Louis soon had a most convincing proof of the lad's attachment. Being

detained one evening, by some business, in one of the narrow courts

inhabited by the lower class in Venice, he returned with a violent

headache. He grew worse so rapidly, that before night he was in a high

fever, raving deliriously.

A physician was sent for, who pronounced it to be a dangerous and most

infectious fever, and advised his immediate removal to a hospital, where

he might receive better attendance than he could in his lodgings. But

Isadore positively refused to have him removed, vehemently asserting

that he himself was quite competent to take care of him.

And well did he redeem his word. No mother ever nursed her sick child

with more tender care than he did Louis. Night and day he was ever by

his side, bathing his burning brow, or holding a cooling draught to his

feverish lips. And though his pale face grew paler day after day, and

his lustrous black eyes lost their brightness with his weary vigils,

nothing could tempt him from that sick room. With womanly care, he

arranged the pillows beneath the restless head of the invalid; drew the

curtains to exclude the glaring light, totally unheeding the danger of

contagion. With jealous vigilance, too, he kept out all strangers.

Madame Evelini, upon hearing of her friend's illness, immediately came

to see him, but she was met in the outer room by Isadore, who said,

coldly:

"You cannot see him, madame; the physician has forbidden it."

"But only for one moment. I will not speak to him, or disturb him,"

pleaded Madame Evelini.

"No; you cannot enter. It is impossible," said Isadore, as he turned and

left the room, fairly shutting the door in her face.

In his wild delirium, Louis talked incessantly of Celeste, and urged her

with passionate vehemence to fly with him. At such times, the dark brow

of Isadore would knit, and his eyes flash with smoldering fire beneath

their lids. But if his own name was mentioned, his beautiful face would

light up with such a radiant look of light and joy, that he seemed

recompensed for all his weary watching and unceasing care.

At length, a naturally strong constitution, and the tender nursing of

Isadore triumphed over disease, and Louis became convalescent. And then

he began to realize all he owed to the boy who had been his

guardian-angel during his illness.

"How can I ever repay you, Isadore?" he said, one day, as the youth

hovered by his side, smoothing the tossed pillows, and arranging the

bed-clothes with a skill few nurses could have surpassed.

"I wish for no return, signor. I am only too happy to have been of

service to you," said the boy, dropping his eyes.

"Well, at least, you will find I am not ungrateful. Once I am well, you

shall no longer remain a servant. I will place you in a fair way to make

your fortune," said Louis.

"Signor, I beg you will not think of such a thing. I have no wish to

leave you," said Isadore, in alarm.

"But with me you will only be an obscure servant, while it is in my

power to place you in a situation to become honored and wealthy."

"I would rather remain with you."

"Strange boy! Why are you so anxious to stay with me?"

"Because----"

"Well?"

"Because I love you, Signor," said the boy, while his whole face, a

moment before so pale, grew vivid crimson.

Louis looked at him in surprise.

"And what have I done for you, that you should love me so?" he asked, at

length.

"Do we only love those who have conferred favors upon us, Signor?"

"Well, generally speaking, among men it is so. If you were a woman, now,

it would be different," said Louis, laughing.

"Would you love me, if I were a woman?" asked the boy, in a tone so

abrupt and startling, that Louis gazed at him in wonder.

"Not more than I do now. One cannot _love_ two women at a time, as you

will find out when you grow older."

"Then the signor is already in love?" asked Isadore, raising his dark

eyes, now filled with dusky fire.

There was no reply. Louis turned aside restlessly, so that the boy could

not see the expression of his face. And Isadore, paler than before,

seated himself in silence, and fixed his burning black eyes steadily on

the ground.

Louis now rapidly recovered, and in a short time was able to resume his

duties. During his first interview with Madame Evelini, she related the

scene that had taken place between her and Isadore.

"His motive in keeping me out was certainly other than the physician's

commands," she said. "In fact, my dear Louis, I should not be surprised

if your Isadore should turn out to be a female in disguise. His conduct

savors so strongly of jealousy that I more than half suspect him. Some

fiery Italian might have conceived a romantic passion for you, and taken

this means of following you. Those hot-blooded Venetians will do such

things sometimes."

The words were lightly spoken, but they set Louis to thinking. What if

they were true? A number of things, trifling in themselves, rushed on

his mind, tending to confirm this opinion. He started up, seized his

hat, bade madame a hasty farewell, and started for home, fully resolved

to discover immediately whether or not her words were true.

On entering, he found Isadore standing with folded arms, gazing with

eyes almost fiendish with hate upon a picture on the easel. It was the

portrait of Celeste as a child, standing as when he first beheld her

caressing her wounded bird. No words can describe the look of fierce

hatred with which the boy regarded it.

"Well, Isadore, you seem struck by that painting. Did you ever see a

sweeter face?" asked Louis, pointing to Celeste, but keeping his eyes

fixed steadily on the face of the boy.

"Do you love her?" asked Isadore, hoarsely, without looking up.

"Yes, with my whole heart and soul!" replied Louis, fervently.

"Ungrateful wretch!" cried the youth, in a voice of intense passion; and

lifting his head, he disclosed a face so pale, and eyes so full of fire,

that Louis started back. "Was it for this that I left home, and country,

and friends, that I assumed a disguise like this to follow you? Was it

for such a turn as this I risked my life for yours? Was it for words

like these I cast aside my pride, and became your menial? Was it not

enough for you to call on her unceasingly during your delirium--she who

feared the opinion of the world more than she loved you--while I, who

braved disgrace and death for your sake, was unnamed and forgotten? Look

on me, most ungrateful of men," he continued, almost with a shriek.

"Look at me; and say, do you yet know me?"

He dashed his cap to the ground, and with features convulsed with

contending passions, stood before him. Louis looked, turned deadly pale,

and exclaimed, in a voice of utter surprise:

"Merciful heaven! Minnette!"

CHAPTER XXXIV.

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

"By the strong spirit's discipline--

By the fierce wrong forgiven--

By all that wrings the heart of sin,

Is woman won to Heaven."--WILLIS.

There was a moment's profound silence, during which Louis stood like one

thunderstruck, and Minnette glared upon him with her fierce black eyes.

"And you have been with me all this time, Minnette, and I knew it not,"

said Louis, at length.

"No," she said, with a bitter laugh. "You did not know me. Had it been

Celeste, do you think you would have recognized her?"

"Minnette, do not look so wildly. Good heaven! who would ever think of

seeing you here, and in such disguise?" he added, still scarcely able to

realize it was Minnette who stood before him.

"And it was for your sake," she replied, in a voice almost choked by

contending emotions.

"For me, for me! wretch that I am!" he said, with bitter remorse. "Oh,

Minnette! I am unworthy such devoted love."

Something in his manner inspired her with hope. She clasped her hands,

and said, wildly:

"Only say you will not cast me off. Only say you will yet love me, and I

will be a thousand-fold repaid for all I have endured for your sake. Oh,

Louis! is it for the cold, prudish Celeste you reject such love as

mine?"

"We cannot compel our affections, Minnette. Celeste is the only woman

who can ever possess my heart; but you--you shall always be to me as a

dear sister. You must throw off this disguise, and return with me home

immediately. Your friends shall never know of this--they do not dream

you are here; and you will soon learn to look back to this time as a

troubled dream, happily past."

"Ha, ha, ha! You might take me back to America, that I might witness

your marriage with Celeste. No, Louis Oranmore, _never_ shall _she_

enjoy such a triumph! I have hated her all my life; and I shall hate her

with my last breath. Do you think I could live and survive this

disgrace? You have driven me to madness; and now behold its fruits."

Her voice was hoarse with concentrated passion; her eyes burning like

fire; her face ghastly and livid. As she spoke, she drew from within the

doublet she wore a gleaming dagger. As the quick eye of Louis saw the

motion, he sprang forward and seized her by the wrist. She struggled

madly to free herself from his grasp; and in the struggle the point of

the dagger entered her eye.

A torrent of blood flowed over his hands. Shriek after shriek of mortal

agony broke from the lips of Minnette. The fatal dagger dropped from the

hand of Louis--he staggered back, and stood for a moment paralyzed with

horror. Mad with agony, Minnette fled round the room, the blood gushing

from her sightless eye and covering her face, her agonizing screams

making the house resound. It was an awful, ghastly, appalling spectacle.

Louis stood rooted to the ground, unable to remove his gaze from the

terrible sight.

Her piercing shrieks soon filled the room. Among the crowd came Lugari,

who instantly guessed what had happened. A surgeon was sent for, and

poor Minnette, struggling madly, was borne to her room and laid upon

her bed. The surgeon, an Englishman, at length arrived; and Louis, at

last restored to presence of mind, speedily expelled the gaping crowd,

and shut himself up in his own room, unable to endure the harrowing

sight of Minnette's agony. For upwards of two hours he trod up and down,

almost maddened by the recollection of the dreadful scene just past.

Bitter, indeed, was his anguish and remorse; in those two hours seemed

concentrated ages of suffering.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps announced that the physician was about

to take his leave. Hurriedly leaving the room, Louis followed him,

scarcely daring to ask the question that hovered upon his lips.

"Tell me!" he exclaimed, vehemently, "is she--will she----"

"No, she will not die," replied the doctor, who knew what he would ask.

"The wound is dangerous, but not mortal. She must be taken care of. I

will have her immediately removed from here."

"Then she will recover!" said Louis, fervently, "Thank God!"

"Yes, she will recover," said the doctor, hesitatingly, "but----"

"But what?" exclaimed Louis, in vague alarm.

"_She will be blind for life!_"

"Great heaven!"

"Her right eye is already gone, and the other, I fear, will never more

see the light. Still, you should be grateful that her life will be

preserved." And the surgeon took his hat and left.

"Blind! blind for life!" murmured Louis, in horror; "a fate worse than

death. Oh, Minnette! Minnette!"

* * * * *

The lingering glory of an Italian sunset was streaming through the open

window of the room where Minnette lay. It was a plainly, but neatly

furnished room, in one of the _Scuole_, or benevolent institutions of

the city. Two months had passed since that unhappy day on which we saw

her last. She lies now on the bed, the sunlight falling brightly on her

wan face; that blessed sunlight she will never see more. A Sister of

Mercy, with holy face and meek eyes, sits by her side, holding one of

her hands in hers.

