A SAD HISTORY.
When Neil McGuire returned home from the "Twin Sycamores," disgusted at the brutality displayed by his neighbors and comrades, he found his daughter Nora sitting up awaiting him, late as it was, the fearful suspense and terror she had endured plainly imprinted upon her pale and worn countenance.
Shocked at the change, and strongly excited by the events of the last few hours, McGuire told her all, winding up by saying that he feared the prisoner would not live to see another day dawn. Nora gave one low cry and swooned, and when she recovered from it a strong fever set in.
There was no doctor nearer than the fort, even if he could be induced to journey so far, and as old aunt Eunice had gained quite a reputation as a nurse, she was called in, while the almost distracted father set out for medical aid. The doctor came, but his aid was not needed, the fever had been broken, and, strange to say, Nora was up and about the house in as apparent good health as ever.
But if the worthy farmer was surprised, we, who are in the secret, need not be. It was, perhaps, owing to a certain message brought by aunt Eunice, who kindly turned her back while it was being perused, and when she did look it had disappeared; but from the frequent journeys made by the invalid's hand to the region of the heart, it is not difficult to guess where.
The note was from Clay Poynter, briefly detailing the facts of his escape, stating that he was in a place of safety, and imploring an interview, leaving the time and place to her, of which he could be informed by aunt Eunice. Nora did not hesitate about granting the request, but the return of her father necessitated a postponement, greatly to the disappointment of the lover, who was disgusted at only meeting his old housekeeper when he expected a sweetheart.
Neil McGuire was sorely puzzled and disturbed about something, and soon opened his mind to Nora the day of his return. It was after supper, and she had brought him his filled pipe, when he bade her sit down—that he had something to tell her.
"Do you know, pet, that I half-way fear we have been doing Clay Poynter a great injustice?"
"Oh, father, I knew it all along!"
"Did you, indeed? Well, as I said, I am afraid we have been mistaken, although I am not quite certain. And the reason I think so is this: