to punish Zuleime severely for what he called her faithlessness; but, for the present at least, he was completely frustrated. There was nothing to complain of in her conduct to him. She was very kind and gentle-not with the gentleness of meekness and humility, but with that of a compassionate toleration—such as an angel might feel in looking down upon a determined sinner; seeing his moral insanity, and foreseeing his consequent wretchedness. Major Cabell had frequently heard of mourners who could not bear to hear the names of their beloved, lamented dead, spoken before them; and he thought to torture her bosom by frequently reverting to "that horrible massacre," and "poor Frank.” But he could not add one pang to those she had already endured. Her sorrow was too deep to be probed, to be touched by a superficial hand like his. She could bear to listen and reply when he talked of her massacred love; for, like a stationary panorama of the past and the present, his life and death were ever before her mind. She could converse without new emotion of him over whose fate, in its deepest, darkest horrors, she was ever brooding. If any mourners cannot brook to hear the name of the lost mentioned in their presence, it is because they are already blessed with long seasons of forgetfulness, and shrink from the pain of remembrance. She had no such pang of sudden recollection to dread. His memory-her sorrow-was ever present with her.

Catherine watched her with deep and painful interest. She sought an opportunity, and once more had a serious conversation with her.

Zuleime, don't marry under present circumstances. If, as you say, your father is in the power of Major Cabell, it is bad; but if you marry him to deliver your father, it will be worse, and will not eventuate in any good. And two wrongs never make a right, Zuleime. Do no wrong, dearest, but trust in God for deliverance," said Catherine earnestly.

"It seems to me that I am doing right. It will please Cousin Charles, and save father; and as for myself, it can't matter much, you know," replied the despairing girl. And to this view of the case she adhered, with all the tenacity of a morbid resolution.

A few days after this Catherine returned to her brother's cabin, wondering what new misfortune would, against her fixed determination, throw her back among the Cliftons.

Major Cabell had written to Richmond for his mother and sisters to come down and be present at his marriage; and one day, near the last of the week, the carriage of Mrs. Cabell rolled up to the door. Knowing nothing whatever of Zuleime's attachment to the young soldier, and consequent deep grief at his fate, they were very much shocked to see her looking so ill, but quietly ascribed it to fatigue and anxiety in nursing Carolyn; and Mrs. Cabell was emphatic in demonstrations of motherly kindness, which the gentle girl acknowledged with grateful smiles, and by such attentions as she had the power to bestow. The city ladies had made a short stay that day, and were but little wearied; so that, after a little slumber, and the refreshment of the bath and of tea, they felt well enough to spend the evening in the parlour.

The family were all around the evening fire, when Mrs. Cabell and her daughters entered.

Major Cabell, who was as usual sitting by Zuleime, with his arm over the back of her chair in a property-holding sort of manner, arose, and, handing his mother to a seat, received from her hand a roll of papers.

"It is some new music, my son, for the dear girls. There are some beautiful songs of Moore's just published. Carolyn, love, I have thirsted to hear your sweet voice again. Will you sing?"

Miss Clifton's eyes filled with tears, and she turned away

her head.

Zuleime stole to her aunt's side, and, while seeming to examine the music, whispered, "Dear Aunt Cabell, Carolyn has entirely lost her voice!"

The lady was very much shocked to hear it, and grieved at her own unfortunate proposition, but durst not trust herself to reply, lest Carolyn should hear and understand the subject of their conversation.

Major Cabell, who was turning over the music, suddenly had his gaze fixed by one particular piece. His eyes lighted up with a peculiar satisfaction, and, turning to Zuleime, he said, "My own, you can read music at sight-can you not ?"

"Yes," replied the girl.

"And you can sing and play at sight-can you not ?

Yes, if it is not too difficult."

"Is this difficult ?" he asked, holding a page out to her:

No, that is very simple," said Zuleime, looking entirely at the music, not at the words.

"It is a ballad of Thomas Moore's. I wish you to sing it for us. Will you?"

"Certainly."

Come, then," he said, and took her hand, and led her to the piano. He seated her, and laid the song before her, saying to himself, "If she can sing that through without emotion-ay, or with emotion-if she can get through it at all, she can do or suffer anything! She is a heroine." Zuleime was reading over the words, preparatory to singing them.

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And he was watching her intently. But she read through the song, turning the leaves calmly, her pale cheek never changing its hue; then she restored the first page to its place before her, and began to play the prelude. The ladies and old Mr. Clifton drew near, and gathered around her. Then her voice arose, soft, clear, and plaintive, but unfaltering as her cheek remained unchanging-though her father trembled for her as the words of the song fell on his ear. That song was The Broken Heart," by Thomas Moore.

