warranted. They looked off as though seeing, not the waters, but something that lay beyond them, and there was an anxious and shrinking expectation in their gaze. Once she shivered as he watched her, and, closing her eyes, half turned to cling to her sable friend.

As she sat there, a young man who had been for some time hovering about her, drew nearer and stood so close to her side that she could not help noticing him. Her eyes lighted, her face flushed, and she gnawed her underlip with white and glistening teeth. Evidently humility and patience were not among Miss Cora Ware's more salient virtues.

"Madam," the intruder began, suavely, after having satisfied himself that he had attracted her attention, "we are having a very fine sunset."

Without making the slightest reply to this indisputable assertion, the lady stared at the speaker with that expression of cold surprise which is more repelling than any words can be; and when he had fully recognized her meaning, turned her face from him and looked off over the water again.

defender till he turned towards her again. Then she said, quietly and rather coldly:

"Thank you! but perhaps I had better return to my stateroom. I supposed that it would be quite safe for me to come out with my servant to take the air."

"It is safe," he replied, promptly, even a little sharply. "There is no reason why you should go in unless you have staid out as long as you wish. That fellow wont trouble you again."

"I need the air," she said, hesitatingly. "I have been very sick. But I had rather suffer anything else than intrusion or impertinence.”

"No one shall be impertinent to you while I am near, madam," he said, with cold stateliness," and I will not myself intrude."

"I did not mean-” she began, hastily, then stopped. Her pride was as quick as his own. She could not speak conciliatingly to one who curled his lip that way.

The gentleman seeming to take for granted that she would stay, brought his arm-chair for her use, placing it so that her servant could stand between her and the company.

She hesitated about taking the chair, seem

after a glance in his face, relented. He was

Juno's black eyes snapped round at him. "I wish you joy of your mistress, Dinah," he said, insolently. "She's got a fine temper."

"My name aint Dinah," retorted Juno, wrathfully. "An' you're no great, goin' round talkin' to ladies you aint interduced to."

"Hush, Juno!" said her mistress, looking after the retreating puppy with an expression that showed more of incredulous wonder than any other feeling. "Why, if my father, or Uncle Frank, or Cousin Albert had been here that-person would have been caned for his impertinence."

"I will take charge of him if he speaks to you again," said a voice at her elbow.

Looking up with a quick glance of surprise, Miss Ware saw Mr. Burkmar standing by her. He was not looking at her, but off to where the discomfited candidate for her acquaintance stood trying to hide his mortification under an appearance of laughing indifference. Mr. Burkmar persisted in that steady gaze. till the young man, at first resenting it by an effort to outstare him, finally cowed down entirely and left the deck.

The lady looked earnestly at her stalwart

respectful.

"You will find that chair easier," he said, waiting to see her take it.

With a quiet word of thanks she seated herself, and he crossed the deck to a place from whence he could see her, or any one who should approach her.

Juno smiled and nodded to him, doing her best to atone for her mistress's frigidity by her own beaming looks of thankfulness and admiration.

Miss Ware sat about fifteen minutes longer, letting the fresh breeze play over her face, and the flecks of sunlighted foam from the shattered waves gem her hair. Then she rose languidly to go in, seeming as entirely oblivious of the presence of others as she had been at first, till she reached the door of the saloon. Then she glanced toward Mr. Burkmar with a faint, graceful acknowledgment of his politeness.

Faint as it was, this greeting changed for an instant the whole character of her face. There was no smile, but a softening of the mouth and eyes that was sweeter than a smile; and at the almost imperceptible droop of the head and the eyelids the hauteur melted to a modesty, almost a slyness, that was inex

pressibly captivating. The next instant she seemed to have forgotten all about him.

Not so the gentleman whom she had so favored. Although his face had undergone no change while she looked at him, and he had merely nodded very slightly to her bow, as soon as she looked away a color leaped into his cheeks in a pink as delicate as any lady's blush, a spark flickered in his cold eyes, and he sat upright, drawing in a deep breath. Then, as if ashamed of his emotion, or afraid that some one would notice it, he started up, after pacing the deck awhile, crossed over and resumed the chair which he had relinquished.

The sun went down, the sky faded, and the May twilight began faintly to film the glories of sea and air. The fiery crests of the waves were quenched, and a coolness crept into the breeze. The gong sounded for supper, and the eager throng pressed through the saloons toward the dining-room, leaving the deck deserted. Mr. Burkmar alone retained his seat, pleased to have the deck to himself, perhaps thinking it possible he might see his afternoon visitor again.

