THE

QUEEN OF THE ISLE.

A Novel.

BY

MAY AGNES FLEMING.

AUTHOR OF
"GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE," "THE ACTRESS' DAUGHTER,"
"A WONDERFUL WOMAN," "LOST FOR A WOMAN,"
"SILENT AND TRUE," "ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY,"
"A TERRIBLE SECRET," "A MAD MARRIAGE,"
ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK:
COPYRIGHT, 1886.
G. W. Dillingham, Publisher,
SUCCESSOR TO G. W. CARLETON & Co.
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
MDCCCLXXXVI.

CONTENTS.

Chapter

I. [Campbell's Isle]
II. [The Magic Mirror]
III. [The Maniac's Curse]
IV. [The Haunted Room]
V. [The Midnight cry]
VI. ["Off with the Old Love, and on with the New."]
VII. [The Heart's Struggle]
VIII. [The Triumph of Passion]
IX. [The Vision of the Isle]
X. [One of Fortune's Smiles]
XI. [The Storm—The Wreck]
XII. [Sibyl's Return to the Isle]
XIII. [The Meeting]
XIV. [Jealousy]
XV. [Self-Torture]
XVI. [Falsehood and Deceit]
XVII. [A Lull Before the Tempest]
XVIII. [The Fatal Note]
XIX. [That Day]
XX. [What Came Next]
XXI. [That Night]
XXII. [Next Morning]
XXIII. [Morning in the Island]
XXIV. [Christie]
XXV. [The Maniac's Story]
XXVI. [Remorse]
XXVII. [The Widowed Bridegroom]
XXVIII. [The Thunderbolt Falls]
XXIX. [The Devotion of Love]
XXX. [Sibyl's Doom]
XXXI. [The Bankrupt Heart]
XXXII. [Another Storm Within and Without]
XXXIII. [The Dead Alive]
XXXIV. [Explanations]
XXXV. [Meetings and Partings]

THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE;

OR,

A HASTY WOOING.

CHAPTER I.
CAMPBELL'S ISLE.

"The island lies nine leagues away,
Along its solitary shore
Of craggy rock and sandy bay
No sound but ocean's roar,
Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam."—R. H. DANA.

About six miles from the mainland of M——, with its rock-bound coast washed by the waters of the broad Atlantic, was an islet known in the days of which I write as Campbell's Isle.

The island was small—about two miles in length and the same in breadth, but fertile and luxurious. The dense primeval forest, which as yet the destroying ax had scarcely touched, reared itself high and dark in the northern part of the island. A deep, unbroken silence ever reigned here, save when some gay party from the opposite coast visited the island to fish or shoot partridges. Sometimes during the summer, pleasure parties were held here, but in the winter all was silent and dreary on the lonely, isolated little spot.

This island had been, from time immemorial, in the possession of a family named Campbell, handed down from father to son. The people of the surrounding country had learned to look upon them as the rightful lords of the soil, "to the manner born." The means by which it had first come into their possession were seldom thought of, or if thought of, only added to their reputation as a bold and daring race. The legend ran, that long before Calvert came over, a certain Sir Guy Campbell, a celebrated freebooter and scion of the noble Scottish clan of that name, who for some reckless crime had been outlawed and banished, and in revenge had hoisted the black flag and become a rover on the high seas, had, in his wanderings, discovered this solitary island, which he made the place of his rendezvous. Here, with his band of dare-devils—all outlaws like himself—he held many a jolly carousal that made the old woods ring.

In one of his adventures he had taken captive a young Spanish girl, whose wondrous beauty at once conquered a heart all unused to the tender passion. He bore off his prize in triumph, and without asking her consent, made her his wife at the first port he touched. Soon, however, tiring of her company on shipboard, he brought her to his island home, and their left her to occupy his castle, while he sailed merrily away. One year afterward, Sir Guy the Fearless, as he was called, was conquered by an English sloop-of-war; and, true to his daring character, he blew up the vessel, and, together with his crew and captors, perished in the explosion.

His son and successor, Gasper, born on the isle, grew up tall, bold, and handsome, with all his father's daring and undaunted courage, and his mother's beauty, and torrid passionate nature. He, in the course of time, took to himself a wife of the daughters of the mainland; and, after a short, stormy life, passed away in his turn to render an account of his works, leaving to his eldest son, Hugh, the bold spirit of his forefathers, the possession of Campbell's Isle, and the family mansion known as Campbell's Lodge.

And so, from one generation to another, the Campbells ruled as lords of the isle, and became, in after years, as noted for their poverty as their pride. A reckless, improvident race they were, caring only for to-day, and letting to-morrow care for itself; quick and fierce to resent injury or insult, and implacable as death or doom in their hate. Woe to the man who would dare point in scorn at one of their name! Like a sleuth-hound they would dog his steps night and day, and rest not until their vengeance was sated.

Fierce alike in love and hatred, the Campbells of the Isle were known and dreaded for miles around. From sire to son the fiery blood of Sir Guy the Fearless passed unadulterated, and throbbed in the veins of Mark Campbell, the late master of the lodge, in a darker, fiercer stream than in any that had gone before. A heavy-browed, stern-hearted man he was, of whose dark deeds wild rumors went whispering about, for no one dared breathe them aloud, lest they should reach his vindictive ears, and rouse the slumbering tiger in his breast. At his death, which took place some two or three years previous to the opening of our story, his son Guy, a true descendant of his illustrious namesake, became the lord and master of the isle, and the last of the Campbells.

Young Guy showed no disposition to pass his days in the spot where he was born. After the death of his father, Guy resolved to visit foreign lands, and leave Campbell's Lodge to the care of an old black servant, Aunt Moll, and her son Lem, both of whom had passed their lives in the service of the family, and considered that in some sort the honor of the house lay in their hands.

Vague rumors were current that the old house was haunted. Fishermen out, casting their nets, avowed that at midnight, blue, unearthly lights flashed from the upper chambers—where it was known Aunt Moll never went—and wild, piercing shrieks, that chilled the blood with horror, echoed on the still night air. The superstitious whispered that Black Mark had been sent back by his master, the Evil One, to atone for his wicked deeds done in the flesh, and that his restless spirit would ever haunt the old lodge—the scene, it was believed, of many an appalling crime. Be that as it may, the old house was deserted, save by Aunt Moll and her hopeful son; and young Guy, taking with him his only sister, spent his time in cruising about in a schooner he owned, and—it was said, among the rest of the rumors—in cheating the revenue.

Besides the lodge, or Campbell's Castle, as it was sometimes called, the island contained but one other habitation, occupied by a widow, a distant connection of the Campbells, who, after the death of her husband, had come here to reside. The cottage was situated on the summit of a gentle elevation that commanded an extensive view of the island; for Mrs. Tomlinson—or Mrs. Tom, as she was always called—liked a wide prospect.

The most frugal, the most industrious of housewives was Mrs. Tom. No crime in her eyes equaled that of thriftlessness, and all sins could be pardoned but that of laziness. Unfortunately for her peace of mind, she was afflicted with an orphan nephew, the laziest of mortals, whose shortcomings kept the bustling old lady in a fever from morning till night. A wild young sister of Mrs. Tom's had run away with a Dutch fiddler, and dying a few years after, was soon followed to the grave by her husband, who drank more than was good for him one night, and was found dead in the morning. Master Carl Henley was accordingly adopted by his living relative and, as that good lady declared, had been "the death of her" ever since.

A young girl of sixteen, known only as "Christie," was the only other member of Mrs. Tom's family. Who this girl was, where she had come from, and what was her family name, was a mystery: and Mrs. Tom, when questioned on the subject, only shut her lips and shook her head mysteriously, and spoke never a word. Although she called the old lady aunt, it was generally believed that she was no relation; but as Christie was a favorite with all who visited the island, the mystery concerning her, though it piqued the curiosity of the curious, made them like her none the less. A big Newfoundland dog and a disagreeable chattering parrot completed the widow's household.

Mrs. Tom's business was flourishing. She made a regular visit each week to the mainland, where she disposed of fish, nuts, and berries, in which the island abounded, and brought back groceries and such things as she needed. Besides that, she kept a sort of tavern and place of refreshment for the sailors and fishermen, who sometimes stopped for a day or two on the island; and for many a mile, both by land and sea, was known the fame of Mrs. Tom.

Such was Campbell's Isle, and such were its owners and occupants. For many years now it had been quiet and stagnant enough, until the development of sundry startling events that for long afterward were remembered in the country around and electrified for a time the whole community.

CHAPTER II
THE MAGIC MIRROR.

"I turned my eyes, and as I turned surveyed
An awful vision."

The sun was sinking in the far west as the little schooner Evening Star went dancing over the bright waves towards Campbell's Isle. Captain Guy Campbell stood leaning negligently over the taffrail, solacing himself with a cigar, and conversing at intervals with a slight, somewhat haughty-looking young man, who stood beside him, watching the waves flashing, as they sped along. No two could be more opposite, as far as looks went, than those two, yet both were handsome and about the same age.

Like all his race, young Campbell was very tall, and dark as a Spaniard. His short, black, curling hair shadowed a forehead high, bold, and commanding. Dark, keen, proud eyes flashed from beneath jetty eye-brows, and the firm, resolute mouth gave to his dark face a look almost fierce. His figure was exquisitely proportioned and there was a certain bold frankness, mingled with a reckless, devil-may-care expression in his fine face, that atoned for his swarthy complexion and stern brows.

His companion was a tall, elegant young man, with an air of proud superiority about him, as though he were "somebody," and knew it. His complexion was fair as a lady's, and would have been effeminate but for the dark, bold eyes and his dashing air generally. There was something particularly winning in his handsome face, especially when he smiled, that lit up his whole countenance with new beauty. Yet, with all, there was a certain faithless expression about the finely formed mouth that would have led a close observer to hesitate before trusting him too far. This, reader, was Mr. Willard Drummond, a young half-American, half-Parisian, and heir to one of the finest estates in the Old Dominion. The last five years he had passed in Paris, and when he was thinking of returning home he had encountered Campbell and his sister. Fond of luxury and ease as the young patrician was, he gave up all, after that, for the attraction he discovered on board the schooner Evening Star. And Captain Campbell, pleased with his new friend, invited him to cross the ocean with him, and spend a few weeks with him in his ancestral home, whither he was obliged to stop while some repairs were being made in his vessel, which invitation Willard Drummond, nothing loth, accepted.

"Well, Campbell, how is that patient of yours this evening?" inquired Drummond, after a pause.

"Don't know," replied Captain Campbell, carelessly; "I haven't seen him since morning. Sibyl is with him now."

"By the way, where did you pick him up? He was not one of your crew, I understand."

"No; I met him in Liverpool. He came to me one day, and asked me to take him home. I replied that I had no accommodations, and would much rather not be troubled with passengers. However, he pleaded so hard for me to accommodate him, and looked so like something from the other world all the time, that I had not the heart to refuse the poor fellow. Before we had been three days out at sea he was taken ill, and has been raving and shrieking ever since, as you know."

"What do you suppose is the matter with him?"

"Well, I haven't much experience as nurse myself, but I think it's brain fever, or something of that kind; Sibyl, however, thinks that bitter remorse for something he has done is preying on his mind, and girls always know best in these cases."

"He is, if I may judge by his looks, of humble station," said Mr. Drummond, in an indifferent tone.

"Yes; there can be no doubt of that, though he appears to have plenty of money."

"Has he given his name?"

"Yes; Richard Grove."

"Hum! Well, it would be unpleasant to have him die on board, of course," said Drummond.

"Oh, I think he'll live to reach our destination; he does not appear to be sinking very fast."

"We must now be quite near this island home of yours, Captain Campbell; I grow impatient to see it."

"We shall reach it about moonrise to-night, if the wind holds as it is now."

"And what, may I ask, do you intend doing with this—Richard Grove, when you get there? Will you take him into your Robinson Crusoe castle and nurse him until he gets well, as that enterprising canoe-builder did Friday's father?

"No, I think not. There is an old lady on the island, who is never so happy as when she has some one to nurse. I think we'll consign him to her."

"Then there is another habitation on the island beside yours?" said Drummond, looking up with more interest than he had yet manifested.

"Yes; old Mrs. Tom, a distant connection of our family, I believe. And, by the way, Drummond, there is a pretty little girl in the case. I suppose that will interest you more than the old woman."

"Pretty girls are an old story by this time," said Drummond, with a yawn.

"Yes, with such a renowned lady-killer as you, no doubt."

"I never saw but one girl in the world worth the trouble of loving," said Drummond, looking thoughtfully into the water.

"Ah, what a paragon she must have been. May I ask what quarter of the globe has the honor of containing so peerless a beauty?"

"I never said she was a beauty, mon ami. But never mind that. When do you expect to be ready for sea again?"

"As soon as possible—in a few weeks, perhaps—for I fear that we'll all soon get tired of the loneliness of the place."

"You ought to be pretty well accustomed to its loneliness by this time."

"Not I, faith! It's now three years since I have been there."

"Is it possible? I thought you Campbells were too much attached to your ancestral home to desert it so long as that."

"Well, it's a dreary place, and I have such an attachment for a wild, exciting life that positively I could not endure it. I should die of stagnation. As for Sibyl, my wild, impulsive sister, she would now as soon think of entering a convent as passing her life there."

"Yet you said it was partly by her request you were going there now?"

"Yes, she expressed a wish to show you the place." A slight flush of pleasure colored the clear face of Drummond. "I don't know what's got into Sibyl lately," continued her brother. "I never saw a girl so changed. She used to be the craziest leap-over-the-moon madcap that ever existed; now she is growing as tame as—as little Christie."

Drummond's fine eyes were fixed keenly on the frank, open face of Captain Campbell; but nothing was to be read there more than his words contained. With a peculiar smile he turned away, and said, carelessly:

"And who is this little Christie to whom you refer?"

"She's the protege of the old lady on the island—fair as the dream of an opium-eater, enchanting as a houri, and with the voice of an angel."

"Whew! the bold Campbell, the daring descendant of old Guy the Fearless, has lost his heart at last!" laughed Willard Drummond.

"Not I," answered Guy, carelessly. "I never yet saw the woman who could touch my heart, and, please Heaven, never will."

"Well, here's a wonder—a young man of three-and-twenty, and never in love! Do you expect me to believe such a fable, my good friend?"

"Believe or not, as you will, it is nevertheless true."

"What—do you mean to say you have never felt a touch of the grande passion—the slightest symptom of that infectious disorder?"

"Pooh! boyish fancies go for nothing. I have now and then felt a queer sensation about the region of my heart at the sight of sundry faces at different times, but as for being fatally and incorrigibly in love, never, on my honor!"

"Well, before you reach the age of thirty, you'll have a different story to tell, or I'm mistaken."

"No; there is no danger, I fancy, unless indeed," he added, fixing his eyes quizzically on Drummond's handsome face, "I should happen to meet this little enchantress you spoke of awhile ago."

A cloud passed over the brow of his companion; but it cleared away in a moment as a quick, light footstep was heard approaching, and the next instant Sibyl Campbell, the haughty daughter of a haughty race, stood bright, dazzling, and smiling before them.

No one ever looked once in the face of Sibyl Campbell without turning to gaze again. Peerlessly beautiful as she was, it was not her beauty that would startle you, but the look of wild power, of intense daring, of fierce passions, of unyielding energy, of a will powerful for love or hate, of a nature loving, passionate, fiery, impulsive, and daring, yet gentle and winning.

She might have been seventeen years of age—certainly not more. In stature she was tall, and with a form regally beautiful, splendidly developed, with a haughty grace peculiarly her own. Her face was perfectly oval: her complexion, naturally olive, had been tanned by sun and wind to a rich, clear, gipsyish darkness. Her hair, that hung in a profusion of long curls, was of jetty blackness, save where the sun fell on it, bringing out red rings of fire. Her large Syrian eyes, full of passion and power, were of the most intense blackness, now flashing with sparks of light, and anon swimming in liquid tenderness. Her high, bold brow might have become a crown—certainly it was regal in its pride and scorn. Her mouth, which was the only voluptuous feature in her face, was small, with full, ripe, red lips, rivaling in bloom the deep crimson of her dark cheeks.

Her dress was like herself—odd and picturesque, consisting of a short skirt of black silk, a bodice of crimson velvet, with gilt buttons. She held in one hand a black velvet hat, with a long, sweeping plume, swinging it gayly by the strings as she came toward them.

She was a strange, wild-looking creature, altogether; yet what would first strike an observer was her queenly air of pride, her lofty hauteur, her almost unendurable arrogance. For her unbending pride, as well as her surprising beauty, the haughty little lady had obtained, even in childhood, the title of "Queen of the Isle." And queenly she looked, with her noble brow, her flashing, glorious eyes, her dainty, curving lips, her graceful, statuesque form—in every sense of the word "a queen of noble Nature's crowning."

And Willard Drummond, passionate admirer of beauty as he was, what thought he of this dazzling creature? He leaned negligently still against the taffrail, with his eyes fixed on her sparkling, sunbright face, noting every look and gesture as one might gaze on some strange, beautiful creation, half in fear, half in love, but wholly in admiration. Yes, he loved her, or thought he did; and gazing with him on the moonlit waves, when the solemn stars shone serenely above him, he had told her so, and she had believed him. And she, wild, untutored child of nature, who can tell the deep devotion, the intense passion, the fiery, all-absorbing love for him that filled her impulsive young heart?

"Love was to her impassioned soul
Not, as to others, a mere part
Of her existence; but the whole—
The very life-breath of her heart."

As she advanced, Willard Drummond started up, saying, gayly:

"Welcome back, Miss Sibyl. I thought the sunlight had deserted us altogether; but you have brought it back in your eyes."

"How's your patient, Sibyl?" said Captain Campbell, who, not being in love, found Mr. Drummond's high-flown compliments very tiresome sometimes.

"Much worse, I am afraid," she answered in a peculiarly musical voice. "I do not think he will live to see the morrow's sun. His ravings are frightful to hear—some terrible crime seems to be weighing him down as much as disease."

"After all, the human soul is an awful possession for a guilty man," said Captain Campbell, thoughtfully. "Things can be smoothed over during life, but when one comes to die—"

"They feel what retributive justice is, I suppose," said Drummond, in his customary careless tone; "and apropos of that, somebody will suffer terrible remorse after I die. I am to be murdered, if there is any truth in fortune-telling."

He spoke lightly, with a half smile; but Sibyl's face paled involuntarily as she exclaimed:

"Murdered, did you say? Who could have predicted anything so dreadful?"

"An old astrologer, or enchanter, or wizard of some kind, in Germany, when I was there. The affair seems so improbable, so utterly absurd, in short, that I never like to allude to it."

"You are not fool enough to believe such nonsense, I hope," said Captain Campbell.

"I don't know as it is nonsense. 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in philosophy,' you know."

"Yes—I was sure you would quote that; everyone does that when he advances some absurd doctrine; but it's all the greatest stuff, nevertheless."

"But did he tell you who you were to be—"

Sibyl stopped short; even in jest she could not pronounce the word.

"Murdered by?" said Willard, quietly finishing the sentence for her. "No, he told me nothing. I saw it all."

"Saw it! How? I do not understand."

"Oh, the story is hardly worth relating, and ought not to be told in the presence of such a skeptic as Captain Guy Campbell," said Drummond, running his fingers lightly through his dark, glossy locks.

"Heaven forbid I should wait to be inflicted by it!" said Captain Campbell, starting up. "I will relieve you of my presence, and allow you to entertain my superstitious sister here with your awful destiny, of which she will doubtless believe every word."

"I should be sorry to believe anything so dreadful," said Sibyl, gravely; "but I do think there are some gifted ones to whom the future has been revealed. I wish I could meet them, and find out what it has in store for me."

"Let me be your prophet," said Drummond, softly. "Beautiful Sibyl, there can be nothing but bliss for an angel like you."

Her radiant face flushed with pride, love, and triumph at his words.

"Do you believe in omens?" she said, laughingly. "See how brightly and beautifully yonder moon is rising! Now, if it reaches the arch of heaven unclouded, I shall believe your prediction."

Even as she spoke, a dense cloud passed athwart the sky, and the moon was obscured in darkness.

The dark, bright face of Sibyl paled at the dread omen. Involuntarily her eyes sought Drummond's who also had been gazing at the sky.

"Heaven avert the omen!" she cried, with a shudder. "Oh, Willard, the unclouded moon grew dark even while I spoke."

"And now the cloud is past, and it sails on brighter than ever," he said, with a smile. "See, fairest Sibyl, all is calm and peaceful once more. My prediction will be verified, after all."

She drew a deep breath, and looked so intensely relieved that he laughed. Sibyl blushed vividly, as she said:

"I know you must think me weak and childish; but I am superstitious by nature. Dreams, inspirations, and presentiments, that no one else thinks of, are all vivid realities to me. But you promised to tell me the German wizard's prediction concerning your future, so, pray, go on."

"Well, let me see," said Willard Drummond, leaning his head on his hand. "It is now three years ago that a celebrated Egyptian fortune-teller visited the town in Germany where I resided. His fame soon spread far and wide, and crowds of the incredulous came from every part to visit him. He could not speak a word of any language but his own; but he had an interpreter who did all the talking necessary, which was very little.

"I was then at a celebrated university; and, with two or three of my fellow-students, resolved, one day, to visit the wizard. Arrived at his house, we were shown into a large room, and called up one by one in the presence of the Egyptian.

"Our object in going was more for sport than anything else; but when we saw the first who was called—a wild, reckless young fellow, who feared nothing earthly—return pale and serious, our mirth was at an end. One by one the others were called, and all came back grave and thoughtful. By some chance, I was the last.

