking impropriety. My son-in-law, Lawrence Hardin, is possessed of a discerning eye. He sees Kate loses wherever that girl is admitted."

This speech was accompanied by immoderate vehemence, and energetic gestures, but it failed to produce the slightest effect upon the phlegmatic doctor, who, having finished his orange, settled himself comfortably in his easy-chair, and took a cigar and the morning paper to assist his digestion.

"Thirteen increase from last week. I declare, our city is growing sickly," he said, as his wife closed her oratorical harangue; "but, speaking of Annie again, she has a poetical gem in one of our popular magazines this week, which I find accompanied by a complimentary note from the editor. She writes under a nom de plume, but I discovered her. Have you read any of her writings, Mrs. Prague?"

"Her writings! the bold, impertinent hussy! No, nor do I wish to. But if I'm to be entertained with this sort of conversation, I'll go down to my son-in-law, Esq. Hardin's; and there I'm sure to pass an agreeable day. Nothing low ever tarnishes his discourse."

"Do so, madam," said the imperturbable husband; "undoubtedly they will appreciate the honor of your presence."

And with a disdainful toss the lady flouted out of the room, leaving the good doctor to the undisturbed enjoyment of his cigar and papers.

Annie Evalyn had been nine months an inmate of Dr. Prague's mansion, when the preceding scene was enacted. Some of that experience which Aunt Patty had pronounced "better than book learnin'," had fallen to her share. So far from her beauty and accomplishments winning friends and good-will, they had only seemed to provoke the sneers and invidious remarks of those who envied her superior attractions. She had seen the contemptuous curl of the lip, and heard the epithet, "low-born creature." She had bitterly learned that genius and beauty are not the current coins of society; and she sometimes thought the old adage, "Knowledge is power," would read truer, "Money is power." But though she had dark hours, her young heart's courage had not failed. Still the unalterable purpose was firm, to be active, to be striving for fame, honor and good repute. Latterly she had turned her attention to literary subjects, and produced several pieces that received warm commendation from the press.

Annie had been but a few weeks in her new residence, ere her quick eye discerned that Mrs. Prague looked upon her with envy and jealousy, and she endeavored to conciliate the lady's esteem by gentleness and condescension; but all efforts were vain. She persisted in her coldness and perversity. This was so unpleasant to Annie that she several times signified her readiness to leave when her presence was no longer desired; but the old doctor, who was her most zealous advocate, declared he should go distracted if she left them. Kate cried and the children howled in terror at the prospect of such a calamity. Mrs. Prague looked lofty and said, "Miss Evalyn was a trusty governess, and they might increase her salary if she thought it insufficient."

"Double it, if she says so," said the doctor; "but money can't reward services like hers. How could you pay the sun for illuminating your drawing-rooms, Mrs. Prague?"

And Mrs. Prague darted an angry glance, and said she would go down to her son-in-law's.



CHAPTER VII.

"To love's sweet tones my heart shall never thrill; Nor, as the tardy years their circles roll, Shall they the ardor of its pulses chill."

Reclining on a silken sofa, in a luxurious apartment, was a lady in the prime of youth and beauty. She was robed in a white, wrought-muslin gown, and her glossy ringlets lay in dark relief on its snowy folds. She was reading at intervals from a small gilt volume, but with a wandering listlessness of manner, as though it were a weary effort to fix her attention upon its contents.

This was the wife of Lawrence Hardin, Esq., one of the most wealthy, influential men in that part of the country. He arrived there from the east a few years before, bringing a large fortune, which he came in possession of by the sudden death of his parents. He embarked largely in speculations, and was very successful; in consequence of which, the mercantile class in their most critical junctures looked up to him as a superior and safeguard. He soon grew to be a man of great power and influence, and in the full tide of prosperity bore away the beautiful Marion Prague, the reigning belle of the city, as his bride. There was a rumor afloat that the match afforded the fair lady but meagre satisfaction, and that her taste and wishes were not much consulted in the matter; but the angry importunities of her proud, self-willed mother at length induced her to marry a man she did not love. But this idle report was hushed after their marriage, and the devotion of the young couple loudly descanted on in fashionable circles throughout the city; for was not Hardin all attention, and how could she avoid loving so fine a fellow? So the world called it a nice match, and passed on. Let us pause for a glance behind the scenes.

A slight tap at the door of that elegant boudoir, and then it swung softly on its gilded hinges, and a gentleman, richly dressed, with shining hat, dark broadcloth over-coat, and a light bamboo stick in his neatly-gloved hand, entered and approached the couch on which the lady reclined. He was rather above the medium height, of commanding figure, with jetty hair and mustaches and deep-set, piercing black eyes. Laying aside hat and gloves, he sat down by the sofa, and commenced playfully poking the long, wavy ringlets that lay on the crimson damask pillow with the gold tip of his tiny walking-cane. She had resumed her book on his first appearance, and continued to peruse its pages. She did not look toward him, or speak, and it was evident, from a slightly-clouded brow, that his presence rather annoyed than pleased her.

This was Lawrence Hardin and lady in the privacy of their own apartment.

"Why don't you speak to me, Marion?" he asked, at length.

No answer, and the brow grew darker. He bent over her, and endeavored to take the book from her hand. She tightened her grasp for a moment to resist his efforts, and then, suddenly relaxing her hold, turned toward the wall.

He gazed on her several moments with a mingled expression of anger and wounded tenderness, and then turned away.

Half an hour later the young wife met her husband in the breakfast-room, and presided with benign and gracious dignity over his well-laid table; inquired "if Esq. Hardin found the chocolate and sardines to his relish;" and he extolled Mrs. Hardin's excellent superintendence of domestic affairs; said business in his office would detain him from her till the dinner hour, and, expressing a hope that she might pass the morning agreeably, bowed himself out of the presence of his lovely wife, who replied to his civilities courteously, and even smiled brightly at his parting nod at the hall door. And the servants in attendance saw and listened; and reported, and enlarged on the "wonderful love" and happiness of their young master and mistress. So this nice match was noised abroad over the whole city, and a hundred families envied the domestic felicity of Esq. Hardin and wife. O, the endless masquerade of life!

Several weeks later the unloved husband entered his young lady's apartment. She stood before the dressing-table, arranging her hair for the evening. She cast a brief glance toward him, and then proceeded quietly with her toilet. The chilling indifference wounded him acutely, and he addressed her rather hastily: "Marion, do you think I shall always have patience?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," she answered, carelessly; "but of what do you complain? Do I not perform the duties of your mansion in a manner to satisfy your fastidious tastes?"

"Don't mock or trifle," he said, bitterly. "I'm not a machine, or an automaton, and I want something more than my servants, my drawing-room and table well attended, to satisfy my heart."

"You knew I did not love you when you married me."

"Yes, but I did not know that you hated me."

"Nor did I."

"And what have I done since to incur your detestation?"

"Nothing."

"Well, then, will you treat me with a little less of this freezing coldness and scorn when we are alone together?"

Tears started in those beautiful eyes, and he advanced to embrace her, but she motioned him away. No, they were not there for him. She struggled a few moments, and then, uncovering her face, said calmly:

"Sit down, Lawrence; I will endeavor to comply with your wishes."

He drew a damask fauteuil opposite the one on which she was reclining, and sank among its downy cushions. The rays of the setting sun streamed into the richly-furnished apartment and fell upon the two occupants.

"What news in the city, to-day?" inquired Marion, at length.

"Nothing particularly interesting, I believe," he answered. "I was at your father's to-night; they are making preparations for a large party next week, given in honor of Frank Sheldon's arrival."

Some noise in the street at this moment attracted his attention, and he rose to look forth. When he turned again, he beheld his wife lying on the carpet pale and cold as marble.



CHAPTER VIII.

"Strange scenes will often follow on abrupt surprise."

Annie Evalyn was alone in her apartment. A servant had just left a small package, and she was now occupied with its contents. First was a letter from the good parson, full of fatherly advice and admonition; then one from Netta, a sheet written full, in a neat, delicate hand, describing a visit to Aunt Patty's cottage, and a score of messages enumerated which the old lady had desired transmitted to her "dear hinny," as she still called Annie. "Tell her I don't tell fortunes now, for I know she will like to hear that; because once I remember she said, 'I wouldn't tell fortunes, aunty, for I don't think it is respectable.' So tell her I earn a good living by spinning on my little wheel, and try to be happy thinking she is so. But, sometimes, when the wind howls through the deep woods, I can't help feeling lonesome, and think, if Annie were only here to sing some of her pretty songs, how cheery the old walls would look! And tell her, if she should ever grow tired and heart-sick in the midst of the world's fashions and splendors, the old thatched roof in Scraggiewood will joy to shelter her; and the old heart here will warm and love her into life and happiness again."

Annie felt the tears come as she read, for she had often of late experienced a longing wish for a gentle friend in whom to confide and trust.