Zuleime sang

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing,

But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking:

Ah! how little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

Her voice faltered-she paused.

"Come! no miserable, maudlin, mawkish self-pity, I beseech you!" whispered Major Cabell, stooping to her ear. Whether Mr. Clifton heard the cruel whisper, or whether he only saw her slight agitation, is uncertain; but he drew near and stood by her side. She recovered, and continued

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life-

She paused again-again essayed to sing-her voice, quavering, sunk into silence like the rudely-swept strings of the harpsichord; the greyness of death crept over her countenance, and she fell back into the arms of her father, who angrily exclaimed, Charles, you are a brute! a demon! to

ask her to sing that song! Zuleime! Zuleime, my darling! speak to me!"

He sat down on the sofa, holding her in his arms. The ladies drew around with fans, with cold water, with hartshorn; but she recovered very soon, and sat up, and declined going upstairs to bed, and thanked them all for their care, gently begging them not to take so much trouble on her

account.

66

This is all very strange, madam," said Mrs. Cabell aside to Mrs. Clifton.

"Zuleime is so nervous and sensitive ever since Carolyn's illness, that the news of that massacre, and the death of her old playmate and companion, has quite overwhelmed her. I suppose this music awoke her sensibilities," said Georgia composedly.

If Mrs. Cabell had any suspicion of the truth, she was too well-bred to express it then and there; and the matter ended for the moment.

Her

But after this evening, Zuleime was never the same. fortitude seemed entirely to have given away; her calmness was utterly broken up. A strange, wild terror and incertitude had come upon her.

The next day Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain came over to call on the visitors. Nevertheless, in the course of the call, Major Cabell found the opportunity he sought of taking Zuleime to task for what he called her miserable weakness.

“You are unfaithful, false at heart-you cherish the image of this young man secretly, while you pretend to be true to me! Pah! Well! why don't you answer me? Have you anything to say?"

"Cousin Charles, does not the grave sanctify any affection ? Is it a crime to remember a dead friend ?”

"It is a miserable, drivelling weakness—a maudlin, mawkish, puling piece of unfaithfulness to duty-and leads you into the exhibition of such scenes as that of last night! Such whining, whimpering, contemptible self-pity! I protest you are the most false-hearted and selfish woman I ever met with in my life. It is your own griefs, and regrets, and reverses that occupy you all the time; and now, instead of listening to me, and replying, you are falling away into thought again! Come! answer me, now! Was it not selfpity that caused you to faint during the singing of that

à propos song, which, by the way, I gave you as an ordeal? y! Wasn't it self-pity?"

Come, say

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No, nor was it the song. If I pitied myself, should I not pity you as much? It is not such a happy fate, Cousin Charles, to marry a grief-stricken girl like me, I know."

"No! If I calculate upon your continued indulgence of that grief, which I do not! No! Trust me, on the part of my wife there must and shall be no such exhibitions of feeling as that of last night."

"I do not know why you wish to marry me!" she broke forth, with strange wildness. You do not love me! Perhaps you hate me, and marriage will give you the same power to work out your hate as it would to act out your love! Yes! I do suppose that is really the key to the riddle !” "Perhaps it is," he answered sarcastically.

"One thing I beg of you," she said; "while we stay here, in my father's presence, try to use me kindly, to spare his feelings; he is an old man. Reserve your vengeance until I am your wife, until we get to Richmond, when you will have full power, and ample time and space to work your will."

While she spoke so wildly, she pressed and rubbed her hand spasmodically against her heart; and her pale brow was darkened, and her intense black eyes strained and sharpened as by mental and physical pain. She gasped for breath, and began again.

"I do not know, I am sure I cannot tell-whether, after all, we will ever mar

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What she was about to say was cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain, who came in, with her shawl and bonnet on, to take leave of Zuleime and Major Cabell, and invite them to join the rest of the family in coming to dine and spend the evening at Hardbargain the next day. Major Cabell accepted the invitation for himself and Zuleime, and the lady took her departure.

The next day was Saturday. The family set out on their visit at an early hour of the day, as is the social custom of country neighbours. Old Mr. Clifton, his wife, and his eldest daughter rode in his carry-all. Mrs. Cabell and her three daughters went in that lady's carriage. Zuleime rode on horseback, attended by Major Cabell.

It was a glorious Indian summer day, when the splendour of the autumnal sunlight would be too dazzling but for the