the companionship of their boisterous classmates, who, on their part, went in a body to Niblo's.

Philip, whose faith in Julian was a good deal staggered by the Hermit's story, was curious to see him at home, and Redesdale was dying with impatience to behold the beautiful Rachel.

The house, though extremely plain outside, within was furnished with Oriental magnificence. There were Turkish and Persian carpets, porcelain fountains, flowers from every clime, antique paintings of Hebraic scenes in which Abraham, Isaac, Rebecca, David, and Solomon in all his glory, figured conspicuously.

Redesdale and Philip felt an oppressive veneration stealing upon them as they looked around-even Julian was not the gay, sarcastic fellow he was in barracks, or

camp.

The appearance of Rachel lit up the scene. "It was as if her namesake of old, after a seven-years' delay had come to bless me," quoth the enthusiastic Redesdale to Jinny afterwards.

"Oh, I'm so happy to see you!" said Rachel, advancing, giving a hand to each of her cadet friends. She was dressed in a peculiar costume, blending the Oriental with the modern.

Around her head was lightly folded a plaid Cashmere; her waist was of blue silk, partly revealing and partly concealing her neck, leaving her arm bare almost to the shoulder, on which glittered a star of diamonds. The rich folds of a black velvet skirt swept the floor, almost concealing the prettiest of feet in satin sandals.

Poor Redesdale felt awkward, dumb, confused, ful, and every way foolish.

Redesdale was burning with the fire of a passion that most delights in secrecy, when kindled in deep natures.

Philip wondering how such a brother as Julian, so gentle and kind, apparently sympathetic in love or in music, could ever have wronged the Hermit of the Highlands. He longed so eagerly to hear Julian's own account of himself, not now from motives of idle curiosity, but in hopes that it might exonerate his friend in some degree from blame.

Phil was ready, with the heart of a friend, in all charity, to put the best construction on Julian's actions.

"Father bade me make his excuses to you for this evening," said Rachel.

Her brother frowned and colored, but added nothing to the apology.

Mutual inquiries after the succeeding events of the fire and rescue, hoping there were no colds or other ill consequences; and humorous or afflicting details of the events of that night, with sly allusions to the cave, made up a pleasant conversation.

Then Raphel asked his sister for a song, which request was earnestly urged by Redesdale and Philip, without a refusal on Rachel's part.

Her brother drew forward the harp, an instrument that would have delighted the Poet David, and Rachel sung-Heavens-so divinely!

Then Julian took his violin and the two played an air together, composed by Julian, and called the "Burning Steamner," in which the daring rescuers were complimented instrumentally, but it must be confessed, without knowing it.

All evenings must come to an end. Sometimes the end is a beginning, sometimes a prolonging, we leave the reader to guess which, when he considers the soft eyelight that passed between the souls of Rachel and Redesdale she so beautiful, simple and tender, he so handsome, courteous and manly.

Strange it was, when Redesdale and Philip walked to the hotel along the quiet street so late that night, that there was so little communication of thought.

Half-gloomily, yet not a little excited, Julian sat apart from the others, watching the play.

Fitly was it a land for Redesdale, Rachel and Philip to disport themselves in.

The musical triumph, the poetic imagery was all sufficient for Julian; but inspired love and youth hath more ravishments than the realms of poetry provide, or music's self can furnish.

Rachel sat attentive by the side of Redesdale.

It must be confessed that the love part of the performance, the troubles of Lysander and Hermia, Helen and Demetrius, engaged them most of all. The cruel, unnatural father, Egeus, particularly wrought upon Rob, who never knew the restraints of a father's authority.

"Do you not think him him hard hearted?" he asked of Rachel.

"Yes-but fathers think for us while we sleep," was her reply.

Redesdale wondered to himself what sort of father Rachel must have.

He would like to meet him again.

He seemed a mild affectionate man that night at the cave. Would he be likely to approve his suit? Would his mother?

Aha, Mr. Redesdale! Sweet Rachel, her meditations would puzzle Shakspeare himself. She knew something that Redesdale did not know. She saw herself a

maiden of a proscribed race, the daughter o. a proud, bigoted father.

As for our friend Phil, he bethought himself that the arrant mischief Puck, reminded him of somebody. He saw the glow of pleasure on Redesdale's fine face, the rapt attention of Julian, the quiet and pensive happiness of Rachel.