"I am not, like you, bright Sibyl, naturally superstitious; but I confess, when the interpreter ushered me into the presence of this wizard, I felt a sort of chilly awe creeping over me. He was the most singular-looking being I ever beheld. His face was exactly like that of one who has been for some days dead—a sort of dark-greenish white, with pale-blue lips, and sharp, Asiatic features. His eyes, black and piercingly sharp, looked forth from two deep caverns of sockets, and seemed the only living feature in his ghastly face. There were caldrons, and lizards, and cross-bones, and tame serpents, and curious devices carved on the walls, ceiling and floor, and the white, grinning skulls that were scattered about formed a hideously revolting sight in that darkened room.

"The Egyptian stood before a smoking caldron, and, drawn up to his full height, his size appeared almost colossal. His dress was a long, black robe, all woven over with scorpions, and snakes, and other equally pleasing objects, that seemed starting out dazzlingly white from this dark background. Altogether, the room looked so like a charnel-house, and the wizard so like a supernatural being, that I am not ashamed to own I felt myself growing nervous as I looked around.

"The interpreter, who stood behind, opened the scene by asking me my name, age, birthplace, and divers other questions of a like nature, which he wrote down in some sort of hieroglyphics and handed to the Egyptian. Then bidding me advance and keep my eyes fixed on the caldron and not speak a word, the interpreter left the room.

"My heart beat faster than was its wont as I approached this strange being, and found myself completely alone with him in this ghostly, weird place. He took a handful of what I imagined to be incense of some kind, and threw it on the red, living coals, muttering some strange sounds in an unknown tongue as he did so. Presently a cloud of smoke arose, dense, black, and suffocating, filling the whole room with the gloom of Tartarus. Slowly, as if endowed with instinct, it lifted itself up and spread out before me. And, looking up, I beheld—"

Willard Drummond paused, as if irresolute whether to reveal the rest or not; but Sibyl grasped his arm, and in a voice that was fairly hoarse with intense excitement, said:

"Go on."

"I saw," he continued, looking beyond her, as if describing something then passing before him, "the interior of a church thronged with people. Flowers were strewn along the aisles, and I seemed to hear faintly the grand cadences of a triumphal hymn. A clergyman, book in hand, stood before a bridal pair, performing the marriage ceremony. The features of the man of God are indelibly impressed on my memory, but the two who stood before him had their backs toward me. For about five seconds they remained thus stationary, then it began to grow more indistinct; the forms grew shadowy and undefined, and began to disappear. Just before they vanished altogether, the faces of the wedded pair turned for an instant toward me, and in the bridegroom, Sibyl, I beheld myself. The vapor lifted and lifted, until all was gone, and nothing was to be seen but the black walls of the room and the glowing, fiery coals in the caldron.

"Again the Egyptian threw the incense on the fire, and again mumbled his unintelligible jargon. Again the thick, black smoke arose, filling the room; and again became stationary, forming a shadowy panorama before me. This time I saw a prison-cell—dark, dismal, and noisome. A rough straw pallet stood on one side, and on the other a pitcher of water and a loaf—orthodox prison fare from time immemorial. On the ground, chained to the wall, groveled a woman, in shining bridal robes, her long midnight tresses trailing on the foul floor. No words can describe to you the utter despair and mortal anguish depicted in her crouching attitude. I stood spell-bound to the spot, unable to move, in breathless interest. Then the scene began to fade away; the prostrate figure lifted its head, and I beheld the face of her whom a moment before seemed to stand beside me at the altar. But no words of mine can describe to you the mortal woe, the unutterable despair, in that haggard but beautiful face. Sibyl! Sibyl! it will haunt me to my dying day. I put out my hand, as if to retain her, but in that instant all disappeared."

Once more Willard Drummond paused; this time he was deadly pale, and his eyes were wild and excited. Sibyl stood near him, her great black, mystic eyes dilated, every trace of color fading from her face, leaving even her lips as pale as death.

"The third time this strange enchanter went through the same ceremony as before," continued he; "and, as in the previous cases, a new scene appeared before me. Now, the time appeared to be night; and the place, a dark, lonesome wood. A furious storm of lightning, and thunder, and rain, was raging, and the trees creaked and bent in the fierce wind. On the ground lay the dead body of a man weltering in blood. A dark, crimson stream flowed from a great, frightful gash in his head, from which the life seemed just to have gone. As the white face of the murdered man was upturned to the light—cut, bloody, and disfigured as it was—Sibyl, I recognized myself once more, As Heaven hears me, I saw it as plainly as I see yonder pale, fair moon now. A white, ghostly form, whether of woman or spirit I know not, seemed hovering near, darting, as it were, in and out amid the trees. Even as I gazed, it grew thin and shadowy, until all was gone again.

"For the fourth and last time, the Egyptian threw a strange incense on the fire, and 'spoke the words of power," and a new vision met my horrified gaze. I seemed to behold an immense concourse of people, a vast mob, swaying to and fro in the wildest excitement. A low, hoarse growl, as of distant thunder, passed at intervals through the vast crowd, and every eye was raised to an object above them. I looked up, too, and beheld a sight that seemed freezing the very blood in my veins. It was a scaffold; and standing on it, with the ignominious halter round her white, beautiful neck, was she who had stood beside me at the altar, whom I had seen chained in her prison-cell, doomed to die by the hand of the public hangman now. Her beautiful hands were stretched out wildly, imploringly, to the crowd below, who only hooted her in her agony and despair. The executioner led her to the fatal drop, a great shout arose from the crowd, then all faded away; and looking up, as if from an appalling dream, I saw the interpreter beckoning me from the door. How I reeled from the room, with throbbing brow and feverish pulse, I know not. Everything seemed swimming around me; and, in a state of the wildest excitement, I was hurried home by my companions.

"The next day the Egyptian left the city, and where he went after, I never heard.

"Such was the glimpse of the future I beheld. It was many months after before I completely recovered from the shock I received. How to account for it I do not know. Certain I am that I beheld it, truly, as I have told it in every particular, for the impression it made upon me at the time was so powerful that everything connected with it is indelibly engraven on my memory. It may seem strange, absurd, impossible; but that I have nothing to do with; I only know I saw it, incredible as it seems. But, good heaven! Sibyl, dearest, are you ill—fainting!"

Pale, trembling, and excited, the once fearless Sibyl Campbell clung to his arm, white with vague, sickening horror. Superstitious to an unusual degree, an awful presentiment had clutched her heart; and, for a moment she seemed dying in his arms.

"Sibyl! Sibyl! my dearest love!" he said, in alarm, "what is it?"

"Nothing—nothing," she answered, in a tremulous voice; "but, oh, Willard! do you believe the prediction?"

"Strange, wild girl that you are! has this idle talk frightened you so?" he said, smiling at her wild, dilated eyes.

"If it should prove true," she said, covering her face with a shudder. "Willard, tell me—do you believe it?"

"My dark-eyed darling, how can I tell whether to believe it or not? It has not come true, and there seems no likelihood of its ever doing so. Do not think of it any more; if I had thought it would have unnerved you so, I would never have told you."

"But, Willard, did any of his other predictions prove true?"

"I would rather not answer that question, Sibyl," he said, while a cloud darkened for a moment his fine face.

"You must tell me," she cried, starting up, and looking at him with her large, lustrous eyes.

"Well, then—yes," said Drummond, reluctantly. "Young Vaughn, one of those who accompanied me, saw a funeral procession, and himself robed for the grave lying in the coffin. Five weeks after, he was accidentally shot."

She put up her arm in a vague, wild sort of way, as if to ward off some approaching danger.

"Oh, Willard! this is dreadful—dreadful! What if all he predicted should come to pass!"

"Well, I should be obliged to do the best I could. What will be, will be—you know. But I have no such fear. Nonsense, Sibyl! a Campbell of the Isle trembling thus at imaginary danger!—the ghost of Guy the Fearless will start from his grave, if he discovers it!"

The color came proudly back to her cheek at his bantering words, as she said, more coldly and calmly:

"For myself, I could never tremble; but for——"

She paused, and her beautiful lip quivered.

"For me, then, dear love, those fears are," he said tenderly. "A thousand thanks for this proof of your love: but, believe me, the cause is only imaginary. Why, Sibyl, I had nearly forgotten all about the matter, until your brother's remark to-night recalled it to my memory. Promise me, now, you will never think of it more—much less speak of it."

"Tell me one thing more, Willard, and I promise—only one," said Sibyl, laying her hand on his shoulder, and looking up in his face earnestly, while her voice trembled in spite of all her efforts.

"Well," he said, anxiously.

"Did you recognize the face of the person whom you saw beside you at the altar, and who afterward died on I the scaffold?"

He was silent, and looked with a troubled eye out over the shining waters.

"Willard, dearest Willard! tell me, have you, ever yet seen her?"

"Why will you question me thus, dearest Sibyl?"

"Answer me truly, Willard, on your honor."

"Well, then, dearest, I have."

Sibyl drew her breath quick and short, and held his arm with a convulsive grasp.

"Who is she?" she asked.

Willard turned, and looking steadily into her wild, searching eyes, replied, in a thrilling whisper:

CHAPTER III.
THE MANIAC'S CURSE.

"Her wretched brain gave way,
And she became a wreck at random driven,
Without one glimpse of reason or of heaven."—LALLA ROOKH.

The schooner Evening Star lay at anchor in a little rock-bound inlet, on the northern side of the island previously referred to. A boat had just put off from her, containing Captain Guy Campbell, Mr. Willard Drummond, Sibyl Campbell, and the sick passenger, Richard Grove. He lay on a sort of mattress, half supported by Captain Campbell; and in the pale, cold moonlight, looked wan and emaciated to a fearful degree. The features, sharply defined, were like those of a skeleton, and, in their ghastly rigidity, seemed like those of a corpse. But life, intensely burning life, shone in the wild, troubled eyes. Willard Drummond and Sibyl sat talking together, in low tones, at the other end of the boat, fearful of disturbing the dying man.

As the boat touched the shore, Drummond leaped out, and extended his hand to Sibyl; but the wild sea-nymph, declining the needless aid, sprang lightly out, and stood beside him.

The figure of a woman, who had been standing on a rock, watching their approach, now came forward, exclaiming delightedly:

"Laws-a-massy, Miss Sibyl! Who ever s'posed we'd see you here again? Where hev you been to this long time?"

"My dear Mrs. Tom!" said Sibyl, smilingly, holding out her hand; "I am delighted to see you. Where I have been is a troublesome question to answer, seeing I have been almost everywhere you could mention."

"Laws, now! hev you? 'Spect you had nice times sailin' round, though it does seem odd how you could stand all the sea-sickness you must have come through. 'Tain' every young critter would do it. But then you allus was different from most young folks. Jemimi! how you've growed, an' how handsome you've got! Jest as pooty as a picter! An' that, I s'pose, is young Master Guy!" continued the loquacious new-comer, eagerly, as the young captain leaped lightly ashore.

Sibyl nodded, and blushed slightly, as she encountered the gaze of Drummond, who stood watching Mrs. Tom, with a half-smile of amusement on his fine face.

"Master Guy!" said the officious Mrs. Tom, bustling forward; "you hain't forgotten your old aunty, I hope? My gracious! you've got as tall as a hop-pole! Growed out of my knowledge altogether!"

"Why, Mrs. Tom, is it possible?" exclaimed Captain Guy, catching her hand in his hearty grasp. "Looking as young and smart as ever, too, and as fresh and breezy as a May morning! 'Pon my word, I'm delighted to see you looking so well! How is pretty Christie and Master Carl?"

"Oh, Christie is well enough, and pootier than ever; and, what's more, she's as good as she's handsome. But Carl—oh, Master Guy! that there young limb'll break my heart yet! I hain't the slightest doubt of it. Of all the thrif'less, good-for-nothing lazy-bones—"

"Oh, well, Mrs. Tom, he'll outgrow that. The best thing you can do is to let me take him to sea with me the next time I go, and that will cure him of his laziness, if anything will. In the meantime, I have a patient for you to take care of, if you have no objection. He can't last much longer, poor fellow, and you are a better nurse than Sibyl. What do you say, Mrs. Tom? Shall I send him up to your house?"

Mrs. Tom was a brown faced, black-eyed, keen-looking, wide-awake, gossiping little woman, of four feet high, with a tongue that could, and did, say sharp things sometimes; but with a heart so warm and large that it is a wonder how it ever found room in so small a body. However, I have been told, as a general thing, little people are, by far, cleverer and warmer-hearted than their tall neighbors—as if nature were anxious to atone for their shortened stature by giving them a double allowance of heart and brains.

Nursing was Mrs. Tom's peculiar element. Nothing delighted her more than to get possession of a patient, whom she could doctor back to health. But unfortunately this desire of her heart was seldom gratified; for both Carl and Christie were so distressingly healthy that "yarb tea" and "chicken broth" were only thrown away upon them. Her frequent visits to the mainland, however, afforded her an opportunity of physicking indiscriminately certain unfortunate little wretches, who were always having influenza, and measles, and hooping-cough, and other little complaints too numerous to mention, and which fled before Mrs. Tom's approach and the power of her "yarb tea." Of late there had been a "plentiful scarcity" even of these escape-valves, so her eyes twinkled now with their delight at the prospect of this godsend.

"Send him up? Sartinly you will, Master Guy. I'll take care of him. This here's the best road up to the side of the rocks; 'tain't so rough as it is here."

"Lift him up," said Captain Campbell to the sailors who had rowed them ashore, "Gently, boys," he said, as the sick man groaned. "Don't hurt him. Follow Mrs. Tom to her cottage—that's the way. I'll be down early to-morrow to see him, Mrs. Tom. This way, Drummond; follow me. I'll bid you good-night, Mrs. Tom. Remember me to Christie."

And Captain Campbell sprang up the rocks, followed by Sibyl and Drummond, in the direction of Campbell's Castle.

Mrs. Tom, with a rapidity which the two sturdy seamen found it difficult to follow, burdened as they were, walked toward her cottage.

The home of Mrs. Tom was a low, one-story house, consisting of one large room and bed-room, with a loft above, where all sorts of lumber and garden implements were thrown, and where Master Carl sought his repose. A garden in front, and a well-graveled path, led up to the front door, and into the apartment which served as kitchen, parlor, dining-room, and sleeping-room for Christie and Mrs. Tom. The furniture was of the plainest description, and scanty at that, for Mrs. Tom was poor, in spite of all her industry; but, as might be expected from so thrifty a housewife, everything was like waxwork. The small, diamond-shaped panes in the windows flashed like jewels in the moonlight; and the floors and chairs were scrubbed as white as human hands could make them. Behind the house was a large vegetable garden, nominally cultivated by Carl, but really by Mrs. Tom, who preferred doing the work herself to watching her lazy nephew.

As the men entered with their burden, Mrs. Tom threw open the bed-room door, and the sick man was deposited on the bed. Lights were brought by Carl, a round-faced, yellow-haired, sleepy-looking youth, of fifteen, with dull, unmeaning blue eyes, and a slow, indolent gait; the very opposite in every way of his brisk, bustling little aunt.

"Be off with you to bed!" said Mrs. Tom. "It's the best place for any one so lazy as you are. Clear out, now, for I'm going to sit up with this here sick man, and want quiet."

With evident willingness Carl shuffled off, leaving Mrs. Tom alone with her patient.

The little woman approached the bed, and looked at his pinched, sallow features with an experienced eye. It was evident to her he could not survive the night.

"I wonder if he knows his end's so near at hand?" said Mrs. Tom to herself. "He ought to know, anyhow. I'll tell him when he awakes, 'cause it's no use for me trying to do anything with him."

The man was not asleep. As she spoke he opened his large, wild-looking black eyes, and gazed around vacantly.

"Mister," began Mrs. Tom, "I don't know your name, but 'taint no odds. Do you know how long you have to live?"

"How long?" said the man, looking at her with a gaze so wild that, had Mrs. Tom been the least bit nervous, would have terrified her beyond measure.

"Not three hours," said Mrs. Tom gravely.

A sort of wild horror overspread the face of the dying man.

"So soon! oh, Heaven, so soon!" he murmured, "and with all unconfessed still. I cannot die with this crime on my soul. I must reveal the miserable secret that has eaten away my very life."

Mrs. Tom listened to this unexpected outburst in wonder and amazement.

"Listen," said the man, turning to Mrs. Tom, and speaking rapidly in his excitement. "One night, about thirteen years ago, as I was returning home from my day's labor, I was overtaken by a violent storm. I was a considerable distance from home, and there was no house near where I could remain for the night. It was intensely dark, and I staggered blindly along in the drenching rain until, by a sudden flash of lightning, I chanced to espy the ruins of an old house, that had long been deserted. Thankful even for this refuge from the storm, I entered it, and, retreating into a corner, I sat on an empty box waiting for the tempest to abate.

"Suddenly I heard the sound of voices in an adjoining room, talking in low whispers. There were, at the time, certain suspicious characters prowling about, and the unexpected sound startled me. Still, I felt they might be only weather-bound wayfarers, like myself; but, before joining them, I thought it might be prudent to discover who they were, and I cautiously drew near the wall to listen.

"The partition dividing us was thin, and in the lull of the storm I could catch here and there a few words of their conversation.

"'I tell you he killed himself,' said one. 'I saw him. He stabbed him to the heart with his knife.'

"'What does he intend doing with—?' Here a sudden rush of wind and rain prevented me from hearing what followed.

"'And serves the jade right, too,' were the next words I heard. 'She might have known what it was to rouse the anger of that devil incarnate.'

"'Where are we to find this fellow he wants?' said the second voice.

"'At Minton, on the coast, half a mile from here. His name's Dick Grove. I know him.'

"I started in alarm, as well I might, for the name was mine.

"'How do you know he'll agree?'

"'If he doesn't, said the first, with an oath that made my blood run chill, 'a little cold steel will settle the business. But the terms are easier than that; he's to be well paid for holding his tongue, and as he's a poor devil, he'll do anything for money. Oh, he'll agree; there's no trouble about that.'

"The increasing noise of the storm now drowned their voices altogether. I stood for a moment rooted to the ground with terror. That some terrible crime had been, or was to be perpetrated, in which, by some means, I was to be implicated, I plainly saw; and my only idea now was to escape. I started forward, but, as my unlucky fate would have it, I stumbled in the darkness and fell heavily to the ground with a violence that shook the old house.

"I heard, as I lay half stunned, an ejaculation of alarm from the inner room and quick footsteps approaching where I lay. All was now up with me, so I scrambled to my feet just as two men, wearing black crape masks over their faces, entered. Each carried pistols, and one held a dark-lantern, the light of which flashed in my face.

"'Who are you, sir?' fiercely exclaimed one; and I saw him draw a sword that made my blood curdle.

"I essayed to answer, but my teeth chattered so with terror that I could not utter a word.

"'Ha!' exclaimed the other, who all this time had been holding the lantern close to my face. 'This is the very fellow we were in search of. Your name is Richard Grove?'

"'Yes,' I managed to say, quaking with mortal fear.

"'You are a mason by trade, and live in Minton?' said, or rather affirmed, my fierce questioner.

"I replied in the affirmative, for I saw there was no use in attempting a lie.

"'All right, Tom. You go for the carriage; I will take care of our friend here until you return.'

"The one with the knife left the house, and the other, drawing a pistol, the disagreeable click of which made me jump, sat down before me, keeping his eyes immovably riveted on my face. I did not dare to move. I scarcely dared to breathe, as I stood with my eyes fixed, as if fascinated, on the deadly weapon. Nearly ten minutes passed thus in profound silence, when the sound of carriage-wheels was heard; and the instant after, the man called Tom entered, his mask off, but his hat pulled so far down over his eyes, and his coat-collar turned so far up, that I could see nothing but a pair of dark, sinister eyes.

"'The carriage is here,' he said.

"'Then go on; and you, my man, follow him—I will walk behind.'

"I did not venture to utter a word, and was about going out, when he called me back, exclaiming;

"'I came near forgetting a very necessary precaution. Here, my good fellow, let me tie this bandage over your eyes.'

"'Where are you taking me to?' I ventured to say, as he very coolly proceeded to tie a handkerchief tightly over my eyes.

"'That you had better not know. And hark ye, friend, ask no questions. Least said soonest mended. Move on, Tom.'

"Holding my hand to prevent me from falling, my guide led me out. I felt myself assisted into a carriage and placed in a seat. One of the men got in after me, and closed the door; the other mounted the box, and off we drove.

"I am quite sure they took a long, roundabout way and went here and there, in various directions, and came back to the same place again, to make me believe the distance was much longer than it really was. For nearly an hour we drove thus, and then the coach stopped, and I was helped out. I knew I was on the shore, for I could hear the waves dashing inward, and foaming and breaking over the rocks. Then they assisted me into a boat, which was pushed off and rowed rapidly away. The boat was large and strong, but it tossed and pitched dreadfully in the heaving sea, and I was forced to hold on with the grasp of desperation to the side.

"I am sure we were fully two hours, tossing thus on the surf, when the boat struck the shore so suddenly, that I was thrown forward on my face in the bottom. With a loud laugh of derision, the men helped me up and assisted me to land, and then conducted me up a long, slippery beach until we reached a hard road. We walked rapidly on for nearly a quarter of an hour, and then I heard a key turn in a rusty lock, and I was led into a house. Taking first the precaution of locking the door after him, my guide led me through a long hall, up a longer winding staircase, and through another hall, and up two other flights of stairs. It seemed to me he would never stop, when, at last, I heard him open a door, thrust me in, and retreat again, locking the door after him.

"My first care was to tear off the bandage and look around; but the room was so intensely black I could see nothing. The darkness could be almost felt as I thrust out my hand and essayed to walk. I had not advanced a dozen steps, when my foot slipped on some wet, slimy substance, and I fell, and struck violently against something lying on the floor. Trembling with horror, I put out my hand, and—merciful Heaven! I shudder even now to think of it—it fell on the cold, clammy face of a corpse!"

"Laws-a-massy!" ejaculated the horror-struck Mrs. Tom, as the dying man paused, every feature convulsed at the recollection.