He was not disappointed. In a few minutes the two appeared, the lady this time wrapped in a large shawl, and evidently quite ill. She crossed the deck, supported by her attendant, and almost dropped into a seat near him, leaning her head back with a moan of pain, and closing her eyes. He immediately approached her with an offer of assistance.

"If you will, sir!" she said, faintly. "I have no one to see to me but Juno, and I am almost dead, it seems to me."

"I will do anything you tell me," he said, earnestly. "Don't hesitate to make me useful in any way."

"I am so sick in my stateroom that I cannot stay there," she said. "I must have the air. If you are not engaged, would you be willing to stay near me for awhile? I am afraid to stay here with no gentleman on whom I can depend."

"I am entirely alone and unengaged," he replied. "I will stay out here as long as you like. Will you allow me to do what I think is for your comfort ?"

"O, I don't care!" she said, desperately, sinking into Juno's arms with that long, miserable moan of utter helplessness and distress.

The gentleman used no more ceremony, but took matters into his own hands. By some magic, chairs and benches were arranged

so that the invalid could take an easy reclining position. Shawls and pillows were disposed around her, she was allowed air, but shielded from the breeze, and her corner of the deck was made impregnable to intruders. A seat was placed near her head for Juno where she could attend to the wants of her mistress, and another chair set at an easy but respectful distance where their protector could ward off all approach.

"You have eaten nothing?" asked the gentleman, then.

"I couldn't!" replied the invalid, faintly, and with an air of loathing. "I have taken nothing but brandy and crackers since we left New Orleans."

He went away, and in a few minutes returned with a plate on which were a piece of cold chicken, a slice of toast, and a spoonful of currant jelly.

She protested at first, but ended by eating every bit of the luncheon, surprised at not being ill after it.

"When the stomach is exhausted by seasickness," he said, "I find that there is nothing better than beefsteak, oysters, or plain cold meat of any kind, and a not too sweet jelly or preserve is refreshing. My treatment of the disease is to keep the stomach full of proper food. Liquors, acids, and such chips as salt fish and crackers, are irritating and produce inflammation. Are you com

fortable ?"

"Yes," she said, smiling. "I am perfectly easy."

She closed her eyes, and he took his seat by her. The people began to come up from supper, most of them going to their staterooms, some coming out again on to the deck. The glow of sunset had all faded, and evening was creeping down. Already they began to notice the washing sound of the water, which we scarcely observe when we can see what produces it, but which darkness brings to the sense, a solemn undertone that widens as we listen, and sets the imagination astir. For nearly half an hour Miss Ware had been lying perfectly still and silent, apparently sleeping, but she suddenly aroused herself.

"I can't bear to listen to that sound!" she said, sitting upright, and turning toward her silent guardian who, leaning back in his chair, had been gazing upward into the sky thick with stars. "Is there a more awful sound than the sea rustling about so? I have been almost half asleep, just far enough gone to forget where I am, and I was dreaming, or I

had a vision. There was no action, but I stood in the midst of a pink grove of oleanders. The trees were covered with blossoms, and I could see nothing else. They even arched over my head. For a little while all was still, and I was thinking that there never was such a stillness and such a blush, when the breeze began to stir them, and they rustled and rustled their petals together, and struck their long leaves, and I came out of my dream, and the sound was not of oleander blooms, but of the sea. Ugh! It is so cold, and salt, and weary."

"If the sea is cold, the land is hard," said the gentleman with some hint of hidden bitterness. "And there is no weariness like that we find when we look for rest. Is New Orleans your home, madam ?"

"No," she said, slowly, half sinking back again, and eyeing the water askance over her shoulder, with a shrinking shiver. "No," she repeated, answering again more collectedly; "it is not my home now, though it has been for many years. I am to live in Boston."

She drew her shawl closer on pronouncing the last word, as if the name chilled her.

"I have also been several years in New Orleans," the gentleman said, " and am going to live in Boston-if I like to stay. It is twenty years since I was there, and my inpressions of the city are not pleasant. Do you know any one there?"

"I have an aunt there, with whom I am to live, Mrs. Millard Granger."

At this name Mr. Burkmar darted a bright glance at the speaker. "I have business with Mrs. Granger's son," he said, quietly. “I have also had dealings with the late Mr. Moulton Granger of New Orleans."

"Mr. Moulton Granger was my uncle and adopted father," the lady said, and turning hastily away, leaned her face on the railing and looked down into the sea.

"You may have heard him mention me," the gentleman said, after a pause. "My name is George Francis Burkmar."