Philip thought the performance wonderfully enchanting; he had never seen art in such illusive, dazzling guise.

In an opposite box sat Aurora, amid a bevy of beaux, of whom Mildew was one, in buff vest and bouquet. "Who are those cadets with that young woman whose face is so decidedly Jewish?" asked the fair one of Mildew.

The old beau laughed, and told the joke next day at West Point.

Philip was amused at beholding the broad face of Mr. Thurrough Goer in the parquet, wearing a doubtful expression.

Phil managed to meet him at the door after the performance, and was curious to know his opinion of the play.

"I don't believe it, that's all," replied Thurrough Goer, "these poets and plays should be done away with; all humbug-humbug! Now the money spent here nightly, would set up the "Peace Society."

"Peace Society!" echoed Phil.

"Yes sir, that's what I'm at now. Come and hear me at the Tabernacle to-morrow night; trying to do away with wars, West Points, poets and fighting. We met in a World's Convention at London, and decided the point. Come and hear me, that's all."

By this time they were forced to separate. Philip would fain have heard the discourse of the non-resistant Thurrough Goer, but he was very desirous of hurrying home to his mother and Nan. He read a report of it afterward in the papers, and, together with the public, was edified to hear, that the principle of turning both cheeks to the smiter had been emphatically endorsed, and handled in a manner that a Quaker might have envied. He left New York with the promise to come again in a month, take up Julian, and visit Redesdale. The latter lingered a day or two longer by the side of Rachel, who grew silent and yet more silent.

CHAPTER XXV.

HOME.

THE cottage of widow Smitth was lighted before it was fairly dark, on the evening Nan expected her brother.

A hundred times she ran to the gate, twice that, went to the door, and many times looked out of the window.

The tea-kettle was on the wood fire betimes, the cricket kept watch over the short cake baking on the hearth, and peeped out of his cell now and then to chirp a little louder, and see if the expected visitor had

come.

Mrs. Smitth wore a dazzling white cap, and a snowy apron, and tried to appear very calm and pleased before the excited Nan, but yet looked over her shoulder towards the open door, and the corners of her mouth twitched somewhat nervously.

At last at last his step was heard, and no sooner heard than seen. He bounded in, caught Nan in his arms, and flung himself and her upon his mother's neck, and wept, and he and Nan straightway danced an old-fashioned hornpipe over the clean white floor, such as they had often danced in the school yard. Mrs. Smitth and Nan could with difficulty be brought to "realize" that the tall, beautiful young officer before their very eyes, was their Phil.

“Why, how he has grown!" said his mother. “And how straight he is!" said Nan. "What a gentleman?" said his mother. "How commanding, too? You might know he was born for a general," said Nannie.

"What a pity we did not name him Winfield Scott."

"Winfield Scott-Smitth-ahem !" quoth Nannie. They all laughed, and supper was put on the table with great hilarity.

So proud was Phil's sister, that she could scarcely allow him to stay at home a minute during that evening, or in fact any other day or evening during his visit. He must go over to see Mrs. Teazle, and the dominie, and the schoolmaster, and the M.C. and his lady, and the school, and the sunday-school, and the church where respectable people went, and where Phil could be seen and admired so.

The M.C. was gratified, and his good lady's congratulations were as cordial as one might expect from such a hearty source. She made a party for the young cadet, and invited the first people; and the first people went, and Philip was received, with his sister Nan, into the first society of the proud little Olympus.

The expectance of Cadet Smitth at the sewing society on Monday evening, was whispered abroad; and more young ladies than usual, with more needles, and patches, and baskets full of what-nots were there, to see the handsome fellow, who went home with the prettiest of them.

Nan, too, flourished in her brother's sunshine. People began to discover how pretty she was, and she was so light and graceful, and had such exquisite taste in flowers. Nan was quite a little lioness to the young lion.

The Fourth of July celebration was announced in the village paper a week beforehand, and a place assigned in the procession to "officers of the army and navy," and everybody knew that meant Cadet Smitth.

But nothing pleased our friend more, and yet perplexed him more, than his visit to the Queen Eagle.

"I've heard of you, my boy. I knew what a good, studious, brave fellow you have been; and resisted all the temptations of the wicked world, and come home to your old mother as simple and affectionate as ever, and brought a whole heart to your old flame, eh? haven't you, eh? Shut that window for me, my dear boy, I feel the draft of air a little. There, that's good,

thrust forth to wander forever and ever with her child in this broad desert-the world. I tell you, General Harrington, this shall not be !"