"I think I fainted," he went on, after a pause, "for when I next recollect anything, I was supported by my masked conductor, who was sprinkling, or, rather, dashing handfuls of water in my face, and there was a light burning in the room. I looked around. There, on the floor, lay the dead body of a man, weltering in blood, which flowed from a great, frightful gash in his side!"

"The sight nearly drove me mad, for I sprang with a wild cry to my feet. But my conductor laid his hand on my shoulder and said, in a tone so fierce and stern that I quailed before him:

"Hark ye, sirrah, have done with this cowardly foolery, or, by heaven, you shall share the same fate of him you see before you! No matter what you see to-night, speak not, nor ask any questions, under peril of instant death. If you perform your duty faithfully, this shall be your reward."

As he spoke he displayed a purse filled up with bright, yellow guineas.

"Before I could reply, a shriek that seemed to come from below resounded through the room, a shriek so full of wild horror, and anguish, and despair, that even my companion gave a violent start, and stood as if listening intently. As for me, my very life-blood seemed curdling as the wild, piercing cries of agony came nearer and nearer. A heavy footstep ascended the stairs, and I could hear the sound of some body being dragged up.

"Closer and closer came those appalling screams, and a man entered, masked likewise, dragging after him the convulsed form of a young girl.

"To this day I have never seen a more beautiful creature, notwithstanding her face was distorted with fear and horror. As she entered, her eyes fell on the form of the dead man on the floor. With supernatural strength she broke from the man who held her, and bent for an instant over the lifeless body. It sufficed to tell her he was quite dead; and then, throwing up her white arms, she fled round the room, shrieking as I never heard any living being shriek before. Great Heaven! those awful cries are ringing in my ears yet.

"The man who had led her in sprang forward and caught her by both wrists. She struggled like one mad, but even the unnatural strength of frenzy failed to free her from his iron grasp. I could see her delicate wrists grow black in the cruel grasp in which he held her.

"The man beside me said something to him in a foreign tongue—French, I think—to which the other nodded, without speaking. My guide then went and unlocked a door at the farther end of the apartment, from which he drew forth a great heap of bricks and mortar, and all the implements necessary for building a wall.

"A light began to dawn upon me. The body of this murdered man was to be walled up here.

"My suspicion was correct. Making a sign for me to assist him, the man raised the head, and not daring to refuse, I took the body by the feet, and we carried it into the inner room, which proved to be a small dark closet without a window, and with immensely thick walls. Even in my terror for my own safety, I could not repress a feeling of pity for this murdered youth—for he was only a boy—and the handsomest I ever saw.

"All this time the woman's wild shrieks were resounding through the room, growing louder and louder each moment, as she still struggled to free herself from his hold. All in vain. He forced her into the inner room, but before he could close the door she had burst out, and, clasping his knees, screamed for mercy.

"He spurned her from him with a kick of his heavy boot, and then she sprang up and spat at him like one possessed of an evil spirit. Flying to the farthest corner of the room, she raised her right hand to Heaven, crying, in a voice that might have made the stoutest heart quail:

"'I curse you! I curse you! Living, may Heaven's wrath follow my curse—dead, may it hurl you into eternal perdition! On your children and on your children's children, may——'

"With a fierce oath, he sprang upon her ere she could finish the awful words that pealed through the room like the last trump, and seizing her by the throat, hurled her headlong into the dark inner room where the murdered man lay. Then, closing the massive oaken door, and locking it, he turned to me, and speaking for the first time, commanded me, in a voice fairly convulsed with passion, to wall up the door.

"I would have prayed for mercy, but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. The man beside me saw my indecision, and, catching me by the arm, said, in a stern whisper:

"Fool! do you want to share their fate? Do as you are told!

"I shrank from the crime, but life was dear to me, and I obeyed. As men work only for their lives, I worked with those two mysterious masks looking on. All was still as the grave within that closet-door now. Once only I heard a sound as of some one trying to rise, and then a heavy fall—and I worked on with redoubled energy.

"Not a word was spoken by any of us in the deep silence of the solemn midnight, in which the awful crime was perpetrated.

"It was completed at last; where the door had been was a wall of solid masonry, which her death-cries could never penetrate.

"'It is well!' said he who appeared to me the superior. 'Give him the reward I told you of.'

"The other silently handed me the purse.

"'And now swear never to reveal what you have this night seen till your dying day!'

"'I swear!' said I, for I dared not refuse.

"'That will do. Take him away,' said the speaker, leaving the room.

"My guide blindfolded me as I had been before, and led me out, locking the door on the awful secret.

"As I had been brought up, I was led to the beach. The boat was in waiting, and I was taken away, landed, conveyed into the carriage, which for upward of half an hour drove round some circuitous route. Then I was assisted out and left standing alone. I tore the bandage from my eyes and looked around, but the carriage was gone; and I never heard or discovered aught more of the event of that night.

"From that day my peace of mind was gone. Years passed, but it haunted me night and day, till I became a morose and dreaded man. Then I traveled from land to land, but nothing ever could banish from my ears that woman's dying shrieks and despairing eyes.

"In Liverpool I felt ill. I felt I mast die, and wanted to come and be buried in my native land. Captain Campbell brought me here. And now that I have told all, I can die in peace. In peace—never! never until that woman's face is gone! Oh, Heaven!" he cried, raising himself up with a shriek, and pointing to the window, "she is there!"

With a scream almost as wild as his own, Mrs. Tom started up and looked.

A pale, wild, woeful face, shrouded in wild black hair, was glued for a moment to the glass, and then was gone.

Paralyzed with terror, Mrs. Tom turned to the sick man. His jaw had dropped, his eyes were protruding from their sockets, and he was dead.

CHAPTER IV.
THE HAUNTED ROOM.

"What form is that?
The stony clenching of the bared teeth—
The gory socket that the balls have burst from—
I see them all,
It moves—-it moves—it rises—it comes on me."—BERTRAM.

Under the guidance of young Guy Campbell, Willard Drummond and Sibyl ascended the steep rocky path leading to Campbell Lodge. Captain Guy bounded over the rocks with the agility of a deer, while his two companions more leisurely followed.

"Yonder is my island-home, old Campbell Castle," said Sibyl, as an abrupt turn in the rough road brought them full in view of the mansion-house. "It is nearly three years now since I have seen it."

Both paused as if involuntarily to contemplate it. Years and neglect had performed their usual work of destruction on the lodge. The windows were broken in many places, and the great gate before the house, hung useless and fallen off it rusty hinges. The coarse, red sandstone of which it had been originally built, was now black with age and the many storms that had beat against it. No lights were to be seen, no smoke issued from the tall chimneys, all looked black, gloomy and deserted. The swallows had built their nests in the eaves and ruined gables, and even the tall, dark, spectral pines that formed an avenue to the dilapidated gate-way, had a forlorn and dismal look. In the pale, bright moonlight, the ruined homestead of the Campbells looked cold, bleak, and uninviting. Even the long, gloomy shadows from the trees, as they lay on the ground, seemed to the superstitious mind of Sibyl, like unearthly hands waving them away. She shuddered with a chill feeling of dread, and clung closer to the arm of Drummond:

"Quite a remarkable looking old place, this," said the young man, gayly. "Really charming in its gloomy grandeur, and highly suggestive of ghosts and rats, and other vermin of a like nature," while he inwardly muttered: "Dismal old hole; even Sibyl's bright eyes can hardly recompense me for burying myself in such a rickety dungeon."

"It has not a very hospitable look, I must say," said its young mistress, with a smile; "but in spite of its forbidding aspect, I hope we will be able, by some means, to make your stay here endurable."

"A desert would seem a paradise to me with you near by," said Drummond, in his low, lover-like tones. "My only regret is, that our stay here is destined to be so short."

The dark, bright face of the young island-girl flushed with pleasure; but ere she could reply, the hall-door was thrown open, and Captain Campbell stood, hat in hand, before them.

"Welcome to Campbell Castle," he said, with gay courtesy, stepping aside to let them enter.

"Thank you," said Drummond, bowing gravely, while he glanced with some curiosity around, to see if the interior looked more inviting than the exterior.

They stood in a long, wide hall, high and spacious, which the light of the flickering candle Captain Campbell held strove in vain to illuminate. At the further extremity a winding staircase rose up, until it was lost in the gloom above. Two wide, black doors flanked the hall on either side, and Captain Campbell threw open that on the right, saying:

"This I have discovered, upon investigation to be at present the only habitable apartment in the house. Woeful are the accounts I have received from worthy Aunt Moll and her son and heir, Lemuel, of the state of the chimneys. The swallows have built their nests in the only one that ever did draw respectably, and all the rest leak at such a rate every time it rains that the fire is not only completely extinguished, but the rooms filled with water."

"And what in the world are we to do, brother?" asked Sibyl, in dismay at this unpromising picture.

"Why, we must make the best we can of a bad bargain. I have sent Lem—much against his will, I must say, for the young man is disagreeably afflicted with laziness—to take the swallows' nests out of the chimney and make a fire there, while Aunt Moll does all the other et ceteras necessary for receiving as its inmate Her Majesty the Queen of the Isle. Then, as there is but one other habitable room in the house, Signor Drummond must occupy it, although it has not the most pleasant reputation in the world."

"How is that?" asked Drummond, drawing up a chair and seating himself in front of the fire, that, thanks to the exertions of Captain Campbell, was already burning brightly on the hearth.

"Why, to tell the truth, Aunt Moll and her hopeful son assert it to be haunted, as it most probably is by rats. If you are willing to trust yourself to the ghost's mercy, I can freely promise you safety from all other dangers."

"Haunted? By Jove, that's capital! I have been wishing all my life to see a genuine ghost, and lo! the time has come at last. But what manner of ghost is it, saith the legend—fair or foul, old or young, handsome or hideous?"

"On that point I am distressingly short of information. Lem's description is rather vague. He describes it as being 'higher than anything at all, with fire coming out of its eyes, long hair reaching to the ground, and dressed in white.'"

"Oh, of course!" said Drummond. "Who ever heard of a ghost that wasn't dressed in white? 'Pon my honor, I am quite enchanted at the opportunity of making the acquaintance of its ghostship."

During this conversation Sibyl had left the room "on hospitable thoughts intent," and now returned to announce that supper was already progressing rapidly—most welcome news to our hungry gentlemen.

Sibyl had taken off her hat, and now her raven curls fell in heavy tresses to her waist. In the shadow, those glittering ringlets looked intensely black; but where the firelight fell upon them, a sort of red light shone through.

As she moved through the high, shadowy rooms, with the graceful, airy motion that lent a charm to the commonest action, Willard Drummond, following her with his eyes, felt a secret sense of exultation, as he thought this magnificent creature was his, and his alone. This bright, impassioned sea-nymph; this beautiful, radiant daughter of a noble race; this royal, though dowerless island-queen, loved him above all created beings. Had she not told him as he whispered in her willing ear his passionate words of love, that he was dearer to her than all the world besides? Some day he would make her his wife, and take her with him to his princely home in Virginia; and he thought, with new exultation, of the sensation this glorious planet would make among the lesser stars of his native State.

So thought and argued Willard Drummond in the first flush and delirium of love.

He did not stop to think that he had loved with even more intensity once before; that he had raved even in a like manner of another far less bright than this queenly Sibyl. He did not stop to think that even so he might love again.

No. Everything was forgotten but the intoxicating girl before him, with her sparkling face, her glorious eyes of jet, and her flashing, sun-bright hair.

From the rhapsody of passion—from the seventh heaven of his day-dreams, he was at last recalled by the voice of Sibyl herself summoning him to supper.

He looked up with a start, half inclined to be provoked at this sudden summons from his ideal world to the vulgar reality of a supper of hot-cakes, tea, and preserves. But there sat Sibyl at the head of the table, bright and smiling—beautifying even the dull routine of the tea-table with the charm of her presence. And then, too—now that this airy vision was gone—Mr. Willard Drummond began to recollect that he was very hungry, and that "dreams and visions" were, after all, very unsubstantial things, compared with the bread and butter of every-day life, degrading as the confession was.

Guy had already taken his place, so Willard took the seat his young host pointed out to him, and the business of the tea-table commenced.

When the meal was over, Aunt Moll cleared the table, and the three gathered round the fire—for, though the weather was warm, the great unaired room was chill enough to render the fire pleasant.

By degrees, perhaps it was owing to the strange, dreary loneliness of the place, the conversation turned upon deserted houses, bold robberies, murders, and by a natural consequence, upon ghosts.

Willard and Captain Campbell seemed striving to outvie each other in telling the most frightful tales, the latter taxing his imagination to invent them, when the original failed to produce the necessary degree of horror. Every one knows what a strange fascination such ghostly legends have, the hours passed almost unnoticed, and it was only when the fire burned low on the hearth, and the solitary candle guttered in the socket before going out, that our party became aware of the lateness of the hour.

"Well, we have been profitably spending the evening, I must say," remarked Captain Campbell, rising, with a laugh. "You should have been in bed an hour ago, Sibyl. Here! Aunt Moll," he cried, going to the door, "bring us lights, and show Mr. Drummond to his room."

He waited for a response, but none came, only the echo of his own voice sounded dolefully through the hall.

"Hallo! Aunt Moll, I say—Lem, bring candles," once more called Captain Campbell. Again he waited for an answer, and again none came. "Confound it!" he muttered, turning away, "the sleepy-headed pair have doubtless been in bed for the last three hours, and are as sound as the Seven Sleepers by this time."

"Never mind, Guy," said Sibyl, laughing at his rueful face, "I'll go. Aunt Moll and Lem are tired, doubtless, with their extraordinary exertions this evening, and it would be a pity to wake them."

She quitted the room as she spoke, in the direction of the kitchen, in search of lights.

And presently she reappeared, and announcing that Aunt Moll was stretched out on her pallet, before the kitchen fire, asleep, she took her light, and bidding them a smiling good-night, left them to seek her own room.

And Captain Campbell, taking a candle, preceded his guest in the direction of the "haunted chamber."

Willard Drummond entered, and looked round. It was a high, wide, spacious chamber, as were all in the house, with floors, doors, and casements of dark, polished oak, black now with time and use. In the wide fire-place at one end, a fire had been burning all the evening, but only the red, smouldering embers remained now. At the other end of the room, opposite the fire, was his bed, and between them, facing the door, was a deep dormer window. The room looked cheerful and pleasant, and throwing himself into an easy, old-fashioned arm-chair before the fire, he exclaimed:

"Well, in spite of all the ghosts and hobgoblins that ever walked at 'noon of night,' I shall sleep here as sound as a top until morning. Your ghost will have to give me a pretty vigorous shaking before I awake, when once I close my eyes."

"Perhaps the ghost, if in the least timorous, will not appear to so undaunted an individual as yourself. May your dreams be undisturbed! Good-night!" And placing the light on the table Captain Campbell left the room.

Willard's first care was to lock the door securely, and then carefully examine the room. There was no other means of ingress but the one by which he had entered, and the room did not seem to communicate with any other. The window was high above the ground, and firmly nailed down. Clearly, then, if the ghost entered at all it must assume its ghostly prerogative of coming through the keyhole—for there was no other means by which ghost or mortal could get in.

Satisfied with this, Willard Drummond went to bed, but in spite of all his efforts sleep would not come. Vain were all his attempts to woo the drowsy god; he could only toss restlessly from side to side, with that feeling of irritation which want of sleep produces.

The moonlight streaming in through the window filled the room with silvery radiance. The silence of death reigned around, unbroken even by the watch-dog's bark. The dull, heavy roar of the waves, breaking on the shore like far-off thunder, was the only sound to be heard. And at last, with this eerie, ghostly lullaby, Willard Drummond fell into a feverish sleep.

And sleeping, he dreamed. He was in a comfortably furnished home, and was recovering from a serious illness. Just well enough to be up, he sat in a chair made comfortable for his back by pillows. He had been reading, and, as he saw Sibyl enter the room in a neat-fitting white-merino morning-robe, he let his book fall to the floor, while she dropped on her knees beside him, and, with loving anxiety beaming from her brilliant eyes, glanced into his face.

Then the scene abruptly changed, and he seemed wandering on the verge of a precipice, treading a path so narrow and precarious that a single false step would hurl him to certain destruction down the unfathomable gulf below. Where that path was to end he knew not, but a white robed siren, with shining golden hair and smiling eyes and lips, went before him and lured him on. An inward voice seemed whispering him to beware, that the path he was treading must end in death; but the smiling eyes of the golden-haired tempter were beaming upon him, and the voice whispered in vain. Above every steep crag, as he passed, the wild black eyes of Sibyl seemed gleaming with deadly hatred and fierce malignity on him; but even those dark, warning eyes could not tempt him back from the road he was treading. Suddenly the siren vanished; he sprang after her, and fell down, down, down into the awful gulf below.

A wild laugh rang out on the air, and Sibyl was bending above him, holding a glittering dagger to his heart, while her great black eyes burned like two flames. He held out his hands for mercy, but she only mocked him with her deriding black eyes, and raised the knife to plunge it into his heart.

With a cry of terror he awoke to find it not all a dream.

An icy cold hand lay on his face.

He sprang up in bed with a thrill of horror, to behold a white, wild face, with vacant, unearthly eyes and long, streaming hair bending over him.

Paralyzed by the sudden apparition, he sat, unable to move or speak, and ere he could fully recover his senses the ghostly visitant was gone.

He sprang out of bed and seized the door. It was locked as he had left it, and, with his blood curdling, he stood rooted to the ground.

Morally and physically Willard Drummond was brave, but this midnight visit from a supernatural being might have chilled the blood of the most undaunted. Sleep now was out of the question; therefore, seating himself by the window, he prepared to wait for the approach of morning. The moon was already sinking behind the western horizon, bathing the placid river in its soft beams. The morning star shone bright and serene in the cloudless blue sky; and, gazing on the calm beauty without, the young man's pulse ceased its feverish throbbings, and he began striving to account for this ghostly visit by natural means.

But he strove in vain. The door was firmly locked, and there could be no secret passage through those strong, oaken walls. Then he arose, and carefully searched every crevice in the room that could by any possibility be made a hiding-place of. Still in vain. The room contained no living thing but himself.

Morning was now growing red in the east, and, exhausted with watching, he threw himself on the bed, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep, from which he did not awake until the sun was high in the heavens.

He sprang hastily out of bed, and proceeded to dress himself. And now a new difficulty arose. He felt he would be questioned about the supernatural visitors of the haunted chamber, and he was at a loss how to answer. If he related the event of the night, he dreaded the ridicule of the unbelieving Captain Campbell, who would assuredly laugh at him for being conquered in spite of his boasting; and to be laughed at in the presence of Sibyl was not to be endured. If, on the other hand he did not tell, he would be obliged to continue the occupant of the haunted chamber while he remained on the island—a thing he had not the slightest wish to do.

His toilet was finished before he could come to any conclusion; and still debating the case, he descended the stairs, and entered the sitting-room they had occupied the night before.

CHAPTER V.
THE MIDNIGHT CRY.

"And when the midnight hour is come,
A sound is heard in yonder hall—
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
And vibrates o'er the moldering wall."

In a former chapter, we left Mrs. Tom in rather an appalling situation.

Accustomed to the quiet unexciting life of the lonely, sea-girt island, the events of the night had momentarily terrified her, albeit her nerves were none of the weakest. The mysterious revelation of the dying man; his tale of night, and storm, and crime; the wild, ghostly face at the window; and, lastly, his sudden death, were quite enough to thrill for an instant with terror even a stronger heart than that of the solitary old widow.

For some moments Mrs. Tom sat still, gazing alternately at the window and on the ghastly face of the dead man before her, with a chill of horror creeping over her.

The sudden striking of the clock, as it chimed the hour of eleven, aroused her at last from her trance of terror. It was a sound of life, and it reassured her.

Rising, she gathered courage to approach the window cautiously, and looked out. Nothing was to be seen but the bright moonlight, bathing rock and river in its silvery light. Beyond, she could see the huge, black pile of Campbell's Castle, casting its long, gloomy shadow over the ground. Lights were still twinkling in the windows—a sight as unusual as it was pleasant—and, with renewed confidence at this sign of life, Mrs. Tom went to arouse Carl to assist her to watch beside the dead.

"It's onpossible to sleep with a corpse in the house," thought Mrs. Tom, as she climbed up the ladder leading to Carl's lofty dormitory; "leastways, I couldn't sleep a wink, though I do s'pose that there lazy, sleepy-head of a Carl could snore away jest as soundly as ef we was all dead in a heap. I reckon I'll hev an hour's work getting him up. Here, you Carl! Carl! Get up, I tell you!"

Then Mrs. Tom shook him lustily. The sleeper only replied by turning over with a grunt.

"Carl! Carl! Lor' sakes! you great, sleepy, good-for-nothing, open your eyes. I do b'lieve the last Judgment wouldn't wake you, once you got a-snorin'. Ef nothin' else won't do, I'll try how you'll like this!"

And Mrs. Tom caught the unfortunate Carl by the hair and pulled it vigorously, until that ill-used youth sprang upright, with a roar that might have been heard half a mile off.

"Thunder and lightning, aunty, do you want to kill a feller?" roared Master Carl, in a rage.

"Hush, Carl! Don't get mad, honey," said Mrs. Tom, soothingly. "I only want you to come down stairs and set up with me. That there sick man's dead."

"Dead!" repeated Carl, staring with all his eyes.

"Yes, he's dead as can be; and it's the most lonesomest thing in the world settin' up alone with a corpse, so I waked you up."

"Well don't sit up with him, then," said Carl, with a tremendous yawn. "If he's dead, he won't mind staying alone all night, I suppose. Anyhow, I know I ain't going to get up this time of night, if he was dead twice over."

And Carl lay down, and composed himself for another nap.

But Mrs. Tom was resolved not to be disobeyed; so, dropping the pacific tone she had first adopted, she very summarily snatched away sheets and quilts, pulled the mattress from under him, and overset poor Carl on the floor, from which she soon made him spring up with a sound box on the ear.

