"But, pa," replied Eleanor, sharply, "don't you suppose we know a real gentleman when we see him?"

Mr. Darcy's face flushed with anger as he replied:

"How do you know him? By his clothes? Some of the most dressy men at the Branch are dealers of faro, and the most innocent-faced rascals that promenade the verandas call the numbers at roulette. You may know a gentleman occasionally, but you know the company he keeps, and his busi. ness, and family, at the same time. My opinion is that this exceedingly gentlemanly young man is no more nor less than a 'roper in,' if you know what that is, and he is trying the confidence game on you, just as he, doubtless, has often done on the green countrymen in town."

"O papa!

"I can hardly believe it."

A knock came at the door, and a ball-boy appeared.

"Well, what is it?" said Mr. Darcy, captiously.

"Mr. Drury, sir, desires an answer to his note."

The two young ladies clasped their hands in affright at the storm that seemed likely to break forth through this persistency of the young gentleman.

"Mr. who?" cried the old gentleman.
"Mr. Drury, sir."

"Why, bless my soul, is it Mr. Drury?" he said, whirling his chair round to face the young ladies, and referring again to the note. "Mr. Drury-Esmond Drury! Why in the world did you not tell me this before? Please ask Mr. Drury to walk up. Stay! Just say to him that Mr. Darcy sends his compliments and would be pleased to have his company here. That will do. Bless me, Esmond Drury!"

And the great broker rubbed his hands quite satisfactorily.

The two girls had no time to ask questions. Two exclamations sufficed to discover their feelings over this sudden veering of the wind.

"Surely you are not going to ask him up here, papa, and we in this fix?"

"Not dressed at all, and our hair in such a bundle!"

Then the two flew about the room righting things here and there, rescuing a summer-hat from the sofa, hiding away a shawl and a parasol that had been sprawling over an ottoman, and dusting a chair or two as they sped, not neglecting, in the mean time, to take sundry sharp glances at themselves in the mirror, and rapidly twirling a curl here or smoothing out a braid there.

"Dear, dear!" said Nelly, petulantly, "if I could only put on that other bow at the throat!"

"And I," said Mamie, "would give any thing just to put my hair up right."

During all this scramble Mr. Darcy, as if to doubly aggravate the torture of the situation, had held the door open, and stationed himself therein, in order to welcome the coming guest. Esmond very promptly made his appearance, and at once announced himself to the expectant Darcy.

"I suppose," said he, when the introductory civilities were exchanged, "that these young ladies have made you acquainted with the very annoying circumstances under which I intruded into this room."

"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Darcy, with an unusually solemn manner, receding slowly from his stand at the doorway; "they have told me about it."

The stiff dignity which Mr. Darcy had suddenly assumed was unaccountable to his daughters, and for a moment they feared that a disagreeable scene was imminent. It seemed impossible from their stand-point that the Mr. Drury who then presented himself could be the Mr. Drury of whom their father had had such affectionate remembrance a few moments ago, or else why such a cool reception of him? They did not fully understand the human nature which pervaded Mr. Darcy's composition.

"I hope, then, sir, you will permit me to assure them how utterly unintentional of any intrusion I was on that occasion, and to inform them how the mistake occurred."

'But, for my own satisfaction," said Esmond, turning brightly toward Nelly. "I had become dreadfully bored by the Branch, having been here two days, and finding no one to whom I felt sufficiently attached to make existence a social pleasure, and I determined to leave. I then occupied this room, and gave orders to have my trunks taken down and a seat held for me in the omnibus at five o'clock for New York. I paid my bill, and, as there were several hours intervening, I went to the beach and took a bath. Wellin fact, I forgot all about having vacated the room, and was utterly astounded to find it occupied."

"I am his son, sir."

"Well, I am heartily glad to know you," cried the elder, with well-affected astonishment. "Your father and I are old friendshave been old friends in business for years. Come in and be seated. My daughters, Eleanor and Mary.-Dears, this is Mr. Drury-Mr. Esmond Drury-son of my friend the eminent banker, of whom you have so often heard me speak.-Esmond was your mother's name, I remember. And I remember the wedding very well. But I really never thought my friend Drury had a son as large as you!"

which I hesitated to speak, which conspired to make me forget."