"Shall not-slave, how dare you?" cried the old man, rising haughtily.

"Slave, slave! Yes, I am your slave, for I love you, my master, love you with a madness this cold white lady never dreamed of. Do not crush me beneath this woman's feet-do not. For years and years I have lived on this one wish to be your slave again. She, your wife, is faithless, false, cold as marble; put her away-send her forth, as I have been. The same God made us both, and should punish us both alike. I have been tortured long enough; take me home, master, take me home-a servant, a slave, anything; but send this woman from beneath your roof. She has had her life, I have a right to mine! Give it to me-give it to me for my love's sake, for our child's sake!"

The woman fell upon her knees as she spoke; her locked hands were uplifted, and wrung madly together -her eyes were full of wild, passionate tears. She looked, indeed, Hagar coming back from the desert, where she had left her youth buried.

"Master, master, send her away, send her away!" she pleaded, in a burst of pathetic entreaty. "What has she been to you, that I was not? She is the mother of your child-so am I. She was your wife-I was your slave. She claimed rights, station, wealth, power, and returned nothing. I gave my soul, my being, every breath of my life, every pulse in my heart, and claimed only bonds. You fettered her with flowers-me with iron. I loved these chains, for they bound me to youthey have drawn me to your feet again. I will not give way to that woman a second time!"

The old man had been growing calm amid this passionate appeal. Strong feeling always annoyed him, and the woman seemed actuated by a species of madness, that filled him with repulsion. He turned from her with a look of quiet contempt.

แ Why, Zillah, you should go on the stage. These wild paroxysms, half-pathetic, half-demoniac, tell splendidly with the public: a little dash of blasphemy now, and you are perfect. The best society would run wild about you-ladies, most of all, especially-if they knew exactly who and what you were, Zillah.”

The woman sprang to her feet, white as death; her eyes closing, her lips specked with foam. She attempted to speak, but the words writhed themselves to death on her lips without a sound.

How still intense rage can sometimes appear! The woman stood mute for more than a minute, in which General Harrington held his breath, awed, in spite of himself, by a force of passion he had never witnessed before.

"Zillah," he said at last, half-terrified, "Zillah, control yourself; this rage will injure you. Come, come, let us talk together more reasonably. You know how I dislike these wild flights of temper, and how little good they can effect. Take that hand from your bosom, girl; if you have a poniard there, let it stay sheathed. I do not fear you, at any rate."

"You need not," said the woman, in a hoarse whisper. "I could not strike, even while you were mocking me."

Her hand fell slowly downward as she spoke, leaving the hilt of a dagger just visible under her dress.

The General stepped toward her, took the dagger quietly from her bosom, and cast it contemptuously on the fire.

"Have done with this acting, girl, and talk like a sensible woman, if you have really anything to say." Zillah smiled scornfully, as he had done, while her eyes followed the dagger to its lodgment in the fire.

"It is the purpose, not the instrument, which is dangerous," she said, with pale self-possession, still speaking in hoarse undertones; "and, in order to reach that, you must clutch here.”

Zillah pressed one hand hard on her heart as she spoke, and the old man could see that concentrated passion shook her from head to foot, still as she seemed. Zillah, this passion will prevent me ever seeing you again. I am no boy, to be terrified into concessions; as for violence, attempt it, and I will have you dealt with like any other house-breaker; in the North we have heavier chains than you have ever yet worn. You will find that the slavery which springs from crime, is a reality that you have not yet known. No more threats, then, if you ever hope to see your master again."

"I was wrong," said the woman, standing before him with the downcast look learned in her early bondage. "It was wounded love, not anger, against you, my master, that tortured me into this rash language. I came to tell you of L- - of our child; she is very, very ill."

66

What, Lina? poor child, no wonder she is heartbroken. Heaven knows I would have kept this miserable secret from her, but for Ralph! Where is she now?"

"In my own house, raving with brain fever!" "And have you told her all?"

"Yes, and she, too, spurned me-every one repulses and scorns me, while that woman

"Hush! Zillah, you are getting fierce again, and that I will not submit to."

"No, no, master, it was grief for my child, not anger," said the woman, checking herself. "She is ill, very ill. The doctor thinks she must die." "Indeed, I am grieved to hear it. Let her have every care; have a dozen physicians, if it is needful. Poor child-poor child!"