"Now then," said the indignant old lady; "tell me ag'in you won't, will ye? Now, look here, ef you ain't dressed and down stairs in five minutes, I'll come back, and this ain't no circumstance to what you'll get. Tell me you won't, indeed! There's no tellin' what the impidence of these scape-goats of boys 'ill come to, ef they ain't minded in time," muttered the old lady to herself, as she descended the ladder.

Carl's toilet, thus unpleasantly hastened, was soon complete, and he descended to the lower room with a very sulky face, and grumbling inwardly at his hard fate in being governed by so tyrannical a task-mistress:

"I don't see why the old feller couldn't have died somewhere else," inwardly muttered the ill-treated Mr. Henley; "a coming here and giving bother, keeping a feller from his sleep of nights. It's downright mean!"

Taking possession of Mrs. Tom's rocking-chair, while the old lady bustled about, laying out the corpse as best she could under the circumstances, Carl was once more soon sound asleep. Then, when all she could do was done, Mrs. Tom lay down on the hard wooden sofa, or "settee," as she called it, and, in spite of the presence of death, followed her worthy nephew to the land of dreams.

Morning was far advanced before either awoke. Mrs. Tom's first care was to send Carl up to the lodge to inform its inmates of the death of her guest, and desire Captain Campbell's immediate presence.

Immediately after breakfast the young captain hastened to the cottage, while Sibyl and Drummond went out for a stroll round the island.

Mrs. Tom had been anxiously revolving in her mind the singular story told her the night before, and resolved to reveal it to Captain Campbell and learn his opinion about it.

Accordingly, when he entered, Mrs. Tom—having first taken the precaution of turning Carl out of doors—related the story in substance as it had been told to her.

Captain Campbell listened in astonishment and in credulity.

"Now, Master Guy, what do you think of that?" exclaimed Mrs. Tom, when she had finished.

"My dear madam," replied the young man, gravely, "the man, excited, half crazed, delirious as he was, must have imagined all this. No such horrible thing could have ever occurred in a Christian land."

"But he wasn't crazy," asserted Mrs. Tom, almost angry at having the truth of the story doubted. "He was just as sensible, all through, as you or I. He wasn't colirious a mite."

"Now, Mrs. Tom, it's not possible that, with all your good sense, you can credit such an incredible tale."

"But, Master Guy, the man told it on his death-bed. Think o' that."

"And doubtless believed it, too; but that does not make it any more probable. I have heard of such cases before. It is all owing to the imagination, my dear lady. He had fancied this story, and thought about it so long, that he at last believed it himself."

"Well, I don't know nothin' 'bout the 'magination, thank my heavenly Master," said Mrs. Tom, in a sort of sullen unbelief; "but I do know, ef you was to talk till this time to-morrow, you couldn't make me believe differently. I shouldn't wonder now ef you tried to make me think the face I seed stuck at the winder was all 'magination, too."

"I was just about to say so," said Guy, repressing a smile. "It could be nothing else, you know. The hour of night, the thrilling tale, and the man's dying cry that he saw her there, would have made you imagine anything; therefore——"

But Mrs. Tom's wrath was rising. She had been inwardly priding herself on the sensation her story would create, and this fall to her hopes was more than she could patiently endure.

"It's no sich thing," she cried, in a voice louder and sharper than she was in the habit of using to any one but the unfortunate Carl. "I seen it all with my two blessed eyes, and nobody's goin' to make me believe it was my 'magination. 'Magination, indeed!" continued the old lady, in a tone of profound contempt. "Thank my divine Master, I never was troubled with 'magination since the day I was born, and 'tain't likely I'd begin now in my old age o' life. I allers hid a great respect for you, Master Guy; but I'm a poor, lone 'ooman, and can't stand to be onsulted by nobody. I hain't no doubt you mean well, but I like to hev people b'lieve me when I do tell the truth. Scat, you hussy! afore I twist your neck for you."

The latter part of this oration was addressed to Trot, the mottled cat, and was accompanied by a kick, which ejected that unoffending member of society out of doors, much quicker than was at all agreeable. Captain Campbell, quite unprepared for this burst of eloquence, listened in amazement, and seized the first opportunity, when angry Mrs. Tom paused for breath, to humbly apologize for his offense.

"My dear Mrs. Tom," said the young captain, humbly, "I had not the remotest intention of offending you, and most deeply regret having done so. I have fallen into a bad habit, of late, of doubting everything; and really this story appeared so improbable, that I think I may be pardoned for not yielding it full credit on the spot. Come, now, my dear madam," he continued, seeing the cloud still hanging on Mrs. Tom's honest face, "let's be friends still; and I promise for the future to believe everything you choose to tell me, no matter what it is."

Good Mrs. Tom was not proof against the insinuating tone of Master Guy, who had always been her favorite; so the cloud disappeared, and her own cheery smile once more beamed forth.

Having arranged that Lem should come down and prepare a grave during the morning, Captain Campbell left the cottage, and went in search of Mr. Drummond and his sister to tell them what he had heard.

He found them down on the shore. Sibyl stood on a high cliff, her dress fluttering in the morning breeze, her hat off, and her long, glittering, jetty tresses waving behind her like a banner. The wind that came sweeping across the waters had deepened the glow on her crimson cheeks and lips, and sent a living light into her glorious eyes.

Willard Drummond stood beneath, gazing at her as a poet might gaze on the living realization of his most beautiful dreams. Captain Campbell shrugged his shoulders expressively as he saw his impassioned glance, and thought inwardly of the confession he had once made to him of there being but one woman in the world worth loving.

"Well, Sibyl, one would think you were attitudinizing for the stage," said Captain Campbell, dryly, as he approached.

Sibyl laughed gayly, as she sprang down on the white, level sands between her brother and lover.

"I was only looking out for a sail, which I failed to discover," she replied.

"Well, Campbell," said Drummond, "had your old lady down below any important revelations to make, that she sent for you in such haste this morning?"

"Not very important in my eyes, though they are in hers," replied the young captain. "She wished to reveal the dying deposition of our passenger, Richard Grove."

"And what had he to tell? Was I right in saying remorse for some crime preyed on him more than mere illness?"

"Faith, Sibyl, according to worthy Mrs. Tom, I believe you were. He succeeded in frightening that good, but slightly credulous old lady out of her wits."

"Well?" said Sibyl, inquiringly.

Captain Campbell, condensing the story, gave them the outline and principal facts in a few words. Both listened with deep interest; but when he spoke of the pale, haggard face, with its dark, waving hair, glaring at them through the window, Willard Drummond started violently, and turned pale. Sibyl's eagle eyes were fixed on his face, and she alone observed it.

"And what does Mrs. Tom take this nocturnal visitor to be?" inquired Sibyl. "A mortal like herself, or a spirit disembodied?"

"Oh, a ghost, of course," replied her brother. "The spirit, perhaps, of the woman walled up to perish in the room with the murdered man. Ugh! the story altogether is hideous enough to give one the nightmare! And now that you have learned all, I believe I'll go and send Lem down to inter the body."

Captain Campbell sauntered away, and the lovers were alone.

"And what do you think of this story, Willard?" inquired Sibyl.

"I cannot tell. Yesterday I would have joined your brother in laughing at it; but, to-day——"

He paused.

"And why not to-day?" breathlessly inquired Sibyl.

"Sibyl, I do not wish to needlessly alarm you, but last night, as if to punish my presumption, I experienced something very like a supernatural visit."

"Good Heavens, Willard! Then the story told by the negroes is true?"

"It certainly seems like it. Had any one else told me what I experienced, I should think they were humbugging me; but I cannot discredit what I saw with my own eyes."

"And what was the appearance of the nocturnal visitor?"

"Exactly like the description Mrs. Tom gives of the face that appeared at her window—white as that of the dead, with dark, streaming hair, and wild, vacant, dark eyes."

"Oh, Willard! Can it be that—— But, no; it is impossible. At what hour did this apparition appear?"

"Between one and two, as near as I can judge."

"Strange! strange! I, too, heard something dreadful last night."

"Is it possible? What was it, dearest Sibyl?"

"Listen! About midnight I was awakened by something that sounded like a heavy fall right outside my door, followed by a groan so deep, so horrible, that the very blood seemed freezing in my veins. Trembling with terror, I half rose to listen; but all for a time was still. Trying to persuade myself I was only dreaming, I was about to lie down again, when a shriek the most appalling broke upon the air, and died away in an agonized moan. I dared not move; I could not sleep; and I lay cowering in superstitious horror until morning. With the bright sunshine came renewed courage, and I feared to mention what I had heard to my brother or you, lest I should be laughed at—even as you feared the same. Willard, there must be some horrible mystery here! Some foul crime, I fear, has at some time been perpetrated within those walls. What if——"

She paused.

"Well, Sibyl?" he said, inquiringly.

"Oh, Willard! what if this house has been the scene of that mystery the dying man spoke of! I thought of it from the first."

"Nonsense, Sibyl! What an idea!" And yet he looked disturbed himself, as he spoke.

"How otherwise are we to account for those ghostly visitings, those midnight apparitions, and appalling shrieks?"

"And yet nothing could induce your brother to adopt your belief. He would laugh at our credulity, were we to tell him what we have seen and heard."

"Yes; and, perhaps I had better not tell him, Willard. I will have your room changed, and my own likewise. Even if they are less comfortable, they will be more endurable than to be disturbed by midnight specters."

"Be it so, then, fairest Sibyl," he said, gayly. And turning, they walked together to the Lodge.

CHAPTER VI.
"OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE, AND ON WITH THE NEW."

"Holy St. Francis! what a change is here!
Is Rosalind, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? Young men's love, then, lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes."—ROMEO AND JULIET.

The following night passed without disturbance, either earthly or ghostly, at Campbell's Lodge.

Early in the morning, Captain Campbell went over to the mainland on business. And Sibyl, accompanied by Drummond, went down to the cottage, to visit Mrs. Tom. There was an inward feeling of pleasure at Sibyl's heart, when she learned Christie was away to the mainland on a visit. Not that she doubted Willard; but she remembered Christie as a very pretty child, grown by this time, doubtless, into a lovely girl, and it might not be altogether safe, to throw the gay man of the world into dangerous society.

Toward noon, as they were sauntering along the sun-shiny beach, she hanging on his arm, while he softly whispered the words "ladies love to hear," they espied a boat advancing toward them. Sibyl raised her telescope to survey the new-comers.

"Rev. Mr. Mark Brantwell and wife," she exclaimed, in tones of surprise and pleasure. "Guy has doubtless called upon them, and told them I was here."

"Friends of yours?" asked Willard.

"Yes, the Episcopal clergyman of N——, whom I have known since my earliest childhood. But here they are."

The boat at this moment touched the shore, and Sibyl, disengaging her arm, ran down to meet them. Willard more leisurely followed, just in time to see his lady-love folded in the arms of a gentleman who sprang from the boat.

The stranger was of middle age, married, and a clergyman; yet, in spite of all, Mr. Drummond felt a sudden twinge of jealousy and anger at beholding the embrace. But the next moment jealousy, anger, every feeling was swallowed up in intense astonishment, not unmingled with superstitious horror. For as the clergyman turned round, and Willard obtained a full view of his face, he recognized the countenance of him he had seen years before in that mystic vision at the Egyptian's.

For a moment he stood regarding him, pale with wonder; and he only awoke from his trance of surprise, when he heard the clear, ringing voice of Captain Campbell, as he approached him, saying, with a hearty slap on the shoulder:

"Why, Drummond, man alive, what ails you? You are as pale as a ghost!"

"Are you ill?" said Sibyl, anxiously, as she approached, leaning on the arm of Mrs. Brantwell.

"A slight headache—nothing more," said Willard, recovering himself by an effort; "nothing worth being alarmed about," he added, seeing Sibyl's still anxious eyes.

"Why, Sibyl, have you grown nervous and cowardly?" exclaimed Mr. Brantwell—"you, who used to be as bold and daring as a mountain eaglet. But perhaps," he added, glancing meaningly at Willard, "it is only where some very particular friend is concerned that your fears are thus easily aroused."

Willard smiled slightly, while Sibyl's dark face grew crimson as she hurried on with increased rapidity, drawing her companion with her, and leaving the gentlemen behind.

When they reached the lodge Sibyl left her brother to entertain their guests, while she set about preparing luncheon. When the meal was over Mrs. Brantwell said:

"And now, Miss Sibyl, I have come to carry you off. It is three years since I have had the pleasure of seeing you, and I shall certainly take you with me now. Come, no excuses—I will not hear one of them."

"But, my dear Mrs. Brantwell——" began Sibyl.

"But, my dear Miss Campbell, you must come—do you hear that? Your brother can certainly do without you for a week."

"Yes, and glad to be rid of her, too," said the gallant Captain Campbell.

Sibyl stole a glance toward Drummond from under her long eyelashes. He was sitting, looking out of the window with an exceedingly dissatisfied frown on his brow. Mrs. Brantwell perceived the glance, and broke out again with her usual bluntness:

"And as for that other gentleman you are looking at, Sibyl, I am sure he will be generous enough to spare you for a few days, as he will, in all probability, have enough of you before long."

Again Sibyl crimsoned and glanced reproachfully at her plain-spoken friend, and again Mr. Drummond was forced to smile, in spite of his ill-humor, at the good lady's brusque bluntness.

"You will have to come, you see, Miss Sibyl," said Mr. Brantwell, laughing.

"Of course, she will," added his frank spouse; "and upon my word I think I am doing her a favor in taking her from this lonesome island, and letting her see a little of civilized life at our hands; though, from Sibyl's looks, I should say she doesn't feel at all grateful for it."

"Indeed, Mrs. Brantwell, I do, but—"

"There, there! I won't listen to another word." And Mrs. Brantwell, a tall, good-humored looking lady, clapped her hands over her ears. "Guy, make this ungrateful sister of yours hold her tongue, and do as she is told."

"Come, Sibyl, there is no help for it, you see," said Guy. "Drummond and I will get along swimmingly during your absence. He can keep his hand in, in making love to Aunt Moll, while I try my powers of persuasion over Mrs. Tom."

Sibyl laughed, and paused for a moment in thought. She would infinitely have preferred remaining on the island with Willard, but it would never do to allow them to think that was her reason; and after all, a week would soon pass. Had Christie been home, no persuasions could have induced her to go; but in her absence there was nothing to fear. Then, too, Willard, so long accustomed to her presence, would miss her so much when she was gone that doubtless his love would be increased rather than diminished.

Involuntarily, while thinking of him, her eyes wandered to where he stood. Again the sharp-sighted Mrs. Brantwell observed it, and again she broke out impatiently:

"Lord bless me! Mr. Drummond, just turn round, will you, and tell Sibyl she may go. Nothing earthly will induce her to come till you give permission. I'm sure if you were her father she couldn't be more afraid of displeasing your lordship."

"Miss Campbell needs no permission of mine. I am only too happy to think she will have an opportunity of enjoying herself so well," said Willard, with a grave bow.

"Well, I'm sure that's a mercy to be thankful for. Now, perhaps, you will come, Sibyl," said the plain-spoken old lady; "and as for you, sir, I shall expect to see you at the parsonage every day with Master Guy."

"I shall be most happy," said Willard, his face brightening a little, while Sibyl's eyes sparkled with anticipation.

"Well, now, run and get ready," said Mrs. Brantwell, turning to Sibyl.

Sibyl soon reappeared, dressed for her journey. And then, as the afternoon was far advanced, the whole party descended to the beach. The adieus were spoken, the boat pushed off, leaving the two young men alone on the sands.

"I must go over to Westbrook dock-yard this afternoon," said Guy, "where the Evening Star is now lying. What do you say to coming with me?"

"I prefer remaining here," said Willard, who had not yet recovered his good humor, after what he was pleased to call Sibyl's desertion.

"Well, then, I'll remain with you," said Guy, who was the soul of frankness and good temper.

"By no means!" said Drummond, hastily. "Do not stay on my account. I have a slight headache still, and will retire to my room."

"But it seems hardly courteous to leave you altogether alone."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow. I insist upon it. I hope you do not think of standing on ceremony with me?"

"So be it, then," said Captain Campbell, gayly, as he sprang into his boat, pushed off, and shot like an arrow out into the water.

Drawing a cigar from his pocket, Willard Drummond lit it and proceeded to stroll up and down the beach, in no very amiable frame of mind. He felt angry, in spite of all, at Sibyl's leaving him; and with this feeling would now and then mingle another—profound amazement at the exact resemblance this Mr. Brantwell bore to the face he had seen in that singular vision. Was the fell prediction about to be verified?

Lost in such thoughts as these, he was suddenly startled by a voice singing a wild, sweet song of the sea, in the clearest and most delightful tones he had ever heard. Surprised at the unexpected sound, he sprang up the rocks in the direction whence it came, and beheld a sight that transfixed him with amazement.

A young girl, beautiful as an angel, stood on an overhanging crag, with one round, white arm resting lightly on the rocks, singing to herself as she gazed on the sparkling waters. Her hair, of the palest golden hue, rose and fell in the breeze, and flashed in the sunlight that rested like a glory on her bright young head. Her complexion was dazzlingly fair, with rose-tinted cheeks and full, red lips—like wet coral—and eyes large and bright, and blue as the summer sky above her. Her figure was slight, but round and voluptuous; and there was passion, and fervor, and wild enthusiasm in her look, as she stood like a stray seraph, dropped from some stray cloud, on that lonely island.

Willard Drummond stood immovable, drinking in, to intoxication, the bewildering draught of her beauty. She was in every respect so very different from Sibyl, that she seemed to him the more charming from force of contrast. Transfixed he stood—everything forgotten but this lovely creature before him—when suddenly, like an inspiration, came the remembrance of his singular dream, and of the fatal siren with the golden hair. Strange that it should have come back to him so vividly and painfully then!

The young girl's song ceased, and turning, she leaped lightly as a young deer from her fairy perch, without perceiving him who stood so intently regarding her. Leaping from rock to rock with a fleetness that awoke the surprise of Willard, she reached the road and disappeared within she cottage of Mrs. Tom.

Everything was forgotten now but the one intense desire of knowing who this radiant sea-nymph was. Turning, therefore, into the path she had just taken, he approached the cottage and encountered Carl at the door.

"Well, Master Henley, how are you?" said Willard, carelessly.

"Sticking together," was Master Henly's concise and descriptive answer.

"Glad to hear it," said Willard, repressing a strong inclination to laugh. "Is Mrs. Tom within?"

"She was when I left the house," said Carl, who seemed determined not to commit himself.

"Any one with her?" again inquired the young gentleman, looking as indifferent as possible.

"No, nobody," was the unexpected answer.

"What!" exclaimed Willard, surprised. "I thought I saw a young lady enter a moment ago!"

"Oh, Christie—she's nobody," said the gallant Mr. Henly.

"Christie—Mrs. Tom's niece—I thought she was away!" exclaimed Willard.

"So she was, but I went for her this morning; couldn't be bothered doing her work and my own both any longer," said Carl.

"I suppose I may go in?" said Willard, feeling a sudden thrill of pleasure at the knowledge that this radiant girl was an inhabitant of the island.

"Yes, I suppose you may, if you like," said Carl, in a tone of the utmost unconcern.

Thus kindly permitted, Willard advanced and rapped at the door. It was opened by Mrs. Tom, whose surprise was only equaled by her delight at being honored by this unexpected visit.

Near the window that overlooked the lodge, stood the golden-haired vision of the beach. She turned round with a quick, shy glance, and blushed most enchantingly beneath the deep, dark eyes of the stranger.

"My niece, Christie, Mr. Drummond," said Mrs. Tom, directing his attention to her with a wave of her hand. "She got back this mornin'. I allers find it powerful lonesome here without Christie."

"I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Drummond, seating himself. "But I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Christie before."

"Where?" asked Christie, opening her blue eyes in wonder.

"Down on the beach, a few moments ago."

"Oh, yes."

And again Christie blushed vividly, as she recollected how she had been caught singing.

"Where's Miss Sibyl and Master Guy?" inquired Mrs. Tom.

"Miss Sibyl has gone to N—— with the clergyman's family, and will not return for a week; and Captain Campbell has gone to Westbrook, where his vessel is undergoing repairs. So I am left all alone, and came to pay my respects to you."

"Then you'll stay and spend the evenin'?" said Mrs. Tom, smiling complacently.

Mr. Drummond professed his willingness; and the little widow, delighted at the condescension, set about preparing tea instantly, assisted by Christie, whose wild, shy glances were bent on his face whenever she fancied herself unobserved. Half pleased, half afraid of him at first, she was reserved and timid; but as this wore off, he drew her into conversation, and, to his surprise, found her intelligent and well-educated. This Mrs. Tom accounted for, by saying she had gone to school for the last five years at Westbrook, residing there with the friend she had now been visiting.

The evening passed away with the rapidity of magic. Christie, after much solicitation, consented to sing for him; and if anything was needed to fairly enchant him, that sweet, clear voice would have done it. Then, too, Carl added to the general hilarity, by drawing out a rusty Jew's-harp, and playing a favorite tune of his own composition. Not once during the evening did he think of Sibyl; her dark, resplendant face, and wild fierce, black eyes, were forgotten for the golden locks and sweet, fair face of blue-eyed Christie—this dainty island Peri.

The hour for leaving came all too soon. As he reluctantly rose to go, he pressed the hand Christie extended, to his lips, with such passionate ardor that the blood flushed to her very temples, but not with pleasure. Ere he left, Mrs. Tom cordially invited him to visit her house while he remained on the island—an invitation he was not loth in accepting.

Christie stood at the window, watching his tall, elegant form as he walked toward the castle in the bright, clear moonlight.

"I like him, Cousin Christie; don't you?" said Carl, when he had gone.

But Cousin Christie turned away without reply, longing to lay her burning cheek on the pillow, and muse over the new and delicious joy that was thrilling her whole heart, and in her slumber to lie dreaming "Love's young dream."