"Ah," said Mr. Darcy, "the great rise in North Atlantics, perhaps? By-the-way-" and Mr. Darcy seemed upon the point of foregoing all further explanations just for a moment's confidential interchange on the state of the market, but he stopped suddenly and took a sharp turn across the room in place of finishing the sentence.

"We moved in but an hour or two ago," said Nelly, “understanding that a gentleman had just vacated the room, and your explanation is consequently quite satisfactory."

"To forget, I fear," said Drury, "is hardly a sufficient reason. But, in truth, at the beach I became witness to a sight that rendered me for hours afterward entirely oblivious of time."

"Ah," said Mr. Darcy, raising his eyes from his dispatch. "What was that?"

"I saw a young girl sinking in the breakers, throwing her arms wildly to Heaven in supplication and calling frantically on deaf man for help her voice and gestures lost in the surly roar and the upheaving breakers of the sea-"

"Bless me!" cried Mr. Darcy.

"I saw that sight, sir, and when it was over, all thoughts of my change of quarters and departure for New York had gone out of my head!"

"Upon my word, this must be looked to," said Mr. Darcy. "The undertow is dreadful here, I'm told. And who was she? do you

know? The daughter of one of our wealthiest citizens, probably. Did she drown?"

"No. She was rescued and brought to shore, but after such moments of anguish as I dread to recall."

"Saved, eh? By the bath-keepers, I pre

sume.

Noble fellows, some of those bathkeepers. For men in their condition of life, I don't know any class so worthy of—"

The two young ladies had been startled at Esmond's impassioned warmth as he began to speak, but when the matter of his story unfolded itself, Mamie half rose to her feet, and Nelly, with a pale, anxious face, and arms half extended, leaned forward from her seat, as her father spoke. However, Nelly, too, rose to her feet, and spoke excitedly.

"No," she said; "it was not by the bath-keepers. Some young man was swimming near, and he saved her."

"Bless me! what do you know about it?" interrupted Mr. Darcy, in wonder. Nelly had felt the sharp pull of Mamie's hand on her dress, and was recalled from her excitement.

"We-we heard of it," she stammered. "Go on, Mr. Drury," said Darcy; “go on, this becomes quite interesting.'

"As Miss Darcy says, sir, she was brought to shore by a young man who was bathing at the time, and I saw them no more. But, as I tell you, I was deeply interested, and must confess that I hoped to see the young lady again, to know at least that she had fully recovered from her fright and exhaustion-"

"Ab, ha!" interposed Mr. Darcy, with a harsh laugh, "you felt a little romantic over it, I suppose-but you forgot that she belonged to the other gentleman. There's justice in romance, you must remember, and to the rescuer belongs the rescued."

"Yes-yes!" said Esmond, stammering. "I thought of that, too-but then-"

"Well?"

"Well, she could not be seen any more, and while I sat in the summer-house and waited-"

"Expecting to see her in every carriage that rolled by, I presume," broke in Mr. Darey, with his disagreeable laugh, "hoping to descry your unknown in every golden-haired maid that sauntered along the beach-"

"I must confess that some such fancy crossed my mind," said Esmond, lightly. "But I have told you and the young ladies more than I intended. I found that my room was vacated at my order, and that I was wrong when I so persistently insisted that you were; so I beg your pardon, and will bid you good-evening."

But, Mr. Drury," said Mamie, with a flush of excitement on her features, "you cannot break off your romance in this manner. Pray, tell me who did save the young lady?"

Esmond stopped half-way to the door.

"I can only tell you who had the happiness and good fortune of bringing her to the shore. As to saving her, any other possibly might have come to her rescue, but I was nearer than the rest."

"Then you saved her?" said both girls, excitedly, with an eager movement forward.

