CHAPTER I.

'Twas strange, 'twas passing strange.
Shakspeare.

THE following day proved stormy, and the little party at Major Courtland's were obliged to relinquish the hope of seeing Colonel Grahame in the evening. Abundant as their own resources were, there was not one of them who did not regret the disappointment, though none evinced more chagrin than Captain O'Carroll. His feelings, always ardent, were seldom either disguised or restrained; and, still in the hope of seeing the Colonel, he went perpetually to the windows or the door to watch the clouds, and see if there was any prospect of fair weather.

Towards evening the sky began to brighten with the hues of the setting sun, the wind subsided, the rain ceased; and, cheered by the certainty of a fine evening, he left the piazza, where he had been walking for the last half hour, to communicate the intelligence to those who remained within the house. When he re-entered the parlor, Major Courtland was alone, and extended on the sofa, indulging the twilight reverie, which long habit had rendered dear and delightful to him.

"The evening will be fair, sir, and we may expect the Colonel," said O'Carroll.

The Major, absorbed in meditation, made no reply; and the Captain, after repeating his observation with the same ill success, and adventuring several others which were alike unheeded, inquired in a somewhat impatient tone, if the ladies were in Captain Talbot's room. O'Carroll's accent certainly aroused the Major, for he

depressed his eyes from the ceiling, where they had been watching the fitful quivering of the fire light, and fixed them on the Captain's face, with a vacant look of wonder and inquiry, which sufficiently evinced his ignorance of all that had been said.

"He has not heard a word that I have pronounced," muttered the impatient O'Carroll; "one might as well talk to that chair!" and he flung out of the room, and in the pet of the moment, drew the door after him with a violence which jarred the whole house. A loud laugh, which echoed from the parlor, announced that the Major's reverie was completely banished by the noise, and recalled to the Captain's lips the smile of good humor which his native impetuosity had for a minute chased from them.

When he entered Captain Talbot's room, he found him sitting in an easy chair before the fire, and Catherine and Amelia occupying seats on each side of him.

"The weather is clearing, Miss Courtland," he said, breaking at once upon their conversation, "and I hope the Colonel will perform his promise."

Talbot and Amelia looked towards the window with a sort of careless indifference, which seemed to say, they were happy enough without any addition to the party. But Catherine's countenance lighted up with pleasure, and she rose and walked to the window, at which O'Carroll had stationed himself.

"See," he said, "it is quite bright in the west, and there is some one coming up the avenue this moment. It is Grahame himself," he added, as the horseman drew near, and assured that he was not mistaken, he quitted the room to receive him. Catherine, however, saw immediately that it was not the Colonel, and the uncertain twilight prevented her recognizing his servant; but in a few minutes O'Carroll entered with a note, containing Grahame's apology, and pleading as his excuse for not visiting them that evening, a sudden engagement which he was under the necessity of fulfilling.

"And this is my reward," said O'Carroll, as he gave.. the note into Catherine's hand, "for having endured

the vapors of the atmosphere with more patience to-day than I ever did in my life."

"We are all sharers in your disappointment," said Catherine; "but though deprived of Colonel Grahame's society, there are still enough of us here to make the evening pass pleasantly away. I have promised Captain Talbot to spend part of it at least with him."

"I have no fears that time will not pass swiftly and pleasantly enough in such society as I enjoy here," said O'Carroll; "but Colonel Grahame has so recently risen, as it were, from the dead, and we have as yet seen so little of him, that I had permitted myself to anticipate unusual pleasure from his promised visit to-night. However, we can do very well without him, at least till to-morrow; so, if you will excuse me, I will just walk half a mile for the sake of exercise, and be back again directly."

"I would accompany you if it were not quite so damp," said Catherine. "The evening is mild and delightful for the season, and I feel peculiarly inclined to enjoy it after the close confinement of the day."

"It is not so damp as you imagine," said O'Carroll, "and the walking will be perfectly good in the forest path. Cannot you wrap up warm, and go?"

