At their parting interview Vance ingenuously told him he considered him a scoundrel. Semmes did n't see it in that light, and entered into a long argument to prove that he had done no wrong. Vance listened patiently, and said in reply, "Do you perceive an ill odor of dead rats in the wall?" Semmes snuffed, and then answered, "Indeed I don't perceive any bad smell." "I do," said Vance; "good by, sir!" And that was the end of their acquaintance.

But it is in the track of Vance and Clara that we promised to conduct the reader. Clara had proposed a ramble over the grounds. Never had she appeared so radiant in Vance's eyes. It was not her dress, for that was rather plain, though perfect in its adaptedness to the season and the scene. It was not that jaunty little hat, hiding not too much of her soft, thick hair. But the climate of her ancestral North seemed to have added a new sparkle and gloss to her beauty. And then the pleasure of seeing Vance showed itself so unreservedly in her face!

They strolled through the well-appointed garden, and Vance was glad to see that Clara had a genuine love of flowers and fruits, and could name all the varieties, distinguishing with quick perception the slightest differences of form and hue. In the summer-house, overlooking the majestic river, and surrounded, though not too much shaded, by birches, oaks, and pines, indigenous to the soil, they found Miss Netty Pompilard engaged in sketching. She ran away as they approached, presuming, like a sensible young person, that she could be spared. Even the mocking-bird, Clara's old friend Dainty, who pecked at a peach in his cage, seemed to understand that his noisy voluntaries must now be hushed.

The promenaders sat down on a rustic bench.

"Well, Clara," said Vance, "Phave heard to-day great and inspiring news. It almost made me feel as if I could afford to stop short in my work, and to be content, should I, like Moses, be suffered only to see the promised land with my eyes, but not to 'go over thither.'"

"To what do you allude?

"To-morrow President Lincoln issues a proclamation of prospective emancipation to the slaves of the Rebel States."

"Good!” cried Clara, giving him her hand for a grasp of congratulation.

"But I foresee," said Vance," that there is much yet to be done before it can be effective, and I've come to bid you a long, perhaps a last farewell."

Clara said not a word, but ran out of the summer-house below the bank into a little thicket that hid her entirely from view. Here she caught at the white trunk of a birch, and leaning her forehead against it, wept passionately for some time. Vance sat wondering at her disappearance. Ten minutes passed, and she did not return. He rose to seek her, when suddenly he saw her climbing leisurely up the bank, a few wild-flowers in her hand. There was no vestige of emotion in her face.

"You wondered at my quitting you so abruptly," she said. "I thought of some fringed gentians in bloom below there, and I ran to gather them for you. Are they not of a lovely blue?" "Thank you," said Vance, not wholly deceived by her calm, assured manner.

"So you really mean to leave us?" she said, smiling and looking him full in the face. "I'm very sorry for it."

"So am I, Clara, for it would be very delightful to settle down amid scenes like these and lead a life of meditative leisure. But not yet can I hope for my discharge. My country needs every able-bodied son. I must do what I best can to serve her. But first let me give you a few words of advice. Your Trustees tell me you have been spending money at such a fearful rate, that they have been compelled to refuse your calls. To this you object. Let me beg you to asquiesce with cheerfulness. They are gentlemen, liberal and patriotic. They have consented to your giving your aunt this splendid estate and the means of supporting it. They have allowed you to bestow portentous sums in charity, and for the relief of sick and wounded soldiers. I hear, too, that Miss Tremaine has sent to you for aid."

"Yes; her mother is dead, and her father has failed. They are quite poor."

"So

you I've sent her a couple of thousand dollars. The first pauper you shall meet will have as much claim on you as she.

the

Would I check that divine propensity of your nature, desire to bestow? O never, never! Far from it! Cherish it, my dear child. Believe in it. Find your constant delight in it. But be reasonable. Consider your own future. A little computation will show you that, at the present rate, it will not take you ten years to get rid of all your money. You will soon have suitors in plenty. Indeed, I hear that some very formidable ones are already making reconnoissances, although they find to their despair that the porter forbids them entrance unless they come on crutches; and I hear you send word to your serenaders, to take their music to the banks of the PotoBut your time will soon come, Clara. You will be married. (Please not pull that fringed gentian to pieces in that barbarous way!) You will have your own tasteful, munificent, and hospitable home. Reserve to yourself the power to make it all that, and do not be wise too late.”

mac.