"Yes!" replied Esmond, with a slight smile. "I had that happiness, and now you can probably understand better than my rather bare story could have informed you why I was so abstracted as to mistake my room. I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing you again, ladies, and you, Mr. Darcy!"

"Yes, yes!" said Darcy, eagerly, as he accompanied Drury to the door." You saved her, eh? A perfect hero you must be, Drury, a regular hero of romance. We will certainly see you again. We walk on the veranda every evening. Yes, yes. Good-evening."

Esmond lifted his hat and was gone. Darcy gazed a moment after his handsome figure, as it strode down the corridor, then withdrew inside, and pettishly slammed the door to. "He can gallivant out here," he said, petulantly, rescuing young women from drowning, while his Christian father works corners in railroad stocks in Wall Street, and ruins his friends! Damn-!"

Why, papa, what can have come over you?" cried Nelly, in alarm.

Mr. Darcy brushed his hand across his face with a weary motion, and the painful smile had vanished. There were two heavy furrows where the smile had been, and ten years of age imprinted in those ten minutes on his face.

"Daughter, look at that. Is it all Greek to you? I s'pose it is. Well, it's all agony to me. Let me translate it for you."

And he showed her the telegraphic dispatch, on which, after the address, were written these hieroglyphics: "North A., 96; S. Minn., 83; gold, 1123.-AKERS."

"It is all Greek to me, father," said Nelly, plaintively, with an anxious look into his strangely worn face.

had stopped to brush his hand across his eyes again.

"You understand that, Puss? Well, 'S. Minn., 83,' means that South Minnesota is at 83; and 'gold, 1123,' means that gold is at 1123. All outside quotations, you know."

It was still Greek to Nelly, but she tried to assume for her father's sake that she knew it.

"Yes, outside," she said.

"Curbstone," said Darcy, absently; then, suddenly, with set teeth, "Confound these curbstone quotations-they sound the market like a plummet!"

Nelly could only look wise, and wonder. "But now you will understand," said he, again, with sudden vehemence, and he crushed the telegram in his hands. "I have just sold thirty-three thousand shares of North Atlantic stock at 937-sold 'em this morning to be delivered to-morrow ; and whom do you think I sold 'em to?"

Nelly could only look her wonder.

"To nobody else but Drury himselfHenry Drury, the father of this gallant young fellow, Esmond-sold 'em at 933, and they have already gone up two and an eighth since I made the sale, and will keep on going up till every share of stock in the market is in Drury's hands. Do you see the trouble

now?"

"You have lost-" "Lost? I don't know what I haven't lost. It may be fifty thousand dollars before to-morrow, unless I can strike the market again. It's terrible!"

"Not so terrible, father," said Eleanor, anxiously. "We can retrench. We can go back to our own home and live cheaper."

"No, no!" replied the father, petulantly. "That would never do. That would eternally ruin my credit at once. I may be able to stave it off by borrowing, and a lucky margin may put me on my legs again to-morrow. I think I'll have a chance at a corner in Erie soon" and his eyes wandered away abstractedly for a moment, as if calculating the chances in that corner- "but, but I want you to be a little-a little-kindly, you know, to young Drury-kind o' win his fancy-" Nelly drew back instinctively.

"He might prove a catch for you," persisted the father, harshly, "and he would, too, if you put your mind to it." "O father!"

"And it would be a good thing for me, too," he continued, resenting his daughter's reluctance-" a devilish good thing for me. There are hearts in railroad-stock as well as every thing else, and it would be a noble alliance, in a business way, for me."

The old man clinched his hands, but at that moment Eleanor looked up, and, seeing the anguish in his face, smiled faintly.

"Of course you see it that way," he said, gayly. "I knew you would. Besides, he's a gallant fellow-a perfect hero of romance, whom you girls ought to fall in love with on sight. And, as for that other girl whom he rescued from drowning, why, never mind her -some common hussy, no doubt, or she would not have ventured to bathe alone at a public beach.-There, now," he said, after a slight pause, coaxingly, "we'll go down for a

walk on the veranda to-night. It's going to be beautiful weather, and you are both looking so well. We'll meet a number of friends, and I want you to look your brightest. And you, Nelly, I wish specially that you would wear that diamond rose in your hair, that becomes you so well."