And Willard Drummond, forgetting his vows, forgetting Sibyl, forgetting honor, forgetting all but this lovely island-maiden, sought his couch with but one name on his heart and lips—

"Christie, Christie!"

CHAPTER VII.
THE HEART'S STRUGGLE.

"She loves, but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;
Like one who meets in Indian groves
Some beauteous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, then wing away."—LALLA ROOKH.

Pale, feverish, and unrefreshed, after a night of restless dreams, Willard Drummond arose from a vision of Christie to hail a new day.

Passion and principle were at war already. Bound by every pledge of love, by every vow, to Sibyl, his whole soul was steeped in this new, all-absorbing passion that had taken possession of him. He had fancied he loved her, until he beheld radiant, dazzling, bewildering Christie and from that moment he could have yielded heaven for her. Every feeling of his inmost heart and soul was up, in arms. Every feeling of honor bade him fly from this intoxicating siren, whose power he felt growing stronger each moment over him; but the voice of passion cried: "Remain! love her, if you will! What right has Sibyl to stand between you and the heaven of your dreams?" And, like all who allow the struggle between right and wrong to wage its warfare in their bosom, Willard Drummond was lost. For, with his hot, fervid, Southern nature, worldly considerations, former vows, reason, principle, justice, even honor, were swept away, like a wall of smoke, before the fierce impetuosity of passion.

With a head throbbing, and pulse quick and feverish with the inward conflict, Willard descended to breakfast.

Captain Campbell stood in the sitting-room, awaiting his coming. With a courteous "good morning," he advanced to meet him; but started back in surprise at beholding his extreme pallor.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, in a tone of solicitude, "you are ill—very ill, I am afraid. What in the world is the matter?"

"Nothing. I had bad dreams, and did not sleep well," said Drummond, with a forced smile. "A cup of Aunt Moll's excellent coffee will set me all right again."

"I don't know about that," said Captain Campbell, with his eyes fixed anxiously on his face, "You are looking terribly feverish, and you were complaining of a headache yesterday. I hope you are not going to be ill."

"I assure you it is nothing," said Willard, in a tone of slight impatience. "You are needlessly alarming yourself. A bad night's rest is the cause of all."

"Well, if it is not, I will have to call up Mrs. Tom to nurse you till Sibyl comes. And, by the way, I regret exceedingly that I shall be obliged to leave you solitary and alone for some days. Important business, that cannot be postponed, demands my immediate attention."

Willard's heart suddenly bounded—he would scarcely have acknowledged to himself the reason—at the words.

"It seems hardly courteous or hospitable to leave you thus," continued the young captain; "but I know you will excuse me, my dear fellow, when I tell you it cannot possibly be helped."

"Oh, certainly, certainly!" interrupted Drummond, cordially. "Go, by all means. I will get along well enough in your absence. When do you leave?"

"Immediately after breakfast. It is an affair that cannot be postponed. In fact, I will not have time even to go and see Sibyl; but, as you will probably be there during the day, you can tell her. Perhaps you will come over to the mainland with me?"

"No, I think not," said Willard, with affected carelessness. "I may go during the course of the day."

"But how? I will take the boat."

"Oh, with Carl Henly. He has one, I believe."

"Well, suit yourself. And now I'm off. Take care of yourself, my boy; and au revoir!"

"Good-by!" said Willard, accompanying him to the door. "Aunt Moll and I will keep bachelor's hall till you come back."

Captain Guy laughed, and hurried down to the beach. And when he was gone, Willard arranged his slightly disordered dress and disheveled locks, and sauntering out, almost mechanically took the road to the cottage.

It came in sight at last—this little, quaint, old house, that held all of heaven to him now.

"Shall I enter—shall I thrust myself into temptation?" was his thought. "If I look again on this fairy sylph I am lost!"

He thought of Sibyl, and her dark, bright, menacing eyes arose before him, as if to warn him back.

"For your honor's sake—for your life's sake—for your soul's sake—go not there!" said the threatening voice of conscience.

"And have I not a right to love whom I please? Why should I offer violence to myself in leaving this bright enchantress, for that dark, wild Amazon? Go, go, and be happy," said passion.

And, as if to overthrow his last good resolution, the image of Christie, radiant, dazzling, and beautiful, as he had beheld her first, in the bright flush of the fading sun light, arose before him, and once again passion conquered.

He approached and entered the cottage.

Mrs. Tom sat near the window, spinning and singing to herself. Willard's eyes wandered around in search of another; but bright Christie was not to be seen.

The widow arose, smiling, to welcome her guest, and placed a chair for him near herself. And still Willard's eyes went wandering round the room.

"She will appear presently," he thought, not yet liking to inquire for her.

"What a venerable-looking affair your wheel is, Mrs. Tom," he said, surveying it, with its hard polished wood and bright brass rings.

"Yes, it's as old as the hills," said Mrs. Tom, resuming her work; "and has been in our family since the flood. I think I spun on that there wheel all the yarn that makes the socks, mittens, and comforters for half the county round; besides making sheets, blankets, and lots of other things for ourselves," said Mrs. Tom, with conscious pride.

"You deserve a premium for industry, Mrs. Tom," said Willard.

"Well, you may be jokin' now, and I dare say you are; but it is true, for all that. Many a true word is spoke in jest, you know," said Mrs. Tom, as her wheel went merrily round. "There ain't many women in this place o' my age and means, can do, or does do more work than me, though I say it as hadn't oughter. I knit, and spin, and sew, wash, brew, bake, sow, and reap, and fifty other things, too numerous to mention, besides. Carl, if I go out there I'll put an end to your lazin', you idle, good-for-nothin' vagabone, you!" she added, breaking off in sudden wrath, as she espied Carl, leaning on the spade with which he should have been digging in the garden.

"You should make Carl do these things, Mrs. Tom," said Willard, still impatiently watching the door and wondering why Christie did not come.

"Carl?" said Mrs. Tom, with a short laugh. "Lor'-a-massy! he ain't worth his salt; that there's the laziest, most worthlessest young scape-goat ever any living 'oman was plagued with. I hain't a minute's peace with him night nor day; and if scolding was a mite of good, the Lord knows he might have been a saint by this time, for he gets enough of it."

Willard laughed. And in such conversation the morning slipped away—very rapidly to Mrs. Tom, but each moment an age to our impatient lover. For Christie was absent still; and a strange reluctance, for which he could not account, still prevented Willard from asking for her. It was an inward sense of guilt that troubled him; for, feeling toward her as he did, he felt he had no right even to mention her name.

At last, in despair, he arose to go. Mrs. Tom relieved his mind by saying:

"Christie will be disappointed at not seeing you," said the old lady, following him out. "She went out berrying to the woods this morning, and hain't got home yet."

Willard started at the information; and, inwardly cursing the folly that had detained him so many hours talking to a foolish old woman, he darted off, with a rapidity that quite amazed Mrs. Tom, in the direction of the pine woods.

"What a confounded fool I have been," he exclaimed, savagely, "to stay there listening to the way to make butter, and flannel, and 'yarb tea,' as if the old beldame thought I was going to be somebody's housekeeper, or a female doctress; and all the time this enchanting little blue-eyed witch was wandering alone by herself. What an opportunity I have lost! and now I suppose I may search for an hour and not find her."

He turned an abrupt angle in the winding path, and stifled a sudden exclamation of surprise and delight; for there before him, reclining on the grass, with half-veiled eyes, and soft, musing smile, sat the object of all his thoughts, wishes, and desires.

He paused for a moment to contemplate the picture before him, for, if Christie had seemed beautiful when he first beheld her, oh, doubly lovely did she appear now in her attitude of unstudied grace.

Her dress was a loose, light muslin robe, fitting to perfection her rounded waist and swelling bust. Her straw hat lay on the ground beside her, and her golden, sunshiny hair floated, with all its wealth of rippling ringlets, round her ivory throat. How dazzlingly fair looked that smooth, snowy brow, contrasted with the full crimson lips and delicately flushed cheeks—how enchanting the long curved lashes, falling over the deep-blue eyes—how beautiful that faultless form, that soft, gentle, happy smile of guileless girlhood.

Willard Drummond's breath came and went, quick and short, as he gazed, and his dark eyes filled with a subdued fire.

He advanced toward her. His shadow, falling on the grass at her feet, was the first token she had of his coming. With a quick, startled cry, she sprang to her feet in terror; but when she saw who it was that stood before her, she stopped short, while the color flushed gloriously to her rounded cheeks. Her first impression was: He has read my thoughts in my face, and knows I was thinking of him.

"Have I disturbed you, bright Christie?" he asked, coming nearer.

"Oh, no!" she answered, blushingly. "I was only waiting to rest a little while before going home."

"And dreaming, I perceive," said Willard. "May I ask, of what—of whom?"

"I wasn't dreaming," said Christie, innocently. "I was wide awake all the time."

"Day-dreaming, I mean," said Drummond, with a smile. "Do you know, fairest Christie, I have been at your cottage all the morning, waiting to see you?"

"To see me?" said Christie, with another quick, glad blush.

"And not finding you there, I have come in search of you," he continued.

"And found me," she said, laughing. "If I had known you were coming I should have staid at home."

"Perhaps it is better as it is, bright one; for I have found you alone. It is very pleasant to have found so fair companion on this lonely isle."

"Yes, it is a lonely place," said Christie, musingly; "and yet I like it better than Westbrook, or any other place I have ever been in. Only I would like always to have a friend with me to talk to; and that, you know, I cannot have here. Aunt Tom is always too busy to go out; and Carl don't care about the trouble of talking, much less walking, so I always have to go alone."

"And if he would go, I fancy Master Carl is hardly the kind of companion Miss Christie would select," said Willard.

"Not if I could find any better," said Christie, with a laugh; "but I have grown so accustomed to being alone now that I do not mind it at all, as I used to."

"And so you are perfectly happy here, fairest Christie, reigning queen of this fairy isle?"

"Ah, no! beautiful Miss Sibyl is queen of the isle. I am only her most loyal subject," said Christie, gayly; "you ought to know that, having paid her your allegiance."

"What if I should say that the subject is more lovely than the queen?" said Willard, in a low voice, and in a tone that brought the hot blood flushing to Christie's face.

"I should say you were laughing at me, as of course you would be. Certainly no one would ever think of me while Miss Sibyl was near. Oh! how I wish she would always stay here, and then I would have a companion."

"Ah, bright one! if I were in her place, what would I not surrender for such a privilege!"

"Would you?" said Christie, looking at him in unfeigned surprise; "then why not stay? I am sure I should be glad to have you here always."

Her innocent words, her enticing beauty, her child-like candor, were a strong temptation. For one moment he was about to fall before her, to clasp her in his arms, to hold her there forever, while he breathed forth his mad, passionate love, and told her nothing on earth should ever part them now. But again rose before him the dark, warning face of Sibyl to allay the fever in his blood. It seemed to him he could see her black, fierce eyes gleaming on them through the trees—he could almost hear her voice shouting "Traitor!"

All unconscious of the struggle raging in his breast, Christie stood leaning against a tree, her curved crimson lips half parted—her blue eyes fixed on a cloud drifting slowly over the sky, little dreaming of the far darker clouds gathering rapidly, now, over the horizon of her life.

And still in Willard's heart went on the struggle. He dared not look at her as she stood before him—-bright, radiant, bewildering—lest the last lingering remains of fidelity and honor should be swept away by the fierce impetuosity of passion in his unstable heart.

But his good angel was in the ascendant still, for at that moment the voice of Carl was heard calling loudly;

"Christie! Christie!"

"Here, Carl! Here I am," she answered; and in another instant honest Carl stood before them.

"Aunt Tom sent me looking for you," said the young gentleman, rather sulkily; "and I've been tramping through the woods this half-hour, while you were taking it easy here," said Carl, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

"It was all my fault, my good Carl," said Willard, as Christie hastily snatched up her hat and basket and fled, having a just terror of Mrs. Tom's sharp tongue. "Make my excuses to your good aunt, and here is something for yourself."

Carl's dull face brightened wonderfully as Willard drew a gold piece from his pocket and pressed it into his hand, and then turned his steps slowly in the direction of Campbell Castle, thinking all earthly happiness lay centered in the opposite direction.

Mrs. Tom's reproaches fell unheeded, for the first time, on Christie's ear that day. She heard not a word of the long lecture delivered with more than the good widow's usual eloquence, for she was thinking of another voice, whose lowest tone had power already to thrill to the innermost recesses of her heart. She loved without knowing it, without wishing to define the new, delicious feeling filling her breast, only conscious she had never been so happy before in her life, and longing for the time when she should see him again. Ah, well had it been for her had they never met more.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE TRIUMPH OF PASSION.

"All other passions have their hour of thinking,
And hear the voice of reason. This alone
Sweeps the soul in tempests."

"Well," said Aunt Moll, to her son and heir, Lem, as he entered the long, high kitchen of Campbell's Lodge, "I would like ter know what dat ar Master Drummin's up ter? I doesn't understan' dese yer new-fangled young men 'tall. Fust he comes a courtin' of our Miss Sibyl, and jes' as soon as her back's turned he goes rite off an' takes up wid dat ar Miss Chrissy."

"'Tain't no business your'n, ole woman," said Lem, gruffly. "I 'spec's as how Marse Drummin' knows what he's about."

"Yes, honey; but 'pears to me I ought to tell Miss Sibyl 'bout it. Ef he is her beau, he oughtn't to be takin' up wid dat ar Miss Chrissy.'

"Better let Miss Sibyl look arter her own beau," replied her dutiful son. "How does ye know he's a courtin' Miss Chrissy?"

"'Cause I seed dem, chile—yes I did—las' night, down on de shore. De moon was shinin' jes' as bright as a new pin, an' I took dat ar litter o' kittens down to de shore to drown 'em, when I seed Marse Drummin' a walkin' along wid Miss Chrissy, and he had his head stooped down jes' so,"—and Aunt Moll ducked her woolly head to illustrate it—"an' was whisperin' soft stuff, jes' as folks do when dey're in love."

"Well, what den?" asked Lem, growing interested.

"Well dey come up ah' seed me, in course, an', Lor', Lor'! I jes' wish you seed de look Marse Drummin' give me. 'Peared as ef he'd a liked to knocked my ole head off. But I warn't afeared, 'deed I warn't, chile; so I jes' stood still an' drapped a courtesy, an' Miss Chrissy, she got red rite up to de roots ob her hair. 'Good-evenin', marse and young miss,' sez I; 'don't be skeered; I only wants to drown dese little kittens,' sez I, for I thought as I might be perlite jest as well as not.

"'Oh, how does yer do, Aunt Moll?' sez Miss Chrissy, a laughin' an' blushin'; 'how is Lem and yer rheumatiz, dese times?'

"'T'ank you, honey,' sez I, 'dey's pretty well, bof ob dem.'

"An' den Marse Drummin' he pulled her arm right troo his'n, and marched her off wid him; an' den I pitched de kittens right in de water an' come home."

"Well, dat ar warn't much," said the skeptical Lem. "Dey might be walkin' on de beach, but that ain't by no means courtin'. Marse Drummin' walk wid her, 'cause Miss Sibyl's gone, an' he ain't got nobody else to talk to."

"'Cisely so, chile; but dat ain't all," says Aunt Moll. "Dis berry mornin', as I was passin' troo de hall, de sittin'-room door was open, and I heered voices a talkin' dere; so I listened and peeked in, an' dar was Marse Drummin', rampin' up and down, a talking to hisself."

"Well, dat ain't nothin', eider," said the still contradictory Lem. "I've hearn dat ar Carl talk to hisself when Miss Tom sent him out to work; an' he ain't in love wid no one."

"But listen, honey, and don't you be puttin' me out so, 'cause 'tain't 'spectful—'deed it ain't," said Aunt Moll, getting slightly indignant. "As I was sayin', I clapt my ear to de door, an' I heered him sayin' jes' as plain as nothin' 'tall;

"'Oh, dischanting, onwildering Chrissy! ef I had nebber met you, I might yet be happy!' Dar, what he say dat for ef he warn't in lub?"

This last was a settler. Lem felt that his mother had the best of the argument, and unwilling to seem defeated, he went out, leaving the old lady to enjoy her triumph.

Three days had passed since the departure of Sibyl, and certainly Willard's conduct seemed to justify Aunt Moll's suspicions. Unable to break the thrall which bound him, wishing, yet unable to fly from the spell of the enchantress, he lingered still by her side. There were shame, dishonor, sin, in remaining, but oh! there were death, misery, and desolation in going. All worldly considerations, her unknown birth, her obscure connections, her lowly rank, were swept away like walls of cobweb before the fierce torrent of passion that overwhelmed, conquered every other feeling in its impetuous tide.

And she loved him, this angel of beauty, this fairy princess of the isle; he could see it in the quick flush of joy at his approach, the quick, burning glances shot from her beautiful eyes, more quickly averted when they met his—her low, impassioned tones, her bright, beautiful blushes. There was joy, there was rapture in the thought; and yet, unless he forgot honor, vows, all that should have been sacred, what did this love avail?

And so, like a tempest-tossed bark on a tempest-tossed sea, he strove with passion and honor, love and remorse, right and wrong.

Once only, fearing lest her suspicions might be aroused by his absence, he had visited Sibyl, whose rapturous greeting and confiding love made him feel far more of a villain than ever. He looked forward with dread to the period of her return, fearing for the discovery of his falsity; but, more than all, fearing for the effects of her fierce wrath on Christie, knowing well what must be the strength of Sibyl's passion when unchained.

And so, when Mrs. Brantwell proposed that Sibyl should remain with her another week, instead of returning to the dreary isle, instead of feeling irritated now, he backed the proposal, saying that perhaps it would be better for her to do so, more especially during her brother's absence.

And Sibyl, in her deep love and woman's trust, suspecting nothing, fearing nothing, consented, to the inward joy and sincere relief of her false lover.

Resolving to visit her frequently, and so allay any suspicions that his absence might give rise to, Willard Drummond returned to the island and to—Christie, yielding himself without further effort to the witching spell of her love.

Mrs. Tom suspected nothing of the contraband courting carried on under her very eyes. It was the most natural thing in the world, she thought, that, in the absence of Sibyl and her brother, the young man should spend whole days with them, for it was not pleasant having no one to talk to but a couple of negroes, as she very well knew. Then, it was not to be wondered at, that he preferred talking and walking with Christie to any of the rest, for she was "book-l'arned" like himself, which neither she nor Carl was. She did wonder a little sometimes, and said as much to Christie, why he should stay on the island at all, in the absence of the other.

"But, I suppose," was always her conclusion, "It's because it's Miss Sibyl's home, and, for her sake, he stays there until she comes."

But Christie, though she only blushed and was silent, was of a different opinion—one that she would scarcely own to her own heart. As to his being in love with Christie, Mrs. Tom would have scouted the idea with scorn and unbelief, had she heard it. Every circumstance was against such a conclusion. He was rich, highly connected, and proud as a prince of the blood; she was poor, unknown, and, compared with him, uneducated. Besides, in the good widow's opinion, she was a child in feeling, as she certainly was in years, scarcely knowing the meaning of the word love.

Ah! she had been till he came; and his fervid, impassioned words, his burning glances, his thrilling touch, had swept away the glamour of childhood and simplicity, and revealed to her the passionate woman's heart within her. His words, his looks, his tones, were all new revelations to the artless, island maiden, changing her, as if by magic, from a child to a woman. She revered him as the embodiment of all that was brave, generous, and noble; worshipped him as a god, and loved him with all the affection of her fresh, young heart, with all the ardor of a first, deep love.

As yet, she knew not whether that love was returned; for, unfaithful as he was in thought to Sibyl, passion had not yet so totally conquered his reason as to make him sin in words. He had never said, "Christie, I love you;" but, ah, how often had his eyes said this, and much more; and how long would this slight barrier stand before the fiery impetuosity of unstable youth?

And so that day passed, and the next, and the next, and the next, and with every passing hour the temptation grew stronger and harder to be resisted. Matters must come to a crisis now, or never. Sibyl, in a day or two, would be home, and this wild frenzy of his could be hidden no longer. If she should come, as matters stood now, all would be lost.

And thus, torn between conflicting emotions, Willard sought Christie, on the day before Sibyl was expected home, with the determination of bringing this struggle to an end, then and there.

It was a glorious August afternoon. The island wore its bright dress of green, and nestled in the blue shining river like an emerald set in sapphire. The birds in the deep pine forest were filling the air with their melody, and the odor of the wild roses came floating softly on the summer breeze.

But Willard Drummond was in no mood to admire the beauties of Nature. The morning had been spent in pacing up and down his room, hesitating, resolving, doubting, wishing, yet undecided still. For, when duty and principle would appear for a moment victorious, the waving golden hair, the beautiful blue eyes, the gentle, loving face of Christie would arise before him, scattering all his good resolutions to the winds. And, mingled with this, there was a sort of superstitious foreboding of evil to come. He thought of his dream, and of the yellow-haired siren luring him on to destruction; and of Sibyl, fiery daughter of a fiery race, fierce, vindictive, and implacable in her wrongs.

"Oh, that I had never met this dark, passionate girl!" he murmured, distractedly, "who now stands between me and the heaven of my dreams; or would that I had seen this beautiful, enchanting Christie first! Oh, for that angel as my wife! And but for those fatal vows once made to Sibyl, she might be mine. I was mad, crazed, to mistake my fancy for that dark, wild-eyed girl for love! And now, for that one mistake, am I to be wretched for life? Shall I give up this beautiful, radiant creature, who loves me, for one I care for no longer? No; the struggle is past. Christie shall be my bride, and I will brave the worst that may follow!"

He set his teeth hard; and, as if fearing second reflection might make him change his mind, he left the house and hurried out to meet Christie.

Down on the shore, under the shade of an overhanging willow, he knew Christie had a favorite seat, where, on pleasant days, she used to take her work. Here he was sure of finding her, and in this direction he bent his steps.