Now Netta spoke of their home at the vicarage. "It was lonesome yet," she said, "and the old study had never worn a cheerful aspect since its good genius departed. Father and Aunt Rachel spoke of bright-faced Annie every day; but most of all she missed the dear, loving companion when she retired to her chamber at night." And then she wrote, "Your old friend George Wild, has returned quite a changed being, I assure you. I think you must have infused some of your energy and action into his nature, for he has become an active business man. He works at his trade in the village, and I see him frequently. We have long, cosey chats about you, Annie." Annie laughed as she read.

"Dear little Netta!" she exclaimed, "I see through it all; it is clear as day. But I'm willing you should use my name, darling, to subserve your timidity. I'll answer this sweet letter this morning. I'm alone, and now is a good time."

She looked about for her writing-materials, and suddenly remembered she had left them in the school-room the evening previous. As she lightly descended the stairs, the bell rang, and the hall door being open, she came in full view of a gentleman standing on the marble steps e'er she was aware, and in another moment he was at her side, exclaiming,

"Astonishing! Is it possible? Can this be Kate Prague?"

Annie blushed as she perceived his mistake, and hastened to rectify it.

"I am not Miss Prague," she said, "but a member of the family at present. I think I have the honor of addressing Mr. Sheldon." He bowed gracefully.

"The ladies are gone out for a short drive this morning. Will you be pleased to wait their return in the drawing-room?"

He accepted the invitation and entered the apartment, offering, as he did so, an apology for his mistake, which she acknowledged with another rising blush.

"I think Dr. Prague received intelligence last evening that you would not arrive till next week," she remarked, as they were seated in the parlor. "Had they expected you sooner, I'm sure they would have been at home to receive you."

"I did send a letter to that effect," he said; "but the improved facilities of travelling have enabled me to reach the city sooner than I anticipated."

A silence ensued. Annie felt ill at ease. She had received many hints of the lofty, aristocratic notions of Frank Sheldon. She knew him to be wealthy, and the prospective lover of Kate Prague; that is, Kate had informed her that "Marion had been first designed for him; but by some means that plan failed, and then mother married her to Hardin, and Sheldon was left for her. She supposed she should marry him some time, though she did not care a fig for him, he was so grave, and always talking on literary subjects which she could not understand and therefore mortally abhorred."

All this passed quickly through Annie's mind, and, rising, she said she "thought the ladies would soon return; perhaps he could amuse himself with the contents of the centre-table a brief while."

"O, yes!" he said politely. "I can ever pass time agreeably with books and paintings." She courtesied and retired to her own apartment. "What a vision of loveliness!" he mentally exclaimed when left alone. "I wonder if Kate Prague is half so beautiful. Who can this lady be?"

A carriage now rattled up to the door, and the ladies came bundling into the apartment. He suddenly recollected he was there unannounced, but what could he do?

"Bless me! Mercy! Why, Mr. Sheldon here, and nobody to receive him! What must he think?" exclaimed Mrs. Prague, in a tone of astonishment.

"I'm most concerned, my good madam," said he, advancing, for what you must think to find me so unceremoniously ensconced in your drawing-room."

"Don't say a word about that," was the answer. "Was not this once your home? I hope you will still regard it in that light. Kate, come forward; here is Mr. Sheldon. I declare, what a delightful surprise!" The old doctor now entered, and burst into a torrent of welcome on beholding Sheldon.

"How did you get here, my boy," he asked, "to steal upon us so slyly, when I received a letter only yesterday saying you would not reach us before next week?"

Sheldon explained briefly. When he mentioned that a young lady had escorted him to the parlor, and invited him to await the family's return, a visible frown lowered over Mrs. Prague's before smiling countenance, and she and Catherine soon excused themselves to prepare for dinner.



CHAPTER IX.

"But, ah! if thou hadst loved me—had I been All to thy dreams that to mine own thou art."

On a dim, gray morning in early winter, Lawrence Hardin sat by the couch of his wife, her thin, wasted hand lying unconsciously in his, and her quick, heavy breathings moving the dark locks of his hair, as he bent low over her sleeping form. Three months had passed since that fainting scene, and the young wife had encountered a long, severe stroke of illness. The husband watched incessantly by her bed-side, for he would not suffer her wild, fevered ravings to be heard by other ears than his own.

It was all revealed to him. He knew he had married a woman whose heart was another's, and that she had been compelled to the step by the threats and vehemence of her mother.

O, how the strong man writhed in his agony! To know Marion did not love him, was enough to endure; but to know she loved another, ah! that was madness. His passions were roused to fury, yet not on her should they wreak their vengeance. No; on the man that had stolen her love from him, or rather the man on whom she had bestowed her love, Frank Sheldon. On his devoted head should the vengeance fall.

Thus he resolved, but kept his fell design buried in his own breast, and, by an engaging exterior, sought to lure his victim into his toils.

Sheldon was a brave, generous fellow. Left early an orphan, he had been reared in the family of Dr. Prague, who was instituted guardian of the large fortune left by his parents. He was endowed by nature with fine intellectual abilities, and an exquisite taste for the grand and beautiful in nature and art, and, during three years' travel in foreign parts, had so improved upon these natural advantages, as to stand acknowledged one of the most elegant and accomplished young men of his country. But it often happens that such high-wrought natures are but poorly versed in the plodding concerns of this nether world. And thus it was with him. Alive to every lofty feeling and generous impulse, he fancied others like himself. Low cunning and artifice were unknown to his bosom, and consequently he would fall the easier victim to Hardin's scheme of revenge.

And now there came another fact to this base man's knowledge. Sheldon had not only robbed him of Marion's affections, but had won and slighted Kate Prague, to fall in love with Annie Evalyn. Worse still, the passion was mutual. That he saw and knew long before the parties themselves had acknowledged the growing love in the still depths of their own beating hearts, much more given voice to the feeling in words.

Love is so blind, and shy, and unbelieving, the poets tell us. Had Sheldon's love met no response, then Hardin's revenge had been in part gratified; but now it was only whetted to a keener edge, for he saw, or fancied he saw, not only his rival's happiness, but the sister of the woman he loved pining from an unrequited affection.

As he revolved these dark thoughts in his vile breast, the hand he held moved suddenly, and the sleeper murmured in her dreams. He bent his ear eagerly to catch the sound, but it was gone. He smoothed the damp, dark locks away from the pale brow, and gazed on her thin, attenuated features—yet more beautiful, they seemed to him, than in the ruddy glow of health. O that she would open her eyes and gaze up tenderly into his! And when she was able to sit in a soft-cushioned chair, robed in a snowy dressing-gown, and propped with pillows, receiving his attentions with such a pretty shyness and distrust; or a few weeks later, when, still more recovered, leaning so coyly on his arm to wander over her splendid mansion again, and looking so timidly in his face, as if, now her secret was known, she had no right to claim or expect tenderness from him;—all this reserve made her so much dearer, and he thought, if she would but give him one little look of love, he would even forget his meditated revenge on Sheldon.

But, ah! he looked in vain for lurking love in those cold, beautiful eyes. There was submission,—there was gratitude; but what were those?

Again the fashionable world said, "Esq. Hardin and lady are more devoted than ever;" and they congratulated Mrs. Dr. Prague on the nice match she had secured for her daughter Marion. And the haughty, vain mother exulted, for she was a superficial observer of human nature, and could not, or would not, see the wasting woe that was preying on her daughter's health and beauty.

It was a gay season at the doctor's mansion. Sheldon's arrival was the signal for a round of entertainments among the elite of the city; for, be it known, there were others than good Mrs. Prague anxious to secure so eligible a match for their daughters, as the handsome, rich and gifted Frank Sheldon. A manoeuvring mother! reader, hast ever seen one? And if so, dost know of another so contemptible thing in the whole broad realm of the low, sordid and despicable?

The good old doctor, with his usual obstinacy, insisted that Annie Evalyn should make one of all the parties of amusement; and, in truth, Sheldon was quite as anxious to secure her society as was the doctor to "set her forward," as Mrs. Prague expressed it. That lady was exceedingly vexed and mortified at the turn matters were taking; but Kate, partaking largely of her father's easy nature, seemed as merry and well-pleased as though Sheldon had fallen in love with her, instead of Annie Evalyn; for it began to be whispered in the upper circles that "Dr. Prague's pretty governess had captivated the fascinating Sheldon." Many ugly grimaces distorted the proper faces of marriageable daughters; and captious, ill-natured remarks were indulged in by disappointed maidens, who had beggared their fathers' pockets to purchase silks and satins, jewels and diamonds, to carry by storm the heart of the elegant, accomplished Frank Sheldon.

Alas for human hopes and expectations! And what a perverse, capricious, wilful little fellow is this god of love, whom we all worship and make offerings to in one form or another! Why, he never goes where he should; that is, you may hang him a dome, with golden draperies, stud the walls with pearls and rubies, put a divinity there, beautiful as the fabled houris, and robed in eastern magnificence, with discretion's self to open the portal and invite his entrance; still, he goes not in. A humming-bird around a rose has caught his vagrant eye, and he is off to follow its roamings from flower to flower. Was ever such an improvident, self-willed creature as this boy, Cupid?



