"What does this mean?" he exclaimed, after running his eyes over it hurriedly. "Miriam gone off with that Burton!"
The letter dropped upon the floor, and Henry clasped his hands together with a gesture of pain.
"Who is Mr. Burton? What do you know of him?" asked Edith.
"I know him to be a man of the vilest character, and a gambler into the bargain! Rich! Gracious heaven!"
And the young man struck his hands against his forehead, and glanced wildly from his pale-faced mother to his paler sister.
"And you knew the character of this man, Henry!" said Mrs. Darlington. There was a smiting rebuke in her tone. "You knew him, and did not make the first effort to protect your young, confiding, devoted sister! Henry Darlington, the blood of her murdered happiness will never be washed from the skirts of your garments!"
"Mother! mother!" exclaimed the young man, putting up his hands to enforce the deprecation in his voice, "do not speak so, or I will go beside myself! But where is she? When did she go? I will fly in pursuit. It may not yet be too late."
"Your Uncle Hiram saw her in a carriage with Mr. Burton, on their way, as he supposed, to the steamboat landing. He has gone to intercept them, if possible."
Henry drew his watch from his pocket, and, as he glanced at the time, sank into a chair, murmuring, in a low voice of anguish—
"It is too late!"