"Do so, good man, and take this for your bolting the gate; the old housekeeper seemed trouble."

"Did you find the man you were looking away from the house, for you know that your for?" he asked him, maliciously. father does not like you to do so, especially in The servant contented himself with eying his absence. If he should learn of such a Billy distrustfully. thing, he would scold us both."

not.

itself on Lucy's hand, which it had taken, per- | precious and gorgeous objects. The stern orhaps, for a white blossom; but, probably find- ders of old Henderson had suddenly put an ing out its mistake, it soon unfurled its brown end to all this. How many tears had the wings and sped forward, as if to show her the privations imposed on her all at once wrung way. A gate led from the garden into the from her! She thought night and day of those open fields; closed on the inside with a wooden charming times, and every thing beautiful and bolt. The girl drew it back with a trembling magnificent was associated in her mind with hand, as though she were about to commit a Ludlow Castle. There lay the country she was great crime. Thus she had crossed the thresh- yearning for, the lost paradise of her childold of her paternal home, and stood still for hood. a moment, hesitating whether to proceed or Indescribable anxiety filled her once more. The little bee was still humming before her, and flew on boldly and carelessly, filled with no such apprehensions, and, if it thought at all, thinking only of the sweet honey which was in store for it. Suddenly a swallow darted down out of the air, and the little bee paid with its life for its first sally into the fields. Lucy had not noticed the occurrence, for she was too much engrossed in her own thoughts; otherwise, perhaps, it might have served as a caution to her. But, as it was, passion and hot blood carried the day, and she was bound to see Thomas, even though it should cost her life.

Young as the girl was, she possessed a strength of will bordering on obstinacy. Something of old Henderson's puritanic stubbornness was to be found in her character. His severe treatment had aroused her indignation, and she was determined to bear no longer the restraint imposed upon her. She had formerly become acquainted with another and more brilliant life than that she was compelled to lead now at the quiet house, in the company of her old relative, and under the surveillance of her morose father. At that time, when her mother still lived, and she was yet allowed to hold daily intercourse with the inmates of Ludlow Castle, she had been the partner of their joys and manifold amusements. For days she was permitted to play in the sumptuous apartments of the castle, surrounded by all sorts of

It was for this reason that her meeting with Thomas in Haywood Forest had made so deep an impression upon her. All the old wounds commenced bleeding afresh, and memory fanned her slumbering love into a bright flame. Nothing was needed but an opportunity, a beck, and Lucy would leave her hateful paternal home and return into the arms of her former playmate. The imagination of this girl of seventeen looked upon the youth as a savior and deliverer from the jail in which she felt herself imprisoned. The warm life-blood circulating through her veins, throbbed for enjoyment and pleasure, which had so long been denied to her. The gloomy Puritan allowed his daughter none of the amusements for which young persons so justly yearn; even the most innocent joys were forbidden to her. She was not permitted to go out, except in the company of her father, or under other surveillance, nor ever to attend a rural festival. Old Henderson detested the notes of a bagpipe or violin he considered dancing a terrible sin, and every other harmless pleasure a heavy crime. This was in keeping with the spirit of the times, and with the views of those sectarians. Lucy was not even permitted to sing, and yet she was famous for her fresh and charming voice. Mr. Lawes, the music-teacher at the castle, after hearing her, had been so delighted as to offer, of his own accord, to give her the necessary instruction and cultivate her voice. The surly Puritan would not even permit this, and had rejected the offer under the pretext that the

;

human voice was destined only to praise the | anxiously after her, and the smoking chimney Lord, and that no instruction was necessary like a finger cautioning her against what she for this purpose. Lucy had borne all this long was about to do. She seemed to hear wellenough, in her opinion—his exaggerated sever-known voice calling her back in plaintive tones. ity, her joyless loneliness, the rude and oppres- These remembered tones pierced her heart; sive treatment she had to endure, and the her knees trembled involuntarily, and her feet privation of the most innocent amusements. seemed nailed to the ground. But the next The moment had come for her now to indem- moment she thought of the promise she had nify herself to some extent. Her heart was given to the friend who was waiting for her, unconsciously filled with longings for liberty, and turned her back resolutely upon her home and for some change in this tedious and mo- and the spirits of her domestic hearth, which notonous life. were following her warningly. Once more she turned before setting foot on the small bridge that was to lead her to the opposite bank. The house had disappeared and was concealed from her eyes. It seemed to her as though she had no longer a home.