She sat, sewing, under the shade of the drooping willow, singing softly to herself, and looking like some sylvan goddess of a sylvan scene; or some beautiful sea-nymph, just risen from her grotto of coral and chrystal.

Radiant and bewildering was the smile and blush with which she welcomed him—a smile and blush that might have been found too strong even for more potent principles than his.

He seated himself beside her, with a look of moody abstraction, all unusual with him, watching her covertly from under his eyelashes, as she bent smiling and happy over her work.

For a time, Christie chatted gayly on various commonplace matters; but, at last, catching her tone from his, she, too, grew silent and thoughtful. She bent lower over her work, wondering if she had offended him, and involuntarily sighed.

He heard it, and said:

"And wherefore that sigh, Christie! Are you unhappy?"

"No not unhappy; but troubled."

"And why should you be troubled, bright one? What can there be to grieve one so fair?"

"I—I—feared I had offended you," she answered, timidly. "You appear out of spirits."

"You offend me, gentle one—you who never offended any one in your life? No, no; it is not that."

"Then you are unhappy," she said, shyly.

"Yes, I am miserable—wretched!" he cried, vehemently. "I wish to Heaven I had never been born!"

"Oh, Mr. Drummond! what has happened!" she cried, laying her hand on his, and looking up wistfully in his face.

Her touch, her tone, her look swept away every remaining trace of fidelity. He forgot everything he should have remembered—his vows, his honor, his truth—and saw nothing but the bright, radiant, bewildering vision before him. In an instant he was on his knees at her feet, exclaiming, with impassioned vehemence:

"Christie! Christie! my life, my dream, my hope, I love you. See, I am at your feet, where my heart, my name, my fortune, long have been. With my whole heart, and soul, and life, I love you with a love stronger than death or the grave. All the devotion and hopes of my life I offer you, if you can only say you love me."

He was pale and panting; his eyes were fierce and burning; his tones low, thrilling, and passionate.

Trembling, shrinking, blushing, yet, with a deep, intense, fervent joy thrilling through her heart and being, Christie listened. The blood swept in torrents to her face, neck, and bosom, which rose and fell with her rapid breathing. She dare not look up to meet his ardent, burning, gaze.

"Christie, Christie! my love, my life! look up; speak—answer me—tell me that you love me!"

Still no reply, only those downcast eyes, deepest blushes, and quick, hurried breathing.

"Speak! speak! my beautiful love! only one word from those sweet lips; but one touch of your dear hand to tell me I may live," he cried, growing more wild and impassioned.

With a low, glad cry of intense joy, she buried her blushing face on his shoulder.

"Thanks! my heart's thanks for this sweetest, loveliest Christie!" he cried, with exultant joy, pressing her yielding form to his bounding heart. "My life, with all its hopes, energies, and ambitions, shall be devoted to but one purpose now—that of rewarding you for your priceless love."

"Oh, Mr. Drummond, your love is all the reward I ask!" she said, in the deep, earnest voice of perfect trust.

"Not Mr. Drummond now, sweetest Christie. I am Willard to you, now and forever. Let me always hear that name in music from your lips, and earth has no higher boon in store for me."

"But oh! can you love me thus—me, a poor, little, nameless, uncultured girl, while you are rich, distinguished, and highly connected. Oh, Willard, will you not, some day, repent this choice—you, who might win the highest and fairest in the land?"

"Repent! never—never! Perish my heart, if it ever admit of any love but thine; palsied be my arm, if it ever encircle any form but this; accursed be my lips, if they ever perjure the words I have spoken now; lost forever be my soul, when it is false to thee!" he cried, with passionate vehemence.

"Oh, Willard! dearest, hush! I do not doubt you—Heaven forbid. I should die, if I thought you could be false to me."

"Speak not of death; it is not for such as you, bright, beautiful Christie. And now, only one thing is wanting, to make me the happiest of men."

She lifted her radiant face with a look of earnest inquiry.

"Christie, one little word from you, and ere the sun rises on a new day, my joy will be complete—my cup of earthly happiness will be filled to the brim."

Still the same earnest, anxious gaze.

"Dearest love, you will not refuse? It will be but a small matter to you, and will make me supremely blessed."

"And that?" she inquired, wonderingly.

"Brightest Christie, be my bride—my wife!" he cried, folding her closer in his arms, and speaking in a thrilling whisper.

Again the eloquent blood swept over her stainless neck and bosom, but she did not reply.

"You will not refuse me, my own Christie, this last, greatest favor? Comply now—to-day; for if the present opportunity passes, it may never occur again."

"But how—how can we be wedded here?" she said, shyly, lifting her eyes to his impassioned ones, and dropping them in brightest blushes.

"Christie, yonder lies a boat; it is three hours to sunset; long before that time we can reach Westport; there we can find a clergyman, and there you can become my own for life!"

"But it is so soon—so sudden," she faltered; "and Aunt Tom—she will never consent."

"She would not consent any way, fairest Christie. She would say you were too young—too far in social position beneath me. She would not believe my intentions honorable. In short, dearest, she would raise a thousand objections, and the end would be, that we would be parted forever."

"Oh, Willard! it would not be so bad as that; if you explained it all to her, I think she would consent. Aunt Tom is good and kind, and loves me, and would do anything to make me happy."

"That may be, brightest Christie; but that very love she has for you, and her wish to make you happy, would cause her to hesitate. For she would repeat the old, senseless saying, 'Marry in haste and repent at leisure,' and think the best way to make us both happy would be to postpone our marriage for years."

"But this secret marriage, it seems wrong—sinful. Oh, Willard, my soul revolts from it! If I could only tell Aunt Tom!" cried Christie, imploringly.

"When the proper time comes, dearest love, she shall know, and the world shall behold my beautiful bride. But until then, you must have confidence in me, and wait."

"But, oh! I have such a presentiment of what may follow, Willard—such a cloud seems to enshroud this secret marriage, that my very soul shrinks from it in fear."

"Christie," he said, drawing back, and speaking in a deeply offended tone, "you do not love me!"

She raised her bright, beautiful eyes, so full of love and devotion, but did not speak. No words could have told such a tale of perfect, intense love, as did that quick, eloquent glance.

"You do not love me," he went on, in the same deeply hurt tone; "you have no confidence in me, no trust, no faith. I have given you my reasons, good and valid to any one else, but of no avail with you. If you cared for me, you would be content to wait, with perfect trust in my love; but I see you will not trust me. Be it so; there remains nothing for me but to leave you forever."

"Oh, Willard!" was all she could say, as her voice was choked in tears.

"I thought I had found an artless, loving, trusting girl," he went on, with increased bitterness; "but I have found one who will not yield in the slightest iota, lest she should compromise herself in the eyes of the world, who fears what it will say of her more than she loves me! Farewell, Christie! we have met for the last time. Since you care for your aunt more than for me, I leave you to her."

He arose, coldly and haughtily, to go.

"Oh, Willard! do not leave me!" was her passionate cry. "I will do anything, be anything you ask, only do not leave me in anger!"

"Will you be my wife?"

"Yes."

"To-night?"

"Oh, yes! to-night and forever!"

"My own gentle love!" he whispered, pressing her fondly in his arms, "will you go and get ready, and return to me here in a quarter of an hour?"

"But what shall I say to Aunt Tom—how account for my absence?"

"Leave that to me, dearest. In a few minutes I will follow you to the cottage, and ask her to let you take a sail with me on the river by moonlight; she will not refuse me."

"As you will," said Christie, turning toward her home. While Willard, triumphant, exulting, and dizzy with joy, descended to the beach to prepare the boat.

CHAPTER IX.
THE VISION OF THE ISLE.

"But soft: behold! lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it though it blast me. Stay, illusion!
If thou hast any sound, or use a voice,
Speak to me!"—HAMLET.

Fickle fortune, that often favors the wrong and erring, certainly smiled on the lovers that day. For scarcely had Christie entered the house, when Mrs. Tom came bustling out, in deep distress, saying, in heart-rending tones:

"What is to be done? This five-and-forty year, rain or shine, I've had a cup o' tea for breakfast; and, now, there ain't a grain in the house. I jest know, as well as if somebody told me, that I won't be fit for nothin' to-morrow, when I ain't got a cup o' tea for my breakfast; and there's no use tryin' to make that there good-for-nothin' Carl, go for any to-night. It allers was my luck to have the most dreadfulest bad luck, but I never thought things would come to sich a pass as this. Scat! you hussy!" And Mrs. Tom gave the cat a kick, which was her usual way of winding up an address.

"Aunt Tom," said Christie, "let me go."

"You! Are you crazy? How are you goin' to go?"

"Mr. Drummond is going over to Westport this evening, and he wanted me to go with him," said Christie, turning away to hide a rising blush. "I can easily get it there."

"So you can," said Mrs. Tom, considering; "but will Mr. Drummond return early?"

"Yes," said Christie; "he has some slight business to transact, and then he is coming immediately home. The sail will be pleasant by moonlight, and I'd like to go."

"Well, go, then; and don't be gone any longer than you can help. Get two poun's of hyson at Mr. Ginger's."

"Yes ma'am," said Christie, taking the money, and putting on her hat and shawl, in a trembling, agitated way, that at any other time Mrs. Tom must have noticed.

She hurried out, and on her way met Willard coming up to the house.

"Well, has Mrs. Tom given you permission?" he asked, in pleased surprise.

Christie related her errand.

"The gods favor us!" he cried, gayly. "See, Christie! the sun is approaching the west, and before it dies out of the sky, you will be what Heaven has destined you for—my wife!"

"And to be that for one hour, is bliss enough to repay for a whole life of misery," she said, with heartfelt earnestness.

"With my own Christie! Will I ever be able to repay you for this grace, this greatest earthly blessing that Heaven could bestow upon me?" he said, fervently.

"The knowledge of your love more than repays me; for I have made no sacrifice," she said, in a low tone.

They had now reached the boat. He handed her in, pushed off the boat, took the oars, and rowed away.

But other eyes they dreamed not of were upon them. From one of the windows of the high chambers of Campbell's Lodge, Aunt Moll and her son, Lem, were taking observations.

"Dar dey go!—off a sailin'. What will Miss Sibyl say to dat?" observed the indignant Aunt Moll.

"Goin' out sailin' doesn't signify nothin'. De young gemblum wants somebody to talk to as he rows."

"'Tain't right," said Aunt Moll, with an oracular shake of the head; "dar's sumfin wrong, somewhere. Don't b'lieve Miss Sibyl would 'prove of it, nohow; dese yer young men ain't to be trusted nowadays."

"It's nat'ral Marse Drummin' would get tired o' one gal—mos' young men do—and take up wid anoder, for a change. I'd do it myself," concluded Lem, in a pompous tone.

"You would?" said his mother, in high dudgeon; "as if any gal 'd look at you, you brack fool. Marse Drummin' will get hisself inter a hornet's nest, if he trifles wid de 'fections ob Miss Sibyl. I's come to de disclusion to conform Miss Sibyl ob his goings on, soon as ebber she arrives. Dar!"

And having thus settled the matter to her own entire satisfaction, Aunt Moll descended to the kitchen, and soon forgot all sublunary things in the celestial bliss of smoking a short, dirty pipe, as black and stumpy as herself.

Meantime the erring young pair were swiftly skimming over the bright waters in the direction of Westport. The labor of rowing precluded the possibility of conversation, and both were silent and thoughtful. Urged on by his intense desire of completing what he had so successfully begun—urged on, perhaps, by Fate—the boat seemed fairly to fly over the sparkling, sun-bright waves.

Ere the last ray of sunlight had faded from the sky the boat touched the opposite shore; and drawing Christie's arm within his own, Willard set off rapidly in the direction of the town of Westport.

And having reached it, he led Christie in the direction of a little obscure Methodist chapel, while he left her to seek for a license and the clergyman.

In a short time he returned with both, and without asking any unnecessary inquiries, he hastened through the marriage ceremony; and in a few moments the passion-blinded young couple were man and wife. Then hastily paying the clergyman his fee, Willard led his bride from the church.

"My bride! my wife! my own forever, now!" he cried, with passionate exultation, folding her to his heart.

But just then, with a sharp, piercing cry of thrilling horror, Christie sprang back, frightfully pale—with dilating eyes and choking breath, gasping, stifling, suffocating.

"In the name of Heaven! what is the matter, my own Christie?" he cried, in wonder and alarm.

But, pressing her hands over her heart, she sank dizzily on the church steps, pale, gasping, trembling, horror-stricken still.

"Christie! Christie! dearest love! what is it?" he said, anxiously, encircling her with his arm.

"Oh! the doom—the doom!" she said, shudderingly hiding her face in his arm.

"What doom? Of what are you speaking, sweet wife?" he inquired, in increasing anxiety.

She rose now, and passed her hand over her brow, as if to clear away a mist. Then, seeing his pale, troubled face, she recovered herself and forced a smile.

"Dearest Christie, what was it?" he anxiously asked.

"Oh, Willard! you will laugh at me, but I felt it all, I saw it all so plainly," she said, in a weeping voice.

"Saw what—felt what? I do not understand," he said, puzzled by her look and words.

"Those eyes! those eyes! and that fierce grasp on my throat, and the keen knife! Ah, Heaven! I feel it yet." And she shuddered convulsively.

"Are you raving, Christie! In Heaven's name, what eyes, what knife, are you speaking of?" he said, beginning to think she had lost her reason.

"Oh, Willard! Willard! just as you folded me in your arms, and called me your wife, Sibyl Campbell's fierce, wild, black eyes rose before me, glaring on me like burning coals, and then I felt two strong hands clutch my throat, and a knife plunged into my breast! Oh, saints in heaven! it rises before me yet."

"Christie, you are mad!" he said, vehemently; but the ashen paleness that overspread his face told the sudden shock the name of Sibyl had given him.

In all the terror, horror, and momentary frenzy of that instant, the fear of his displeasure conquered every other feeling in her breast. Shaking off, with an effort, the creeping dread that was palsying every nerve, she clung to his arm with renewed confidence, and said, with a deep breath of relief:

"I believe I was, for the moment, Willard; but that has passed now. You are not angry with me, dearest Willard?" she said, anxiously, observing the cloud that still overspread his fine face.

"Angry? not at all!" he said, gravely. "Only sorry and surprised to think you should give way to such extraordinary delusions."

"Oh, Willard! it was not a delusion. I saw it all, as plainly as I see you now. Oh, those dreadful, dreadful eyes! they will haunt me to my dying day!"

"Do not think of it again, my own love, and do not look so wild," he said, soothingly. "Come, let us be going; the moon will soon rise, and it will be late before we reach the isle."

"And Aunt Tom will be anxious," said Christie. "And that reminds me of her commission, which I had nearly forgotten. When we reach the store, you can wait outside. I will join you in a moment."

The moon was just rising when they set sail for the isle, which Christie had left a child, and was returning a wife. Ah! where was their better angel in that dark moment of madness and temptation?

The soft, bright moonlight was lighting up the isle with its calm, pale rays when they reached it. The cry of the whip-poor-will and katy-did, from the neighboring forest, mingled with the soft, dreamy murmur of the waves on the shore, was the sweetest music ever heard.

Tempted by the beauty of the night, our lovers prolonged their stroll over the beach. At length, as it began to grow late, Christie, fearing Mrs. Tom or Carl might come out to watch for her coming, persuaded Willard to let her return.

They walked up the rocky, romantic path, whispering those low and often foolish things so sweet to lovers' ears when coming from the lips of the loved one. A light still twinkled in the widow's cottage, casting a long, thin line of yellow light far over the lonely road. But no other sign of life was visible. Christie's blue eyes were bent on the ground, and Willard's stately head was bent above her, when, suddenly looking up, he beheld a sight which froze the blood in his veins.

From the dark, mystic pine woods, a white-robed figure came floating toward them. One glance sufficed to tell him it was the strange vision that had bent over him a few nights before. There were the same hollow, ray less eyes, the same wild, streaming black hair, the same ghastly corpse-like face, with its fixed look of unutterable woe.

It was coming steadily toward them, this awful phantom. Willard stood fixed, rooted to the ground, gazing as if fascinated on the appalling specter. His next thought was for Christie. He glanced toward her to see her face blanched to the hue of death, her eyes dilating in horror, fixed, frozen, unable to speak a word, one hand raised, and one flickering finger pointing to the dread being approaching.

Neither could move nor speak. Still the phantom floated on until it stood before them, face to face. For an instant it paused, with its hollow eyes glaring upon them; then with an awful cry of "murdered! murdered!" that peeled through the dim old woods, it threw up both its arms, and with a shrill, piercing, agonizing shriek, fled away and was hid among the beetling rocks.

The hand that grasped Willard's arm was growing weaker and weaker, there was a low moan, and he turned in time to catch the senseless form of his child-wife in his arms.

The wild, unearthly scream had startled Mrs. Tom. Alarmed and wondering, she cautiously opened the door and went out. And there she saw Willard Drummond with the senseless form of Christie in his arms.

CHAPTER X.
ONE OF FORTUNE'S SMILES.

"Fortune is merry,
And in this mood will give us anything."—JULIUS CÆSAR.

Captain Guy Campbell sat in the parlor of the Westport House, as the flaming gilt signboard announced, his heels elevated on the window-sill, his chair tipped back, a cigar in his mouth, and a newspaper in his hand. Many people were passing in and out, some of whom he greeted with a nod, others with a brief salutation, while he still went on with his reading and smoking. There seemed to be nothing very exciting in the paper, judging by Captain Campbell's suppressed yawns; and he was about to throw it aside as worthless, when a paragraph caught his eye, that brought him to his feet, as suddenly as though those members were furnished with steel springs.

The paragraph was brief, and ran thus:

"If Mark Campbell, Esq., of Campbell's Isle, be still alive, he is earnestly requested to call immediately at the office of C. Ringdon, Attorney-at-Law, No 16 —— street, Westport. In case of his death, his heirs should apply.

C. RINGDON."

"Now, what in the name of Neptune and all his scaly court can this mean?" ejaculated the amazed Captain Campbell.

"Should be happy to inform you," said a voice behind him, "only I don't happen to know what you're talking about."

Captain Campbell turned round, and saw a fashionably dressed young man, who had just entered, standing beside him.

"Ah, Stafford! how are you?" he said, extending his hand; "happy to see you. What in the world brought you here?—the very last person I ever expected to see in this quarter of the globe."

"Well," said Stafford, leisurely seating himself, "I came down here, nominally, to transact some business for the governor; but the fact is, I heard the Evening Star had arrived, and I wanted to pay my devoirs to her majesty, the Queen of the Isle. How is pretty Lady Sibyl?"

"Very well, and at present on a visit to the Rev. Mr. Brantwell's. But look at this advertisement, here, in the Westport Herald. What the deuce do you make of it?"

Stafford took the paper and carelessly glanced over the lines.

"Faith, I don't know. Somebody's left you a legacy, perhaps."

"Pooh! what a notion! Who under the sun is there to leave a legacy to me? The Campbells are all as poor as Job's turkey."

"Well, there's your mother's relations—the Eyres. Old Richard Eyre, the New York banker, is a millionaire, worth more hundred thousand dollars than I could undertake to count. He might have died and left you his money."

"And leave his own family without? A likely story," said Captain Campbell.

"My dear fellow, he had no family, except a wife, and she has been dead for many years. You may be certain he has left you his heir."

"By Jove! if it should prove to be true, that would be a streak of good luck. But it cannot be. Dame Fortune would never bestow on a Campbell any such friendly smile. They always were an impoverished race, and always will be, I believe."

"Don't be too confident. Strange things happen sometimes. For instance, I saw something strange a night or two ago.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Weil, you see, about dark I was wandering about the shore, enjoying a cigar and the beauty of the evening, and ruminating whether it wouldn't be advisable to take a boat and go over to see her adorable majesty, Queen Sibyl. Most likely my cogitation would have ended in my going, only, unfortunately, there was no boat to be seen. I was about to turn away in despair, when I suddenly espied a boat containing two persons land at some distance below where I stood. One was a young fellow, tall and good looking, with a certain air of aristocratic hauteur about him that told me he was not to be interfered with. But his companion—oh, ye gods and little fishes! what a perfect little sylph she was! Such a miraculous combination of blue eyes, yellow curls, snowy complexion, pink cheeks, and red, kissable lips, it never was my good fortune to encounter before. But what struck me most forcibly, was her resemblance to some one I had seen before and after puzzling myself for a long time, I at length discovered she was the very image of pretty little Christie, of the isle."

"Christie! oh, pooh! it couldn't have been she," said Captain Campbell, with an uneasy start.

"Of course, it couldn't have been she, with so dainty a knight as that, but it was most confoundedly like her, or what she was when I saw her last—four years ago; though I dare say she has greatly changed since then."

"Well, what was there so strange about a handsome fellow and a pretty girl landing on the beach, to interest the nonchalant Will Stafford?" asked Captain Campbell.

"Listen—I haven't got to the strange part of my story yet. They walked up the beach to the road, and I could see the girl was terrified and excited, while he tried to soothe and quiet her. My curiosity was aroused; for, 'pon my soul, Campbell, I never saw a lovelier little creature; and with a sort of idea they were up to some mischief, I followed them. It was nearly dark, and they hurried on so fast they did not notice me, and I tracked them into one of the most obscure streets of the town, and saw them enter a little, secluded, Methodist meeting-house.'

"Well?" said his auditor.

"Well, sir, the fellow left her there and went off. I crept softly in, and in the obscurity hid behind a post, determined to see the end. Dark as it was, I could see she trembled with inward emotion, and crouched down in her seat, with her face hidden in her hands, as if terror, remorse, sorrow, or some other feeling, was weighing down her heart."

"Wonder the gay Will Stafford did not approach and offer her consolation," said the young captain, dryly.

"By Jove! I felt like doing it," said Mr. Stafford, in all sincerity; "but I wanted to see what was up, for I knew now all could not be quite right. Presently, the young man came back, and with him a minister. All was clear as stars at noonday, now—this was a runaway match, a clandestine marriage—something which is always interesting to fast young men like myself. The happy pair stood up before the clergyman, and the twain were soon made one flesh.

