"What, Elsie, my Elsie?"
"Yes, sah; dat am her."
"Dolf, I say," cried Tom, in breathless anxiety, thrusting a ten dollar gold piece into the negro's hand; "Dolf, would it be very much amiss, you know, if I was to take off my boots and just steal up?"
"Well, I doesn't 'zactly know; de fair sex am so captious 'bout us gemmen; but Vic is up dar, and you can ask her, she knows all 'bout de 'prieties. Smart gal, dat Vic, I tell you; loves Miss Elsie, too, like fifty."
"Does she?" said Tom; "here's another gold piece, give it to her, with my best regards, Dolf."
Dolf pocketed the gold piece, and that was the last time it saw the light for many a day. Tom took off his boots and crept upstairs in his stocking feet, holding his breath as he went. Vic came out of the shaded room, and the young man's grief softened her so much that she allowed him to steal into Elsie's boudoir, where he sat all the morning listening to the poor girl's muttered fancies, after bribing Vic with gold pieces to leave the door open, that he might catch a glimpse now and then of the beloved face, flushed and wild as it was.
Generous, noble-hearted Tom Fuller; he had been really hungry when he came from his own room, but all that was forgotten now, and there he sat fasting till the shadows slanted eastward. Then he saw Mellen riding towards the house at a slow, weary pace, which bespoke great depression.
Tom arose and went downstairs, urged to meet his friend by the kindest heart that ever beat in a human bosom.
"She's better, I am quite sure; she slept two or three minutes; so don't look so downhearted," he cried, seizing Mellen's hand as he dismounted. "But where's Elizabeth? I thought you had gone after her."
"Elizabeth, my wife," answered Mellen, lifting his haggard eyes to Tom's face. "She is gone—lost—dead. My friend, my friend, I have murdered your cousin, murdered my own wife."