CHAPTER X.

"It is an era strange, yet sweet, Which every woman's heart hath known, When first her bosom learns to beat To the soft music of a tone; That era, when she first begins To know what love alone can teach, That there are hidden depths within Which friendship never yet could reach."

Annie Evalyn was alone in her room, a second time, sitting down to answer her friend Netta's letter. It was the first leisure she had known in several weeks, and she would hardly have commanded it now, but that Sheldon was gone to conclude an extensive land contract, into which he was entering with Lawrence Hardin; allured by flattering representations of the immense emolument sure to result from these speculations, when emigration should raise to an untold value the worth of those extensive tracts, then lying wild and uncultivated through those western countries.

Dr. Prague had also advised him to the course, regarding it as the easiest method of keeping good the fortune of Sheldon, whose choice of literature as a profession tended rather to diminish than increase his coffers. And so he embarked his all with Hardin; and all thought him sure to succeed in the enterprise, with so far-seeing and judicious a partner to counsel and direct.

We return to Annie. She had opened her portfolio, and placed before her a pure, virgin page. Twirling the enamelled top from her inkstand, and fastening a gold pen to a pearl-wrought handle, she commenced her task.

"I scarcely know what to say, dear Netta; there are so many thoughts crowded on my brain for utterance, that I can scarcely decide what it is best to say, and what leave unsaid. One thing I feel sure of, that whatever is imparted in confidence, will remain safe in your trusty bosom; and O, how blessed am I, in the possession of such a friend! Would you were here beside me this evening, your arm clasped tenderly about my neck, your dear, earnest eyes looking in mine. But, alas! we are far asunder. Your sweet letter brought many vivid pictures before my mind of the happy hours passed in that study room, and, still further back, that childhood in the rocky cottage of Scraggiewood. Tell aunty, I still love to call her as in my childish days, and hope the time is not very far distant when I may run into her arms for a hearty kissing.

"But, Netta, I know you are all eagerness to hear what I'm doing here; how I speed on my aspiring way, and what is my progress toward the temple of fame it was e'er my proudest wish to enter.

"Alas, Netta! I'm ashamed to say the indefatigable Annie Evalyn has relapsed her energies, has faltered in her pursuit of glory, and surrendered herself to the enjoyment of the passing hour. And yet I was never so happy as now; no, never in my life. To love and to be loved; dear sis, do you know what it is? If not, no words of mine can tell you. Frank Sheldon has never told me his heart was mine, but it is a poor love that needs words to express it, I fancy. He is rich, handsome and honored; yet it is not for these I love him, but because his tastes and feelings are in unison with mine.

"But, Netta, I have to endure some ill will, and cold looks, which detract from my happiness. A share of that experience aunty declared 'better than books,' has been taught my hopeful nature, and often do I think of your kind father's tender admonitions.

"Adieu, dearest; I've told my tale in brief. I need not say, guard it well.

"You have seen some of my simple productions in the magazines, and are pleased to think well of them, for which I thank you kindly. I'm writing none at present. With love to all, I am,

"Truly,

"ANNIE."

The letter was folded and directed as she heard a voice in the hall calling her name. It was Sheldon's; and a bright smile irradiated her features, as, throwing aside the writing materials, she prepared to go down. He met her on the stairs.

"I couldn't find you anywhere," he said, "and the parlors were dark and cold as midnight. Where have you been and how occupied all the while I've been away winding up that tiresome contract with Hardin?"

"In my room, writing a letter to a friend," she answered, with a pleasant smile, as he was leading her through the several parlors, to fix on one exactly suited to his taste.

"Writing?" said he, reproachfully; "O, Annie!"

"Why, what of that?" she asked.

"O, nothing, I suppose; but I can't endure to think you can sit down, cold and calm, when I'm away, and indite your thoughts on paper. I can neither read, write, nor think, without you, Annie."

She blushed at these words.

"Come," he continued, drawing her close to his side; "I need not tell you I love you, Annie, for that you know already; but you can render me very happy, by speaking one little word in answer to a question I want to ask."

Still blushing and turning away her eyes, and he gazing so eloquently upon her downcast features.

"Will you speak it, Annie?"

"Let me hear the question," she said.

He inclined his head and whispered in her ear. She placed her hand in his, and he looked most happily answered as he wound his arm round her waist and pressed the little hand close to his heart.

There was a band of wandering musicians playing in the street, and he led her to the casement. She leaned lightly against his shoulder, and thus they stood there listening to the music. It was rough enough, and could hardly have pleased at any other time; but it sounded like the symphonies of angels to them now. O, what divine strains! But the melody was all in their own hearts. The screeching wheels of a dirt cart would have failed to strike a dissonance upon their ears; for all nature rolled on in linked harmony to them; they fancied they were very near heaven, and so they were; they thought they could not be much happier if they were really there, and it is doubtful if they could.

Thus wrapped in their new-found happiness, let us leave with prophetic good-night.



CHAPTER XI.

"So fails, so languishes, grows dim and dies, All that this world is proud of. From their spheres The stars of human glory are cast down. Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, Princes and emperors, and the crowns and palms Of all the mighty, withered and consumed. Nor is power long given to lowliest innocence Long to protect her own."

"Hardin, don't you remember the old fortune-telling hag that used to keep office in a heap of rocks in that deuced rough hole called Scraggiewood?" asked a gay, reckless-looking young man, as he lighted a cigar, and settled himself in a comfortable armchair with feet elevated on the fender.

"Indeed I do," responded Hardin, quickly. "You and I made her a visit one evening, you know, and she drew forth rather ominous fortunes for both of us from her teapot of destiny. Ha, ha! what was it the hag told me, Sumpter?"

"That you would be a wicked fellow, marry a lovely woman, who wouldn't care a picayune for you, and live after you wished you were dead, I believe, or something to that import, wasn't it?"

"Well, I reckon 'twas some talk of this sort; but what brought this incident to your mind now, Jack?"

"It was recalled by sight of that young lady at your father-in-law's. Don't you remember, that night we were at the rock den in Scraggiewood, there was a child, a little girl, sleeping on a pallet in the room?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"Well, that child and this young lady are one and the same."

"It cannot be!" exclaimed Hardin, quickly.

"It is so, I'm positive. But stop; what is this girl's name?"

"Annie Evalyn."

"Exactly. I asked the old crone that night what was her child's name, and she told me the one you have just repeated."

"Is it possible?" ejaculated Hardin in a ruminating manner.

"It is easy to convince your doubts. Just engage her in conversation and allude to her early life. She'll betray herself, my word for it. Besides I've heard of her since you left the east. She had a beau there at Scraggiewood, one George Wild; and after picking up some education at a country parson's, came west as governess in a wealthy family. These several things have recurred to my memory since beholding her at Dr. Prague's last evening; for, depend upon it, this fine lady, who captivates all hearts, is the old Scraggiewood witch's daughter."

After this speech from Sumpter a silence ensued. Hardin was revolving in his mind whether to divulge his plan of revenge to his companion, and enlist him as a co-worker to assist in the completion of his schemes. He saw this accidental information would aid in furthering his plans. How should he use it? He rose and paced the floor.

"Jack," he said at length, giving him a slap on the shoulder, "can I trust you?"

"Always, Hardin," was the ready response. "I am yours to command."

Another pause, and Hardin continued to pace the floor with nervous, uneven steps. At length, as he passed the large, oval window, he caught a glimpse of his wife walking in the conservatory. Approaching, he tapped slightly on the glass to arrest her attention. She turned, and a frown gathered on her features as she met his earnest, affectionate gaze. O, Marion! why couldn't you have smiled then? What might not one genial look from your sweet eyes have averted?

Hardin turned away, his heart cold and callous.

"Fool am I to hesitate!" he muttered; "who cares for me, and whom should I care for?"

Drawing a chair close to Sumpter's, they conferred in whispers for the space of an hour. Then both arose.

"Now make yourself presentable, Jack," said Hardin, "and we'll proceed forthwith to put our scheme afoot."

"I shall be ready in due season," was the answer.

There was a select company assembled at Dr. Prague's mansion, enjoying the evening in music and conversation. Annie had just sung a song that elicited much applause, and Sheldon had contrived to draw her aside to whisper some word of tenderness in her ear.

"Frank," said she, "I feel strangely to-night."

"Why, Annie, are you not happy?"

"Yes, but I tremble; I'm frightened. I feel as if some awful danger were impending."

As she Spoke thus, the door opened, and Esq. Hardin, and his friend, Mr. Sumpter, were announced. They mingled with the company and soon approached the group in which Sheldon and Annie had chosen a place. Hardin presented his friend to the several ladies and gentlemen composing the circle, and passed on, leaving Sumpter sitting opposite Annie. Glancing casually toward him, she found his gaze riveted on her face.

"May I ask, miss," he said, "if you are not from the eastern country?"

She replied in the affirmative.

