“Say, rather, your sister,” returned Miss Howard, their hands involuntarily closing upon each other, “for we are surely sisters! But let us strive to think of something less horrible. Poor, poor Dillon! now that he has met a fate so terrible, I can even fancy him less artful and more upright than we had thought him! You agree with me, Katherine, I see by your countenance, and we will dwell no longer on the subject.—Katherine! my cousin Kate, what see you?”
Miss Plowden, as she relinquished her pressure of the hand of Cecilia, had renewed her walk with a more regulated step; but she was yet making her first turn across the room, when her eyes became keenly set on the opposite window, and her whole frame was held in an attitude of absorbed attention. The rays of the setting sun fell bright upon her dark glances, which seemed fastened on some distant object, and gave an additional glow to the mantling color that was slowly stealing, across her cheeks, to her temples. Such a sudden alteration in the manner and appearance of her companion had not failed to catch the attention of Cecilia, who, in consequence, interrupted herself by the agitated question we have related. Katherine slowly beckoned her companion to her side, and, pointing in the direction of the wood that lay in view, she said:
“See yon tower, in the ruin! Do you observe those small spots of pink and yellow that are fluttering above its walls?”
“I do. They are the lingering remnants of the foliage of some tree; but they want the vivid tints which grace the autumn of our own dear America!”
“One is the work of God, and the other has been produced by the art of man. Cecilia, those are no leaves, but they are my own childish signals, and without doubt Barnstable himself is on that ruined tower. Merry cannot, will not, betray him!”
“My life should be a pledge for the honor of our little cousin,” said Cecilia. “But you have the telescope of my uncle at hand, ready for such an event! one look through it will ascertain the truth—”
Katherine sprang to the spot where the instrument stood, and with eager hands she prepared it for the necessary observation.
“It is he!” she cried, the instant her eye was put to the glass. “I even see his head above the stones. How unthinking to expose himself so unnecessarily!”
“But what says he, Katherine?” exclaimed Cecilia; “you alone can interpret his meaning.”
The little book which contained the explanations of Miss Plowden's signals was now hastily produced, and its leaves rapidly run over in quest of the necessary number.