again. There was a stir above; the room was lighted, so that the beams fell far out upon the garden-paling. Then there were steps down stairs, and a great cry-a woman's cry. The shutters only were closed, so that John Ivington could not help hearing distinctly.

"Hal! what is the matter? Are you sick? You're white as a ghost! Mother, make haste, it is Harry."

"Come in here, Angy. Are there any folks visiting here?" asked the man.

"No-but what is it, Hal? You have some terrible, terrible tidings-I read it in your face."

"Nothing, only-for Heaven's sake, do not look at me so!-only-without help, I am a ruined man-that's all."

He spoke with an effort, and panting like a wild animal run down by its pursuers.

There was no answer for a moment, then with something like a moan, Angy called her mother to come quick. The widow was very much alarmed, and ran hurriedly at this last call.

"Harry-my son! what is it that agitates you so?" cried the mother, almost in tears. "I am ruined, mother! I have lost myself eternally-I have ruined your good name with my own."

There was a terrible silence.

"I have forged a paper to the amount of twelve thousand dollars. The man who lured me to this villany, and whom I trusted, has escaped, and in forty-eight hours it will be known-and-they-will be after O cursed fool that I was!"

me.

"Hal, this is awful!" exclaimed the widow, in an altered voice; "this is awful! We couldn't raise five thousand on the house, mortgaged as it is. O, it must be some hideous dream; I am not awakegreat Heaven! my boy that I brought up with such care."

"I know it, mother, I know it," groaned the miserable culprit. "I don't expect any pity or sympathy from you, Angy, or anybody. I'm a miserable devil. If I could only get off-great Heaven! it is my first sin, will nobody help me?"

"Who can? Who will? Who could we expect to help us ?" cried the mother, bitterly.

"Surely who? then ruin must come, but I swear I'll kill myself rather than meet it." This was followed by a stifled scream from mother and sister.

"O what shall we do?" moaned Angy. "Who would help us? Mother"-there was another short silence-" Mr. Ivington !”

John Ivington's heart throbbed wildly. He saw his way out of the mist he had been creating for himself.

"He is only a friend, Angy. How could we tell him the miserable truth, even if—” "I would ask him!" cried the wretched man, "even on my knees, if only to save you from humiliation-but would he pity me? would he listen to me? These rich men have no pity for the poor and miserable. Shall I go to him to-night-go to the man I have never seen but once? What shall I plead to him for-in whose name? My God! I shall go mad!"

John Ivington's brain was net idle as he stood there-always ready to start back into deeper shadow.

"How could you-how could you, Harry?" wailed his mother.

"Don't ask me that; I've nearly gone crazy asking myself such questions. The devil tempted me, I suppose; I thought the way was clear to make a fortune. I allowed myself to hope that I could give you and the girls a princely home-my head has been full of such schemes for the past two years, and here is the end of it all-a jail in prospect."

"You say it will be known-"

"In forty-eight hours. If to-morrow I should find some one to help me out! But the thought is folly-who would pay twelve thousand dollars for me ?".

"I would, willingly, if it beggared me," sobbed his mother, "for the sake of your father's honored name."

"Don't-don't!" cried the young man, in anguish.

"Harry, we must think it over," said Angy; "go to bed now, and we will contrive some plan. I will ask Mr. Ivington myself; he can but refuse me; and then, if disgrace comes, we will bear it. Comecome up stairs now."

CHAPTER X.

SAVED AT A SACRIFICE.

HE slept only by snatches that night. The shadow seemed closer than ever. He trembled partly with exultation, partly with fear. He was very near the goal that had seemed so far away a few short hours before; he held the price of a man's life in his hand-the anguish of a woman's heart. His conscience never troubled him, only through personal cowardice. Not to be found out, was his aim-the grovelling instinct of an animal's nature. As for pure and holy love, he did not know what it meant, this handsome, this fashionable, this rich man, who had schemed and plotted so often under those silken canopies.

"A fair chance before me now, and I'm a fool if I lose it," he muttered to himself, shifting his head on his uneasy pillow. "Twelve thousand! what's twelve thousand to me? But I must have my pricebargain for bargain."

He looked from the window-for he had only to touch a silken tassel, and the light blinds slipped asunder. All the beauty of yesterday seemed blotted out. He had come home in fair moonlight; a dreary misty rain obscured the landscape. The trees blinked through the thick folds of a curtain of fog; the window-panes streamed with fine, almost impalpable channels, the sky was heavy with clouds.

"Just the day!" he thought, exultingly, "just the day to catch my bird; and having once caught it, transfer to its cage will take place in a remarkably short time. The less thought, the less regrets that slip between now and then, the better for both. I think I'll devise an errand that will take me to the Lodge early. They will never suspect."

Angy had not slept at all; her mother's grief was continuous, though not violent. The weary sobbing sigh, the half-whispered prayer, were often heard by the poor girl, who had wept herself almost ill. Towards morning her mother fell asleep. Angy arose quietly, and, an unuttered fear at her heart, crept softly into the room where her brother had retired. It was his room, and bore unmistakable masculine evidence of the fact. Guns, pistol-cases, fishing-rods, a pair of antlers he had bought of an old farmer when a boy, a few sporting pictures, a camp-bed, and a

great display of trunks and boxes met the eye in every direction.

Pale and heavy-lidded, Harry looked first so corpselike that his sister darted toward the bed, suppressing a scream with difficulty. He slept, however, the silent sleep of exhaustion. But for the line of anguish that darkened his brow, his face wore a childlike innocence of repose, and Angy, who had transferred the almost idolatrous love she had felt for her father to this only brother, wrung her hands in mute sorrow, as she thought of the revelation of the last few hours.

"Poor boy! he was tempted," was her low tremulous exclamation. "He never would have done it, but for some bad influence, never. God help him! God help us all!"

She went down stairs. Betty, the simple old woman who was their right hand in household matters, was just stirring, and Angy wandered disconsolately from room to room. How changed the day! how changed the circumstances! their very lives seemed to have gone forward at one bound into some gray and desolate valley. The light seemed to have faded from her eyes, and the gloss from her tresses, and yet her sorrow became her. The flowers so tastefull arranged by Seymour Hurst, lay huddled together; had some maligu influence wilted them?

"Lord bless us!" cried old Betty, as she looked into the parlor. "Why, you're down early, child, though to be sure this dark weather makes it seem earlier. I saw Mr. Ivington coming over with something swinging in his hands, and was going to the door-why! Lord bless us!" For Angy had started and turned so deadly white that even Betty's blurred old eyes detected something wrong.

"O, there he is now!" cried the girl, in a voice of anguish, as the bell rung. "O Betty! what shall I do?"

Betty stood still, staring and bewildered. "Don't let him ring again, Betty—O!— stop! let me think one moment. What shall I do? If I could only be firm! only keep calm! Betty, just say to Mr. Ivington-that-I would like to see him a few minutes in the library-Betty. Perhaps my father's spirit may be there," she moaned, "to help me plead for my poor erring brother. But how can I meet him? How can I tell him of this-this terrible

disgrace? I must-it is better for me than poor mother-Harry was her idol-God forgive him. O, he is coming! and what shall I do with these tears ?"

Yes, he was there, even at the door. Perhaps nothing could have pleaded for the poor girl so eloquently as her attitude at that moment; her head, her whole form drooping in the sorrowful grace of sincere grief, her pretty face half turned away; a crimson spot on either cheek contrasting with the dead white pallor, her white hands resting on the dark marble of the table before her.

"Miss Angy-I fear-you are certainly ill-or-something has befallen you."

She dared not look up, she could not, if the effort had been to save her life, at that moment. John Ivington watched the curve of the beautiful throat, the outlines of the symmetrical figure, and the face whose counterpart he had seen at Breslau.

"Mr. Ivington-we are in trouble," said Angy, falteringly; "we-that is, I—" and here her voice failed again, her lips quivered.

"Do not doubt that I will aid you, Miss Collins, to the full extent of my power; trust in me."

"O you are good! you are generous! but you do not know-"

Did he not know? The fiend saw the sarcastic smile which he hid from mortal eyes. It was of the spirit, and devilish.

Mr.

"You will not thank me for drawing on your sympathy-for detaining you so long," said Angy, now lifting her slight figure, and trying to face him, steadily, but yet failing. "I might as well come to the point at once, though it covers me with shame. Ivington, will you please close the door ?" (he turned to obey her) "my brother has been lured by wicked companions, to do a terrible thing. You will hardly credit me when I say he has forged a paper to the amount of twelve thousand dollars, andwe-are too poor-to-help him."

Her face was now one crimson from lip to brow; the red tide crept over her throat, and even the hands, that were suddenly lifted to the shame-painted face, were covered with the same sanguine tinge.

"Is that all, Miss Angy?"