"Well, I thought I could not be so much mistaken. How are you contented away out here?"

"Very well, sir," she answered.

"Ay, indeed. I've heard say old loves were hard to forget; but I suppose new ones will obliterate them if anything will."

By this time the attention of the group was drawn to them.

"Do you ever hear from your old Aunt Patty, now?" he continued, in the same bold, familiar manner.

Annie was startled to hear these words from one who was a stranger to her; but as so many eyes were on them, she thought best to answer courteously, and said, "I do sir, frequently."

"Does she live there in the old rock heap at Scraggiewood, and tell fortunes and bewitch sitting hens yet?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Sheldon, "how dare you thus insult a lady in company?"

"O, be cool, my good fellow! I never yet heard it was an insult to inquire after one's honest relations, and I've done nothing more, as this lady I'm sure will admit. I can perhaps give you some information respecting your former lover, George Wild, Miss Evalyn," he continued; "he is good and true yet."

A scream from Annie arrested his words. She had fainted. Sheldon bore her from the room amidst a buzz of voices, in which Sumpter's was loudest, declaring he "did not mean to embarrass the young lady. He did not know but what they were all acquainted with her early history."

Sheldon did not rejoin the company, and during the remainder of the evening Sumpter disseminated an exaggerated account of Annie's low birth and disgraceful parentage among the guests. The tale found too many willing ears; and Annie was pronounced a vile, artful deceiver, by those who envied her talents and beauty.



CHAPTER XII.

"Alas, the joys that fortune brings Are trifling and decay! And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade that follows wealth and fame, But leaves the wretch to weep?"

When Annie Evalyn recovered consciousness, Sheldon was bending over her, bathing her temples with cologne. As the memory of the recent scene rushed over her, her cheeks flushed, and she glanced timidly in his face. It was cold—stern, she fancied.

"Annie," said he, in a measured tone, "you are better now. I will leave you for to-night, and to-morrow shall hope for an explanation of what, I must confess, seems strange and mysterious to me at present. Good-night!" and he turned to leave the room.

"Good-night!" she faintly articulated, her eyes following his retreating figure till the door closed and excluded him from view. "Yes, and a long good-night too, Frank Sheldon!" she continued, when she was alone; "if you can thus coldly turn from me,—thus lightly suspect me of artifice and deceit. O, my God, what a blow! and to fall at such a moment, when I believed myself almost at the pinnacle of happiness! Surely, the arch-fiend directed the hand. Such words to be spoken in a fashionable circle; and they'll all accredit it, for they have,—Heaven knows why!—long been seeking something to my dispraise. And besides, I cannot contradict the man's words, for are they not too true? and yet, O must I be blamed for my humble parentage? O aunty, aunty, I'll not cast a single reflection! You say you've left off fortune-telling for my sake—but it is too late now; and perhaps you'll need resort to it again to support your poor, unfortunate Annie. I'm going to you, aunty; the rough roof of old Scraggiewood will be above me in a few weeks. Would I had never wandered from beneath its homely shelter! Truly, the world is a hard, cold place, aunty, as you forewarned; but I could not believe it then."

Annie rose and proceeded mechanically to place a few necessary articles of clothing in a small satchel; this done, she sat down by the window to wait till all was quiet below. The rich clothing, the wages and presents she had received during her two years' residence beneath that roof,—she would leave them all behind; they were bestowed when she was deemed a worthy object, and now they would consider it was a vile, artful deceiver that had sought to ingratiate herself into their favor to accomplish her own low, selfish designs. She was a fool for going abroad in the great world; a fool to think she could ever become respected and loved. Love! There was no such thing! Had not Frank Sheldon, thirty-six hours after he vowed to love her forever, turned coldly away at a moment when she most needed his comforting attentions? And, as she thus thought, a groan of agony escaped her breast. There came a light tap on the door, and Kate entered hurriedly.

"O, Annie, Annie!" she exclaimed, embracing the suffering girl warmly, "I don't believe a word that man said, nor does father either. He says if you are Satan's daughter, you are better and prettier, and wiser, than the best of them. As for Frank, he has not spoken since the company left, and I believe he is struck dumb. I was going to follow him when he brought you out, but mother prevented me."

"She is enraged at me, of course," said Annie.

"O, she is hasty, you know!" returned Kate. "I dare say all will be right in a day or two; so dry your eyes and go to sleep, and wake up as merry as if that ugly Mr. Sumpter had never come here with his impudent stories. For my part, I wonder Lawrence should bring such a monster into genteel society;" and with a kiss they parted.

Annie sat motionless another hour, and then, cautiously opening the door, listened breathlessly a few moments. All was still; and, taking her satchel, she glided noiselessly down the stairs and into the street. Her heart sank within her as the cold wind struck her cheek; but she moved rapidly forward, eager to place a distance between her and the scene of her abasement. Soon she was on the broad, rough prairie road, over which a waning moon cast pale, sickly beams. By daylight she reached a settler's cabin, and learned that a stage-coach would pass there in a few moments, bound eastward. She requested the privilege of waiting its arrival, which was readily granted, and also such refreshments placed before her as the cabin afforded; but she could not eat. The coach soon appeared, and she rejoiced to find herself the only passenger. The door was closed, and the hard, jolting vehicle rumbled on its way. And here was Annie Evalyn, the beautiful, the gifted, the admired Annie Evalyn of yesterday, flying like a guilty outcast from the scenes amid which she had been so happy.

Great was the surprise at Dr. Prague's mansion, on the following morning, when Annie's flight became known. No token was left by which a clue to her course might be discovered. Sheldon carried himself like a crazy one. The old doctor bustled about, and said he would search the world over to bring her back. Kate cried, and the children loudly bewailed the loss of their dear governess. Mrs. Prague seemed the only calm and rational one in the household; she declared herself glad to get rid of the baggage, and considered her flight proof positive of her guilt.

This view seemed rather plausible certainly. If innocent, why did she not remain and boldly refute the tale Sumpter had told?

When the news of her flight was made known to Esquire Hardin, he laughed heartily, and called up Sumpter to join him. The latter expressed himself "sorry if he had unwittingly been the cause of an unpleasant occurrence in Dr. Prague's family."

"What, the deuce!" said Hardin, "do you suppose they wish to harbor a young witch?"

"Why, no,—but this gentleman, Mr. Sheldon."

"Give yourself no uneasiness in regard to me, sir!" said Sheldon, sternly. "I will manage and control my own affairs."

"Bravely spoken, Frank!" remarked Hardin, "Now let us adjourn to the dinner-saloon and drink a merry bout over fortunate denouement."



CHAPTER XIII.

"It was a bitter pain That pierced her gentle heart; For barbed by malice was the dart, And sped by treachery's deadliest art, The shaft ne'er sped in vain."

The wild winds wailed wofully over the lonesome prairie, smiting sadly upon poor Annie's heavy heart as she sat in the hard, jolting coach, which, owing to the bad state of the roads, made but sorry progress. It was already dark, and the driver said they had yet ten miles to ride in order to reach the nearest post town. They entered a dense timber land, and the wheels struck deep into a loose, gravelly sand, so the poor horses could scarcely drag on at a slow walk. The coachman hallooed and cracked his whip about their ears, but all to no effect; the animals were worn down by a hard day's travel; and Annie, annoyed by his boisterous vociferations, at last put her head out the window and begged him not to beat the jaded animals, but let them proceed at their own pace.

"All one to me, miss," was the answer; "did it to please you; thought you mought be a hungry, or mebbe sort o' tired, a settin' in there all alone so. Whoa, Johnny! take it easy since it is the lady's wish. We shall be just as well off a hundred years hence, I dare say, and supper will be sweeter, the longer delayed."

With this philosophical reflection, he relapsed into silence, and for two hours they continued to drag through the heavy sand, with nothing to relieve the monotony, save the shrill bark of the wolf, far in the deep forest, answered by the deep growl of the bear, or piercing cry of the ferocious catamount.

Annie shivered with nervous terror at these wild, savage sounds; and when at last, as they reached the open prairie, and struck a harder bottom, the horses mended their paces, she felt sensibly relieved. At length they entered a small, new town, and drew up before a large, awkward building. The steps were lowered and Annie alighted, and soon found herself in a long, dingy apartment, with a bright pine-wood fire blazing and crackling in a huge, yawning fire-place at its farthest extremity. She was chilled, and sat down before the glowing hearth to warm her benumbed fingers. Presently a tall woman, in a short-sleeved frock and large deer-skin moccasins, strode into the room, and with a deep, ungainly courtesy asked, "What the lady would be thinking to take for a bit of supper?"

Annie answered she would take a biscuit and cup of tea, if she pleased, and then retire to her apartment, as she was much fatigued.

"And won't you have a chunk o' venison, or cold 'possum, to make your biscuit relish, miss?" asked the woman.

"No, I thank you," said Annie; "I don't feel much hungry to-night."

"Why, I reckoned you must be well-nigh starved, a ridin' all day long, and nothing to lay your jaws to; but, howsomever, you know your own wants best."