CHARLES GORE SHANKS. [CONCLUSION NEXT WEEK.]

WH

"UP LAUREL."

HEN, after much deliberation, Louise Chalmers and her brother decided to take a holiday, it became an important secondary question where that holiday should be spent. Though they lived in a quiet boarding-house on a quiet street in Baltimore, these young people were Carolinians; and, as soon as the word holiday was mentioned, they looked at each other, and uttered with one accord another word-home!

"Do you remember," said Louise," the mountains where we always spent the summer when we were children? O Paul! should you not like to go there?"

Paul's pale cheek flushed.

"I remember very well," he answered, in a low voice, and his clear eyes looked wistfully out. of the window, as if he would fain wander away in search of that lost, happy childhood-a childhood which seemed like another existence to the young cripple on his couch of pain. "To think that I should ever have climbed mountains, waded streams, and robbed birds'-nests!" he said, with a faint, sad smile. "It would certainly be pleasant to go back and look at the Arcadia where such things were possible-but the question is, Bonnibel, can we afford it?"

"Oh, I think so!" replied Louise, with all her heart in her voice. "It will cost a good deal to get there, but, when once we are there, living is ideally cheap."

So it was decided that they would go-a foolish decision, no doubt, since their means were exceedingly limited, and they could have found many cheap and pleasant resorts near at hand. But who has not occasionally taken pleasure in being imprudent, in giving the reins to self-indulgence, and turning one's back on the counsels of economy? Both Paul and Louise were longing for the wild, sweet beauty, the absolute repose and freshness of those green Carolina mountains they had once known so well, and, with the improvidence of poverty, they determined to gratify this desire. A golden August day found them at the end of their long railroad journey, standing before the door of the stagecoach which plies between Old Fort, at the foot of the Blue Ridge, and Asheville, beyond it. Paul having been established, with aircushions and pillows, in a corner of the backseat, Louise went into the hotel for a missing satchel. When she returned the landlord had stepped away, and there was no one to assist her into the coach. Now, there are few things more difficult, from a feminine point of view, than an ascent into a stage. coach; and so she hesitated, uncertain whether to spring desperately or call for a chair.

While she hesitated, a voice behind her said, "Will you allow me to assist you?"

She turned quickly. The speaker was a tall, dark gentleman, who seemed slightly amused by her embarrassment. There had been something kind and frank in the voice which the face seconded very well. It was not a handsome face-rather a plain, strong one-but its very plainness and strength were reassuring. Louise, who would have drawn back, and uttered a cool "No, thank you," to a handsome butterfly of fashion, looked up with her soft eyes, and, smiling, said, “If you will be so kind," to this man.

He assisted her into the high-swung vehicle with a skill which is very different from mere strength, handed her basket and satchel after her, then asked Paul if he could do any thing to render him more comfortable. "I am going on top," he added, after the young man had replied in the negative, “but, if I can be of service to you in any way, pray do not hesitate to call upon me."

"What a considerate person!" said Louise, as he drew back to allow a stout woman and two peevish children to be hoisted in. Who is he, Paul-do you know?" Paul tossed a card in her lap.

"He gave me that in the hotel," he said, "after speaking to me in the kindest possible manner. It will tell you all that I know about him."

George Dunwardin was the name on the card-one altogether unknown to Louise. She had a theory with regard to the fitness of things, however, and the name seemed to suit, in a certain subtile fashion, the person who bore it. She thought this, with a smile, as the coach set forth on its jolting way, but the many discomforts of her position soon banished Mr. Dunwardin from ber mind.