And this is Minnette; this pale, faded, sightless girl, the once

beautiful, haughty, resplendent Minnette! All her beauty was gone now;

the glowing crimson of high health rests no longer on those hollow,

sunken cheeks; the fierce light of passion will never more flash from

those dimmed orbs; from those poor, pale lips, bitter, scathing words

can never more fall. But through all this outward wreck shines a calmer,

holier beauty than ever rested on her face before. In the furnace, she

has been purified; the fierce, passionate spirit has been subdued by

grace; the lion in her nature has yielded to the Lamb that was slain;

the wrung, agonized heart has ceased to struggle, and rests in peace at

last.

Not without many a struggle had her wild, fierce nature yielded to the

soothings of religion. Long, tempestuous, and passionate was the

struggle; and when her good angel triumphed at last she came, not as a

meek penitent, but as a worn, world-weary sinner, longing only for peace

and rest.

She had not seen Louis during her illness. Often he came to visit her,

but still her cry was: "Not yet! not yet!" Her wild, mad love was dying

out of her heart, and with it her intense hatred of Celeste. Her days,

now, were spent in meditation and prayer, or listening to the gentle,

soothing words of Sister Beatrice.

"The sun is setting, sister, is it not?" she asked, turning her head

towards the windows, as though she still could see.

"Yes; a more glorious sunset I never beheld."

"And I can never see it more; never behold the beautiful earth or sky;

never see sun, or moon, or stars again!" said Minnette, in a voice low,

but unspeakably sad.

"No, my child, but there is an inward vision that can never be seen with

corporeal eyes. Now that those outward eyes are sealed forever, a

glimpse of heaven has been bestowed upon you, to lighten the darkness of

your life."

"Oh! Sister Beatrice, if I were always with you, I feel I could submit

to my fate without a murmur. But when I go out into the world, this

fierce nature that is within me, that is subdued but not conquered, will

again arise; and I will become more passionate, selfish, and sinful than

ever."

"Then why go out into the world any more? Why not enter a convent, and

end your days in peace?"

"Oh, sister! if I only might," said Minnette, clasping her hands; "but

I, poor, blind, and helpless, what could I do in a convent?"

"You could pray, you could be happy; if you wish to enter, your

blindness shall be no obstacle," said Sister Beatrice.

At this moment a servant entered and handed the sister a note, addressed

to Minnette. She opened it, and read aloud:

"Every day for a month I have called here, and you have refused

to see me. Minnette, I conjure you to let me visit you; I cannot

rest until I have seen you, and obtained your forgiveness.

LOUIS."

Minnette's pale face flushed deep crimson, and then grew whiter than

before, as she said, vehemently:

"No, I will not! I will not! I _cannot_ see him more!"

"Why not?" said Sister Beatrice. "Confess, my child, that vanity still

lingers in your heart. You do not wish to see him because you think he

will be shocked to find you so changed and altered. Is it not so?"

"Yes, yes!" replied Minnette, in a fainting voice.

"But this is wrong; you ought to see him. As you are desirous of taking

the vail, it is but right that you should see him, and bid him farewell,

and let him inform your friends when he sees them. Come, my dear child,

cast out this spirit of pride, and let me admit him, if only for a

moment."

There was a fierce struggle in the breast of Minnette. It was but

momentary, however, as, shading her face with one hand, she said:

"Be it so; I will endure the humiliation; let him come."

Sister Beatrice pressed her lips to the brow of the invalid, and left

the room. A moment later, and Louis, pale, thin, and careworn, entered.

He started, and grew a shade paler, as his eyes fell on that poor, pale

face, robbed of all its beauty, and with a suppressed groan, sank on his

knees by the bedside.

"Minnette! Minnette!" he said, hoarsely. "Can you ever forgive me?"

The sightless eyes were turned toward him, in the vain effort to see.

Alas! All was darkness. She held out one little, transparent hand, which

he took between both of his.

"I have nothing to forgive," she said, meekly. "All that has happened to

me I deserved. Do not grieve for me, Louis, you have nothing to

reproach yourself with; it was all my own fault."

He bowed his forehead on her hand, and tears, that did honor to his

generous heart, fell from his eyes.

"Tell Celeste, when you see her, how sorry I am for all my cruelty and

injustice toward her. Ask her to forgive me; she is good and gentle, I

feel she will do it. If I only had her pardon, I feel I could die

content. And, Oh Louis! when she is happy with you, will you both

sometimes think of Minnette, blind, and alone in a foreign land?"

"Oh, _poor_ Minnette!" he said, in a choking voice.

"Do not pity me, Louis; I am very happy," but the pale lips trembled as

she spoke; "happier than I ever was when I was full of life and health.

Oh, Louis, when I look back and think of what I have been--so selfish,

and hard-hearted, and cruel--I tremble to think what I might yet have

been if God in his mercy had not sent me this affliction. And Celeste;

no words can ever tell how I have wronged her. You know how I struck

her, in my blind rage, and the angelic patience and forgiveness with

which she afterward sought to love me, and make me happy. Oh, Louis! all

her sweetness and meekness will haunt me to my dying day."

Her voice faltered, then entirely failed, and for the first time in her

life the once haughty Minnette wept.

"Tears are strange visitors to these eyes," she said, with a sad smile;

"there may be hope for me yet, since I can weep for the past. Louis, in

a few weeks I will enter a convent, and the remainder of my life shall

be spent in praying for you and Celeste, and the rest of my friends. And

now you must leave me--farewell, a last farewell, _dear_ Louis. Tell

them all at home how I have learned to love them at last, and ask them

to forgive poor Minnette."

He could not speak; she made a sign for him to go. Raising the thin,

pale hand to his lips, and casting one long, last look on the sad, yet

peaceful face of the once beautiful Minnette, he quitted the room. And

thus they parted, these two, never to meet in life again.

Meantime, we must revisit St. Mark's, and witness the startling events

that are bringing matters to a rapid _denouement_ there.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE DEATH-BED CONFESSION.

"Her wretched brain gave way,

And she became a wreck, at random driven,

Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven."

It was a bleak, stormy December evening, a week before Christmas. A

bright fire was burning in the well-known parlor of Sunset Hall.

In his easy-chair, with his gouty legs, swathed in flannels, reposing on

two others, lay our old friend the squire, literally "laid up by the

legs." In the opposite corner was Lizzie, dozing, as usual, on her sofa;

while good Mrs. Gower sat with her fat hands folded in her lap, reposing

after the cares of the day. Dr. Wiseman had not yet sufficiently

recovered from his wounds and bruises to go abroad, and had just retired

to his room, while his affectionate spouse was enjoying herself at a

grand ball in the village.

The worthy trio had sat in solemn silence for upwards of an hour, when

the door was flung open, and Jupiter rushed in to announce "dat a boy

commanded to see ole marster 'mediately."

"To see me?" said the squire, in amazement. "What does he want? I won't

see anybody to-night."

"He's got a letter, and says he must d'liver it to-night--it's very

important," said Jupiter.

"Humph! well, admit him then. I never can get a minute's peace. 'No rest

for the wicked,' as Solomon says. Well, here he comes."

As he spoke, a youth, apparently about sixteen, entered the apartment,

bearing every evidence of having journeyed fast.

"You are Squire Erliston, I believe," said the lad, bowing respectfully.

"Well, you may believe it," said the squire, testily; "it's a name I was

never ashamed of. What do you want of me at this hour of the night,

young man?"

"I have been sent with this letter," said the boy, presenting one; "it's

a matter of life and death."

"Matter of life and death! Lord bless me!" exclaimed the astonished

squire, "what can it mean? Hand me my spectacles, Mrs. Gower, and put

them on my nose, till I overhaul this document. Maybe it contains

state-treason, a gunpowder plot or something. 'The pen is mightier than

the sword,' as Solomon says; though I'll be shot if I believe it.

Solomon didn't know much about swords, and acted queer sometimes--didn't

behave well to his wife, they say. Humph! well, here goes."

So saying, the squire opened the letter and began to read. And as he

read, his eyes began to protrude, till they threatened to shoot from his

head altogether. The letter ran as follows:

"MAGNUS ERLISTON: Come to me immediately--am dying. I have

something to tell you of the utmost importance, and I cannot die

with it on my conscience. Above all things, do not, for your

life, breathe a word of this to Dr. Wiseman. Come instantly, or

you may repent it.

MADGE ORANMORE."

"Now, what in the name of Beelzebub does the woman mean?" exclaimed the

squire, as he finished reading this. "How does she expect a man to turn

out on a December night, with the gout in his legs? I say, youngster, do

you know who sent you with this precious letter?"

"Yes, sir; my mistress, Mrs. Oranmore."

"And what's the matter with her, may I ask?"

"She has been ailing for some time; and a week ago, her illness took a

dangerous turn. The doctors say she has but few days to live, and she

seems to be anxious about some secret that preys on her mind. I have not

rested day or night since I started for this place. I fear she will not

live until I get back, unless you make haste."

"I know not what to do," said the squire, evidently appalled. "I'd like

to see the old lady before she leaves this 'vale of tears,' as Solomon

says, but how the mischief I'm to go, I can't tell. If she could only

put off dying for a month or two, now, I'd go with pleasure, but I

suppose she can't conveniently. 'Time and tide wait for no man,' as

Solomon says. I mustn't tell old Wiseman, either, it seems--hum-m-m!

'Pon my life, I don't know what to say about it."

All this was muttered in a sort of soliloquy; and as he ceased, the

merry jingle of bells approaching the house saluted his ears. The next

moment, Gipsy, wrapped up in shawls, and hoods, and furs, fresh and

bright as a daisy, danced into the room, exclaiming:

"Here I am, good folks! The ball was a horrid stupid affair, without a

bit of fun, so I thought I'd come home." Here, catching sight of the

stranger, Gipsy favored him with a stare of surprise, and was about to

leave the room, when the squire called:

"Come back here, monkey; I'm in a confounded scrape, and I want you to

help me out of it."

"All right; just hint what it is, will you? and I'll have you out of it

in a twinkling."

"Read that," said the squire, placing the mysterious letter in her hand.