The woman went out, and soon returned with Annie's supper spread on a pine board. Annie could hardly repress a smile at sight of the novel tea-table. Her meal was quickly despatched, and she again signified her wish to retire. It was a rough, dismal apartment into which she was ushered, but, tired and jaded, she threw herself on the hard couch, and, despite the trouble at her heart, slept soundly till morning.

On rising, her first thought was to examine her little stock of money, and she found it amounted to only seventeen dollars and a half, out of which she must pay her coach and tavern fare. It was evident that she must seek some employment to assist in defraying her travelling expenses. The question was, whether she should remain where she was, or go on as far as her scanty means would carry her. She went out to make some inquiries of the woman who had waited on her the night previous.

"Get some work to do, miss!" said she in a tone of surprise. "What can you do? Can you cut fodder, or cradle rye, or catch 'possums?"

Annie smiled, and said, "No, but I can teach school, do sewing, or housework."

"Wall, I don't know; you look a mighty fine lady to be asking for work; but then it is none o' my business to be pryin' into other folks' concerns. We are new settlers here, and have to get along as close as we can. I don't reckon you'll find anybody rich enough to hire ye in these diggins. You'll do better along further east, where folks are richer and more 'fined."

Matters looked unpromising, and Annie concluded to follow the woman's suggestion, and travel on as far as the small funds would carry her. But in the two years she had been at the west, the facilities for travelling had improved, and prices were also reduced, so that her little purse carried her much further on her route than she had expected. When it finally gave out, she with great joy found she was but fifty miles from her destination, and with a courageous heart resolved to perform the remainder of the journey on foot.

Accordingly, she set forward. The weather was fine, and she did not doubt her ability to accomplish the distance in two days, at farthest. Every mile passed inspired her with fresh courage, for was she not so much nearer a heart that loved her? O, how she longed to be clasped to that warm, beating bosom, and weep her sorrows forth to one she knew would pity, sympathize, and strive to heal!



CHAPTER XIV.

"Do you come with the heart of your childhood back, The free, the pure, the kind? Thus murmured the trees in the homeward track, As they played at the sport of the wind."

The autumn evening stole calmly, sweetly on. Again October's harvest moon rode through the liquid ether, and poured her silvery beams over the wild, old forest of Scraggiewood, as we saw it long ago when Annie Evalyn's years were calm and golden-hued as Luna's gentle rays. She was coming now to the low, cottage home. With weary, languid step, she threaded the old, familiar path, and it seemed to have grown rougher, and the forest looked wilder and darker than in the days gone by. Poor Annie! the darkness and gloom were in thy weary, world-tossed heart. That heart beat wildly as she drew nearer the wished-for spot. What if she should see no light gleaming through the aperture in the rocky walls? What if the door should be fallen away, and no aunty there to welcome the wanderer's return? She quickened her pace, and a few moments banished all fears. The cottage came in view, and a bright light streamed through the rough-cut window. Now Annie clasped her hands, and thanked God that her journey was well-nigh ended. She saw her aunt bending over the embers on the hearth, as she paused a moment on the threshold. Then, entering softly, she stole to the side of the old lady, and, passing an arm round her neck, whispered in a low, trembling tone: "Here's Annie, come home to love and you, dear aunty."

The old woman sprang so suddenly from her kneeling posture as nearly to throw the slender form upon the floor, and gazed wildly in the speaker's face.

"Why aunty, don't you know me?"

"Bless me, it is her voice! but how could she rise up here on my hearth-stone to-night, like a witch or fairy?"

"No, aunty; I am no witch or fairy that has risen on your hearth. I walked all the way through the dim old forest to reach you, and it looks just as it used to, only darker and more frightful."

"Come here, darling, 'tis you! I know that voice. O how many times I've dreamed I heard it in the long, lonesome nights!" and she wept, laughed, and kissed her recovered child in a perfect abandonment of joy. "And so you have come home at last to see your old aunty? I've had awful feelings about you lately, hinney, and boding dreams; and ofttimes I've been sorry I let you go into the evil world; 'for if it should use her hard, would it not break both our hearts?' I said to myself. 'But, then, Annie is so pretty and good, and has got so much book-learnin' and so many accomplishments,' something would say. 'Ay, that's the mischief of it. Such things always make bad folks envy those that possess them, and Annie is so tender-hearted and shrinking, I'm afeard, I'm afeard for her.'"

Annie sunk her head on her aunt's shoulder while she was speaking thus, and the tears, she had been striving to suppress since her entrance, began to roll over her cheeks thick and fast. The excitement and anxiety of the journey had in a measure diverted her mind from the events which caused it; but now that she had gained the wished-for haven, her aunty's words brought the past before her vision; that mortifying humiliation—all she had enjoyed, all she had hoped for, and O, all she had lost!—rushed upon her recollection, and she sobbed aloud.

"O, mercy, mercy, it is as I feared!" exclaimed the old woman, in an agonized tone; "something has hurt my darling, and now I mark how pale and thin she is grown. Annie, Annie, tell your aunty what's the matter."

Annie made a strong effort to calm her emotion.

"I am fatigued and overcome," she said.

"Ah! it is something more than that, child—I can tell; but you shall rest till to-morrow. I'll make you a nice cup of tea, and then you shall lie in your little cot-bed once more. I've always kept it dressed white and clean, and often been in there nights before I laid my old bones down to rest, and wished I could see my darling there, breathing long and sweet, as she used to, in happy dreams."

Annie was glad to retire, for she was indeed fatigued. Her aunt tucked the counterpane snugly around her, and hung a shawl before the window, "for hinney looked too pale and slender to bear the cold air now," she said. Then she insisted on sitting by the cot till her darling slept; but Annie begged she would not.

"Go to bed, aunty, and get a good sleep, so as to be rested and fresh to hear a long tale of my adventures to-morrow," and the kind old soul, after kissing the white brow, bade Annie good-night, and sought her pillow.

It was long ere Annie slept, and when at last she did so, hideous shapes and direful omens floated through her dreams. Once she awoke, when all was dark and still, to find a burning fever on her cheek, and dull, throbbing pain in her temples. At peep of dawn the old woman rose and stole into the apartment. She wanted to see her little pet sleeping in her cot-bed, as she used to years before. There she lay, her arms thrown above her head as when a child, and the rich chestnut curls lying in dark relief on the snowy pillow. But the deep, sweet respirations, and the healthful glow of childhood were not there. A blue circle surrounded the closed lids, and a fever-flush burned in the centre of each cheek. The aunt saw her darling was ill. She took one thin, hot hand in hers, and felt the pulse fluttering fast and wild. The sleeper woke and started up, turning her eyes quickly round the apartment.

"Don't you know where you are, Annie?" asked the aunt. "This is your old room at Scraggiewood, and I'm your aunty."

"O, yes! I remember now; but I think I'm sick, my poor head aches and throbs so badly. You used to cure all my pains, aunty."

"I hope I can cure you now, hinney. I'll go and prepare you a cooling drink of herbs. You must be very quiet, and I trust you will be well in a few days."

Annie submitted patiently. A week passed by ere she was able to make her aunt fully acquainted with her woful tale. The poor woman seemed as much afflicted as Annie, but she strove by every means in her power to soothe and comfort the suffering heart. Netta Gray had been married to George Wild a few weeks before her return, and was now absent on a visiting tour, and Annie's health continued feeble. It could hardly be otherwise with a mind so heavy and depressed. For several months she remained in seclusion at the lowly cot in Scraggiewood.



CHAPTER XV.

"For the weak heart that vainly yearned For human love its life to cheer, Baffled and bleeding has returned, To stifle down its crying here."

* * *

"Thou shalt go forth in prouder might And firmer strength e'er long."

Up to the clear blue sky, when the sun was gone down on the silent earth, clad in the pure white snow-mantle, and away over the tops of the forest-pines, at the diamond stars hung in the far-off heaven, gazed Annie Evalyn through that long, dreary winter, from the window of that rude hut in the solitary depths of Scraggiewood. How she mourned o'er her shattered idols, all fallen and wasted on their shrines! What a blow had been dealt her sensitive nature! "O, it was so bitter cruel!" she thought; "and what had she done that she should suffer thus?"

In vain her aunt tried to soothe and solace, by telling her time would bring better hopes. Parson Grey would sometimes drop in of a Saturday evening to coax and encourage his former pupil, and bring some nice tit-bit to tempt Annie's delicate relish.

"You will regain your health and spirits when the spring opens, my child," he would say. "Netta will come home, and we shall have you over to the Parsonage, and all will seem like old times again. Then you must resume that pen of yours, Annie, and let it write down those speaking thoughts that lie in your inventive brain. You know my old doctrine; it is a glorious thing to do good, and you can exert a happy and extensive influence upon society. I know you will not abuse the noble faculties given you by the great Creator."