Miss Ware immediately raised herself upright, and without turning or saying a word, wrapped her shawl about her and sat for a moment motionless. The change was slight, but significant. She seemed to cast off all the help he had given her, and to be restrained from giving him any more than a tacit repulse by some sense of courtesy or of fear. She sat there erect and motionless, with her face turned away, as though she were collecting herself to decide how she should treat this

man, or controlling herself to treat him as she knew she must.

"He had nothing to accuse me of," he went on in a measured tone. "If I was hard, he had provoked me to it. He was the aggressor. I do not know, of course, what impressions you may have received, except that they are likely to have been adverse to me. There are two sides to every question, you know; and no one should be condemned unheard.”

Still she sat without a word, rapidly summing up in her mind what she had heard of this man. He was a Northerner and a leveller. He had been in business in New Orleans, but had declined society. Those things would of themselves have prejudiced her against him. But his offences had come nearer. He had mocked at her uncle's pride of family, and walked with unscrupulous feet over all his notions of caste. Lastly, he had been her uncle's creditor to a large amount, and through that had been the cause of his ruin.

Cora Ware knew that if there had been one man in the world whom Mr. Moulton Granger had hated utterly, this was the man. She had seen the thin-skinned aristocrat shiver and whiten with impotent rage at the mention of George Burkinar's name. That he was the possessor of almost fabulous wealth, only rendered him an object of more bitter dislike, for it gave him consequence and the power to annoy.

Miss Ware did not know, or did not remember, the origin of the disagreement between the two gentlemen, nor had she been told the particulars of its progress; but her impression had been that this Mr. Burkmar was a vulgar, rich man, who hated a gentleman instinctively, and who had pursued her uncle with a vindictive rancor which could only dwell in a narrow and jealous mind.

The end she remembered clearly, for it had changed the current of her whole life.

They had lived in elegance, but her uncle had heavily mortgaged his large property, in order to enter into some fashionable speculation. By some means his mortgages had fallen into Mr. Burkmar's possession, the bubble of speculation burst, the creditor put his business into the lawyer's hands, and the greater part of her uncle's fortune was swept away in a day.

Mr. Granger had said that with any other creditor he could have accommodated matters, and had openly accused the man he hated of having bought up the claims against

him in order to have revenge for his fancied slights. Events had followed each other rapidly. Mr. Granger's only child, a son, was at that time travelling in Europe. His father had no longer any power to make provision for his adopted daughter. The wreck of his fortune was but a pittance for his son, and Cora, instead of being an heiress, must not only be a dependent, but must go North to live with the only relative left her. In four weeks from the time of his losses Mr. Granger was dead, and in three, months the son was on his way home, and Cora on her way North.

This man was surely an enemy. With what words was she to greet him? or should she scorn to utter any word? By what miserable fatality had he, of all others, crossed her path? and how should she endure to remain in the same city with him, should he remain in Boston? He had said that he had business with her cousin, Frederick Granger. What did Frederick mean by having anything to do with him?

With these thoughts rushing through her mind, a new suspicion arose and forced her to speak.

"Did you know who I was before I told you?" she demanded.

showed an underthought of reproach. She felt that he was as much hurt as angry.

"Pardon me!" she said, involuntarily. "It is true you have been kind to me, and I thank you for that. But it was when we did not know each other. Now I can receive from you nothing, not even the courtesy which strangers show each other."

"You condemn me unheard!" he said, with a haste that was almost passion.

"I will not say that you are altogether wrong," she replied, calmly, rising and folding her shawl about her with an effort to subdue her bodily weakness, and appear to be independent of help. "But it is natural I should think you in the wrong. It is with me a feeling, not a conviction, but it is a feeling that I shall not try to conquer. If I mistake, I could only right you by blaming the dead." "Justice is better than mercy," the gentleman said, with bitterness.

"Yes," she replied; "but justice cannot be done when one who could tell his story is dead. If I could hear both sides together, I would, but as it is, I wish you a good-evening."

"You have certainly done what you could to make my evening delightful," he said, bowing lowly.

"O Miss Cora, you're too hard on de poor

"You must be utterly ignorant of my true character, as well as of the facts of the case between myself and Mr. Granger, or you wonld not ask that question," he replied, as haughtily as she had spoken. "I would not knowingly have approached or noticed a connection of his."

"I will relieve you from all further trouble," she exclaimed, flinging aside the wraps he had placed about her, and making an attempt to rise.

There was a momentary struggle in his mind between pride and a desire to conciliate her, and the latter prevailed.

"You misunderstand me," he said, in a softer tone. "I would not have approached had I known you, because I should expect to be unwelcome. When I knew your name, I immediately told my own, that you might not be cheated into treating me with courtesy. I have meant you only kindness. Of course you can return as much scorn as you please."