Gipsy read it, and then exclaimed:

"Well, there's some mystery here--that's certain. But you can't go, can

you, Guardy?"

"To be sure I can't. You might as well expect Mrs. Gower, there, to

dance the double shuffle, as expect me to go on such a journey."

"Well, Spider's not to know of it, and he couldn't go if he did, with

his dilapidated continuations; Aunty Liz can't travel and lie asleep on

a sofa at the same time; and Aunty Gower, poor woman! can't travel up

stairs, under half an hour's panting and groaning; so none of them can

go, _that's_ demonstrated--as old Mr. Blackboard used to say. Eh!

Guardy?"

"Yes, yes. But what's to be done?"

"Why, it's very clear what's to be done. _I'll_ go!"

"_You_," said the squire, with a stare. "What good can you do?"

"Come, now! I like that! I'll leave it to everybody, if I'm not worth

the whole of you put together. Ain't I, now?"

"Mrs. Oranmore won't tell _you_ her secret."

"Well, if she don't, she'll lose the wisest, nicest _sensiblest_

confidante ever anybody had, though I say it. Any way, I'll try; and if

she won't tell, why, she'll have to leave it alone--that's all. When do

you start?" she asked, turning to the youth.

"Now, if you're ready," replied the lad.

"Yes, I'm ready. How did you come? by the stage?"

"No, in a sleigh--it's at the door."

"Well, then, I won't detain you. Good-bye for a week, Guardy; good-bye,

Aunty Gower. Off we go!"

"Hadn't you better stay till morning," said Mrs. Gower, anxiously. "It

is too cold and stormy to travel by night."

"And in the meantime this old lady may give up the ghost. No; there's no

time to lose; and besides, I rather like the idea of a journey, to vary

the monotony of St. Mark's. Good-bye all--I leave you my blessing," said

Gipsy, with a parting flourish, as she left the room and took her place

by the side of the boy in the sleigh. Nothing remarkable occurred on the

journey. Gipsy, comfortably nestled under the buffalo robes, scarcely

felt the cold. The next morning they halted at a wayside inn to take

breakfast, and then dashed off again.

Owing to the state of the roads it was late in the afternoon when they

reached the city; and almost dark when Gipsy, preceded by her companion,

entered the gloomy home of Mrs. Oranmore.

"My stars! what a dismal old tomb. It really smells of ghosts and rats,

and I should not wonder if it was tenanted by both," was Gipsy's

internal comment as she passed up the long, dark staircase, and longer,

darker hall, and entered the sick-room of Mrs. Oranmore--the longest and

darkest of all. Stretched on a hearse-like bed--stiff, stark, and rigid,

as though she were already dead--lay Madge Oranmore--her face looking

like some grim, stern mask carved in iron. An old woman, whom the boy

addressed as "mother," sat by her side.

The invalid started quickly at the sound of their footsteps; and seeing

the boy, exclaimed, in a faint, yet eager and imperious tone:

"Has he come?"

"No; he is ill, and could not come," said Gipsy, stepping forward. "He

is unable to walk, so I have come in his stead."

"Who are you?" demanded Mrs. Oranmore, sharply.

"Well, really, I'd be obliged to anybody who would tell me--at present,

it's more than I know. I used to think I was Gipsy Gower--Squire

Erliston's ward; but, of late, I've found out I don't belong to anybody

in particular. I was picked up, one night, as if I had been a piece of

drift-wood; and I expect, like Venus, I rose from the sea."

"Girl, have you come here to mock me?" exclaimed Dame Oranmore,

fiercely.

"The saints forbid! I'm telling you the truth, the whole truth, and

nothing but the truth. I was picked up one Christmas eve, nineteen years

ago, on the beach, about a quarter of a mile from here; and--good

Heaven! what's the matter with you?" exclaimed Gipsy, springing back.

With the shriek of a dying panther, Mrs. Oranmore sprung up in her bed,

with her eyes starting from their sockets, as she fairly screamed:

"What! Heaven of heavens! did he not drown you?"

"Why, _no_; I rather think not--at least, if I ever was drowned, I have

no recollection of it. But, my goodness! don't glare at me so--you're

absolutely hideous enough to make every hair on a body's head stand

perpendicular, with those eyes of yours."

"How were you saved? Answer me that! How were you saved?" again

screamed the excited woman.

"Well, I don't recollect much about it myself; but Mrs. Gower told me,

the other day, that she found me rolled up in a shawl, on the beach,

like an Esquimaux papoose asleep in a snow-bank. I haven't any notion

who the 'he' is you speak of; but if 'he' left me there to turn into an

icicle, I only wish I could see him, and tell him a piece of my

mind--that's all."

"And this was Christmas eve, nineteen years ago?" exclaimed Madge

Oranmore, breathlessly.

"Yes."

"Great Heaven! how just is thy retribution! And at last, in my dying

hour, I behold before me the child of Esther Erliston and Alfred

Oranmore!" exclaimed the dying woman, falling back on her pillow, and

clasping her hands.

"_What!_" exclaimed Gipsy, springing forward, and seizing her by the

arm. "Whose child, did you say I was?"

"The only daughter of Esther Erliston and Alfred Oranmore; and heiress,

in your mother's right, of Mount Sunset Hall," replied Mrs. Oranmore.

"And grandchild of Squire Erliston?"

"Yes."

Gipsy staggered back, and covered her face with her hands. Her emotion

was but momentary, however; and again approaching the bed, she said, in

a tone that was perfectly calm, though her wild, excited eyes spoke a

different tale:

"Tell me all about this. How came I to be left to perish on the shore?"

"Leave the room, both of you," said the sick woman, to her attendants.

They obeyed. "Now, sit down beside me," she continued, turning to

Gipsy; "and tell me, are you married?"

"Yes, they say so--to old Dr. Nicholas Wiseman."

"Great heaven! what did you say?" exclaimed Mrs. Oranmore, in a voice of

horror.

"Yes. It's surprising, ain't it, that I married that old man. But that's

got nothing to do with your story. Go on," urged Gipsy.

"Child! child!" said the dying woman faintly, "_you have wedded the

murderer of your mother_."

With a low, sharp cry Gipsy sprang to her feet--her countenance blanched

to the hue of death.

"Did he know your history?" asked Mrs. Oranmore, breaking the long pause

that followed.

"Yes; he heard it a few weeks before we were married," said Gipsy, in a

voice that was hoarse and unnatural.

"Then he married you that he might possess Mount Sunset. Oh, the

villainy of that wretch! But let him beware! for the day of retribution

is at hand."

"Tell me all, from the beginning," said Gipsy, seating herself, and

speaking in a tone as stern, and with a face as firm and rigid, as that

of the grim invalid herself; but those eyes--those eyes--how they

blazed!

There is little need to recapitulate the tale told to Gipsy--she related

only what the reader already knows; the death of Esther by _her_

instigation, but by _his_ hand; and the infant left to perish in the

waves.

"I suppose he left you on the shore, thinking the waves would wash you

away," concluded Mrs. Oranmore, "when you were providentially saved by

the same Almighty power that guarded Moses in his cradle of bulrushes. I

supposed you had perished, and so did he; but the agonies of remorse I

have suffered for what I have done, I can never reveal. Night and day,

sleeping or waking, the last dying shrieks of Esther Oranmore have been

ringing in my ears. My son married Lizzie Erliston; and his violent

death was but the beginning of my living punishment. For _his_ son's

sake, I have kept my dreadful secret during life; but now, at the hour

of death, a power over which I have no control compels me to reveal all.

I am beyond the power of the law--I go to answer for my crimes at the

bar of God; therefore, I fear not in making these disclosures. My hour

has come."

"But he shall not escape!" said Gipsy, rising from the chair, on which

she sat as if petrified, while listening to the story of her birth. "No!

by the heaven above us both, his life shall pay for this! Woman," she

continued, turning fiercely upon Mrs. Oranmore, "you _shall not_ die

until you have done justice to the child of her you have murdered! I

will send for a magistrate; and you must make a deposition of all you

have told me to him. Death shall not enter here yet, to cheat the

gallows of its due!"

She sprang to the bell, and rang a peal that brought all the servants in

the house flocking wildly into the room.

"Go to the nearest magistrate," she said, turning to the boy who had

accompanied her from St. Mark's--"fly! vanish! Tell him it is a matter

of life and death. Go! and be back here in ten minutes, or you shall rue

it!"

The boy fled, frightened out of his wits by her fierce words and looks.

Shutting the door in the faces of the others, Gipsy seated herself; and

setting her teeth hard together, and clenching her hands, she fixed her

eyes on the floor, and sat as immovable as if turning to stone. Mrs.

Oranmore lay in silence--either not willing or not able to speak.

Ere fifteen minutes had thus passed, the boy returned, accompanied by a

magistrate--a short, blustering, important personage. He bowed to

Gipsy--who arose upon his entrance--and began drawing off his gloves,

making some remark upon the inclemency of the weather, which she

abruptly cut short, by saying:

"This woman is dying, and wishes to make a deposition. Here are

writing-materials; sit down and commence--you have no time to spare."

Hurried away by her impetuosity, the little man found himself, before he

was aware of it, sitting by the bedside, pen in hand, writing and

listening, with many an ejaculation of wonder, horror, and amazement.

At length the deposition was duly drawn up and signed, and he arose,

exclaiming:

"But, good heaven! madam, do you not know, if you survive, you will be

arrested too, and----"

"Hush!" said Gipsy, sternly; "she is dying."

"I tell you I did not murder her," she exclaimed, almost springing up in

bed; "it was he who gave her the poison! I never did it. Listen! do you

not hear her shrieks? or is it not the cries of the fiends I hear

already? _He_ was afraid. Ha! ha! ha!" she said, with a horrid laugh, "I

mocked him until he ventured to do it. He drowned her child, too; he

said he did--he threw it into the sea; and dead people tell no tales.

Who said it was alive? I will never believe it! It is dead! It is dead!"

She sank back exhausted. The magistrate gazed, white with horror; but

Gipsy was calm, stern, and still.

"Look, look! they come for me--their arms are outstretched--they

approach--they strangle me. Off, demon--off, I say!" A wild, piercing

shriek rang through the house, then she fell back, her jaw dropped, her

eyes grew glazed, her face rigid, and Madge Oranmore was dead.