"Ah, he does not know all!" Annie would think. "I once was vain enough to suppose I possessed faculties and powers to act a brave part in life; but they've been bruised and broken in the very outset. I've no energy, no aspirations; because there's nothing in the future to beckon me on. Wherever I turn is desolation; and I despise my weakness as much as I lament my misfortune. But I'll no more of a world that has dealt me my death-blow. Here, in this solitude of nature, let me die and sink to oblivion."

Thus she ruminated, while the shadowy wintry days sped on; and reason, weak and powerless in the headlong tide of passion that swept and swayed in her breast, was buffeted and submerged in the furious waves; and yet, when the storm had spent its fury, should it not arise clear and brilliant, and over the subsiding tumult be heard to utter a calm, proud jubilate of triumph and redemption?

Spring came at last. The snows disappeared; buds swelled on the tall trees, and burst forth into canopies of leafy-green, and the feathered songsters came hieing from southern bowers, with wings of light and songs of gladness. Annie began to brighten; slowly, and almost imperceptibly at first, and without her own knowledge or consent. Those faculties she had fancied killed were only stunned.

When she found herself, one sunny April day, at her little, rude table, inditing her beautiful thoughts on paper, she grew angry at her folly, as she termed it, and tore the sheet. "And was she again seeking what had once blasted her happiness? Let the desolation of the past deter her from all intercourse with the heartless world again."

But the sunny gleams from the beauty-fraught robes of the spring-queen had fallen on the chilled fountains, and they began to melt and flow again. And their music would be heard. As the brook down in the forest seemed to send sweeter, more joyous echoings on the ear after its winter sleep, so Annie's soul poured softer, holier strains of melody from its deep well-spring of chastened, purified feeling. Yet the struggle was not all over. Some tears, some regrets, some rebellious thoughts, yet lingered. The wildest storm oft passes the soonest by; but traces of its effects may remain to the end of time.

Netta returned from her travels, and the two friends, so long parted, sat together in the old study again, and with clasped hands poured out their hearts to each other.

Annie could not avoid saying, "My life-happiness is wrecked, Netta!" as she completed a rehearsal of her misfortunes, "O, that I had been less confident and aspiring! Then I had not suffered thus."

"Do not speak thus, Annie!" returned Netta, tenderly. "Your happiness is not lost. With a mind so brilliant as yours, you must not yield to despondency. I will do all in my power to render your life pleasant, and so will George. He says your influence made him all he is. You rebuked his slothful habits and urged him to activity. He felt the truth of your words, though it wounded him deeply to have them come from you. I know all, Annie. George loved you once, but I've forgiven him, and love you all the better for having made me so good a husband." Here Netta laughed and kissed her friend's cheek.

Annie returned the caress. "If I've unwittingly done you any good, Netta," she said, "it is no greater pleasure to have done it than to hear it acknowledged so prettily."

"But don't you think it very singular you have never received your property from Dr. Prague?" asked Netta, turning the conversation back to her friend's affairs. "I should have thought it but common honesty in them to have forwarded your clothes and wages."

"O, why should they trouble themselves to give a thought to so vile and artful a wretch?" responded Annie, bitterly.

"There, there, Annie, hush!" said Netta. "Vengeance will overtake them for thus treating worth and innocence. And Sheldon, have you never heard from him?"

"Never!" answered Annie, and a tear fell as she spoke.

"Not once!" said Netta. "He who could thus shamefully neglect one, so lovely and beautiful, is not worthy of one precious drop from these eyes."

"And yet he seemed so noble and good, it is hard to cast blame on his conduct. O, Netta, I cannot forget him!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears.

Ah, the love was there yet!—a little chastened and subdued, yet wanting but a kindly touch to rouse it to all its early strength and power. A bitter chastisement had tamed, but not conquered or expelled, the coy truant from her breast. Should it aye sleep on, or one day know an awakening?



CHAPTER XVI.

"Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool; Woman, my eyes are open."

In their sumptuous drawing-room, before a sparkling grate, sat Dr. Prague and his amiable lady, in genial after-dinner mood; he burly, and easy-natured, enjoying his oranges; she, majestic and oratorical in her rustling brocades.

"Doctor," said she, after a brief silence, "I wish to call your attention to an important subject."

"Ah! what may it be?" he inquired, in a careless tone.

"Why, our Catherine's approaching union with Mr. Sumpter."

"Is the girl going to marry Sumpter? I don't like it, madam, I don't like it;" and the usually placid doctor displayed considerable impatience in his tone and manner.

"Why not? he is a wealthy, accomplished gentleman."

"Humph! a conceited, tricksy villain, you mean."

"Dr. Prague, is he not the friend and partner of my son-in-law, Esq. Hardin?"

"What of it?"

"Why, a good deal of it, I should say. Is not Esq. Hardin one of the first men in the city? I made the match between him and Marion, and I'm proud of the alliance. You cannot say that it was not a wise and judicious one."

"Whew! I don't know. Marion as melancholy as a mummy, and a child that shrieks in terror whenever its father approaches. Perhaps a wise match, but far enough from a happy one, I should say."

"The world calls it a nice match."

"Indeed."

At this point of the conversation Kate entered the room.

"Come hither, child," said her father; "do you love this Mr. Sumpter?"

"Why, no, father. I've never been able to conquer my aversion toward him, since he vilified Annie's character, and caused her flight," said she, wondering at her father's question.

"Then you do not wish to marry him?"

"Heavens! no."

"All right then. I'll see that you don't. Now run away, child."

"Dr. Prague, I'm astonished at you," exclaimed Mrs. Prague, in her most towering style, as the door closed after Kate, "thus to pamper to the follies of your offspring. Young people never know what is for their interest. They should be held in perfect subjection to their parents' wishes, and taught to obey their slightest commands."

"Very pretty, Mrs. Prague," remarked the doctor, carelessly, as his wife paused for breath.

Whether he alluded to her logic or her face, we cannot say.

"Had Sheldon been discreet and saved his fortune," she resumed, "he would have been the proper man for our Catherine."

"But he blundered and fell in love with Annie Evalyn."

"Faugh! don't mention that minx to me," said Mrs. Prague, with a sneer; "but it must be confessed, Sheldon has very limited knowledge of business, or he might have saved a part of his fortune at least. My son-in-law, Esq. Hardin, by his alacrity and far-seeing judgment, secured himself from material loss in the great land crash."

"Humph! quite as likely by his cunning and artful machinations."

"Dr. Prague, I'm astonished to hear you detract from the worth and honesty of your son-in-law, even in our private conversation."

"I may repeat here what I've of late heard broached in public places, that Hardin involved Sheldon in the speculations with the intention to effect his ruin."

"Such groundless insinuations are worthy their originators," said Mrs. Prague, in an angry, vehement tone.

"May be time will render us all wiser than we are now, madam."

"I hope it will," she answered, significantly, as with a lofty air she rose from the luxurious sofa, and remarked, "I will now go down to Marion's, and pass an hour in conversation with my son-in-law."

"Do so, madam," said the doctor, "and as you pass the office door, send Kate up here with my cigar-case, if you please. It lies on the table there."

And the majestic Mrs. Dr. Prague rustled her brocades into the private parlor of her daughter Marion, just as the latter was hushing the shrieks of a chubby little boy, who seemed nearly frantic with affright.

"What is the matter of him, Marion?" asked she.

"His father kissed him in his sleep and woke him. You know he always screams at sight of Lawrence."

"Strange he should be afraid of his father; but he will doubtless get over it as he grows older."

"I think it increases upon him."

"Is not Lawrence at home?" inquired Mrs. Prague.

"He is in the office with Mr. Sumpter, I believe," was the reply.

"Would you think it, Marion? Your father is opposed to our Catherine's marrying Mr. Sumpter."

"Indeed, I do not wonder. I do not consider him a proper person for any young lady of taste and refinement to marry."

"Why so? Lawrence extols him."

"Does he?"

The child had grown quiet, and now slept in its mother's arms. As her son-in-law did not appear, Mrs. Prague soon retired.

Hardin was having a stormy scene with Sumpter. The latter had of late grown bold and impetuous. Admitted in confidence to all Hardin's nefarious schemes and plottings, he gained a power over the wicked man, and began to exercise it with arbitrary sway. He was a reckless, unprincipled gambler, and, having recently encountered heavy losses, came with a bold demand on Hardin's purse.

"You are getting to use me shabbily," he exclaimed, angrily; "with all Sheldon's fortune tucked away in your pocket, to say nothing of—you know what—you refuse me so small a favor as a cool thousand. Come, hand over, or, by Heaven, I'll inform against you!"

"You can hardly do that, without marring your own good fame," said Hardin, ironically; "and I know you would shrink from doing that."

"None of your sneers, Hardin," growled Sumpter, fiercely; "will you give me the money?"

"No!" thundered Hardin, with an oath; "you shall not ride rough-shod over me in this way. Now begone from my sight!"

"Very well; good-evening, Esq. Hardin," said Sumpter, with a savage, revengeful leer on his countenance, as he went out, slamming the door spitefully behind him.