"And is there nothing I can do, Mr. Vance, to let you see I have some little gratitude for all that you have done for me?" "Ah! I shall quote Rochefoucault against you, if you say that. Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is a species of ingratitude.' All that I've done is but a partial repayment of the debt I owed your mother's father; for I owed him my life. Besides, you pay me every time you help the brave fellow whose wound or whose malady was got in risking all for country and for justice."

“We must think of each other often," sighed Clara.

"That we cannot fail to do," said Vance. "There are incidents in our past that will compel a frequent interchange of remembrances; and to me they will be very dear. Besides, from every soul of a good man or woman, with whom I have ever been brought in communication (either by visible presence or through letters or books), I unwind a subtile filament which keeps us united, and never fails. I meet one whose society I would court, but cannot, one thinks of the other, 'How indifferent he or she seemed!' or 'Why did we not grow more intimate?' And yet a friendship that shall outlast the sun may have been unconsciously formed."

-

"You must write me," said Clara.

we part,

"I'm a poor correspondent,” replied Vance; "but I shall

obey. And now my watch tells me I must go. I start in a few hours for Washington."

They strolled back to the house. Vance took leave of all the inmates, not forgetting Esha. He went to Hyde's cottage, and had an affectionate parting with that worthy; and then drove to a curve in the road where Clara stood waiting solitary to exchange the final farewell.

It was on an avenue through the primeval forest, having on either side a strip of greensward edged by pine-trees, odorous and thick, which had carpeted the ground here and there with their leafy needles of the last years growth, now brown and dry.

The mild, post-equinoctial sunshine was flooding the middle of the road, but Clara stood on the sward in the shade. Vance dismounted from his carriage and drew near. All Clara's beauty seemed to culminate for that trial. A smile adorably tender lighted up her features. Vance felt that he was treading on enchanted ground, and that the atmosphere swam with the rose-hues of young romance. The gates of Paradise seemed opening, while a Peri, with hand extended, offered to be his guide. Youth and glad Desire rushed back into that inner chamber of his heart sacred to a love ineffably precious.

Clara put out her hand; but why was it that this time it was her right hand, when heretofore, ever since her rescue in New Orleans, she had always given the left?

He recogLifting the "God keep

Rather high up on the wrist of the right was a bracelet; a bracelet of that soft, fine hair familiar to Vance. nized it now, and the tears threatened to overflow. wrist to his lips he kissed it, and then, with a you!" entered the carriage, and was whirled away. "It was the bracelet, not the wrist, he kissed," sighed Clara.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

TIME DISCOVERS AND COVERS.

"Crito. How and where shall we bury you?

"Socrates. Bury me in any way you please, if you can catch me to bury. Crito obstinately thinks, my friends, I am that which he shall shortly behold dead. Say rather, Crito, say if you love me, 'Where shall I bury your body'; and I will answer you, 'Bury it in any manner and in any place you please.'" — Plato.

ON

N rolled the months, nor slackened their speed because of the sufferings and the sighings with which they went freighted. Almost every day brought its battle or its skirmish. Almost every day men, sometimes many hundreds,

would

be shot dead, or be wounded and borne away in ambulances or on stretchers, not grudging the sacrifices they had made. O precious blood, not vainly shed! O bereaved hearts, not unprofitably stricken! Do not doubt there shall be compensation. Do not doubt that every smallest effort, though seemingly fruitless, rendered to the right, shall be an imperishable good both to yourselves and others.

On rolled the months, bringing alternate triumph and disaster, radiance and gloom, to souls waiting the salvation of the Lord. The summer of 1863 had come. There had been laurels for Murfreesboro' and crape for Chancellorville. Vicksburg and Port Hudson yet trembled in the balance. Pennsylvania was threatened with a Rebel invasion. The Emancipation Proclamation, gradual as the great processes of nature, was working its way, though not in the earthquake nor in the fire. Black regiments had been enlisted, and were beginning to answer the question, Will the negro fight?

On the sixth of June, 1863, a cavalry force of Rebels made their appearance some four miles from Milliken's Bend on the Mississippi, and attacked and drove a greatly inferior Union. force, composed mainly of the Tenth Illinois cavalry.

Suddenly there rose up in their path, as if from the soil, two hundred and fifty black soldiers. They belonged to the Elev