There was a moment's appalled silence. Then the magistrate said:

"Let us leave this dreadful place; the very air seems tainted with

blood."

Without a word, she turned and followed him from the room, and the

house. Rejecting all his invitations to let him find lodgings for her in

the city during the night, she accompanied him to his office, received a

warrant for the arrest of Dr. Wiseman; and with two constables, set off

immediately for Sunset Hall.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

RETRIBUTION.

"Oh, woman wronged can cherish hate

More deep and dark than manhood may,

And when the mockery of fate

Hath left revenge her chosen way."

--WHITTIER.

It was the afternoon of the following day. The squire sat alone,

muttering to himself: "Singular! most singular! most ex-_cess_-ively

singular! wants a private interview, eh! What the dickens can be in old

Wiseman's noddle now? Maybe he wants to divorce Gipsy, and marry Lizzie.

Ha! ha! ha! that would be a joke. Wonder what old Mother Oranmore

wanted? that's another secret. I suppose she told Gipsy and--ha! here's

Gipsy herself. 'Speak of Old Nick, and he'll appear,' as Solomon says.

Well, what's the news?"

"Where's Dr. Wiseman?" inquired Gipsy, abruptly.

"Up stairs. He sent down word some time ago, that he had something

important to tell me, and wanted a private interview. Think of that! But

what is the matter with you? You look as if you'd been riding on a

broomstick all night--as if you were the Witch of Endor, who told King

Saul's fortune long ago."

As he spoke, a slow, heavy footstep was heard descending the stairs.

"There's old Wiseman now, pegging along," said the squire. "I never see

him walking, since he broke his shin-bone, that he doesn't remind me of

Old Nick himself. Now for this wonderful secret of his."

"Guardy, don't mention that I am here," said Gipsy, hurriedly. "I have a

project in hand, that I fancy will astonish him a little, by and by."

"Well, be sure you're right, then go ahead, as Solomon says--you always

have some project or other in your cranium to bother his brains."

"I fancy I will bother him a little more than usual this time," said

Gipsy, with a low, bitter laugh--gliding through one door just as the

doctor entered by another.

Dr. Wiseman, thin and attenuated by illness, looked even more ghastly

and hideous (if such a thing were possible) than when we saw him last.

He advanced, and took a seat near the fire.

"Well, Wiseman, what's this wonderful affair you have to tell me?" said

the squire, adjusting himself in his seat to listen.

"It concerns my wife," replied the doctor, slowly.

"Yes, some complaint, I'll be bound! Now, I tell you what, Wiseman, I

won't listen to your stories about Gipsy. She has always done what she

liked, and she always shall, for what I care. If she likes to enjoy

herself, she will, and you nor no one else shall interfere," said the

squire, striking the table with an emphatic thump.

"Don't jump at conclusions so hastily, my dear sir," said the doctor,

dryly. "I have no complaint to make of Mrs. Wiseman. It is of her birth

and parentage I would speak."

"Her birth and parentage! Is the man mad? Don't you know she's a

foundling?" said the squire, staring with all his eyes.

"Yes, but lately I have discovered who she is. You need not excite

yourself, Squire Erliston, as I see you intend doing. Listen to me, and

I will tell you all about it. The time has come for you to know.

"Perhaps you are not aware that for many years I have been the friend

and confidant of Mrs. Madge Oranmore; but so it is. I was bound to her

by the strongest ties of gratitude, and willingly served her in all

things.

"One Christmas eve, just nineteen years ago, she sent for me in most

urgent haste. I followed her messenger, and was shown to the lady's

room. There I found an infant enveloped in a large shawl, which she told

me I was to consign to the waves--in a word, to drown it. You start,

Squire Erliston, but such was her command. She refused to tell me what

prompted her to so fiendish an act. I was in her power, and she knew I

dared not refuse; I therefore consented----"

"To drown the child?" said the squire, recoiling in horror.

"Listen--I feared to refuse, and promised to do it. I went to the beach,

the tide was out; while I stood hesitating, I heard a sleigh

approaching. I wrapped the child up closely, and laid it right in their

way, and stood aside to watch the event; determined, in case they did

not see it, to provide for it comfortably myself. Fortunately, they saw

it. A woman who was in the sleigh took it with her--that woman was Mrs.

Gower--that child is now my wife."

"Goo-oo-d Lord!" ejaculated the squire, whose mouth and eyes were open

to their widest extent.

"When you told me how she had been found, I knew immediately it was the

same. I had long felt remorse for what I had done, and I at once

resolved to make reparation to the best of my power, by marrying the

foundling. This, Squire Erliston, was the secret of my wish to marry

Gipsy, which puzzled you so long.

"Still, I was completely ignorant of her parentage. Owing to my

accident, I was unable to visit Mrs. Oranmore; but I wrote to her

repeatedly, threatening her with exposure if she did not immediately

reveal the whole affair. She grew alarmed at last, and sent me a letter

that explained all, only begging me not to disgrace her, by letting the

world know what she had done. That letter, I regret to say, has been

unhappily lost."

"Well!" said the squire, breathlessly, seeing he paused.

"Well, sir, she told me all. My wife is the child of your eldest

daughter, Esther, and Alfred Oranmore."

Bewildered, amazed, thunderstruck, the squire sat gazing upon him in a

speechless horror.

"The way of it was _this_," continued the doctor, as calmly as though he

was ordering him a prescription. "Alfred Oranmore, as you know, was

accidentally drowned, leaving his wife in the utmost destitution. Mrs.

Oranmore heard of it, and had Esther privately conveyed to her house,

while she caused a notice of her death to be published in the papers.

What her object was in doing this, I know not. Esther, she says, died in

her house. How she came by her death, I cannot even guess. I knew

nothing of it at the time, as I told you before. Mrs. Oranmore wished

this child removed, that it might not be in the way of her son, Barry;

and thinking I was as heartless and cruel as herself, she employed me

to drown it. Such, Squire Erliston, is this singular story. I thought it

my duty to inform you immediately."

"And Gipsy is my grandchild," said the squire, in the slow, bewildered

tone of one who cannot realize what he says.

"Yes; and the rightful heiress of Mount Sunset," said the wily doctor,

in a slow, triumphant tone.

"And the avenger of her mother!" cried the voice of Gipsy herself, as

she stood before them. "Oh, wonderful Doctor Wiseman! astonishing indeed

is thy talent for invention and hardihood. What a strain on your

imagination it must have been, to invent such a story! Have you ever

heard of the proverb, 'Murder will out,' my lord and master? Ho, there!

Burke and Johnston, enter! here is your prisoner!"

She opened the door as she spoke, and the constables entered.

"What in the devil's name means this?" exclaimed the doctor, growing

deadly pale.

"Yes, call on your master," mocked Gipsy; "he has stood by you long, but

I fear he will not serve you more. Quick, there, Burke! on with the

handcuffs. Gently, Doctor Wiseman--gently, my dear sir; you will hurt

your delicate wrists if you struggle so. Did any prophetic seer ever

foretell, Doctor Wiseman, your end would be by the halter?"

"What means this outrage? Unhand me, villains!" exclaimed the doctor,

hoarse with rage and fear, as he struggled madly to free himself from

the grasp of the constables.

"Softly, doctor, softly," said Gipsy, in a voice, low, calm, and

mocking; "you are _only_ arrested for the murder of my mother, Esther

Oranmore, just nineteen years ago. Ah! I see you remember it. I feared

such a trifle might have escaped your memory!"

The face of the doctor grew perfectly ghastly. He staggered back, and

would have fallen, had he not been upheld by one of the men. Gipsy stood

before him, with a face perfectly white, save two dark purple spots

burning on either cheek. Her wild eyes were blazing with an intense

light, her lips wreathed in a smile of exultant triumph; her long hair,

streaming in disorder down her back, gave her a look that awed even the

constables themselves.

"And now, Doctor Wiseman," she said, in a slow, bitter, but exulting

voice, "I have fulfilled my vow of vengeance; my revenge is complete, or

will be, when your miserable body swings from the gallows. I see now,

your aim in compelling me to marry you; but you have failed. Satan has

deserted his earthly representative, at last. No earthly power can save

you from hanging now. Away with him to prison! The very air is tainted

which a murderer breathes."

The men advanced to bear off their prisoner. At that moment the

recollection of the astrologer's fell prediction flashed across his

mind. Word for word it had been fulfilled. Before him, in ghastly array,

arose the scaffold, the hangman, his dying agonies, and the terrible

hereafter. Overcome by fear, horror, and remorse, with a piercing shriek

of utter woe, the wretched man fell senseless to the floor.

"Take him away," said Gipsy, sternly, turning aside with a shudder of

disgust; "my eyes loathe the sight of him!"

They bore him away. Gipsy stood at the window listening, until the last

sound of the carriage died away in the distance; then, abruptly turning,

she quitted the room, leaving the squire stunned, speechless, and

bewildered by the rapidity with which all this had taken place.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

ANOTHER SURPRISE.

"No heiress art thou, lady, but the child

Of one who's still unknown."

Great was the excitement and consternation which the news of Dr.

Wiseman's crime and arrest created in St. Mark's and the neighboring

city. The peculiar and romantic circumstances attending it, imperfectly

known as they were, the respectability of the parties implicated, the

high standing of the prisoner in society--all contributed to add to the

general interest of the case.

The rapid and exciting events, the startling discovery that Gipsy was

his grandchild, so confounded and bewildered the squire, who was never

noted for the brightness of his intellect, that it completely upset his

equilibrium; and his days were passed alone, smoking and staring

stupidly at every one he saw. As for Lizzie, she was too feeble and

languid either to feel horror or surprise, and a faint stare and shiver

was the only effect the news produced upon her. Mrs. Gower groaned in

spirit over the depravity of mankind in general, and Dr. Wiseman in

particular; and generally passed her days in solemn exhortations to the

servants, to be warned by his fearful example, and mend their ways.

On Gipsy, therefore, all the business of the household devolved. A great

change had come over the elf; her laughing days seemed passed; and

quietly establishing herself as mistress of the household, she issued

her orders with a quiet dignity and calm authority, that commanded

obedience and respect. She wrote to Louis, informing him of all that had

occurred, and desiring him to return home immediately.