Hardin was alarmed, after the wretch was gone, as he reflected how far he was in the monster's power, and in what ruin he might involve him if he chose.



CHAPTER XVII.

"Now mark him in the tempest hour, Will he be calm, or will he quail Before the fury of its power? ——Read ye the tale."

There are those that know not the extent of their powers till they are called forth and tasked to the utmost by trial and misfortune. Such an one was Frank Sheldon. Disposed to ease and quiet in the hour of prosperity, when adversity came, it aroused him at once to vigorous, decisive action. Though bereft of love and fortune at a blow, as it were, his manly spirit did not cower and sink beneath the strokes; that he suffered is true, but he bore up bravely under the adverse fortune. He was proud, as all great minds are, and the blight so publicly cast on Annie Evalyn's good repute, cut him to the quick; but he hoped she might be able to refute the aspersions cast on her by Sumpter, for he was loth to think ill of a being that had appeared so amiable and exalted in her nature, so lofty in soul and intellect, and was beautiful as an angel in person. But, instead of this, she fled by night from the scene of her confusion, leaving behind all her effects, and no clue to her intended course. Did not this wear the appearance of guilt? Still he did not condemn her, but learned from Dr. Prague the place of her former residence, and wrote a letter, assuring her of a continuance of affection, and asking an explanation of Sumpter's strange tale. No answer was returned,—indeed, the letter never reached its destination; but this Sheldon did not know, and was forced to regard the silence as another proof of her cupidity.

With this view of the matter he found it less difficult to subdue his passion. He could not, would not love a guilty, artful thing.

And now fell another blow in quick succession; his land investment proved worthless, and at a sweep his fortune went past power to recover. Hardin expressed much regret, but Sheldon could not avoid noticing that he clutched at every opportunity to save his own affairs, and exposed him to the most uncertain hazards.

Old Dr. Prague loudly bewailed Sheldon's ill luck, and declared he would never forgive himself for having advised the young man to embark in the cursed speculations. But Sheldon begged him not to be unnecessarily distressed, as it was no fault of his that the schemes proved abortive; and the good doctor finally coincided, and settled down to his oranges with tolerable serenity.

Sheldon did not long remain inactive; he left those scenes amid which misfortune had overtaken him, and repaired to the eastern cities, where he readily found employ in an extensive printing establishment, and applied himself assiduously to his duties. In a short time he was admitted to the firm, and became assistant editor of a popular magazine. This was an occupation congenial to his tastes, as it afforded him not only an opportunity of writing, but of reading, and becoming intimately acquainted with the polite literature of the day.

He was one day in the editorial sanctum, examining a quantity of manuscripts lately received, when one, in a clear, delicate female hand, attracted his eye. There was something in the light, fairy tracery which instantly riveted his attention. He read it through; "Woodland Winne," was the signature,—a nomme de plume, of course. He wondered who could be the fair authoress of this beautiful production.

While thus occupied in conjectures, a gentleman entered the apartment.

"Here, Wilberforce, do you know this MS.?" said Sheldon, holding it toward him.

"O, yes!" answered the gentleman, glancing it over; "beautiful hand, is it not?"

"Yes; but who is the writer?"

"O, I don't know that! I have had several communications from the same pen in the last three months, all exquisite in their style and diction, and eliciting warm commendation from the literary press."

"And cannot you discover the fair unknown?"

"No, I have addressed her under her nomme de plume, and desired her true name remitted, in confidence, if she objected to publicity; but she has never seen fit to gratify my curiosity."

"Strange one so deserving should shun notoriety," remarked Sheldon.

"So it seems to me," said Wilberforce, who was the senior editor; "but I came in to call you to the Literary Association; it meets at three o'clock. Come, let's be off, or we shall be too late;—these MSS. we can look over to-morrow."

They closed the office and went out in company. But Sheldon forgot himself several times in the debate, as a semblance of that delicate manuscript, enwrit with those clear, sparkling fancies, rose often before his mental vision.

There seemed to be a spell about it, to charm and lead captive his imagination.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"The hour of vengeance strikes,—hark to the gale! As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds. Such is the hand of Heaven!"

It came at length, swift, avenging justice; awful in might, and none could resist its angry hand.

The "pestilence that walketh at noonday," swept over the fair, young cities of the west, and thousands fell victims to the remorseless destroyer.

O, Cholera! great be the name of him, who, from the mazes of scientific lore, shall call a power to rob thee of thy terrors, thou scourge of mankind!

Lawrence Hardin returned from a southern trip to find his house left desolate; wife and child both in their hastily-covered graves. He shook with agony, and scarce was the first frantic burst of grief subsided, ere the officers of justice entered his mansion and declared him their prisoner. He glared at them wildly.

"What mean you," he asked, "by this untimely intrusion in the house of death?"

"Prepare to accompany us to the court-room immediately," was the answer, "to answer to a charge of swindling and forgery preferred by one John Sumpter, who is also arrested and undergoing examination."

Hardin grew ashy-pale at these words.

"The villain!" he muttered; "so he has betrayed me. Carry me where you will, Mr. Officer. Life is a curse to me henceforth."

Thus speaking, he resigned himself passively to the custody of the sheriffs. They conducted him instantly to the court-house, and placed him in the prisoner's box beside Sumpter, who cowered and moved away at his approach. Hardin threw a look of envenomed hatred on the wretch, and sat down. When the charges were read he merely bowed; and when asked what he had to plead, replied: "Nothing, only that they would hang him up as soon as convenient, and thus end his misery." He was placed in jail with Sumpter, and several other defaulters, to await a final trial at the autumn sessions.

And the pestilence swept on; young and old, rich and poor, all fell before its blasting power. In the brief space of twenty-four hours, Dr. Prague was bereft of wife and children, and left a poor, lone man, in his solitary mansion. Where should the mourner turn for consolation? At this crisis, he thought of his old friend, Parson Grey, and determined to quit the city for a few weeks, till the epidemic should have subsided, and make him a visit. He was just the calm, holy spirit he needed to solace his afflictions; and accordingly a letter was despatched, which brought a speedy reply, sympathizing in his distress, and urgently inviting him to join them as soon as possible.

He visited Hardin before departing, informed him of the death of all his family, and kindly inquired if he could be of any service to the imprisoned man.

"No!" was the answer; "and I don't know what you came here at all for. What do I care if your wife and brats are dead? So is my wife dead, and my child, and I hope soon to be. The greatest favor you can bestow is to get out of my sight."

The doctor gazed on the hardened wretch with pity, and turned away. He left the city in July, and the first of September the trials came on. The large court-house was densely thronged to hear the pleas and decision in the case of the extensive forgeries and bank frauds of Hardin and Sumpter. There could be little doubt of the verdict, as the evidence against the parties was powerful and conclusive, and none seemed so regardless of the issue as the prisoners themselves. With hard, stoical faces, they confronted the jury, as they returned from their deliberations and resumed their seats on the platform.

Without, the elements were raging in their wildest, most terrific fury. Broad flashes of lightning at intervals illuminated the crowded hall, and glared on the sea of upturned human faces, marked with every variety and shade of passion and feeling. The thunder roared and reverberated through the heavens with tremendous crashings, as the judge arose, and, turning toward the jury, asked, in solemn accents, if they had agreed upon a verdict.

They had.

"Are the prisoners at the bar guilty, or not guilty?"

There came a blinding flash, followed by a deafening thunder-bolt, as the foreman rose and pronounced the word, "Guilty."

Smothered screams at this moment issued from various parts of the assembly. The building was struck and on fire. Terrible confusion ensued. Frantic cries and shrieks mingled with the bellowings of the storm without, rendering the scene awful beyond description. All rushed pell-mell for the street. The crackling flames burst through the broad windows on the side of the judges' platform, rolling a dense volume of smoke and stifling heat into the interior of the building. In the wild excitement and terror, the prisoners were forgotten. They stood in the box where they had received sentence. The flames were rapidly approaching them. Sumpter turned a glance full of hatred and vengeance on Hardin. "You swore revenge on Sheldon," said he, "and I helped you accomplish your iniquitous designs. You refused a paltry sum when I asked it, and then I swore revenge on you, and this is the way I finish it."

Hardin drew a revolver from his breast; "And this is the way I finish mine," he said; and, taking aim, lodged a ball in the heart of Sumpter. Then, springing quick as lightning over the box, he rushed among the crowd and gained the street. The intense darkness favored his flight, and, hurrying on, he gained the levees, secreted himself in the hold of a boat, and had the good fortune to find himself floating down the river in the morning.



CHAPTER XIX.

"Go forth, thou spirit proud and high, Upon thy soaring way; Plume all thy pinions for the sky, And sing a glorious lay."