It is a beautiful road, that which for six miles leads directly to the summit of the Blue Ridge through Swannanoa Gap, but it is also a very rough road-so rough that one is tempted to doubt whether one will arrive whole or in pieces at the end of it. To see Paul's pale face distorted with pain as the heavy coach jolted and swung to and fro over the stones of all sizes and shapes which covered the road, seemed to Louise almost more than she could bear. With tender hands she drew his head down on her shoulder, and heaped shawls and cushions around him, but with little effect. After a while his very lips turned white, and she knew that he had fainted.

It was no uncommon thing in the paroxysms of great anguish which sometimes came to him, but just now she was unstrung, and for a moment lost her self-control. She put her head out of the window and called, asking the driver to stop.

"My brother has fainted," she said; "I must have water."

There was a tense chord in her voice that, even before the driver drew up his horses, made George Dunwardin spring to the ground.

He hurried round to the window, and, leaning in, felt Paul's pulse. Then he looked at Louise.

One of the other passengers anticipated her by handing a cup, which Mr. Dunwardin filled from a clear stream running quickly along by the side of the road. With this he bathed Paul's face, and gave him a liberal dose of the medicine which Louise produced. Before long the young man revived, and opened his eyes languidly.

"Dear, have I frightened you?" he said. "I am so sorry!"

"He will do now," said Mr. Dunwardin, cheerfully. "But, if you will let me take your place, Miss Chalmers, I think he may do better. I am stronger and better able to sustain him. One of these gentlemen ”—looking at two insiders-" will, no doubt, give you his place, and take mine on top."

"I cannot think of troubling you," said Louise, eagerly, as one of the insiders in question immediately rose: "My brother is accustomed to me, and I am quite able-"

"If you will excuse me," said Mr. Dunwardin, looking at her, "you are not able at all. Pardon me if I press my services. Mr. Chalmers, I am sure, will accept them."

Mr. Chalmers indicated an assent. "He is right, Louise," he said. "You are tired, and the motion of a coach always makes you sick."

So Louise was reluctantly forced to resign her place, and Mr. Dunwardin took it. He proved so good a nurse-at once strong and gentle that Paul was able to bear much better the remainder of the terrible six miles. When they reached the top of the gap, and horses and passengers together drew a long breath of relief, he declared himself so much better that he urged Mr. Dunwardin to return to his place on top.

"I wish you could take poor Louise with you," he said. "A little fresh air would do her good."

66

Paul, you know I would not leave you," said Louise, quickly.

"But you can do nothing for me," said Paul, "and the worst of the road is over now. If Mr. Dunwardin will arrange my cushions, I shall do very well, and perhaps go to sleep."

"Don't you think you had better come on top for a little while?" asked Mr. Dunwardin, looking at the pale, gentle face with a great deal of kindness in his glance. "It will make you feel better."

66

Go, Louise-pray go!" said Paul, earnestly.

So, again with reluctance, Louise consented, telling herself that it was very good of Mr. Dunwardin to take so much interest in her when she had no prettiness or fashion to commend her to his notice. She did feel very much better when she was elevated on the deck-seat of the coach, breathing the air which was a very elysium of softness and freshness, and feasting her eyes on the outspread glory of the fair mountain landscape. Her companion was pleased to see the animation that came into her face.

"Thank you for bringing me," she said to him. "How lovely every thing is! How I wish Paul could be here! It would make him think so much of the dear old times."

"You know this country, then?" asked Mr. Dunwardin.

"My home—at least, one of my homesused to be here; but I have not seen the mountains before in years."

"Your brother tells me that you live in Baltimore."

"Yes, but we are Carolinians. I am an artist," she went on, looking up at him with a certain graceful dignity; "at least I try to be. Therefore, I hope to unite business with pleasure in coming here this summer."

slight service," said Mr. Dunwardin. "I shall go down the French Broad to-morrow, and probably stop for a day or two at Alexander's. I can, therefore, make arrangements for you."

This offer was accepted with thanks, and it soon transpired that Mr. Dunwardin was engaged in mining affairs, and had been drawn to Western Carolina by accounts of the great mineral wealth of the region. He was now on his way to verify some of these accounts. Paul looked a little grave when he heard where he was going. "To Laurel?" he "Do you know that the settlement along that river bears a black name for the lawless, desperate character of its inhabitants? I hope you don't mean to go alone." "Yes, alone," answered Dunwardin, care

said.