"Do not think of it, Miss Courtland!" exclaimed Talbot. "It must be exceedingly wet after this rain, and you will endanger your health by exposing yourself on such an evening. Were it any one but Captain O'Carroll, who urged you to do so rash a thing, I should be inclined to charge him with thoughtless imprudence."

"Thank you, Talbot," said O'Carroll. "It would, indeed, be preposterous to attribute such a crime to me! and as I am convinced your motives in detaining Miss Courtland, are entirely disinterested, I will not stop to investigate them. So adieu till my return."

The heightened color of Talbot's cheek showed that he well understood the meaning smile which accompanied the pointed words of his friend; but he attempted no reply; indeed he had not time to do so if he wished;

for O'Carroll instantly left the room, and sallied forth upon his walk.

He passed through the garden, and emerged from it upon the forest path, which was in all seasons the favorite resort of Catherine Courtland and her guests. It had grown nearly dark, and the moon, which was struggling with the broken clouds that so frequently deform the sky after a storm, shed only a partial and uncertain light over the scene; now for a moment silvering the tops of the tall forest trees, and shining brightly on every object, then again vanishing in clouds which cast over all a shade darker and more dreary, as it seemed, for the momentary brilliancy which had preceded it. As O'Carroll walked slowly forward, his arms folded, and his eyes cast upward, watching the rapid transitions and fantastic forms of the clouds-their edges beautifully silvered with the beams of the moon, over whose orb they gracefully rolled their fleecy volumes, he sunk into a train of sad and tender musing, which led him onwards, heedless of the distance he had gone, and forgetful of the promise he had given shortly to return.

His mind was not framed for sadness; and even in moments of the heaviest affliction, its natural gaiety would often burst athwart the gloom; and though none felt more exquisitely or was capable of keener suffering, it was not by the outward appearance that the world could judge of his internal sensations. Even the most reckless and mirthful have their moments of depression, and the hour, the solitude, the aspect of the heavens, all united to awaken painful reminiscences, which carried O'Carroll back to other days, and tortured him with regrets, which reason in vain had urged him to stifle as unmanly and degrading.

The first time he saw Marion Spencer, she had pointed his attention to the clouds, which exhibited the same restless and beautiful variety, as now. He recalled her very attitude as she stood with him at the window of her father's parlor, one hand resting on the sash, and the other pointing to the heavens, to which hier eyes were raised, with a look so lovely, so full of admiration

and delight, that O'Carroll well remembered with what rapture he had gazed upon those soft blue eyes, and how much more beautiful he had thought them than even the bright sky to which they were directed. He dwelt upon the sweet simplicity, the artless confidence which rivetted the love her beauty had inspired, and upon those hours of endearing intercourse which had yielded him so many touching proofs of her attachment, and unveiled to him so many traits of an ingenuous and exalted mind. As these reflections agitated him, he almost persuaded him. self, that his own conduct had justly alienated the affection of Marion; and that the coldness and neglect which jealousy had instigated, was the true cause why Mr. Spencer had denied his daughter to a man, who, without alleging any reason, could treat her with such unwarrantable caprice.

From these and similar meditations which had occupied more than an hour, O'Carroll was suddenly startled by the low murmur of voices. He stopped, made an effort to rally his subdued spirits, and looked earnestly around him. The moon, which now rode high in the heavens, leaving far below the grovelling clouds, that for a while had struggled to eclipse her splendor, enabled O'Carroll to discern the two persons whose conversation had disturbed his reverie.

They stood at the distance of a few yards beneath the spreading branches of a pine, and appeared so deeply engrossed as not to notice his approach, which had, indeed, been so slow and gentle as scarcely to depress the moss upon which he trod. Screened by the trunk of a large tree, O'Carroll stopped a moment to observe the persons of the speakers. There was something in the outline of the tallest figure which reminded him of Grahame, and he was almost confirmed in this suspicion on perceiving a moment after that he wore the military hat and plume of an American officer. Surprised out of all precaution, the Captain stepped involuntarily forward to ascertain by a nearer view whether his conjecture was erroneous, when in his haste he struck against the straggling branch of a dead alder bush, which