She looked at him doubtfully. In the full radiance of the moonlight, the expression of his face was clear to her. It was proud and noble, and the eyes, through all their fire,

handsome man, and I dar'say master was down on him. Master Granger was mighty sharp on folks he didn't like."

In spite of herself, Miss Ware glanced back as she reached the saloon door. Mr. Burkinar stood where she had left him, looking after her.

CHAPTER II.

A CLOUD ON THE HORIZON.

SERENO STREET does not belie its name. It has quaint, broad pavements, brown stone houses, occupied by suave, leisurely, lowvoiced people; it has vine-draped balconies, and wide doors that swing on noiseless hinges; it has plate glass; it has stone lions at its doors (whatever they're there for); it has classic marble vases in its little garden plots; it has pillars and pediments; it has flutings and furbelows; it has jewels; it has rings; it has many pretty things.

In one of the finest of these houses lives Mrs. Millard Granger, a lady who considers herself to be the happiest person in the city. She is old enough to have got past the flutters and troubles of youth, but not old enough to

experience the staleness and inanities of age. She has arrived at that serene middle-age which, in the lives of the prosperous, is the golden season. True, she is a widow; but her marriage was an exceedingly sensible rather than a romantic one, and her husband's death has not broken her heart. Besides, the lady believes in compensations, and liberty is pleasant. She has ample wealth, and only one child, Mr. Frederick Granger, a person who suits her admirably. He is gentlemanly, an affectionate son, and able enough to excuse a mother's partial pride, but not so brilliant as to cause her any serious uneasiness on his account. Mrs. Millard Granger has a mortal terror of what is called genius.

"If I had an Edgar Poe for a son," she would say, "I should go down with sorrow to my grave. Fancy my Frederick reeling home intoxicated at mid-day, and sitting up all night to write about ravens and black cats!"

There was not indeed the least danger of Mr. Frederick Granger doing anything of the sort. He was far too fond of his comfort, as well as too tenacious of his dignity, for that. He was also of too phlegmatic a temperament for any troublesome enthusiasm. The nearest he could come to a rapture was on the subject of his Cousin Cora. He had been down to visit his uncle two years before, and had seen the girl among her oleanders and her slaves, moving like a younger Cleopatra, served like any queen, adored like a goddess. That pi ture of her had remained in his mind in all its glowing coloring, and blurred many a fair northern scene.

When Cora arrived, he was on the wharf awaiting her with a warm welcome to her new home, a welcome which she sadly needed. The poor girl's heart had sunk within her at sight of the city as it rose over the waters of the harbor, and she had remained in her stateroom till the last minute, clinging to Juno, and shivering at the sound of every coming step.

ern looks on the street, but the northern looks into the garden, and there is a better light to dress by. Take your choice. Don't hesitate about expressing your wishes. You are my daughter now, and you must feel a daughter's freedom in coming to me with your wants. Remember, child, this is your home, and you have a right to it."

Cora Ware's lip trembled so that she could not utter the thanks she essayed to speak. Her uncle had been kind, but the kindness of a man is not like that of a woman; it forgets many things. Mrs. Granger forgot nothing.

"I would thank you if I could, Aunt Isabel," the girl faltered; "but I cannot speak."

Mrs. Granger kissed the beautiful, tremulous mouth. It pleased her to have so lovely and brilliant a protege to introduce to her friends; and, besides, the lady really liked to do good, if it did not put her too much out of her way, and to see those about her happy. She liked to be amiable, and to be called so. Whether she would have been as happy and as sweet had she been unappreciated, is matter for doubt. It is easy to bloom where one is shone upon. The good lady had vaguely before her mind's eye some such picture as this: Miss Cora Ware, sweet, proud and lofty, sitting with folded hands, and speaking in this wise to any one whom her aunt might think worth pleasing. "Dear Aunt Isabel is an angel! She is more than a mother to me. Such generosity and such delicacy combined! O you've no idea! I consider my aunt a most remarkable woman."

Of course, in the face of all this kindness, Cora could not say to them, "I know that you like this person whom you call Mr. Francis Burkmar, but I detest him. I know that he is considered a very desirable acquaintance, but I request that you drop him immediately, and forbid him the house." She could not even keep silence on the subject, and turn her back on the gentleman when he appeared in Mrs. Granger's drawing-room or at her table, as he often did. She must treat him with civility, albeit coldly, and listen to hear him praised without making dissent. This was the one bitter drop in her cup. To see that man looked up to, hear him lauded, and not be able to enter her protesting sneer or toss of the head-to have to allow him to bow to her, and be obliged to salute him in return-it was hard.

She spoke to her aunt about it as gently as possible.