It followed that she was soon thoroughly at ease with him. More than once he descended from the coach to see if Paul needed any thing, but he insisted that she should remain aloft, and since Paul joined in the request, she was glad enough to obey. As afternoon passed softly into evening, and deep, purple shadows began to wrap the encircling mountains, it was pleasant to overlook fair valleys and crystal streams, darkblue heights and deep gorges-pleasant to watch the tints of sunset casting their glow over the great crest of the Black Mountains, and the scarcely less imposing peaks of Crag gy-pleasant to see the gorgeous colors die out of the west, and the silver lustre of a new moon reign in the violet sky.

The night was considerably advanced when they reached the lovely valley of the Swannanoa, with the fairy river brawling over its rocks. The faint moonlight touched lightly, yet with exquisite effect, the drooping trees and tangled vines that fringed its course, while the music of its voice filled all the summer night. To Louise it was the voice of an old and dearly-beloved friend. All the happy days that she had spent by the side of this pearl of rivers came thronging back to her. If Paul had been sitting by her she would have said, at every turn, "Do you remember?" As it was, she fell into silence, and her companion did not disturb her by any attempt at talk. In this way they journeyed on until they reached those green and softly-swelling hills which Asheville crowns.

The next morning Mr. Dunwardin greeted the two young people like an old friend, and as they sat together after breakfast on an upper piazza of the hotel, he ventured to ask what their plans were. These were briefly told. They intended to take lodging at some farm-house in the neighborhood of Asheville -perhaps at that ideal hostelry known to all travelers in Western Carolina as Alexander's on the French Broad."

"I should like to go there," said Louise. "I must write and ask if we can obtain rooms."

"You need not take that trouble if you will allow me the pleasure of rendering you a

in the matter as well as myself, were to have met me here, but they have failed to do so, and I cannot afford to lose the object of my journey because they have failed. I shall go alone, therefore."

"There may not be absolute danger," said Paul; "but people here will tell you how the name of the Laurel settlement sounds in civilized ears."

"Why do you endeavor to frighten Mr. Dunwardin by telling him such things?" asked Louise. "I dare say the Laurel people are slandered."

"You do not think that your beloved mountains can harbor any thing wrong," said Paul, smiling. "By-the-by, you have not been out yet to look at them. Put on your hat and go at once. No rebellion! I insist upon it-and perhaps Mr. Dunwardin may like to go with you."

"Should you?" said Louise, turning to Mr. Dunwardin.

That gentleman answered that nothing would give him greater pleasure; so they went out together, climbed the rolling hills over which the town is scattered, and saw the blue mountains spreading afar, range upon range, like azure billows. The childlike delight of Louise pleased her companion even more than the bright beauty of the scenes to which she directed his attention with an air of pride and proprietorship that was amusing. Now and then tears rose into her eyes, and her voice stopped short with something suspiciously like a sob, but these April moods did not more than checker the sunlight of her pleasure.

"If only Paul could come," she said more than once," how happy I should be! I could forget every other trouble under such a sky as this, and among such scenes as these."

stood by Paul's couch-her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining.

"Look what lovely flowers!" she said. "I gathered them in our dell, and to-morrow you shall gather some for yourself. That kind Mr. Dunwardin has gone to see if he cannot find a very easy carriage in which you could be driven out to Beaucatcher and seeoh, think of it, dear!-all the blue mountains that you love so well."

That kind Mr. Dunwardin found what he wanted in the way of a carriage, and the expedition on the following day was altogether a success. When the brother and sister came down to breakfast the next morning, however, it was to find their pleasant acquaintance arrayed in traveling-costume, ready to bid them good-by.

"The coach for the Warm Springs leaves in a few minutes," he said, " and I shall go in it as far as Alexander's. Miss Chalmers, when do you wish to go down to the latter place?"