"My ears would have run themselves into points in order to hear the better, but I listened in vain. The minister mumbled over the ceremony so confoundedly low that I could not hear a single word—not even the names of the parties, which I was particularly anxious to find out. I suppose it was all right, however, for I saw the clergyman pocket the fee, and the young man, tucking little blue-eyes under his arm, walked off; and, faith, I'd given a trifle to have stood in his place. I followed, not being ambitious to be locked up all night, even in so holy a place as a church. Just as I went out, I heard an awful shriek, and there the bride stood like one suddenly turned to stone, while the bridegroom was trying to console her. What scared her I don't know, but certainly I never saw a more terrified look on any face than was on hers. Not wishing to be seen, I drew back, and in a few minutes they started on. I followed them as before, and saw the girl stop for a moment in a grocery store, while he waited outside. Then they went down to the beach, he handed her into the boat, pushed off, and they were gone—leaving me to rub my eyes and wonder whether I was sleeping or waking. Now, what do you think of this wedding on the sly, without friends, or witnesses, or anything in the usual line?"

"Well, really, I cannot say, such things do not interest me as deeply as they do you. Perhaps it's the Westport fashion."

"No; there's something wrong. He was evidently of a rank superior to the girl. I could tell that, both by their dress and air, and general appearance. I would like to get at the bottom of this mystery."

"Then why not see the minister who married them, and find out from him?"

"Well, for sundry reasons. First, I didn't see his face, and wouldn't know him if I stumbled over him. Second, it looks like a rascally, low-bred trick; this tracking them and playing the spy, that I should be ashamed to tell any one of it, but so old a friend as you."

"Well, then, never mind this mysterious couple any more," said Captain Campbell, impatiently; "but tell me what I had better do about this advertisement."

"Why, go and see this C. Ringdon, attorney-at-law, at once, that's all; I'll go with you; it's not ten minutes' walk from here."

"But if it should prove to be a humbug?" said Captain Campbell, as he sallied forth, arm-in-arm with Stafford.

"Then thrash C. Ringdon, attorney-at-law, within an inch of his life," said his pacific friend. "It's the only balm for a wounded mind I know of."

Captain Campbell laughed; and the conversation turned on various matters as they walked on.

In a short time they reached the office of C. Ringdon—a dingy-looking, old house, with his name over the door, in exceedingly dingy letters.

Mr. Ringdon, a sharp, shrewd-looking little man, sat alone in his office, when they entered. He pushed up his spectacles, and surveyed them keenly as they came in.

"You, I presume, are the Mr. Ringdon mentioned in this advertisement?" said Captain Campbell, handing him the paper, and pointing to the advertisement.

"I am sir. Can you give me any information concerning the parties in question?"

"Faith, he ought to, being the principal party in question himself," interposed Stafford.

"How, sir,—are you a relative of these Campbells of the Isle?" asked the attorney.

"Yes; the son of the Mark Campbell mentioned there."

"Ah! Are there any more of you? Is your father living?"

"No; he has been dead these four years; and there are no more of us, as you are pleased to term it, but one sister. May I ask what all this affair is about?"

"Certainly, Mr. Campbell. You are aware, perhaps, you had an uncle in New York—-Mr. Richard Eyre, the banker?"

"I knew it! Wasn't I just saying the old gentleman was at the bottom of it?" said Stafford, giving Captain Campbell a dig in the ribs.

"I am aware of that fact, sir; he was my mother's only brother."

"Exactly. Well, he is dead."

"Indeed!" said the young man, gravely.

"Yes, sir; and, having no heirs of his own, he has left his whole fortune to be divided equally between his sister's children. The sum is enormous; and I beg leave to congratulate you on your good fortune. I do not know the exact amount, and for further particulars it will be necessary for you to visit New York, where the lawyer who drew up the will resides. Here is his address. All you have to do, is to prove your identity, settle a few preliminaries, and take immediate possession of your fortune. Excuse me, gentlemen, I am very busy, and, with your permission, will bid you good-morning."

And the little attorney bowed them politely out.

"Well, this is a streak of good luck!" exclaimed Stafford. "Upon my word, Campbell, you must have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth. I suppose you will start instantly for New York?"

"Not instantly, my dear Stafford. I must go and inform Sibyl of our good fortune. Dear, noble girl, for her sake I am truly thankful for this."

"Of course you ought to be; not many men are blessed with such a sister as that radiant, glorious Sibyl. Have you any objections to my accompanying you?"

"Delighted to have you, my dear fellow. Suppose we start now; we will be at Brantwell's before dark."

"Just as you please, my dear sir. I suppose it will be 'sight for sair een' to see her dazzling majesty, the Queen of the Isle, again."

A carriage was soon in readiness, and our two friends started to impart this sudden glimpse of fortune's sunshine to Sibyl.

It was dark when they reached the parsonage—a handsome and rather imposing-looking mansion—and were ushered into the drawing-room by a neat-looking little maid. Sibyl and Mrs. Brantwell were seated alone, Mr. Brantwell having gone to see a sick parishioner.

Sibyl joyfully hailed her brother, and smilingly greeted his companion, who was an old friend and secret admirer. Poor Will Stafford! The impressions the child Sibyl had formerly made on his heart, time had nearly obliterated; but that radiant smile, those glorious eyes and bewitching glance, totally finished him.

Good Mrs. Brantwell welcomed her guests in her usual hearty manner, and with a jolly little laugh. But when she heard of the unexpected good fortune of Sibyl and her brother, her rapturous delight knew no bounds.

"Just to think of it!" she exclaimed, "my handsome Sibyl an heiress. Oh, won't she create an excitement now? Young, rich, and beautiful! Sibyl! Sibyl! what an enviable fate is yours!"

Sibyl's cheek flushed, and her eyes brightened, as she thought of Willard. For his sake she rejoiced over her new-found fortune. Often and bitterly had she secretly regretted, and her pride revolted at the idea of becoming the bride of one so far superior in wealth and fortune. But now she was his equal! there was triumph, joy, exultation in the thought. His aristocratic friends could not look down on her now—could not despise her for her poverty. Look down on her—a Campbell of the Isle! In other days, who would have dared to do so and live? But times had changed since those days; and people looked more now to dollars and dimes than to blood or noble ancestry. Now she had both; she was his equal in wealth, as she was infinitely his superior in every noble quality, and the triumphant thought sent the blood rushing to her crimson cheeks, her red, glowing lips, and the dark, Southern eyes of jet, lit up magnificently with pride, love, and exultation. This fortune of hers she would cast at his feet, with her passionate devotion, as she had already cast heart, and life, and being, and soul.

"What are you thinking of, Sibyl?" said Captain Campbell, after watching her a few moments, with a smile. "Your cheeks and eyes are blazing, your whole face illuminated, as it were, with an inward light of joy and triumph. Surely you do not care as much as this for wealth?"

"Pooh! I know what it's all about," broke in Mrs. Brantwell, in her customary matter-of-fact manner. "She's thinking that good-looking Mr. Drummond will have a richer bride than he bargained for. Isn't that so, Mistress Sibyl?"

Sibyl started from her reverie, and blushed deeply at finding her thoughts thus interpreted. Stafford turned pale as he watched her glowing face; and the conviction came home to him, for the first time, that Sibyl Campbell's rare beauty was appreciated by other eyes than his.

"By the way, when was Drummond here?" asked Captain Campbell.

"Day before yesterday—wasn't it, Sibyl? He doesn't visit us very often—not half so often as so devoted a lover should. Oh, you needn't try to annihilate me with those flashing eyes of yours, my lady. I'm not a young gentleman, thank goodness! and am proof against even those bright, angry glances. To be sure the young man may have some plausible excuse; but it seems to me if I were in his place I'd stick to you like a chesnut-burr, for fear you might slip through my fingers. Poor, dear Mr. Brantwell was twice as attentive in his courting days, and I never had any beauty worth mentioning," said Mrs. Brantwell, with her usual jolly laugh.

"I don't know about that, my dear lady," said Guy, gayly. "If I were a marrying man, I'd sooner bend my knees to you than half the young girls I know. Only I've an immense respect for Mr. Brantwell, there is no telling what I might be tempted to do."

"Don't be too confident, Master Guy," said the good-humored lady. "I wouldn't have anything to do with such a graceless young scamp as you for any consideration; though, for the sake of sound morality and good taste, I should hope you wouldn't fall in love with me. And here comes Mr. Brantwell himself, who wouldn't approve of it, by any means."

At this moment the good clergyman entered, and warmly greeted his guests.

In a few words his wife told him of this astonishing good fortune. Mr. Brantwell always took matters very coolly, a circumstance which sometimes provoked his more excitable lady, as on the present occasion—he merely elevated his eyebrows slightly in token of surprise, and said:

"Indeed!"

"Yes, indeed!" responded his wife, irreverently mimicking his tone, "and one would think fortunes were in the habit of pouring into people's hands as they walked, by the way you take it."

"Well, where is the use of flying off at a tangent at everything," retorted her spouse, "as you do. I suppose, captain, you will start for New York immediately?"

"Yes, to-morrow morning."

"And as Sibyl may be wanted, you had better take her, too," said Mr. Brantwell.

"Very true; I never thought of it before. Can you be ready, Sibyl?"

Sibyl thought of Drummond, and asked, rather hesitatingly, "How long will you be gone?"

"About a week—or two or three, at the farthest."

"Now, Sibyl," broke in Mrs. Brantwell, who seemed to possess the faculty of reading people's thoughts, "never mind Mr. Drummond; I'll break the news of your absence to him in the gentlest manner possible. Your fortune is of more importance just now than his lordship, who, no doubt, will follow you to New York when he hears you are there."

There was no use getting angry with the good-humored old lady, so Sibyl smiled, and promised to ready betimes next morning.

And early the following day the brother and sister set out for New York.

CHAPTER XI.
THE STORM—THE WRECK.

"The strife of fiends is in the battling clouds,
The glare of hell is in these sulphurous lightnings!
This is no earthly storm."—BERTRAM.

It was two days after the departure of Sibyl ere Willard Drummond visited the parsonage again. And then he heard of her departure with real surprise and affected concern; but he did not follow her to New York, as Mrs. Brantwell had prophesied.

His passion for Christie was yet too new—the novelty had not worn off—the joy of knowing she was his wife, his own indisputable property, had not yet abated, as it would do some day, as it must do; for such quick, fierce, passionate, selfish love could not last. As suddenly, as completely, as it had come, so must it die; for he was not one of those who, in loving once love for a life-time. Christie was, and so was Sibyl; but in each that love despised, or neglected, would produce different results.

Christie would have folded her hands, drooped, faded, and perhaps died of a broken heart, but Sibyl would rise majestic with the strength of her wrongs, and hurl to destruction all those who had acted a part in her downfall. Something of all this would at times flit through Willard Drummond's mind; and once came the ungenerous thought that perhaps after all it would have been better had he never seen Campbell's Isle. But one smile from Christie, one fond caress from her gentle arms, and all this was forgotten, and all the world was again bounded for him by its wave-dashed shore.

So the days of Sibyl's absence were wearing away, and Willard still lingered a willing captive. Even Mrs. Tom's eyes were beginning to be opened to the fact that there must be something more than met the eye in these long solitary rambles—those moonlight walks and sails the young couple were so fond of. Aunt Moll had long been throwing out sundry mysterious hints which Mrs. Tom—who disliked gossiping—paid no attention to; but now she began to think that, after all, it might be more prudent to keep this gay young man of pleasure a little oftener from Christie. So one day she surprised Christie by a sound scolding on her "goin' prowlin' through the woods at all hours, when she ought to be at home doing her work," and positively forbidding her going out again for a week.

Christie listened in dutiful silence, but promised nothing; and in spite of all Mrs. Tom's watching, met Willard as often as ever. For that young gentleman would visit the cottage each day; and the little widow was altogether too hospitable to hint that he came oftener than was exactly desirable. And so there was nothing to do but to hope that Miss Sibyl would soon return to the isle, and look after her lover herself, for Mrs. Tom was growing tired of it. Besides, she really liked the youth exceedingly, and would have thought him a paragon of perfection if he only would be less attentive to Christie.

And Christie, the sly little child-wife, had gone on dreaming "Love's young dream," and never thinking how terrible one day would be her waking.

Since their bridal-night, the mysterious phantom had never been seen; and both were beginning to hope it had been only an illusion of a heated imagination. Mr. Drummond had accounted for the terrifying shriek and Christie's fainting fit in some ingenious way of his own, that quite satisfied the old lady, and lulled to sleep any suspicions she might have conceived.

One evening, as Willard set out to keep an appointment with Christie, he observed Lem standing, or rather sitting perched up on a limb of a giant pine tree, shading his eyes with his hands, and looking anxiously out to sea.

"Well, my boy, what has caught your attention in that direction—wild geese?"

"No, master," said Lem, solemnly; "I see a sail."

"Well, and what of that?" said Mr. Drummond. "A sail is not such an unusual sight here, is it?"

"Bur dare's a storm brewing an' if de Lord ain't took 'special charge ob dat vessel, de fust lan' it makes will be Davy Jones' locker," said Lem.

"A storm, you blockhead!" exclaimed Drummond, "There is not a cloud in the sky."

"Jes' look ober dar, massa, and see dat black cloud, 'bout de size o' your hand."

"Well?" said Willard.

"Pretty soon dat will be all ober the sky, and den we'll hab a taring squall. De trees tell de wind's risin' already, and you needn't be s'prised ef to-morrow mornin' you sees de ruins o' dat wessel spread all over the shore."

And Lem, with a doleful shake of his head, descended from his perch and sought the house.

Ere the hour had passed, Lem's prognostications proved true. The heavens rapidly darkened, as dense, black, threatening clouds rolled over it; the sea became of an inky hue, crested with white, ghastly-looking foam, as it heaved and groaned like a "strong heart in strong agony," The wind rose and crashed with terrific force through the woods, bending strong trees like reeds before its might.

"Lor' sakes, how it blows!" said Mrs. Tom, as she blustered in and out. "I 'clare to man, it 'most took me right off my feet. I ain't heerd sich a wind these five year come Christmas, and them two ships were wrecked right out from the shore, and every soul perished. Dear, dear! what a sight it was next day, when all the drowned corpses was washed ashore. It was the most awfulest sight I ever seed. Carl, don't sit layin' there in the corner all night, toastin' your shins like a singed cat. Get up and pick the pen-feathers out of that fowl."

"I heard Lem saying there was a ship in view about an hour ago," said Drummond, rising.

"Lord a' massy upon them, then!" said Mrs. Tom; "for, if they touch the shore, they'll every one go to the bottom.'"

"Oh, dreadful!" said Christie, turning pale with pity and horror.

"It's goin' to be an awful night! Just listen to the wind roarin' through the trees, and that rain! I never heard the waves boomin' on the beach as they're doin' now, that a wreck didn't foller. It's a blessin' Captain Guy and Miss Sibyl ain't on the sea this dreadful night. When they were away, I used to think of them in every storm. Lord preserve us! look at that." And, with a piercing shriek, the startled Mrs. Tom sprang back.

A fierce gust of wind, threatening to bring down the roof about their heads; a tempestuous dash of rain, as if the flood-gates of heaven had opened for a second deluge; a blaze of blue, livid lightning, as though the whole firmament was one sheet of flame; a crash of thunder, as though heaven and earth were rending asunder!

With a wild cry of terror, Christie sprang up pale, trembling, horror-struck. Carl crouched into a ball in a remote corner. Neither dared to speak or move.

Mrs. Tom, forgetting her first involuntary alarm, sprang to close the shutters, and make fast the doors. And Willard, amazed at the suddenness with which the storm had arisen, buttoned up his coat, preparatory to starting for the lodge, ere it should further increase in violence.

"Oh, do not go—do not leave us!" cried Christie, springing forward, and pale, wild, terror-stricken, clinging to him, scarcely conscious of what she did.

"Dearest love, do not tremble so; there is no danger," he whispered, encouragingly, encircling her slight waist with his arm.

But Mrs. Tom, turning suddenly around, and beholding them in this position, in spite of her panic, was shocked and indignant.

"Lor' a' massy 'pon us, child, sit down—no, kneel down, and say your prayers. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to do sich a thing. Mr. Drummond, I'd be 'bliged to you not to keep your arm 'round her that way; it doesn't look right, nor, likewise, respectable."

But here, Mrs. Tom's words were abruptly cut short; for, across the stormy, raging sea, high above the roar and shrieking of the storm, pealed a minute-gun of a ship in distress, like an agonized cry for help.

"Heaven be merciful! Listen to that!" exclaimed Mrs. Tom, turning pale.

Another fierce, tempestuous burst of wind and rain another blinding glare of sulphurous lightning; another appalling peal of deafening thunder rent the air. And then again boomed the minute-gun over the sea.

"Something must be done; something shall be done!" cried Willard, excited beyond endurance, at the thought of so many perishing almost within a dozen rods of where he stood. "Carl, my boy, come with me; and, with the assistance of Lem, we may be able to save some of those perishing wretches."

"It's too wet!" said a terrified voice, from the corner, as its owner crouched into a still smaller ball.

But Mrs. Tom—who never forgot the practical no matter what her alarm might be—went over, and taking the unfortunate youth by both ears, lifted him, with a jerk, to his feet.

With a howl of pain, Carl extricated himself from her hands, and clapped both his own palms over the injured members.

"Now, go this minute, and get your hat and overcoat, and go out with Mr. Drummond, and do whatever you can. And if he goes laying around, just give him a blow 'long side of the head, and make him know he's got to mind you. Come, be quick!"

Carl, whose dread of the storm was far inferior to his dread of Mrs. Tom, donned his coat and hat with amazing alacrity—having tied the former under his chin, with a red handkerchief, to keep it on—stood ready to depart, wiping the tears from his eyes, first with the cuff of one sleeve, and then with the other.

Willard cast one look at Christie, who had sunk on the floor, her face hidden in her lap; and then turned to depart, followed by the unwilling Carl. The blinding gust of wind and rain that met them in the face nearly drove them back; but, bending to the storm, they resolutely plunged on; and it required all the strength of Mrs. Tom to close the door after them.

The storm seemed increasing in fury. The wind howled, raged and shrieked; the waves thundered with terrific force over the rocks; the thunder roared, peal upon peal, shaking the very island to its center; the lightning alone lit up for an instant, with its blue, livid glare, the pitchy darkness; and then the crash of the strong trees in the neighboring forest, as they were violently torn up by the roots, all mingled together in awful discord.

But, above all, the minute-gun came wailing once more over the sea.

The two, plunging so blindly through the storm, hastened on as if winged at the saddest of sounds. And, after tumbling, slipping, falling, rising, and hurrying on again, they reached the old lodge at last.

A light was burning in the kitchen. Both rushed in there—wet, dripping, and half-blinded by the storm. Aunt Moll was on her knees in the middle of the floor rocking back and forward, and praying aloud in an agony of terror and apprehension; and Lem was walking up and down, groaning and praying, at intervals, with his mother.

"Oh, good Lor'! I's been a drefful sinner, I is; but if you'll only spare me jes' a little while longer, I tends to do better. Oh, do spare me! I ain't ready to go 'deed and 'deed I ain't. Please do, good Lor', an' I'll nebber do nothin' sinful again. Oh, what a streak o' lightnin' dat 'ar was! O, Lemuel, kneel down, or yer ole mammy'll be took away in a flash o' lightnin' like 'Lijah was."

And in an agony of fear Lem tramped up and down the long kitchen, quaking at every fresh clap of thunder.

"Come, cease that caterwauling!" said Drummond, as he burst in upon them, dripping like a sea-god; "and you, Lem, get your coat, and come with us down to the beach, and see if we cannot save some poor unfortunates from death and destruction."

"'Deed, Master Drummin', honey, I dassent, I's 'feared to go out," said Lem, his teeth chattering like a pair of castanets.

"You black villain, if you are not ready in ten minutes, I'll thrash you till you are not able to stir!" exclaimed Willard, catching and shaking him furiously.

Too terrified by the young man's fierce tone to resist, Lem drew on his hat and coat, and, shaking like one in an ague-fit, followed them out into the night, and darkness, and storm.

Once more over the tempest-tossed waves rolled the mournful voice of the minute-gun, like a dying cry.

"Oh, Heaven, this is maddening!" exclaimed Willard, rushing to the beach like one demented; "to think they should perish thus, within reach of us almost, while we are here in safety. Carl, where is your boat? I will venture out, and see if I cannot save some one, at least."

"Oh, Marse Drummin'! for de dear Lord's sake, don't risk it!" cried Lem, in an agony of terror. "No boat could live two minutes in dem waves."

"You couldn't launch the boat in these breakers," said Carl, "much less pull, if you were into her."

"And they must perish before our very eyes! Oh, heavens, this is awful!"

Again he listened for the gun, but it came no more. Its voice was silenced in storm and death.

"They have gone down!" said Carl; "the signal gun will fire no more."

"Heaven have mercy on their souls!" said Willard, solemnly, lifting his hat.

"Amen!" said Lem, whose fears seemed swallowed up in awe.

"We may soon look out for the bodies," said Carl, straining his eyes over the black, seething waves.

Even as he spoke, by the blinding light of a glare of lightning they beheld two bodies, lashed to a spar, thrown violently on the sands near them. All sprang forward, and drew them up beyond the reach of the waves.

"Unfasten this rope," said Carl, "and we will bring them up to the house. Perhaps they may not be drowned yet."

"One's a woman," said Lem, as he cut the lashing. "I can carry her, I reckon, while you two tote the man along."

"Go on, then," said Willard, "up to Mrs. Tom's. Be quick!"

Bearing, with the utmost difficulty, their wet and apparently lifeless burdens in their arms, they reached the cottage of the widow, and deposited the senseless forms before the fire. Then, leaving them to her charge and that of Christie, they descended once more to the beach to rescue any other unfortunate who might providentially be washed ashore.