The only moments of relaxation which Gipsy ever allowed herself were her

visits to Valley Cottage, listening to the gentle words of

Celeste--"dear Celeste," as Gipsy called her. Day by day she had grown

paler and frailer, her step had lost its airy lightness, her cheeks no

longer wore the hue of health; but no complaint ever passed her lips.

Gipsy often passed her nights at the cottage, feeling it a comfort to

pour her troubles into the sympathizing ears of her friend. And Celeste

would forget her own sorrow in soothing and consoling the poor,

half-crazed little elf.

Miss Hagar, whose health had for some time been failing, was now unable

to leave her bed. Fearing the shock might prove fatal, Celeste had taken

care she should not hear of her brother's arrest. As for Minnette, no

one knew where she was; and, indeed, few cared--for her hard, selfish

nature had made her disliked by all.

One evening, Mrs. Gower sat in one of the upper chambers conversing with

Mrs. Donne, whose life, it will be remembered, Gipsy saved. That worthy

old lady was still an inmate of Sunset Hall, and unwilling to leave her

comfortable quarters while suffering with the "rheumatiz." In the

confusion and excitement following the arrest, she had been almost

totally neglected, and had as yet no opportunity of learning the

particulars. Providentially encountering Mrs. Gower, when really dying

of curiosity, she began plying her with questions; and the worthy

housekeeper, delighted to find so attentive a listener, sat down, and

with much gravity began narrating the whole affair, while the attention

of her auditor deepened every moment.

"Laws a massy 'pon me!" exclaimed Mrs. Donne, as she ceased; "was she

picked up on the beach, Christmas eve, nineteen years ago?"

"Yes; astonishing, isn't it?"

"'Stonishing! I guess so!" said Mrs. Donne; "if you knew what I do, you'd

say so."

"Why, what do you know? _do_ tell me," said Mrs. Gower, whose curiosity

was aroused.

"Well, I don't mind if I do; though I did intend to carry the secret to

the grave with me. But as I couldn't help it, they can't do nothing to

me for losing the child.

"On the very night you speak of, Christmas eve, nineteen years ago, I

was brought by a young man to a house in the distant part of the city to

nurse a woman and child. The young man was tall, and dark, and powerful

handsome, but sort o' fierce-looking; and she--oh, she was the loveliest

creature I ever laid my eyes onto! She was nothin' but a child herself,

too, and a furriner, I suspect, by her tongue.

"Well, I staid there 'long with her, till nigh onto midnight; and then I

wrapped myself up to come home. As I was going out, he called on me to

stop. So I sat down to listen, and he told me, if I'd take the child

home with me, and take care on't, he'd pay me well. I had neither chick

nor child of my own, besides being a widder, and I took him at his word.

He gave me a purse with a good round sum of money in it, on the spot,

and promised me more.

"I took the little one, wrapped it up in my shawl, and set out for home.

"On the way I got tired; and when I reached the beach, I sat down to

rest. Two or three minutes after, there was a great cry of fire. I

became frightened; dropped the baby in my confusion; wandered off I

know not how; and when I came back, not long afterward, it was gone.

"Well, I 'clare to man! I was most crazy. I hunted up and down the beach

till nigh mornin', but I could see no signs of it; and I supposed the

tide carried the poor little thing away. I was dreadfully sorry, you may

be sure; but as it couldn't be helped, I thought I'd make the best of

it, and say nothing about it. So when the young man came, I told him it

was doing very well. And he never asked to see it, but gave me some

money, and went away.

"For some time after he continued sending me money; but he soon stopped

altogether, and I never heard from either of them more."

"Did you ever find out his name?" inquired Mrs. Gower.

"Yes. One day he dropped his handkerchief, going out. I picked it up,

and his name was written on it in full: it was, _Barry Oranmore_!"

"Barry Oranmore!" repeated Mrs. Gower, thunderstruck.

"Yes, that was his name; and they were the handsomest pair ever I saw.

I'm sure I'd know either of 'em again, if ever I saw them."

Much agitated, Mrs. Gower arose, and going to where she had laid the

miniature she had found on his neck when dead, she handed it to Mrs.

Donne. That personage seized it, with a stifled shriek, as she

exclaimed:

"My goodness gracious! it's the picter of the lady I 'tended. I'd know

that face anywhere."

"Oh! dear! dear! dear! what _would_ Miss Lizzie say if she heard this?"

ejaculated Mrs. Gower, holding up her hands. "And the child, poor thing!

are you sure it was drowned?"

"Well, no; I ain't to say _sure_; but it's most likely. It was an

odd-looking little thing, too, with a nat'ral mark, like a red cross,

right onto its shoulder, which is something I never seed on any baby

before."

But to the surprise of Mrs. Donne, Mrs. Gower sprang panting to her

feet, and grasped her by the arm, exclaiming:

"On which shoulder was that mark? Say on which shoulder!"

"On the left. Laws a massy 'pon me! what's the matter?" said the

astonished Mrs Donne.

"Good heavens! Can the child she speaks of have been----"

"Who's?" inquired Mrs. Donne, eagerly.

Before Mrs. Gower could reply, she heard Gipsy's foot in the passage.

Going out, she caught her by the arm and drew her into the room. Then

before the young lady could recover from her astonishment at this

summary proceeding, she had unfastened her dress, pulled it down off her

left shoulder, and displayed a _deep-red cross_.

Recovering herself, Gipsy sprang back, exclaiming indignantly:

"What in the name of all that's impolite, has got into you, Aunty Gower?

Pretty work this, pulling the clothes off a lady's back without even

saying, by your leave."

But Mrs. Donne had seen the mark, and fell back, with a stifled cry.

"That's it! that's it exactly! She's the child saved, after all."

"Why, whose child am I _now_?" said the astonished Gipsy.

"Can you describe the shawl the child you speak of was wrapped in?"

inquired Mrs. Gower, without giving her time to answer Gipsy's question.

"Yes, that I can--it was my own wedding shawl, as my blessed husband,

who is now an angel up above, bought for me afore we were married. It

was bright red with a white border, and the letters J. D. (which stands

for Jane Donne) in one corner, and the letters J. D. (which stands for

_James_ Donne) in t'other," replied Mrs. Donne, with animation.

Mrs. Gower sank into a seat and covered her face with her hands; while

Gipsy stood gazing from one to the other in the utmost perplexity.

"What does all this mean?" she asked, at length.

Without replying, Mrs. Gower left the room, and presently reappeared

with a faded crimson shawl, which she spread upon the bed. Mrs. Donne

uttered a cry of joy when she saw it.

"Sakes alive! that is the very one. Where on earth did you get it?"

"Wrapped around the child."

"Aunty, pray tell me what in the world does all this mean?" exclaimed

Gipsy.

For reply, Mrs. Gower briefly narrated what had been told her by Mrs.

Donne. The surprise of Gipsy may be imagined, but her surprise scarcely

equaled her pleasure.

"Thank God!" she fervently exclaimed, as Mrs. Gower ceased, "then I have

_not_ married the murderer of my mother--that thought would have

rendered me wretched to my dying day. My mother, then, may be living

yet, for all you know."

In her exultation Gipsy first rode over to tell Celeste, then coming

home she seated herself and wrote the following letter to Louis:

"SUNSET HALL, ST. MARK'S,}

December 23, 18--. }

"DEAR LOUIS: In my last I told you I was the child of your Aunt

Esther, and Alfred Oranmore; since then I have discovered we were

mistaken. My father and yours, Louis, were the same--who my

mother was, I know not; but Aunty Gower has shown me a likeness

found on my father's neck when dead, representing a young and

lovely girl, who must have been my mother; for though the picture

is fair, and I am dark, yet they say they can trace a strong

resemblance between us. It seems I was taken away by the nurse

the night of my birth, and left on the shore, where aunty found

me. What has become of their infant is yet unknown, but it may be

it, too, was saved, and will yet be found. How singularly things

are turning out! Who would ever think we were brother and sister?

Do hasten home, dear Louis, more hearts than one are longing for

your coming. I have a thousand things yet to tell you, but you

know I hate writing, so I will wait until I see you. Your

affectionate _sister_,

GIPSY."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE HEIRESS OF SUNSET HALL.

"A perfect woman, nobly planned,

To warm, to comfort, and command;

And yet a spirit still and bright,

With something of an angel light."--WORDSWORTH.

The darkened rooms, the hushed footfalls, the whispered words, the

anxious faces, betoken the presence of sickness. Like some long, dark

effigy, Miss Hagar lies on her bed, prostrated in body and mind, and

sick unto death. By her side sits Celeste, in a quiet dress of soft

gray, her golden hair lying in bands on her fair cheeks, pale and thin

with long days and nights of unceasing watching.

Never had the tender love and cherishing care of the young girl been so

manifested as in the sick-room of her benefactress. Night and day, like

some angel of mercy, she hovered over the couch of the invalid--ready at

the slightest motion to hold the cup to her parched lips, or bathe her

burning brow. Nothing could induce her to leave her side, save, when

tired Nature could watch no longer, she sought her couch to catch a few

moments' sleep. And Miss Hagar, with the usual fretful waywardness of

illness, would have no one near her but Celeste. Gipsy had offered her

services as assistant nurse, but was most promptly rejected.

"I want Celeste. Where is Celeste?" was ever the cry of the invalid.

It was the second week of Miss Hagar's illness. For days she had been

raving deliriously, recognizing no one, not even Celeste. Toward the

close of the tenth day she grew worse, and the doctor pronounced the

crisis of her disease at hand.

Evening was approaching, the evening of a bleak January day. The snow

was falling drearily without; and the cold wind wailed and moaned around

the lonely house. The fire, burning low in the grate, cast a red,

fitful, uncertain light through the room, giving everything an

unearthly, spectral appearance. Celeste sat by the window, her chin

resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the desolate prospect without,

her mind and heart far away--far away. Her face was wet with tears, but

she knew it not; sobs, long and deep, that she struggled in vain to

repress, swelled her bosom. Never in her life had she felt so utterly

desolate; yet a sort of awe mingled with her tears, as she felt herself

in the presence of death.

Night fell in storm and darkness. In the deep gloom, nothing could be

discerned save the white; unearthly light of the drifting snow. Celeste

arose, drew the curtain, lit a small lamp, and was about to resume her

seat, when she heard her name pronounced by the lips of the invalid.