As the young sapling of the forest bends and sways in the fury of the blast, and, when it is passed, rises and shakes the weight of rain-drops from its pliant boughs, and stands stronger, higher, more beautiful than before, so Annie Evalyn, when the passion-storm had spent its fury, rose a purer, loftier being, with a heart firm and free, and a soul elevated and sublime in its aspirations. There might be traces to tell the tempest had been a wild one; a paleness on the brow; the lips thinned and slightly compressed; the eyelids sometimes drooping their long lashes over the dark, liquid eyes, and a tear stealing silently over the marble cheek; or a slight shudder for a moment convulsing the slender frame, as if memory painted a picture the soul shrank from contemplating. Yet these light tokens of what had been, heightened the sublime beauty of what was now. Annie was no longer a child in the world's lore of experience. Sorrow and suffering are swift teachers. They unfold and perfect the powers with astonishing rapidity. Annie Evalyn was a woman; with a quick eye and ready judgment to detect and discern the workings of that great mystery, the human heart, yet simple and child-like in her manners, as of old.

"Bless it, but this is an agreeable surprise!" exclaimed Aunt Patty, as Annie entered the little, rock-built cottage, on a clear, cool evening in early autumn, with a bright smile beaming on her lovely features; "why, I didn't once think of your comin' to-night, hinney, bein' as you were here last Saturday. But it does my old heart good to know you remember your poor, ignorant aunty, when you are among your little scholars and so many kind friends at the Parsonage."

"O, I never forget you, aunty!" said Annie, returning the old lady's embrace; "this humble cot and these old Scraggiewood oaks are very dear to my heart."

"I'm glad to hear it, dear; it is a homely spot, to be sure, but it has sheltered us well. But what is doing at the parson's, love? All well and happy?"

"Yes, and Aunt Rachel sent you this little box of wax-candles. She said you loved to read evenings, sometimes, and these gave such a clear, steady light, it would do your old eyes good to behold it."

"The dear, kind-hearted creature!" said Aunt Patty, receiving the package and brushing away a grateful tear. "Sure she is a perfect Christian if there is one on earth."

"O, we have some news at the vicarage, aunty! The old gentleman, in whose family I resided during my stay in the western country, has sent a letter to Parson Grey, narrating a sad tale of misfortunes, and expressing a desire to visit him ere long. It seems the cholera has been committing frightful ravages through those sections, and his entire family have been swept away in the brief space of one week. And, O, aunty, I dread to go on!"

"Let me hear, child."

"You recollect the man, Sumpter, who spoke those dreadful words in a social company?"

"Yes, yes, didn't I have him here, in this very room, on a night long ago—and Hardin too? Ay, dark, wicked schemes, and worse than those, showed in their cups. But go on, love."

"Well, they have been arrested for forgery and found guilty. The sequel of the affair Mr. Grey received last evening, in an extra sent him by Dr. Prague. It appears the verdict was rendered during a violent storm, which struck the court-house, and, in the confusion that followed, Hardin shot Sumpter and escaped."

"O, shocking!" exclaimed Aunt Patty, with horror depicted on her countenance. "Ay, God's vengeance is sure to overtake the wicked sooner or later."

"We look for the arrival of Dr. Prague every day. How do you think he will meet me, aunty?"

"How should he meet you, child, but with shame and confusion of face?"

"But he was always kind to me, aunty."

"Well, he didn't do right never to send a letter to inquire after your fate, or forward your clothes and wages."

"He might have been prevented by his wife. I know she was a violent woman and had ever a dislike to me."

"Nothing should prevent a man from doing what is just and right, Annie," said Aunt Patty, in an inflexible tone; "but it is like you to think the best of people's failings, and I acknowledge it is a good way. Now, hinney, I'll make a dish of tea, and we'll have a brimming bowl of Crummie's sweet milk, with some of your favorite berries. I'm so glad! It seems a Providence that I gathered some this mornin'. I'll slab up some batter cakes; you know I'm pretty good at them; and just you light one of Rachel's candles—though it is hardly dark yet, it will make the table look so cheerful-like."

Annie did as directed, and they soon sat down to the simple meal. Aunt Patty's face was redolent with good-humor and cheerfulness, as she dished out the largest, ripest berries, and nicest browned cakes for her darling.

"Do you write your pretty stories and poetries for that city magazine now, hinney?" she asked, as they discussed their meal.

"Yes, aunty, and I have brought several numbers for your perusal. I still want to be famous, aunty, though I once thought I didn't care for anything more in this world; but that was in a foolish time, and is past by now. Mr. Grey says it is better to be good than great; but if one can be both, why, better still, I fancy. And I know I feel happy when I'm teaching those poor little children to read and love each other, and grow up to be blessings to their parents. This is doing good, Mr. Grey says; but this restless heart of mine is not filled, is not content. It feels there are other faculties, lying dormant and unemployed. The editors of this magazine have offered two prizes,—one for the best tale, the other for the best poem,—and I'm going to strive to win them. The money would make you very comfortable for life, aunty; and you have done so much for me I want to repay some of your kindness if I can."

"Dear heart!" said the old woman, tearfully, "what have I ever done for you that is not already ten-fold repaid by seeing your bright eyes, and feeling that you love your old aunty?"

"But I'm not wholly disinterested, aunty; don't you see I covet the fame that would follow should I succeed? That's for me; the money for you. Now kiss me good-night, and I'll to my cot to dream a subject for my labor."

"God bless and prosper you, my darling!" said the fond aunt.



CHAPTER XX.

"It was a face one loved to gaze upon, For calm serenity of thought was there. The eyes were soft and gentle in their glance, And looked with trusting artlessness in yours. Placid her mien, like that of lofty souls That after storm sink down in tranquil rest."

Once more is winding on the spring-time of the year, and once more is Annie Evalyn away from the old forest home. Her soft, bird-like tones echo through the sumptuous drawing-rooms of Dr. Prague's stately mansion, in that fair western city. During his visit to the east the preceding summer, he had succeeded in coaxing her away from Mr. Grey and her aunt, to pass a few months with him, and cheer and enliven his lonesome abode.

"No one could do this so well as Annie," he said, "always his pet and darling; though his foolish, yielding old heart had been overruled by others to treat her with wicked neglect, for which he now cursed himself, and wanted opportunity to make amends."

So Annie kissed them all round, and went with him to pass a few months. She had completed her prizes, and was now waiting to hear of their reception. She had also contributed to the literary publications of the city, and received a large share of flattery and applause; and, though writing under a fictitious signature, her identity was well known in private circles. Sumpter's villany and disgraceful end had effectually destroyed his tale of her duplicity and artifice, and the highest classes sought her friendship and society. The memory of former trial and suffering stole over her sometimes, as she mingled again 'mid the scenes of its enacting; but she was too wise and good to allow it to rankle, or stir bitter feelings in her bosom. Let the past be forgotten in the felicity of the present. Heaven had visited devouring vengeance on the guilty ones. Let her bow in silence and adore!

It was evening. Annie sat on a low ottoman at the side of the infirm, good-natured old Dr. Prague. A bright gas-light sparkled through a wrought-glass shade above them, and a silver salver, containing some golden oranges and pearl-handled knives, stood on a walnut stand near by. A servant entered, bearing a package of papers.

"Here they are, dear uncle!" exclaimed Annie, springing forward to receive them from the waiter's hand. "Now our evening's amusement can commence;" and she passed him the dish of fruit, twirled the light a little higher, and, drawing a stool close to his side, said, "Now what shall I read first? The price of stocks, the list of deaths——"

"No, little babbler," said he, patting her curls playfully; "you know what comes first of all. 'Woodland Winnie,' of course."

"Woodland Winnie is a silly little thing," remarked Annie.

"I'll be my own judge as to that, Miss Annie; please to read on."

"O, here is something from 'Alastor!'" she said, turning over the pages of a new eastern magazine. "I do so love his writings; please let me read this first, uncle. Do you know his real name?"

"No; but I sometimes fancy it may be my old ward, Frank Sheldon, as he has always had a turn for writing, and is one of the editors of this periodical."

"One of the editors of this magazine!" repeated Annie, in a quick, excited tone; "I never knew that before."

"Why, I thought I told you last fall, at Parson Grey's, in some of our talks about former days."

"No; you said he was employed in some printing establishment at the east, that was all."

"Well, I intended to have mentioned the rest; but what makes you look so earnest and rosy, Annie?"

"O, nothing!" she answered; "I was only thinking."

"Frank has written to me, recently, a letter of sympathy and condolence, and says he will visit the west this summer," the old man continued, paring an orange. "I was going to make him my sole heir, but now I've found you, I believe I shall curtail him and take you in for a share."

"O, you had better not!" she exclaimed quickly.

"And why better not, child?"

"Because he is more deserving your generosity than I."

"More deserving? No, indeed, Annie. But see how nicely I have peeled this orange for you," passing it to her.

"For me, uncle! You had better eat it yourself."

"Why, what ails the girl? She won't even accept an orange from my hand."

"Yes I will, uncle; but after you had prepared it so nicely, I thought you ought to enjoy it yourself," she answered, accepting the luscious fruit. He gazed on her affectionately while she ate the juicy slices, with grateful relish, and when she had finished, said, "Now will Annie read to me awhile?"