"You love her, then, this daughter of a slave?" said Zillah, with a fierce gleam in her eyes, as if jealous of his very love for her own child.

"Love her? Why she has always been a pet in the house-a beautiful, sweet-tempered creature, whom everyone loved. I think she is even dearer to me than Ralph himself."

Again the woman turned white. "And you love her so much?"

"Again, Zillah: you are hard to please; but take good

"Indeed, to see her-her only."

"Have done with this paltry childishness, I am tired of it!" answered the General, with authority. "This comes of allowing you a foothold here. Remember, I cannot have my privacy intruded on in future by these mysterious visits; they will become known to the family, and Mrs. Harrington may think them a just cause of complaint-a thing above all others to be avoided. I tell you, Zillah, this rash passion, which at your age should be controlled, inconveniences me very much; indeed, as a man of honor, I cannot encourage it farther."

Zillah's lips writhed, as if she were repeating over his last words in the scorn of her heart; but she stood immovable and silent, with her eyes bent on the floor.

"If money is needed for you or Lina, whose future I will liberally provide for, that can at any time be supplied to the extent of your wishes.”

haste to read, the fire seemed to leap from her black eyes over the writing. It was the life-deed which had just passed between General Harrington and his sonin-law.

The woman laughed as she folded up the paper-a laugh of such bitter mockery that it started even herself, as if some other person had been reviling her.

"And has it ended in this, after years of plotting and privations that would have killed a common person? Have I ended in binding them more firmly together. This accounts for his solicitude for her welfare. This is why these visits of mine trouble him. They might break the compact which secures repose and reputation to Mabel Harrington, for so much money—and she is to triumph a second time! I am nothing-a weed, a bit of miserable night-shade that has poison in it, and nothing more."

As she muttered over these thoughts, more and more slowly, the woman folded her arms, and stood immovable for several minutes; her brow grew dark as mid

"But you cannot be rich!"

"The master to whom you sold me left his property to be divided between some half dozen slaves, who received their freedom and the legacy together. I am spending mine; when it is gone, I can work."

"Then you reject all help from me?"

"I was your slave, General Harrington-twice bound, first by your laws, again by the will of my own heart, but I am no beggar; even when you loved me, I worked for my own bread."

"I am glad that you are so well provided for: now let this romance come to an end. We are no boy and girl, remember, Zillah; and, though it is very pleasant to feel that one heart at least proves faithful to the end, I cannot, in justice to Mrs. Harrington, admit you under the same roof with herself. Her peace of mind is important to me, very important, and her tranquillity must not be endangered by these wild visits. I will withdraw, now, and give you an opportunity to leave the house; be careful that no one sees you, especially Mrs. Harrington. Adieu! In two or three days, at most, I shall be able to see you and Lina."

The old gentleman waved his hand, in token of a friendly adieu, as he went, leaving his singular visitor standing in the middle of the room, so numbed in feeling or lost in thought, that she seemed unconscious of his departure.

It was more than a minute before the woman lifted her head; then her face was pale, and a deep smouldering purpose burned like fire in the depths of her eyes. She looked around wildly, as if searching for the man who had just left the room; then her recollection seemed to come back, and she went up to the table, examining everything upon it with eager haste. The journal was no longer there, but in its place she found a folded paper placed in a small portfolio, which bore the General's initials.

face, as if the poison she had just spoken of were diffusing itself through her entire system. At last she heard steps approaching the library, and hurried away through the disused entrance.

As Ralph Harrington was returning from Benson's cabin one night, he met Agnes Barker. It was yet early in the evening, but the sharp, frosty air rendered it singular that a young girl should have ventured into the cold, without some important object to urge her forth. Ralph had been touched, and a good deal subdued, by his conversation with Ben; and he would gladly have avoided this rencontre with the governess, who invariably left him excited and wretched with fresh doubts whenever he conversed with her. But Agnes came directly toward him, and he remarked that her manner of walking was excited, and like that of a person who had some important object to pursue.

"Mr. Ralph Harrington, you have been unjust to me. When I told you that Lina French was still in the neighborhood quietly domesticated, where your saintly step-brother could visit her at will, you disbelieved me, and cast discredit on my word. Since then, James Harrington has disappeared mysteriously as she did. I now say that he, also, is in the city, making preparations to take the girl South; in a few days she will leave it, and he also."