O Heaven! could he speak in that light way-did it mean? She let her hands fall, and lifted her eyes to his face, distressfully. He came forward, almost smiling.

"Miss Angy," he said, again, "is that all? Be sure I have the will to aid you, if you will give me the power."

"I-give you the power ?" she murmured. "Even you. Can you guess what I came for last night? and what I felt when I saw you so shall I say, pleasantly occupied ? I will say now what I could not then, for lack of opportunity. I love you, Angy Collins. Be my wife, and thus give me the power to help your brother out of this, or any other difficulty."

This was so sudden a revelation, that it struck through and through the sensitive heart, on which it fell, knell-like.

"But Angy, you must be my wife.”

The subtle decision expressed in the repetition, revolted her. For a moment she felt like collecting all the forces of her nature for a vigorous resistance, but she remembered her broken-hearted mother up stairs; the guilty, but still beloved brother. There came upon her with terrible distinctness the words he had said, that he would not live to bear the disgrace, or the punishment. She knew he would not, and could she live to feel, that but for her he might have reformed, and been respected, instead of filling-horrible thought! a suicide's grave? It seemed as if all feeling was struck dead in her heart; even the love she felt for Seymour Hurst, who had been her playmate when a child, and her companion until her father's death.

Did hours pass, while she stood there, feeling so cold, stern and dumb? She never knew; but what time passed took from her all the dew and freshness of her youth. She grew old in the presence of the man whose longing for her was so arbitrary.

"No other condition-none?" she murmured. "This is so unexpected."

"Then-" she held out her hand, mutely. Her face grew white, the color forsook her lips.

"You accept?" he cried, eagerly, his eyes lighted with a too selfish joy. "Yes-I accept."

He heeded not that the words were cold and mechanical; that the hand was like ice in his own; that the chaste forehead was like marble to the touch of his warm lips. She was his, this beautiful girl that he had coveted. If he had known what

torrents of feeling surged in that apparently pulseless bosom,feelings she could scarcely understand, and could not control at all -would he have been less happy? Your selfish natures never blush at a possibility of wrong-doing; they are always right, and obtuse almost to sublimity.

"Get me your brother's paper, Miss Angy, let me dispense with that formal prefix; I will set things right before the sun goes down. You are agitated now, wait a while. Remember, there is no danger, the secret shall be kept safe in my bosom; no one will ever dream that the honor of your name was ever suspected. I will call again in an hour, return to the city with your brother, take up the note, and then you will all breathe freer. No wonder you were pale and frightened, my poor darling. Say to your mother that my man killed the game I brought over, early this morning-it is a present for her. You are not so sad now ?" The girl shook her head.

CHAPTER XI.

BURNED IN THE FIRE.

"WHAT'S the matter, I wonder?" soliloquized old Betty; "the girl looks for all the world like one in a dream. 'Twould be funny, though;" and the woman chuckled, for she had always predicted that the rich young landholder would come after Angy for his wife, and had built much upon the magnificence of the prospect in view.

"Angy!" called her mother from the top of the staircase. The girl flew towards her. "Did you look in-did you see? I thought I heard him stirring—and O, I feel so fearful! All his things are there, you know."

By "his things," Angy divined what her mother meant.

She knocked softly at the door, did not wait, but opened it, disclosing the young man in the act of hastily thrusting a weapon back into its box.

"O Harry!" she cried, reproachfully. He smiled, a haggard smile it was. "Don't be frightened, Angy; I shall not do any violence until it comes to the worst -then God help us all."

that it thrilled her, and at that moment her sacrifice seemed slight in comparison with his great relief.

"Yes, Mr. Ivington; he was over here early this morning. He will attend to it."

And I will pay him back every cent! I swear I will pay him back every cent!" cried the young man, falling on one knee beside his sister, hiding his face in her dress, and sobbing like a child.

Mrs. Collins came up with an anxious face.

"It is all right, mother; Mr. Ivington says there shall be no trouble." Her voice faltered a little.

66

"O my darling! what great good news! Where is he? on my knees I will bless him for this noble friendship-but-you-you are pale-you don't look happy, my child."

"It has all been very unhappy, you know," quivered Angy, who longed to be alone by herself, and ease an almost breaking heart by tears.

"Not this, surely; O my darling! I could not feel happier in heaven, it seems to me, this minute. And you, Harry-can I trust you again ?"

The young man had risen to his feet, and stood regarding his sister, with an anxious side look.