In a moment she was bending over her. Reason had returned to its throne;

and for the first time in many weeks, Miss Hagar recognized her.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Celeste, joyfully. "Dear Miss Hagar, do you not

know me?"

"Certainly, Celeste," said the invalid, passing her hand across her

eyes, as if to clear away a mist. "I have been ill, have I not?"

"Yes; but now you will recover. I feared you would never speak to me

more; but now you will get well, and we will be happy together once

more."

"No, child, I will never get well. Something here tells me that I am

called," said Miss Hagar, solemnly, laying her hand on her heart. "I am

sinking fast, and perhaps I may never see the morning dawn. I wish I

could see them all before I die. Send for my brother and Archie Rivers,

and little Gipsy, and Minnette! Poor Minnette! I have been harsh to her

sometimes, I am afraid; and I would ask her pardon before I depart. Why

don't you send for them, Celeste?"

What should she do? What ought she to say? How could she tell her what

had happened?

"Dear Miss Hagar," she said, gently, "neither the doctor, nor Minnette,

nor Archie, are at home. But if you will see Gipsy, I will go for her."

"All gone! all gone!" murmured the sick woman, feebly, "scattered far

and wide. But you, Celeste, you have stood by me through all; you have

been the staff and comfort of my old age. May God bless you for it!

Truly has he said: 'Cast thy bread upon the waters, and it shall return

unto thee after many days.' But, child, have you never wondered who you

were; have you never wished to know who were your parents?"

"Oh, yes, often!" replied Celeste, eagerly, "but I knew, when the proper

time came, you would tell me; so I never asked."

"Well, that time has come at last. It is but little I can tell; for I

neither know who you are, nor what is your name. The way you came under

my care is simply this:

"One night, as I was returning home from the village, at an unusually

late hour, a little girl came running out from a wretched hovel, and

begged me to enter with her, for her aunty, as she called her, was

dying. I went in, and found an old woman lying on a heap of rags and

straw, whose end was evidently at hand. I did what I could for her; but

I saw she was sinking fast. Her whole care seemed to be for her little

girl, who crouched at the foot of the bed, weeping bitterly. In her

anxiety for her, she seemed to forget her own sufferings.

"'What will she do when I am gone? Who will protect her and care for her

in this selfish world?

"Is she an orphan?" I asked.

"'That I do not know. The child is a foundling, and no relation to me;

but I love her as though she were my own child. Oh! what will become of

her when I am gone?

"'And have you no clue to her birth?

"'None. One Christmas eve, about twelve years ago, my husband was caught

in a storm coming from A----. As he was hurrying along by the shore

road, he saw a sleigh in advance of him, and hastened on in hopes to

overtake it. In his hurry his foot struck against something on the

ground, and he stumbled and fell. As he arose, he turned to examine it;

and judge of his surprise at finding it to be a young infant, wrapped in

a long shawl, and sweetly sleeping. In his astonishment he stood rooted

to the ground, unable to move, and the sleigh passed on, and was soon

out of sight. It was evident to him that the inmates of the sleigh had

either left it there to perish, or it had accidentally fallen out. In

either case, the only thing he could do was to take it home, which he

did; and handed it to me, half frozen, the next morning. Our own little

girl was dead; and this child seemed so like a god-send to fill her

place, that I received it with joy, and resolved to adopt it, if its

parents never claimed it. For months we lived in the constant dread that

it would be taken from us; but years passed on, and no inquiry was ever

made concerning it. We named her Celeste; for there was something truly

celestial in her sweet, angel-like face, and loving nature; and never

did parents love any only child as we did her.

"'We were in very comfortable circumstances then; but when Celeste was

about eight years old, my husband died; and after that everything seemed

against us. We got poorer and poorer; and I was forced to take in

sewing, to keep us from starving. For nearly four years I worked at

this, stitching away from daylight till dark; and then scarcely able to

keep soul and body together. Celeste assisted me nobly; but at length my

health began to fail, and I resolved to leave the city. My husband's

friends had formerly resided here, and I was in hopes of finding them;

but when I came, I learned that they were all gone. Last night I was

taken dangerously ill; and now I feel that I am dying; and my poor

Celeste will be left utterly friendless and alone. She is beautiful, as

you see; and what her fate may be, should she live to grow up, I dare

not think of. My poor, poor Celeste!

"The deep affliction of the dying woman, and the heartfelt grief of the

child, touched me deeply. I resolved that the poor orphan should not be

left to struggle alone through the world. I was not rich, but still I

was able to provide for her. In a few brief words I told her my

resolution; and never shall I forget the fervent gratitude that beamed

from the dying eyes, as she listened.

"'May God forever bless you!' she exclaimed, 'and may the Father of the

fatherless reward you for this!

"That night she died; and next day she was buried at the expense of the

parish. I took you home; and since then you have been my sole earthly

joy, Celeste; and now that I am dying, I leave you, as a legacy, your

history. Perhaps some day you may yet discover your parents, if they

live."

Utterly exhausted, Miss Hagar's lips ceased to move. During all the time

she had been speaking, Celeste had remained as if riveted to the spot,

with an emotion unnoticed by Miss Hagar. Her pale face grew whiter and

whiter, her eyes were slowly dilating, her lips parted; until, when the

spinster ceased, her head dropped on her hands, while she exclaimed,

half aloud:

"Can I believe my ears? Then I am that other child left to perish on the

beach that stormy Christmas Eve. Good heavens! Can it be that I am the

child of Esther Erliston? Have I discovered who I am at last?"

"What are you saying there?" said Miss Hagar, feebly.

"Miss Hagar!" exclaimed Celeste, starting with sudden energy to her

feet, "I am going to Sunset Hall, for Squire Erliston. You must repeat

this story to him; it concerns him more than you are aware of, and will

clear up a mystery he cannot now penetrate."

"As you please, child," said Miss Hagar, too weak to resist; "but you

will not stay long?"

"No; I will be back in less than an hour," replied Celeste, whose cheeks

were now flushed, and her eye burning with excitement, as she seized her

cloak and hood, and hurried into the kitchen.

Curly, their only servant, was dozing in her chair by the hearth.

Rousing her up, Celeste sent her in to watch with her patient until her

return.

"Remember you must not fall asleep until my return; I will be back very

shortly," said the young mistress, as she tied on her mantle.

"But laws! misses, you ain't a goin' out in de storm to-night!" said

Curly, opening her eyes in wonder.

"Yes, I must, for an hour or so. Secure the door, and do not leave Miss

Hagar until I come back," said Celeste, as she opened the door.

A blinding drift of snow met her in the face; a fierce gust of wind

pierced through her wrappings, and sent the embers on the hearth

whirling redly through the room. It required all her strength to close

the door after her, but she succeeded, after two or three efforts, and

stepped out into the wild wintry storm.

At length St. Mark's was reached; and looking up, she could see the

welcome lights of Sunset Hall streaming redly and warmly on the cold,

drifting snow. Elevated above the village, its windows glowing with

light, it looked the very picture of a home of ease and luxury.

The sight imparted new energy to her drooping limbs; and hurrying still

more rapidly forward, in five minutes more she stood before the

astonished inmates of the hall, all white with falling snow.

For a wonder Gipsy was at home. She sat gazing into the glowing fire--a

sad, dreamy look on her usually bright, dark face--her little hands

folded listlessly in her lap, thinking of one far away; the squire,

utterly disregarding all the laws of etiquette, was smoking his pipe

placidly in his arm-chair; and Mrs. Gower sat dozing in the chimney

corner; Lizzie had been driven to her chamber by the choking fumes of

the tobacco.

"Good Heavens! Celeste! what has happened? What has brought you out

to-night in this storm?" exclaimed Gipsy, springing in dismay to her

feet, as Celeste--her garments covered with snow-flakes--stood before

them, like a moving frost-maiden.

The squire, equally dismayed, had taken his pipe from his mouth, and sat

staring at her in utter bewilderment; while Mrs. Gower, roused from her

slumbers, arose from her seat, and drew her over to the fire.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Gower, I cannot sit," said Celeste, hurriedly.

"Miss Hagar is dying, and has an important revelation to make to you,

sir. It is necessary you should hear it. Will you accompany me back?"

she said, turning to the squire.

"Dying! important revelations! Lord bless me!" ejaculated the squire;

"won't it do to-morrow?" he added, as a wild blast made the windows

rattle. "I don't care about venturing out in this storm."

"You shall go, Guardy," said Gipsy, rising impetuously, "and I'll go,

too. Sit down and warm yourself, Celeste--we'll be ready in five

minutes. Aunty Gower, please ring for Jupe. Pity if you can't venture

out in the storm, when Celeste has walked here in it to tell you. Jupe,"

she added, as that sable individual entered, "be off and bring round the

carriage, and don't be longer than five minutes, at your peril! Here,

Totty! Totty! bring down my hood, and mantle, and furs; and your

master's hat, gloves, and greatcoat. Quick, there!"

Utterly bewildered by the rapidity with which these orders were given,

the squire, unable to resist, found himself enveloped in his fur-lined

greatcoat, seated in the carriage, between the two girls, ere he found

voice to protest against such summary proceedings.

The fierceness of the storm, which increased in violence, precluded the

possibility of entering into conversation; and the explanation was,

therefore, of necessity, deferred until they stood safely within the

cozy kitchen of Valley Cottage.

In a few brief words, Celeste gave them to understand that it concerned

that "other child," left that eventful Christmas eve on the bleak stormy

beach. This was sufficient to rivet their attention; and the squire, in

his anxiety and impatience, forced his way into the sick-room, and stood

by the bedside of Miss Hagar.

"Sorry to see you so sick, Miss Hagar; 'pon my life I am. I never

expected to see you confined to your bed. Celeste--Miss Pearl, I

mean--has told me you have something of the greatest importance to

communicate to me."

"I do not see how it can possibly concern you, Squire Erliston," said

Miss Hagar, faintly; "but since it is Celeste's desire, I have no

objection to relate to you what I have already told her. Oh!" said the

sufferer, turning over with a groan.