"Whenever we are sure of finding rooms," Louise answered. "If there are any to be had, and it would not trouble you too much to send a line to that effect by the coach up from the Warm Springs this evening, we might go down to-morrow."

"I think I can undertake that responsi bility," sald Mr. Dunwardin. Then he shook hands, waived all thanks, and departed.

In the course of the day Louise discovered that she missed him, and said as much to Paul when she came in from a solitary walk.

This wish was gratified sooner than the speaker anticipated. Instead of "a line from Mr. Dunwardin, that gentleman himself arrived on the evening coach. He smiled at the look of surprise with which Louise greeted him.

"Don't you know," he said, "that Alexander's is only ten miles below Asheville? I reached there before eleven o'clock, and left after five. That gave me a day in which to discover that it is a delightful place, to ar range my plans, and to engage your rooms."

"You have engaged them, then?" said Louise. "How good of you!"

"Good of me? Not at all. I did not make them."

"But what has brought you back?" asked Paul. "I thought you only meant to take Alexander's en route to Laurel."

"Oh-several things brought me back," answered Mr. Dunwardin, nonchalantly. "I thought, for one thing, that Miss Chalmers might need somebody to take care of her on top of the coach to-morrow."

Miss Chalmers's eyes opened wide.

"Do you mean that you are going down the river again to-morrow?" she asked.

"Why should I not?" demanded Mr. Dunwardin, with the air of one put on his defense. "I thought it rather clever of me to come up, in order to tell you about the rooms, and have the pleasure of your society down to Alexander's."

"We think it something more than clever," said Louise. "You are very kind."

Paul echoed this opinion, but Paul also drew his own conclusions from the kindness. Just before Louise left him in his own room that night he took her hand and said, smiling yet wistful:

"Bonnibel, what do you think brought Mr. Dunwardin back?"

"To go down with us to-morrow, beyond doubt," answered Bonnibel, calmly.

"To go down with us! Don't you think it might be more accurate to say 'to go down with you?'"

"Paul!" Louise was so amazed that for a moment she could utter nothing more than that. Then a tide of bright color rushed to her face, and she looked at her brother reproachfully. "Paul, I am astonished, andashamed of you!" she said. "Such a suggestion does not sound like you. Mr. Dunwardin is a kind-hearted, sensible man, with no nonsense about him—indeed, it would not be possible for any man to connect such nonsense as that with me. Don't say any thing of the kind again, dear, or you will make me constrained with him-and that would be a pity. Good-night."

"Yes, it would be a pity," Paul thought, "so I'll not say any thing more-but there's no harm in having an opinion, all the same."

This opinion became strengthened after they were settled at Alexander's, and Mr. Dunwardin still lingered with them-deferring his search after the precious metals which he had come to seek. A week passed-a week during the long, bright days of which Paul and Louise felt as if they had entered Arcadia indeed - the lost Arcadia of their childhood, which in this fair land had waited for them, with beauty and freshness undimmed. Who, that has once known, can ever forget the repose which seems to rest like a spell on the great Carolina hills, and

66 on the spirit gentlier lies Than tired eyelids on tired eyes?"

Louise was the only person not conscious of this. It did not occur to her for the simple reason that she was preoccupied with other things, and personal vanity had long seemed to her something in which she had no share.

It was a sudden blow to her childlike enjoyment when Mr. Dunwardin said one day, with a calmness which in itself was amazing:

"I have grown to love you very much, Miss Chalmers, so much that I can ask nothing better in life than that you should put your hand in mine, and promise to marry me. You do not know a great deal of me, but perhaps you know enough to tell whether or not there is any hope for me."

They had been on a long excursion among the hills, and, at the time of this declaration, they were sitting together on a bold, picturesque bluff which overlooked the impetuous river and the long, green island it encircled. Louise glanced up, startled, half doubtful if she had heard aright. She had just emptied the ferns which she had been gathering into her lap, and they lay there, a green, feathery mass on her cambric dress.