Toward midnight the storm abated, and the king of the tempest sullenly began to call off his hosts. The dense thick clouds slowly rolled back, the lightning ceased to flash, and the thunder only growled in the distance. The wind abated, and the rain fell more slowly; but, though they waited until morning dawned, no more bodies were wafted to their feet.

The next day's light showed a scene of ruin and death. The beach was strewn in every direction with fragments of the broken ship, and some half-dozen dead bodies lay scattered on the sands. All were cold and dead; and sad and disappointed, our tired and drenched watchers turned a way.

Before going to the lodge Willard visited the cottage, and learned that the rescued ones were both alive, and might recover. And, grateful to have been the means of saving even two of the unfortunates, he sought his own couch, to dream of wrecks and drowned men till noon-day.

CHAPTER XII.
SIBYL'S RETURN TO THE ISLE

"There is a shadow in her eye,
A languor in her frame;
Yet rouse her spirit and she'll glow
With passion's fiercest flame."—T.W.H.

It was late in the afternoon of the following day when Willard Drummond left the lodge for Mrs. Tom's cottage. Curiosity to see the rescued ones prompted the visit as much as any other feeling; and he walked along rapidly, viewing the scene of desolation which the preceding night's tempest had left.

The cottage door was open to admit the pleasant sunshine, and Willard paused for a moment to view the scene before he entered.

Mrs. Tom went bustling about the room in her usual breezy, chirruping way, talking incessantly, but in a subdued tone, as though afraid of disturbing some one. Christie sat near the window, bending over her sewing, looking pale still, after the terror and excitement of the previous night. But Willard's eyes did not linger a moment on her; they were fixed, as if fascinated, on another, who lay back in Mrs. Tom's arm-chair, propped up with pillows.

It was the woman, or rather the girl, he had saved, What was there in that pale young face to make him start so vehemently, while the blood rushed in a crimson torrent to his very temples? He only saw a small, slight figure; short, crisp, golden curls clustering over a round, white, polished forehead; bright, saucy gray eyes, half veiled now under the long, silken eyelashes, resting on the pearly cheek; a little rosebud mouth, and a nose decidedly retrousse. It was not a wonderfully pretty face; but there was something bright, piquant, original, and charming about it—something daring, defiant, and high-spirited, as you could see even in its pallor and languor. She might have been sixteen, though she scarcely looked so old as that.

She lay back now with her little white hands folded listlessly on her lap, her veiled eyes fixed upon them with a dreamy, abstracted look, as of one whose thoughts are far away—replying low and languidly to Mrs. Tom's ceaseless questioning. And Willard Drummond, pale and excited, leaned against the door-post, gazing upon her like one who cannot believe his senses.

Suddenly Christie raised her eyes from her work, and uttered an ejaculation as she espied him. He could linger no longer, and like one who walks in his sleep, he passed in.

The clear, dark eyes of the little lady in the chair were raised as he entered, and fixed with a look of complete amazement on his face. Her dark eyes dilated—her lips parted in surprise, as she made an effort to rise from her chair, and then sank back exhausted.

"Willard Drummond!" broke in surprise from her lips.

"Laura!" he exclaimed.

And he was by her side in an instant, holding her hands in his, and gazing in her eyes with a look that would have aroused Sibyl's jealousy, had she been present, but which only puzzled Christie, who, with Mrs. Tom, looked on in astonishment.

"Who in the world would have expected to meet you here!" said the lady, recovering first from a moment's embarrassed silence; "certainly the last spot on earth I should ever look for the gay, pleasure-loving Willard Drummond. So, sir, I presume you have been 'taking the world easy,' here in this Enchanted Isle, while your poor, deluded friends were laboring under the conviction you were improving your mind—-which needed improving, goodness knows—by foreign travel? Pretty conduct, Mr. Drummond, I must say!"

"Oh, Laura! Laura! how little did I dream, last night, you were in that fatal ship!" he exclaimed, passionately.

"Ugh! yes; wasn't it awful?" said the young girl, with a shudder. "I'll never get the horrid sight and sounds of that dreadful night out of my mind while I live. Oh! to have heard the screams, and cries, and prayers, and blasphemies of the drowning crew, mingling with the fearful storm, was appalling. Holy saints! I hear them yet!"

With a convulsive shudder, she hid her face in her hands.

"Thank Heaven your life was saved, at least," said Drummond, with fervor.

"Yes, our escape was little less than miraculous. I remember some one making me fast to a floating spar, as the ship struck; then the waves swept furiously over me, and I remember no more, until I awoke and found kind friends chafing my hands and temples. Was it you who saved me, Willard?"

"Not exactly. The waves washed you ashore, and my part of it was merely to have you conveyed up here. But how little did I dream then, that Laura Britton was so near!"

"Laura Courtney, if you please, Mr. Drummond," she said, quietly. "I have had the honor of changing my name since I saw you last."

"And you have married Edgar Courtney! Oh, Laura, Laura?" he said, reproachfully.

Her eyes flashed as she faced suddenly round, and said, sharply:

"Yes, I have married him; and, Mr. Drummond, don't you dare to speak of him in that tone again. I will not endure it. No, not if you had saved my life a dozen times."

The angry blood flushed to her pale cheek, and she jerked her hand angrily away from his grasp.

Willard bit his lip till it bled, to keep down his rising anger; while Christie and Mrs. Tom still sat staring in increasing amazement.

There was a long, disagreeable pause, broken at last by Mrs. Courtney saying, in her usual quick, abrupt way:

"There! you need not get mad, now, Willard; have you forgotten that no one used ever to get angry at anything said by 'Madcap Laura?' Come, don't speak so of Mr. Courtney again, and I'll forgive you; there's my hand on it. I cannot forget that we are old friends."

A shadow crossed Willard's face, as he bent over the little hand she extended.

"Has your—has Mr. Courtney been saved?" he asked, in a subdued tone.

"Yes, the waves washed us ashore together, but something struck him on the head, and he is unable to rise. I suppose you are puzzling your brains now to know what brought us to this quarter of the globe?"

"I confess I have some curiosity on that point."

"Well, you see," said little Mrs. Courtney, adjusting herself more comfortably in her chair, "we went on a bridal-tour to New York, and on our way home Edgar thought he would call at Westport, where he had business of some kind. All the way we had fine weather until the journey was at its end, and then the storm arose in which we nearly perished. But, Willard, what under the sun can have driven you here?"

Willard colored as he met her keen, bright glance.

"Well, I came with a friend of mine, a certain Captain Campbell, who owns a residence here, and I am for the present his guest, though unexpected business, for a time, called him away. Anything for a change, you know," he added, laughing, "and this island is not quite devoid of attraction."

"By no means," said Mrs. Courtney, glancing demurely at Christie. "I certainly admire your good taste in saying so. Once here, with such a divinity as this, I can easily account for the attraction that binds you, most fickle of men, here," she added, in a lower tone.

"Pshaw, Laura!" he said, striving to hide by a laugh the guilty flush that lingered still on his face, "you surely do not think I have forgotten you so soon?"

"If it were any one else I would not, but you—oh, you never would be true to any one longer than a month. Talk about woman's fickleness! I'm sure the wind never was half so changeable as you."

"Yes, you gave me great encouragement to be true to you," he answered, with some bitterness.

"Did I," said Mrs. Courtney, with a yawn. "Well, I know I was a horrid little simpleton once, but I've grown old and wise now. And, if it's all the same to you, Mr. Drummond, I'll leave you now. I feel tired and half sick yet, after last night."

She rose and went into the room with a weary, tired air.

"So, you know her?" said Mrs. Tom. "Who'd ever thought it? So that tall, dark-looking fellow, with all the whiskers and mustaches, is her husband? I declare if it ain't scandalous the way gals will get married afore they're out o' short frocks. I jist wish I had a darter—no, I mean if I had a darter—I'd like to see her tryin' to get married at such an unchristian age!"

Christie turned scarlet, and bent lower over her work.

Willard stood leaning with one arm on the mantel-piece, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

"What did you say her name was?" inquired Mrs. Tom, sitting down, and beginning to reel off yarn.

"Mrs. Edgar Courtney, now; she was Laura Britton when I last met her," he said, as if half speaking to himself.

"S'pose you've known her a long time?" continued Mrs. Tom.

"Yes, we were children together," he replied, in the same dreamy tone.

"And her husband—known him long?" pursued Mrs. Tom.

"Yes, I know him for a cruel, jealous, passionate tyrant!" said Willard, starting up so suddenly and fiercely that Mrs. Tom dropped the ball she was winding, and sprang back.

"Well, you needn't make such a fuss about it!" she exclaimed, recovering herself, and indignantly resuming her work. "Scaring a body out o' their wits for nothin'. I s'pose she knowed all that afore she took him."

"Pray, pardon my vehemence, Mrs. Tom," said Willard, recovering himself by an effort, as he saw Christie's troubled gaze fixed on his face; "I forgot myself for a moment. But this patient of yours, this Mr. Courtney, may need a doctor. I am going over to Westport to-night, and if you wish, I will bring one to-morrow."

"It would be better," said Mrs. Tom, thoughtfully. "He's got a temenjous cut right in his head. I did what I could for him; but, of course, a body would feel more satisfied if they had a reg'lar doctor.'

"If I were ill, Mrs. Tom, I should trust to you in preference to any doctor ever warranted to kill or cure," said Willard, as he took his hat to go.

Mrs. Tom smiled benignly at the compliment, quite delighted at this tacit acknowledgment of her skill.

And an hour after, Willard and Lem were on their way to Westport.

What were Willard Drummond's thoughts, as, sitting silently in the stern of the boat, he watched the dancing waves flash and sparkle in the sunlight? Very different from those he had indulged not long since, when, on one eventful night, he and Christie had crossed it together. This Laura Courtney, with her pretty, piquant face, and pert, saucy manners, had first won his boyish heart. He had raved, and vowed, and implored at her feet, but she only laughed at him and his passion, and now she had no more power over his heart than if she never existed. Might it not be the same with those he had loved since? Was not his passion for Christie beginning to grow cold already? Would it not grow colder every day? And in the hot ardor of his love he had made this little obscure, uneducated, shy child, his wife. Why, oh, why, had he not waited? And now that the deed was irreparable, where was this to end?

They reached Westport before dark; and Lem, having landed him, set off for the island again, promising to return for him in the morning. The moon was just rising above the pine trees when he reached home; and, on entering the house, the first object he beheld was his young mistress, in close conversation with his mother.

"Lor' sakes, Miss Sibyl! you here!" was Lem's first ejaculation.

"Yes, Lem; and glad to be home again," she answered, gayly. "Aunt Moll tells me you have just been taking Mr. Drummond over to Westport."

"So I hev; but I'm to go for him early to-morrow-mornin.' 'Spect, ef he'd know you was a comin,' he'd staid here."

"Humph!" said Aunt Moll, dubiously.

"Did he seem lonely during my—during our absence?" asked Sibyl.

"Lonesome? 'Deed he didn't, honey; he was in fust rate spirits all the time."

"Ah!" said Sibyl, a shadow falling over her face; "he spent his time in fishing and shooting, I suppose, and snaring birds?"

"Snarin' birds? Yes; an' caught one, too," said Aunt Moll, in a tone that spoke volumes.

"Caught one! What do you mean, Aunt Moll? I don't understand," said Sibyl, anxiously.

"Miss Sibyl, don't listen to her. She's allers got some nonsense to tell," interrupted Lem, casting an angry and warning glance toward his mother.

But now that the opportunity she had so long waited for had come, the old woman's tongue was not to be stopped.

"It's all fur yer good, child, 'deed it is; an' I 'siders it my duty to warn you, honey, dat Massa Drummond ain't to be 'pended on. Dar!"

"Aunt Moll, what do you mean? Speak, and tell me what you are hinting at. What has Mr. Drummond done?" asked Sibyl, growing very pale.

"Well, chile, 'stead o' stayin' here, and thinking ob you, as he'd orter, he's been prowlin', all hours o' de night, round de island, wid dat 'ar Miss Chrissy—making lub to her, I'll be bound."

"What?" cried Sibyl, in a tone that made the old woman leap to her feet, as she sprang forward, and caught her by the arm. "Dare you insinuate such a thing? I tell you he could not, and he would not—he dare not prove false to me!"

"Miss Sibyl, honey! for de Lord's sake, don't look at me wid such wild eyes. I 'spec's she's witched him. I can't 'count for it no other way," said Aunt Moll, trembling before the awful wrath of those blazing eyes. "I on'y says what I knows. He's all the time talkin' 'bout her to hisself, when he's 'lone."

"It cannot be true; he dare not deceive me!" almost shrieked Sibyl. "What proof have you of this? Speak! speak!"

"Miss Sibyl, honey! you may 'sassinate me ef you's a mind to; but I's tellin' de trufe. Sence eber you left, dey ain't a minute apart. Dey've sailed in de riber after night, an' gone trampin' in de woods in de day time; an' I's heered him callin' her his 'dear Chrissy,' when he's 'lone. I knows, chile, 'taint pleasant, nor likewise 'greeable for you to hear dis; but I talks for your good, honey—'deed I does."

But now the first fierce gust of passion was over, and pale and tottering, Sibyl leaned against the chimney-piece—her arm on the mantel, her head bowed upon it, shuddering, sinking, collapsed. All his neglect, that had puzzled her so long, was accounted for now. She was forgotten—deserted, for this island girl!

So long she remained in that fixed, rigid attitude, that Aunt Moll began to grow alarmed; and she was on the point of commencing a consoling speech, beginning with: "Miss Sibyl, honey," when the young girl lifted her head, and, asked in a hollow voice:

"Is this—this girl on the island still?"

"Yes, chile, ob course she is—down to Miss Tom's."

For a moment longer Sibyl stood, gazing steadily before her, with those wild, fierce, burning eyes; her face perfectly colorless, save that two dark-purple spots blazed in and out upon it like burning coals; her teeth set; her hands clenched. All the humiliation, the shame, the agony of being deserted, rushed, like a burning torrent, through her mind. And with it came a fierce, demoniacal hatred of her idol, and a deadly wish to be revenged.

Starting suddenly up, she fled up the stairs, through the long, unlighted hall, out of the front door, and took the path leading to Mrs. Tom's.

The bright moonlight lit all around with a pale, radiant glory. And, standing near a rock, commanding an extensive view of the sea, Christie stood, enjoying the beauty of the night, when suddenly a fierce grasp was laid on her shoulder, and she looked up. Her vision was realized. Sibyl Campbell stood glaring upon her, with her fierce, wild, black eyes, her long hair streaming down her back, like an aroused tigress preparing to spring.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE MEETING.

"Thou mayest hold a serpent by the tongue,
A chafed lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,
Than cross this love of mine."

Trembling, paralyzed, shrinking with terror and superstitious awe, as she recollected her vision, Christie stood quailing before that dark, passionate glance.

And, glaring upon her with a hatred and jealousy that for the time "swept her soul in tempests," and inspired her with a momentary frenzy, Sibyl stood, transfixing her with those wild, fierce eyes. With one glance she took in all her rival's extraordinary beauty, far surpassing even what she feared; and the sight, to her passionate heart, was like oil poured upon flame.

"So," she hissed, at length, through her closed teeth, "pretty Miss Christie has found a lover during my absence. Girl, take care! You have begun a dangerous game, but the end has not come!"

Her words broke the spell of terror that held Christie dumb. And now, noticing her disordered attire, and wild, disheveled hair, she said, in surprise and entreaty:

"Miss Sibyl, what has happened? What have I done? I did not know you were on the island."

"No; I am aware of that," said Sibyl, with a hard, bitter laugh. "Oh, it is a wondrous pity I should have come so soon to spoil the sport! You and your dainty lover thought yourselves secure—thought Sibyl Campbell far away. But again I say to you, beware! for 'twere better for you to tamper with a lioness robbed of her young than with the passions of this beating, throbbing heart!"

She looked like some priestess of doom denouncing all mankind as she stood there, with her long, black, streaming hair, her wild, burning, passionate eyes, her face white, rigid, and ghastly, save where the two purple spots still blazed in and out on either cheek.

"Oh, Miss Sibyl—dear Miss Sibyl! what have I done? Oh, I never, never meant to offend you, or stand in your path; as Heaven hears me, I did not! Tell me, only tell me in what I have offended, and I will never do it again," said Christie, clasping her hands in increasing terror and childlike simplicity.

"What have you done? Have you really the effrontery to stand there and ask me such a question?"

"Miss Sibyl, I do not know—indeed, indeed, I do not know!" exclaimed Christie, earnestly.

In all the storm of anger and jealousy that raged in her soul, a look of superb scorn curled the lips of Sibyl.

"You do not know! Oh, wondrous innocence! angelic simplicity! Must I despise as well as hate you? Listen, then, since I must speak my shame, and answer me truly, as you hope for salvation. Promise."

"I promise!"

"Swear to answer me truly, by all you hold dear on earth! by your hopes of heaven!"

"I swear! Oh, Sibyl, speak!" cried Christie, wrought up to an agony of terror and excitement by her wild words.

"Then, and may Heaven's heaviest curse fall upon him if I conjecture truly—has Willard Drummond dared to speak of love to you?"

Pale, trembling, terror-stricken, Christie's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; had her life depended on it, no sound could have escaped her quivering lips.

"Speak, and tell me! Speak, for I must know—I have a right to know?" cried Sibyl, grasping her arm, and setting her teeth hard to keep down the tempest of passion that was sweeping through her soul.

"Oh, spare me—spare me!" wailed Christie, lifting up her pleading hands.

"Death, girl! Must I tear the truth from your false heart! Tell me, truly, has he dared to speak of love, and have you dared to listen to him? Heavens! will you speak before I am tempted to murder you!"

"Oh, do not ask me—do not ask me!" cried Christie, in a dying voice, as trembling, fainting, she sank at the feet of her terrible foe.

With her hands clenched until the nails sank into the quivering flesh, her teeth set hard, her deep, labored breathing, her passion-convulsed face, she looked more like an enraged pythoness than a frail girl learning for the first time her lover's infidelity.

She required no further proof now. He whom she would have trusted with her soul's salvation was false. And, oh! what is there more terrible in this world than to learn that one whom we love and trust has proven untrue?

Sibyl had loved as she had done everything else—madly; had trusted blindly; had worshipped idolatrously, adoring man instead of God; and now this awakening was doubly terrible. Had Christie been in her place, she would have wept and sobbed in the utter abandon of sorrow; but her grief would have been nothing compared with the dry, burning despair in those wild black eyes.

Now that Sibyl had learned the worst, her fiery, tempestuous fierceness passed away, and there fell a great calm—a calm all the more terrific after her late storm of passion.

"And so I am forsaken," she said, in a deep, hollow voice, "and for her—this pretty, blue-eyed baby. I, whom he promised to love through life and beyond death. Saints in heaven! shall he do this and live?"

"You?" said Christie, lifting her pale, terrified face. "And did he promise to love you, too?"

"Yes, learn it, and let it whelm your soul in shame. Before he saw you, before he knew you, he loved me; and I was to be his wife. Yes, weep, and wail, and sob; your tears shall not soon dry. You have caused him to forget his vows, his honor, his plighted faith, his promised love to me, and you must pay the penalty."

"Oh, I never knew it—I never knew it!" wailed Christie, wringing her hands.

"And, as he has been false to me, so, likewise, will he be false you. You are the cause of his treachery, of his broken vows, his perjured soul; you are the cause of all; and, think you such love can be blessed?"

"Forgive me! Oh, Sibyl, forgive me!" still wailed Christie.

"May Heaven never forgive me if I do!" cried Sibyl, with impassioned vehemence. "Think you, girl, I am one to be won by tears and protestations? Faugh! you should have thought of all this when you listened to his unlawful love."

"Oh, I did not know! As Heaven hears me, I did not know. I would have died sooner than have listened to him, had I known!"

"Prove it," said Sibyl, with a sudden gleam in her dark eyes.

"How—how? Only say how I shall redeem my error! Let me know how I may atone!"

"Atone!—you?", said Sibyl, with a withering sneer. "I tell you, girl, if your life could be prolonged for a thousand years, and every second of that time spent in torture, you could not atone for the wrong you have done me. But make such expiation as you can—prove at least that there is some truth in your words."

"Oh, Sibyl, I would willingly die if I could redeem my fault."

"Your death would not redeem it. What is your paltry life to me? Neither do I require it—the sacrifice I would have you make is easier. Give him up!"

"Oh! anything but that! Sibyl, that is worse than death!" said the stricken child-bride, in a fainting voice.

"Did you not say you would atone? Prove it now—give him up—it is my right, and I demand it. Promise."

"Oh, I cannot!—I cannot!" moaned Christie, shrinking down, as though she would never rise again.

"And this is your repentance—this, your atonement for what you have done?" said Sibyl, stepping back, and regarding her with superb scorn. "This, then, is the end of all your fine promises. Girl, I tell you, you dare not; it is at your peril you see him more. My claim is above yours. I warn, I insist, I demand you to give him up. It is my right, and you shall do it. What are you, little reptile, that you should stand in the path of Sibyl Campbell?"

"I am his wife!" arose to the lips of Christie. That little sentence she well knew would have silenced Sibyl's claim forever, but she remembered her promise in time, and was silent.

"Rise, girl, don't cower there at my feet," said Sibyl, stepping back in bitter contempt. "It is your place, it is true; but his love has ennobled you, since it has raised you to the rank of my rival. Am I to understand you promise your intimacy with him is at an end?"

"Miss Sibyl, I cannot. I love him!" And pale and sad, Christie rose and stood before her.

The blaze, the dark, scorching, flaming glance from those eyes of fire might have killed her.

"And you dare utter this to me?" she said, or rather hissed, through her tightly clenched teeth. "Audacious girl, do you not fear that I will strike you dead where you stand?"