"I was wondering whether I should accept this good fortune," he replied, in a dreary voice. "I read something in this child's face that troubles me. She has obtained this money at some heavy cost."

Angy turned towards him, laid her cold trembling hands on his arm, as she said, quietly:

"You have nothing to do, Harry, with my private affairs, and no reason in the world to think about me at all, now. As for this agitation, which you think you observe, attribute it to the frightful strain upon my nerves. I have not slept all night. I think, indeed, while you are gone to the city with Mr. Ivington," how the word faltered on her dry lips, "I will try and get some sleep."

So they said nothing more, but allowed her to go to her room, where she threw herself on the bed, to weep the bitterest tears her eyes had ever known. For an hour she remained thus, nearly convulsed with grief;

I have found you a friend."

"What!" He sprang forward, an electrical change in his whole being; so sudden,

ceeded to take from their different depositories several trifles, among them a picture, which she pressed passionately to her lips.

"It is well my father forbade an engagement," she said bitterly, as she looked for the last time upon the glowing manly beauty of Seymour Hurst, then placed the little picture in the box from which she had taken it. "I must return everything. I must write coldly and calmly, that I am going to be married, and we can keep the secret, I hope the reason why-if Harry will, so can I. He will-see others he can love, and perhaps, after all, he didn't care so very much for me,"

The day passed by, slowly, drearily. At night came a note, by John Ivington, from Harry. "He was all right, but wouldn't come home just now. They must feel that he had been so near disgracing them, etc., etc. It was better for him to remain away a while. Meantime he would work hard to repair his error; they should never blush for him again, never. Mr. Ivington would bring the note with him, which Angy would please destroy when he gave it to her. Never, never could he be sufficiently thankful-he hoped Angy might appreciate the noble qualities of that good, good man, who had told him all, and he wished her every joy. How could she help but be happy with him? But he intended to labor very hard, to economize and retrench, till he had paid that blessed friend, who had come to them in need-yes, to the uttermost farthing."

That same night came, not a letter from Hurst, but the man himself, in a whirlwind of grief, desire, disappointment. Then succeeded a stormy interview, where the discarded lover had it all his own way, and poor Angy was almost passively silent, while her heart was breaking.

It was well that John Ivington left the cottage as he came, or heaven knows what Seymour might have done in the first fury of his jealous passion. He accused her of flirtation, selling herself for money, being fooled with gilded toys, bought with a price, and still she kept silence, enduring all. When he appealed to her mother, there was a look of anguish on that mild old face, that startled him, and silenced his reproaches. Evidently there was something wrong, but what it was, was beyond him to divine. If he had known how bitterly the poor girl despised herself, and yet deprecated the impossibility of feeling or doing otherwise, he had been amply revenged.

"I am proud, Miss Collins," at length he

"These are yours," said poor Angy, faintly.

The day had been damp, and in such weather the widow always had a fire in one old-fashioned fireplace; a little flame was burning there yet, between two angry red sticks that had just broken apart.

"Ah! these are mine! and what are these?" was his reply. He broke open one package.

"Letters-umph! the fire needs more fuel," he added with a low harsh laugh, and in went the letters.

"This-O! a picture! I'll keep that, some one else may learn to prize it. No, on a second thought, that's better with the rest;" and over went the delicately painted miniature, frame and all.

Angy sprang forward with a half-smothered shriek. It seemed as if he might feel the anguish that was almost killing her; then seeing that rescue was useless, and might not be interpreted rightly, she sank back in her seat again.

"These are all trifles, of no earthly use to any person now," and deliberately, one by one, with compressed lips and shining eyes, he threw everything in the fire, said good-night with a brief cold nod, and was gone, leaving the poor girl half fainting.

It was well for her that company came in, making it incumbent on her to sit and entertain them as best she could. They were two or three merry pretty young girls, and all their conversation was concerning Willoway. It was plain to be seen, that to either of them the prospect of becoming mistress of the place would have been like gaining possession of paradise; and when, after one of them, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, ran out to ask Betty for a drink, there was a coolness and a silence, which seemed very awkward, following so much chat and girlish confidence. Angy did not understand it.

But old Betty had spared her all explanations, by saying:

"You see everything seems to go so sideways, and will, I s'pose, till Miss Angy is married."

This was all right, for the girls had long ago given her to Seymour Hurst.

"Will she go to the city to live ?" "To the city!" cried old Betty, lifting her thin eyebrows, "why, where should she