Isabel Moreland stood in the doorway of her father’s cabin one morning, two or three days after the execution of her lover, Russell Trafford. She was very pale, but very calm. The roses, which had been the admiration of all, were gone from her cheeks, and her dark, soulful eyes, which had been the particular admiration of her ill-fated lover, were hollow and unusually large. A sad, pitiful, expression dwelt in their clear depths, and the lines on her forehead told a tale of mental suffering. The settlers who passed that way, seeing her standing there, marveled at the change that had taken place in her since the death of young Trafford, and felt their hearts moved to pity for the broken-hearted girl.
Presently a man sauntered up to the door, attracted thither by the charming one who stood there. He was a big, burly fellow, with the brute plainly stamped on his coarse, red face, and an air of reckless depravity about him that proclaimed him any thing else but a man. He wore a slouched hat, pulled carelessly down on one side of his head, completely hiding his right eye. This was Jim McCabe, the veriest bully and profligate in the settlement, who, it was said, was so devoid of principle that no piece of deviltry was too great for him to commit. He had been one of Russell Trafford’s rivals in love, and of all the rivals he had been compelled to contend with, Russell had regarded Jim McCabe as the most insignificant. But, now that his successful competitor was out of the way, McCabe seemed to think it possible to thrust himself into the vacant place, and seeing her this morning at the door of her home, he determined to seize the opportunity of renewing the contest for the much-coveted hand and heart.
“Good-morrow, Miss Moreland,” said he, with a profound bow, and an attempt to smile pleasantly.
“Well, sir?” returned the girl, coldly.
“Perfectly well, I thank you,” replied the rogue, choosing to misconstrue her words. “But, really, Miss Moreland, you are looking decidedly unwell to-day. What can be the matter, if I may ask? Are you ill?”
“Not particularly.”
“No? Now that is strange. One would suppose that you had just risen from a prolonged illness. You see I am naturally concerned for the health of one so dear to me. By the way, that was a sad affair about Doctor Trafford and his ingrate of a nephew, wasn’t it?—a sad affair all round. As a friend, I feel for you deeply, but I think you were fortunate in thus finding out the character of your intended husband before—”
“Sir, I must trouble you to drop this subject now and forever.”
Isabel Moreland turned her flashing eyes upon the man as she spoke, and gave him a look that made him recoil. But, quickly recovering himself, he replied, in a tone of apology:
“Why, I did not suspect that I was treading forbidden ground. I only wished to express my sympathy for you, and you certainly need it, since your favored suitor has proven himself only fit to grace the end of a rope.”