"Curly, leave the room," said Gipsy, who now entered; while Celeste

tenderly raised the head of the invalid, and held a strengthening

draught to her lips. Brokenly, feebly, and with many interruptions did

the dying woman repeat her tale. Wonder, incredulity, and amazement were

alternately depicted on the countenances of the squire and Gipsy, as

they listened. She ceased at last; and totally exhausted, turned wearily

aside.

"Then you, Celeste, are that child. You are the heiress of Sunset Hall!

Wonderful! wonderful!" ejaculated Gipsy, pale with breathless interest.

"And my grandchild!" said the squire, gazing upon her like one

bewildered.

"Hush!" said Celeste, in a choking voice, "she is dying."

It was even so. The mysterious shadow of death had fallen on that grim

face, softening its gaunt outline into a look of strange, deep awe. The

eyes had a far-off, mystic gaze, as if striving to behold something dim

and distant.

All had fallen on their knees, and Celeste's choking sobs alone broke

the silence.

The sound seemed to disturb Miss Hagar. She turned her face, with a

troubled look, on the grief-bowed head of the young girl.

"Do not weep for me, Celeste, but for yourself. Who will care for you

when I am dead?"

"I will!" said the squire, solemnly; "she is my own flesh and blood, and

all that I have is hers. She is the long-lost, the rightful heiress of

Mount Sunset Hall."

A smile of ineffable peace settled on that dying face. "Then I can go in

peace," she said; "my last care is gone. Good-bye, Celeste. God bless

you all! Tell my brother I spoke of him; and ask Minnette to forgive me.

Minnette--Minnette----"

The words died away. She spoke no more. Her long, weary pilgrimage was

over, and Miss Hagar was at rest.

"Don't cry--don't cry," said the squire, dashing a tear from his own

eyes, as he stooped over the grief-convulsed form of Celeste. "She's

gone the way of all flesh, the way we must all go some day. Everybody

must die, you know; it's only natural they should. 'In the midst of

death we are in life,' as Solomon says."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

"LAST SCENE OF ALL."

"Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or snow,

We will stand by each other, however it blow--

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain,

Shall be to our true love as links to the chain."

--LONGFELLOW.

Two months have passed away. It is a balmy, genial day in March. Never

shone the sun brighter, never looked St. Mark's fairer; but within

Sunset Hall all is silent and gloomy. The very servants step around on

tiptoe, with hushed voices and noiseless footfalls. The squire is not in

his usual seat, and the parlor is tenanted only by Gipsy and Celeste.

The former is pacing up and down the room, with a face almost deadly

pale, with sternly-compressed lips, and sad, gloomy eyes. Celeste is

kneeling like one in prayer, her face buried in her hands; she, too, is

pale with awe and horror. To-day, Dr. Wiseman _dies on the scaffold_.

They needed no evidence to condemn him. Fear seemed to have paralyzed

his cowardly soul, and he confessed all; and from the moment he heard

his sentence, he settled down in a stupor of despair, from which nothing

could arouse him.

The sound of carriage-wheels coming up the avenue roused them both, at

last. Celeste sprang to her feet, and both stood breathless, when the

door opened, and Squire Erliston entered.

"Well?" came from the eager lips of Gipsy.

"All is over," said the squire, gloomily, sinking into a seat. "I

visited him in prison, but he did not know me--he only stared at me with

a look of stupid imbecility. I could not arouse him for a long time,

until, at last, I mentioned your name, Gipsy; then he held out his arms

before him, as well as his chains would allow, and cried out, in a voice

of agony I will never forget: 'Keep her off! keep her off! she will

murder me!' Seeing I could do nothing for him, I came away; and in that

state of stupid insensibility, he was launched into eternity."

Celeste, sick and faint with terror, sank into a seat and covered her

face with her hands, and Gipsy shuddered slightly.

"And so he has perished--died in his sins," she said, at last. "Once, I

vowed never to forgive him; but I retract that oath. May heaven forgive

him, as I do! And now, I never want to hear his name again."

"But Minnette, where can she be? Who will tell her of this?" said

Celeste, looking up.

"It is most strange what can have become of her," said the squire. "I

have spared no pains to discover her, but, so far, all has been in vain.

Heaven alone knows whether she is living or dead."

"It is like her usual eccentricity," said Gipsy. "I know not where she

is, yet I feel a sort of presentiment we will meet her again."

* * * * *

"Gipsy, come here," called good Mrs. Gower, one day, about a fortnight

after, as that young lady passed by her room on her way down stairs.

"Well, what is it?" said Gipsy, entering, and standing with her back to

the door.

"Just look at this likeness; have you ever seen anybody like it?"

Gipsy took it, and looked long and earnestly.

"Well," said she, at length, "if I were a little less tawny, and had

blue eyes and yellow hair, I should say it looked remarkably like

myself--only I never, the best of times, had such a pretty face."

"Well, I was just struck by its resemblance to you. I think it must be

your mother's picture."

"My mother's picture! My dear Aunty Gower, whatever put such an absurd

notion into your head?"

"Because I am quite sure it is. Its very resemblance to you proves this;

besides, I found it on your poor father's neck when he was dead."

"It is a sweet face," said Gipsy, heaving a wistful little sigh. "Who

knows whether the original be living or dead? Oh, Aunty Gower! it may be

that I still have a mother living in some quarter of the globe, who is

ignorant she yet has a daughter alive. If I could only think so I would

travel the world over to find her."

At this moment Totty burst into the room, her black face all aglow with

delight.

"Oh, misses! Oh, Misses Sour! Oh, Misses Gipsy! guess who's 'rived," she

breathlessly exclaimed.

"Who? who?" exclaimed both, eagerly.

"Young Marse Louis! he's down in de parlor wid----"

But without waiting to hear more, Gipsy sprang from the room, burst

into the parlor, and beheld Louis standing in the middle of the floor,

and the living counterpart of the picture she had just seen, leaning on

his arm!

"Gipsy! my sister!" he exclaimed, but before he could advance toward

her, a wild, passionate cry broke from the lips of the strange lady, as

she sprang forward, and clasped the astonished Gipsy in her arms.

"My daughter! my daughter!" she cried, covering her face with burning

kisses.

Gipsy grew deadly pale; she strove to speak; but wonder and joy chained

her ever-ready tongue.

"She is your mother, Gipsy," said Louis, answering her wild look. "I

leave her to explain all to you; your letters first revealed all to me.

But Celeste--where is she?"

"In the drawing-room, reading," was the reply.

He hastily quitted the room, and noiselessly opened the drawing-room

door; Celeste was there, but not reading. She was lying on a lounge, her

face hidden in the cushions, her hands clasped over her eyes to repress

her falling tears, her heart yearning for the living and the dead. Her

thoughts were of him she believed far away; what were wealth and honors

to her, without him? Her tears fell fast and faster, while she

involuntarily exclaimed: "Oh, Louis, Louis! where are you now?"

"Here, by your side, Celeste, never to leave it more!" he answered,

folding her suddenly in his arms.

"'Twas his own voice, she could not err!

Throughout the breathing world's extent

There was but _one_ such voice for her--

So kind, so soft, so eloquent."

With a wild cry, she unclasped her hands from her eyes and looked

up--looked up to encounter those dear, dark eyes, she had never expected

to see more.

Great was the surprise of everybody, at this double arrival; and many

were the explanations that followed.

There was Louis, who had to explain how he had met Madame Evelini, and

how he had learned her story; and how, on reading Gipsy's account of the

tale told by Mrs. Donne, he had known immediately who was her mother.

Then, though the task was a painful one, he was forced to recur to the

fate of Minnette, and set their anxiety as rest about her. She had gone

to Italy with some friends, he said; he met her there, and learned from

her she was about to take the vail, and there they would find her, safe.

Then Gipsy had to recount, at length, all that had transpired since his

departure--which was but briefly touched upon in her letters.

It was a strange meeting, when the two living wives of the dead husband

stood face to face. Lizzie, too listless and languid to betray much

emotion of any kind, listened with faint curiosity; but tears sprang

into the eyes of Madame Evelini, as she stooped to kiss the pale brow of

the little lady. She refused to be called Mrs. Oranmore; saying that

Lizzie had held the title longest, and it should still be hers.

"And now there is one other matter to arrange," said Louis, taking the

hand of Celeste; "and that is, your consent to our union. Will you

bestow upon me, sir, the hand of your grandchild?"

"To be sure, I will," said the squire, joyfully. "I was just going to

propose, myself, that we should end the play with a wedding. We've all

been in the dismals long enough, but a marriage will set us all right

again. Come here, you baggage," turning to Celeste, who was blushing

most becomingly; "will you have this graceless scamp, here, for your

lord and master? He needs somebody to look after him, or he'll be

running to Timbuctoo, or Italy, or some of those heathenish places,

to-morrow or next day--just as he did before. Do you consent to take

charge of him, and keep him in trim for the rest of his life?"

"Ye-es, sir," said Celeste, looking down, and speaking in the slow,

hesitating tone of her childhood.

"Hooray! there's a sensible answer for you. Now I propose that the

wedding takes place forthwith. Where's the good of losing time? 'Never

delay till to-morrow what you can do to-day,' as Solomon says. What's

your opinion, good folks?"

"Mine's decidedly the same as yours, sir," said Louis, promptly.

"Then suppose the affair comes off to-morrow," said the squire, in a

business-like tone.

"Oh! no, no!" said Celeste, with such a look of alarm, that the others

laughed outright; "a month--two months--"

"Nonsense," said the squire, gruffly, "two months indeed--no, nor two

weeks, either. Next Thursday, at the furthest. You can have all your

trumpery ready by that time."

"You will have to yield, Celeste," said Gipsy. "Just see how imploringly

Louis looks!"

"That's too soon," said Celeste, still pleading for a reprieve. "I never

could be ready----"

"Yes, you could," cut in Gipsy. "I'll engage to have everything

prepared; and, like Marshal Ney, when I enter the field, the battle is

won. Now, not another word. Louis, can't you make her hold her tongue?

My dear mother, you must try your eloquence."

"You will have to yield, my dear," said Madame, smiling; "there is no

use attempting to resist this impetuous daughter of mine."

"Of course there's not," said Gipsy--"everybody does as I tell them.