Her friend's message reached her when such was her frame of mind. She felt like a prisoner whose cell is opened by a compassionate hand, and rushed rashly out of the garden. It was not until she had left it that she began to reflect, and bashfulness stole upon her heart. Her anxiety increased at every step as she moved from her father's house. Every tree by the wayside seemed to her a spy, and behind every shrub she thought she saw some one watching her. She had to fear the worst from her father's severity in case he should ever learn that she had disregarded his orders in such a manner. Her heart felt no love for, but only intense fear of him; but it was not this feeling alone that deterred her now. Her conscience, her virgin shame, raised their warning voices in her bosom. Both advised her against the step she was taking; they spoke to the hesitating girl softly, it is true, but impressively enough. Her heart throbbed with tumultuous agitation and threatened to burst her close-fitting black bodice. All sorts of objections arose in her soul, and more than once she turned her eyes back toward the house which lay so quiet in the noonday sun. So long as Lucy saw this house where she was born, and at the door of which she had so often sat with her lamented mother, concealing her curly head in the lap of the kind-hearted matron, she still felt tempted to return. The windows seemed to her like eyes looking

She crossed the bridge with a rapid step, and breathed freely again only after reaching the opposite bank. Behind her lay the gloomy past, and before her the flowery meadows and the mute forest, where her lover was waiting for her under the pines. How lovingly did her heart throb toward him! But her home seemed not yet willing to give her up; it sent after her a faithful messenger who pursued her steps with stubborn perseverance. She heard a panting sound behind her, but was not courageous enough to turn. The pursuer came nearer and nearer, howling and barking, spying and seeking. It was the faithful watchdog that had hastened after her. Now he jumped up to her, and gave vent to his joy at finding her in loud barking and wonderful leaps. Evidently out of breath he pressed his shaggy head against her airy form, and looked at her with his sagacious, good-natured eyes. She was unable to bear his glance, which seemed a silent reproach to her. This unexpected witness was a burden to her. Vainly did she drive the animal from her side; the dog, usually so obedient, refused to leave her; he returned to her again and again; neither her prayers nor her threats were of any avail.

From her earliest childhood he had been her constant companion; he had grown up with her, always a friend, a careful guardian, and now, perhaps, more than ever. This thought presented itself again to Lucy, and yet she would not suffer the dumb monitor near her. She begged and scolded, she threatened and entreated, but the dog did not move from the spot. At the best, he remained a few steps behind, and trotted after her mournfully and hanging his head. The girl would not tolerate his company at any cost. It was almost with tears in her eyes that she ordered him to go home; but it was all in vain, he stuck to her heels like the warning voice of conscience. Her impatience caused her to forget everything-his fidelity and love, his long, long services, and her old affection for him. She picked up a stone and hurled it at the faithful animal. The dog uttered a loud howl, and limped off with a bleeding foot. Her head began to swim, and she thought she would faint. On looking up again, she discovered that the dog bad already disappeared.

She hastened forward now to make up lost time, but she still seemed to hear the panting of the faithful dog behind her, and to see the reproachful glance which he cast on her when the hand which had hitherto always caressed him raised the stone against him. She felt a load weighing down her heart as if she had committed a crime. Her conscience raised its warning voice once more, but it was again in vain. She could already see her destination, the three lonely pines and the old tomb. The last scene had heated her warm blood still more, and added to her obstinacy. Her cheeks were flushed, her pulse was throbbing, a sort of wild frenzy had seized her soul. Thus she rushed toward her fate.

Thomas waited likewise with feverish excitement for the arrival of the girl, for whom so ardent a love had arisen in his heart over

the forest only to kill the time till the hour of meeting, but the game had been safe from his bullets. His thoughts were engrossed in something else, and Lucy's charming image stood constantly before his eyes. She was the prey which he had chosen, and the description which Billy Green had given him of her beauty only added to the flame burning in his heart. It was not love, but a wild intoxication that had seized his senses, an infatuating fascination which suddenly changed the whole character of the hitherto innocent youth.

The designated spot lay somewhat off the highway, on a hill, where one could not be seen, and yet, shielded by the dense shrubbery, could survey the whole neighborhood. A gray, moss-grown slab covered the grave of an unknown knight, who had fallen here several centuries ago in a duel, or by the hands of assassins. The inscription had long since become illegible, and the name had been forgotten, but the legend had stuck to the bloody spot, and did not even allow the slain knight to find rest in his grave. Passers-by asserted that they had often seen a pale youth seated on the slab, surrounded by his dogs. The superstitious peasantry of the neighborhood avoided the road leading past the grave. It was but rarely that any one ventured to set foot on this weird spot, and even the birds seemed to shun it. Profound silence reigned all around. The heavy branches of the sombre pines did not move, and the tall grass murmured almost inaudibly. Such was the spot which Lucy had chosen for her interview with Thomas; she was sure that no one would watch and disturb them here. She herself was not afraid, for old Henderson had remained free from the superstition of the common peasantry, and had educated his daughter in this spirit.

A shrill whistle uttered by Billy Green informed the impatient youth of the girl's-arrival. Soon after she stood before him, breath

night. He had hunted during the morning in less, and unable to utter a word. Thomas

"Really? Oh, would that I could believe your eyes!" you!"