"I do not think I understand you," she said, blushing a vivid crimson. "I am sure you do," Dunwardin answered. "I cannot well put it plainer. I love you with all my heart, and ask you to marry me. Is that clear enough?"

"Too clear," said Louise, with the color forsaking her face as quickly as it had rushed to it. "I am very, very sorry that you should care for me. I did not think such a thing possible, or I should not have seemed to encourage you, as very likely I have done."

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Encourage me!" repeated Dunwardin. "No, you have done nothing of that kind. You have simply been frank and natural, for which I am very grateful. The pleasant intimacy you have allowed me during the past ten days has been more to me than I can tell you. And you need not blame yourself for any thing. No prevention would have availed in this case. I fell in love with you that first day on top of the stage-coach. One cannot reason or understand these things. I don't count it folly, and I am not sorry for it. Even if I cannot win you, I shall never forget that I have known you; but-0 Louise, is there no hope?

He leaned forward, the dark face flushing, the dark eyes passionately eager. But there was scant ground for hope in Louise's sad face and eyes full of regret.

"I am so sorry-so sorry!" she repeated, again. "But there is no hope, my friend, not any. I am not worth your regard, I am not suitable to you in any way, and above all I have no heart to give you."

"Ah!"-he drew a sharp breath-" you love some one else, then? I did not think of that."

"No," she answered, quietly. "I did love some one else, long ago; but it is all over now. He, the man to whom I was engaged, acted very unworthily. When we lost our fortune, he showed me that he desired his freedom, and I gave it to him. I did not regret him-how could I after that?-but my heart seemed to lose the power of ever loving

"It is impossible," said Dunwardin. "A

heart so gentle and tender cannot have lost the power to love. You may fancy that it is so, you may let the memory of that man blast your life until-until it is too late; but I am sure that you can love."

"You know very little of me," she said, with a certain dignity. "I am no longer very young, and then my life is bound up in Paul's. But don't think me ungrateful," she went on, quickly. "I thank you with all my heart-"

"No, don't thank me," he interrupted. "Why should you? Even in loving you, am I not selfish? Do I not want to secure your presence for myself, your sweet face to light my life? But, since this is not to be, we will say no more about it."

They did not. He began at once to speak of the ferns, and, as they presently walked back to the house together, Louise caught herself wondering once or twice if that brief conversation had not been all fancy.

The brother and sister had no secrets from each other, and when Paul heard what had occurred, he was deeply disappointed. "I like him so much, Louise," he said, "I hoped you might have fancied him."

"Do you mean you would have liked me to marry him, Paul?" asked Louise, much surprised. "I did not imagine for a moment that you would."

"Why not?" asked Paul. "Do you think me so selfish I could not share you with some one else-some one with the will and power to brighten your life? Louise, if I only felt sure you did not refuse him on account of that other-you know whom I mean -I should be better satisfied."

"Then be satisfied," said Louise. "That other has gone out of my life and my thoughts completely. But I think I burnt up all the supply of passion which Nature gave me, and I have none left now, not enough to make the faintest blaze. You would have felt that I had done a shameful thing if I had returned Mr. Dunwardin's kindness by accepting him when I did not care for him, would you not? Yes, I am certain of it; and so, dear, there is nothing to regret, except that I should have been forced to pain one whom we like so much."

A day or two after this Mr. Dunwardin announced that he must make his long-deferred journey to Laurel. "I shall be back in a week or ten days," he said to Paul, who was regretting that he must go. "Of course,

I cannot determine the time with absolute certainty. I have several places to visit, and you know it is impossible to obtain any clear idea of distance from the natives of this country."

"Pray be careful!" said the young cripple, earnestly. "Any one will tell you that the settlement is the most lawless in the mountains."

"I shall be careful," the other answered, smiling; "though, luckily, there is nobody depending on me if the good people of Laurel shall take it into their heads to dispatch me."

In this manner he departed, bearing himself to the last in a manner very unlike rejected suitors in general. He shook hands with Louise at parting, and bade her be sure and finish by his return a sketch of the place which she had promised him.