Now, Louis, take the future Mrs. Oranmore out of this. Aunty Gower and I

have got to lay our heads together (figuratively speaking); for on our

shoulders, I suppose, must devolve all the bother and bustle of

preparation."

Gipsy was in her element during the rest of the week.

The wedding was to be private--the recent death of Miss Hagar and Dr.

Wiseman rendering the country fashion of a ball in the evening out of

the question; but still they had a busy time of it in Sunset Hall. It

was arranged that the newly-wedded pair should go abroad immediately

after their marriage, accompanied by Gipsy and her mother.

The wedding-day dawned, bright and beautiful, as all wedding-days

should. Celeste wished to be married in the church, and no one thought

of opposing her will. Gipsy stood beside her, robed in white; and if her

face rivaled in pallor the dress she wore, it was thinking of her own

gloomy bridal, and of him who had bade her an eternal farewell that

night. Mrs. Gower was there, looking very fat, and happy, and

respectable, in the venerable brown satin, that was never donned save on

an occasion like the present. Lizzie was there, too, supported by Madame

Evelini, and looking less listless and far more cheerful than she had

been for many a day. There was the squire, looking very pompous and

dogmatical, waiting to give the bride away, and repeating, inwardly, all

the proverbs he could recollect, by way of offering up a prayer for

their happiness. There was Louis, so tall, and stately, and handsome,

looking the very happiest individual in existence. And lastly, there was

our own Celeste--our "Star of the Valley"--sweeter and fairer than ever,

with her blushing face, and drooping eyes, and gentle heart fluttering

with joy and happiness.

The church was crowded to excess; and a universal buzz of admiration

greeted the bridal pair, as they entered. Beneath the gaze of a hundred

eyes they moved up the aisle, and

"Before the altar now they stand--the bridegroom and the bride;

And who can tell what lovers feel in this, their hour of pride."

A few words and all was over; and leaning on the arm of the proud and

happy Louis, Celeste received the congratulations of her friends.

Breakfast awaited them on their return to the hall. Immediately after,

they were to start for Washington; but before departing, Celeste,

turning to Louis, said:

"Before I go, I would visit the grave of poor Miss Hagar. Come with me."

It was not far from Sunset Hall. A white marble tombstone marked the

spot, bearing the inscription:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY

OF

HAGAR WISEMAN.

And underneath were the words:

"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."

Tears fell fast from the eyes of Celeste, as she knelt by that lonely

grave; but they were not all tears of sorrow.

* * * * *

"And this is Venice! Bless me! what a queer-looking old place!"

exclaimed Gipsy, lying back amid the cushions of a gondola. "How in the

world do they manage to make everything look so funny? This gondola, or

whatever they call it, is quite a comfortable place to go to sleep in.

I'll bring one of them home to sail on the bay--I will, as sure as

shooting. Maybe it won't astonish the natives, slightly. Well this _is_

a nice climate, and no mistake. I don't think I'd have any objection to

pitching my tent here, myself. What's this the poet says--

"If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,

Think, think what a heaven she would make of this 'ere!"

"Oh, what a shame! to parody the 'Light of the Harem,'" said Celeste,

laughing. "But here we are, on land."

It was the day after their arrival in Venice; and, now, under the

guidance of Louis, they were going, in a body, to visit Minnette.

They reached the convent, and were admitted by the old portress--who, as

if it were a matter of course, ushered them into the chapel and left

them.

For a moment, the whole party stood still in awe. The church was hung

with black, and dimly lighted by wax tapers. Clouds of incense filled

the air, and the black-robed figures of the nuns looked like shadows, as

they knelt in prayer. Many strangers were present, but a deep, solemn

hush reigned around.

The cause of all this was soon explained. At the foot of the altar,

robed in her nun's dress, the lifeless form of one of the sisterhood lay

in state. The beautiful face, shaded by the long, black vail, wore an

expression of heavenly peace; the white hands clasped a crucifix to the

cold breast. A nun stood at her head, and another at her feet--holding

lighted tapers in their hands--so still and motionless, that they

resembled statues.

_It was Minnette!_ Their hearts almost ceased to beat, as they gazed.

The look of deep calm--of child-like rest--on her face, forbade sorrow,

but inspired awe. More lovely, and far more gentle than she had ever

looked in life, she lay, with a smile still wreathing the sweet,

beautiful lips. The blind eyes saw at last.

Suddenly, the deep, solemn stillness was broken, by the low, mournful

wail of the organ; and like a wild cry, many voices chanted forth the

dirge:

"_Dies irae, dies illa

Solvet saeclum in favilla.

Pie Jesu Dominie,

Dona eis requiem._"

Not one heart there, but echoed the burden of the grand old hymn:

"Lord of mercy--Jesus blest,

Grant thy servant light and rest!"

"Let us go--this scene is too much for you," said Louis, as Celeste

clung, pale and trembling, to his arm. And together they quitted the

convent.

They were followed by one, who, leaning against a pillar, had watched

them intently all the time. He stepped after them into the street; and

Louis, suddenly looking up, beheld him.

"Archie!" he cried, in a tone of mingled amazement and delight.

A stifled shriek broke from the lips of Gipsy, at the name. Yes, it was

indeed our old friend Archie--no longer the laughing, fun-loving Archie

of other days, but looking pale, and thin, and almost stern.

"O, _dear_ Archie! how glad I am to see you again!" exclaimed Celeste,

seizing one of his hands, while Louis wrung the other; and Gipsy drew

back, turning first red, and then pale, and then red again. Madame

Evelini, alone, looked very much puzzled what to make of the whole

affair.

"Surely, you have not forgotten your old friend, Gipsy?" said Louis, at

last, stepping aside and placing them face to face.

"I am happy to meet you again, Mrs. Wiseman," said Archie, bowing

coldly.

"Well, if you _are_," said Louis, looking at him with a doubtful

expression, "your looks most confoundedly belie your words. Let me

present you to Madame Evelini, Mrs. Wiseman's mother."

"Her mother!" cried the astonished Archie.

"Why, yes. Surely, you don't mean to say you have not heard of the

strange events that have lately taken place at St. Mark's?"

"Even so; I am in a state of most lamentable ignorance. I pray you,

enlighten me."

"What! have you not even heard that your uncle--Dr. Wiseman--and Miss

Hagar were dead?"

"Dead!" said Archie, starting, and looking at Gipsy, whose face was now

hidden by her vail.

"Yes; but I see you know nothing about it. Come home with us, and you

shall hear all."

"Yes, do," urged Celeste; "Louis and I will be delighted to have you

join us."

"Louis and _I_," repeated Archie, rather mischievously; "then I perceive

I have the honor of addressing Mrs. Oranmore."

Of course, Celeste laughed and blushed, according to the rule in such

cases. But the scene they had just witnessed had saddened the whole

party; and the journey back was performed in silence. Gipsy was the

gravest of all; and, leaning back in the gondola, with her vail over her

face, she never condescended to open her lips, save when directly

addressed; and then her answers were much shorter than sweet.

But when they went home, to their hotel, and everything was explained,

and he had learned how Gipsy had been forced into a marriage she

abhorred, and the terrible retribution that befell the murderer, matters

began to assume a different appearance. Mr. Rivers had long been of the

opinion that "it is not good for man to be alone," and firmly believed

in the scriptural injunction of becoming a husband of one wife; and

concluded, by proposing in due form to Gipsy--who, after some pressing,

consented to make him happy.

"But not till we go home," was the reply to all his entreaties. "I'm

just going to get married at dear old St. Mark's, and no place else; and

give Aunty Gower a chance to give her brown satin dress another

airing--as ours is likely to be the last wedding at Sunset Hall for some

time, unless Guardy takes it into his head to get married. Now, you

needn't coax; I won't have you till we get home, that's flat." And to

this resolution she adhered, in spite of all his persuasions.

The bridal tour was, of necessity, much shortened by the desperate haste

of Archie--who, like the man with the cork leg, seemed unable to rest in

any place; and tore like a comet through Europe, and breathed not freely

until they stood once more on American soil.

And three weeks after, a wedding took place at St. Mark's, that

surpassed everything of the kind that had ever been heard of before.

Good Aunty Gower was in ecstasies; and the squire, before the party

dispersed, full of champagne and emotion, arose to propose a toast.

"Ladies and fellow-citizens: On the present interesting occasion, I rise

to"--here the speaker took a pinch of snuff--"I rise to"--here a violent

sneeze interrupted him, and drew from him the involuntary remark: "Lord!

what a cold I've got!--as I was saying, I rise to propose the health and

happiness of the bride and bridegroom;" (cheers) "like the flag of our

native land, long may they wave!" (desperate cheering). "Marriage, like

liberty, is a great institution; and I would advise every single man

present to try it. If he has heretofore given up the idea, let him pluck

up courage and try again. 'Better late than never,' as Solomon says."

THE END.

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| |

| Transcriber's Note:-- |

| |

| Punctuation errors have been corrected. |

| |

| The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.|

| |

| Page 42. excssses changed to excesses. |

| (these excesses at last) |

| |

| Page 47. missing word 'to' added. |

| (not long to wait) |

| |

| Page 57. besure changed to be sure. |

| (to be sure you will) |

| |

| Page 60. natter changed to matter. |

| (what's the matter?" said Lizzie) |

| |

| Page 94. inignantly changed to indignantly. |

| (indignantly exclaimed Gipsy) |

| |

| Page 121. necesstiy changed to necessity. |

| (there's no necessity) |

| |

| Page 126. vanishsd changed to vanished. |

| (looks of surprise vanished) |

| |

| Page 132. she changed to he. |

| (For a moment he expected) |

| |

| Page 188. But changed to Out. |

| (Out with the boats) |

| |

| Page 194. duplicate word 'he' removed. |

| (after he had answered) |

| |

| Page 225. momory changed to memory. |

| (by the memory of all) |

| |

| Page 275. gilt changed to gift. |

| (his parting gift) |

| |

| Page 281. absense changed to absence |

| (me during your absence) |

| |

| Page 283. under changed to until. |

| (you did love me, until this) |

| |

| Page 289. woman changed to women. |

| (when two jealous women love each other) |

| |

| Page 309. object changed to objects. |

| (an old man objects to your want) |

| |

| Page 384. guardy changed to Guardy |

| (unless Guardy takes it into his head) |

| |

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