WHEN Cora Ware looked up from her cousin's embrace and saw Colonel Burkmar standing in the door, her heart sunk within her. From Albert Granger no forbearance was to be hoped for; and it was not likely that a man wearing the uniform of an officer in the Northern army would shield or spare one whom he might know to be an escaped Confederate prisoner, even were no other cause of offence given. But arrest and imprisonment were the least she feared. There was danger of bloodshed.

More through faintness than fondness she sank closer to her cousin's breast again, looking past him to that pale face in the door. But was it anger she read? It seemed rather the stern pallor caused by some pang of unutterable pain.

Even in that moment of terror a strange rapture crept into her heart, a wild sweetness thrilled her, as though a bee had dropped both honey and sting upon her lip. That man's steady gaze, which fixed her eyes to his, mesmerized her into a dream as intoxicating as it seemed irrelevant.

The past is nothingness, the future is uncertain, the blossom of life is the present moment, she thought. And what is life but love? And where is love so sweet as in the midst of perils and difficulties? like a rose amid thorns? And one moment of love is better than years of affection. Ah! to press all the wine of the clustered years into one intoxicating draught, drink it, and die! What need of wooing and asking, when submission would be so sweet?

A haze came over her eyes, but she dimly saw that the soldier turned slowly away, heard his step in the hall, heard the door close behind him.

"Cora, dear, what is the matter?" her cousin asked, anxiously. She made no reply, only leaned more heavily upon him, and

looking at her he saw that she was fainting. Helen Jameson was just coming down, having been called to meet Colonel Burkmar, when she saw Cora sinking helplessly upon a sofa, and a strange gentleman, standing by

"Mother! Bridget! Juno! Cora is sick!" called Helen, at the door, then ran to drench the invalid with cologne.

Cora opened her eyes and looked about anxiously.

"He has gone!" Helen whispered, in her ear. "Did they meet? Did they know each other?"

"I am sorry to have alarmed you all," Cora said, for the whole household had rushed in. "This is my Cousin Albert, Mrs. Jameson."

"He went away without being seen," Cora whispered, as Helen bent to place a cushion under her head.

"Are you better, dear?" her cousin asked, tenderly, bending his knee beside her, and softly stroking her hair with his white hand.

Her faint, reassuring smile seemed to be reflected in his face as he lifted it to thank the others for their assistance.

Mother," Helen said, in an emphatic aside, " if all the Southerners are as handsome as these two, I hope they will beat us, that's all. If they will only conquer our ugliness, they may have their own way in everything else."

The cousins were soon left by all but Juno, who was weeping and rejoicing over her dear Master Albert, and petting Cora.

"Jest one sup of wine, honey," she urged. "It'll bring the life back to yer face. Now Master Albert, see there!" she exclaimed, as Cora took the glass with a hand that shook so

the wine spilled over. "She's all broke up with cryin', an' it's a massy you've come to cheer her."

Sitting beside her with her hand in his, and her sweet eyes raised to his face, and full of affection and interest in all he said, Albert Granger went over the story of his life since the day on which he parted with her on the rose-wreathed veranda in New Orleans. At first, to cheer her, he described his foreign travels. All was sunshine and glitter then. It would seem that, before the dark days were to burst upon him, Fortune had lavished the fairest gifts in her power to bestow. The rich and handsome young Southerner had been well received abroad, and his recital glittered with the pageantry of courts and courtly people. So heartily was the story told, and so thoroughly did the old time seem to roll back again when these two found themselves together, that Cora caught herself laughing more than once. After one of his most amusing adventures he said, still laughing:

"That was just before I came home."

At those words the scene changed. What a coming home it had been!

Cora clasped his hand more closely, and leaned toward him till her cheek rested on his shoulder. He touched his lips to her hair, and went on as cheerfully as he could. But she heard how the ring went out of his voice, leaving it hard, and felt all the graceful lightness and spark of his speech changed to bitterness. She istened now with trembling watching for a name. But he never mentioned Mr. Burkmar. He passed lightly over their domestic troubles, and spoke of the war, and as he spoke his spirit rose again-not the gay and frolicsome spirit in which he had recalled his European reminiscences, but something wild and fierce that lighted in his face, a glow from which she shrank.

Albert Granger had one of those faces which are capable of expressing the passions in their utmost intensity without at the same time losing any beauty of feature. There was a fine strength in the muscles, and an exquisite grace of shape, which would admit of almost a convulsion of rage, and not lose, but rather gain a fearful beauty. The smooth, black brows were bent but slightly, but they were like bent iron, the nostrils stiffened in an expression of fire and will, and the mouth without losing its beautiful curves, became bitter and cruel. The head forgot to drop toward hers, and the eyes put off their

sparkle of merriment, and mists of tenderness, and glowed with a steady and lurid fire.

She put a hand up and drew it over his face.

"I don't know you so! I don't know you!" she said.

He looked at her with a faint smile.

“I scarcely know you,” he replied. “I left a girl with cheeks like opals; I find a woman with cheeks as pale as her forehead. When Cora said good-by to me she wore a white dress with pink oleanders in the belt, and had a Spanish mantilla over her head; this lady is robed in blackness, like night without a star. I left a fair and siniling girl, albeit she smiled through tears, I find a tragedy-queen."

"No tragedy! Let there be no tragedy!" she said, hastily, clinging to him. "There is sorrow enough. Let that suffice."

"These are tragical times," he replied, gloomily, and was silent a moment. Then brightening, he added, "Cora, you should know Mrs. Seymore. There is a heroine! Picture to yourself a woman about the height of your friend Miss Jameson, but so frail and transparent that you fancy the light might shine through her. She has a soft voice and manner, she is timid and sweet, she shudders at the sight of a drop of blood, and trembles if she sees two men frown upon each other. But under this velvet glove is a hand of iron. This little lady, whom her friends call Snowdrop, conceives measures so bold that brave men hesitate to carry them out. She is prompt and clear, and can disentangle embarrassing complications while others are wondering whether it is any use to attempt clearing them. We lost a great deal in not trusting her more at first. If her advice had been followed we should have had Washington before the North had stirred hand or foot. She knew who had got and would give information, and she insisted that the woman-it was a woman-should receive her quietus without delay or ceremony. There was but a moment, some soft-hearted fool hesitated, and the chance was lost. But, seeing how matters were going, Mrs. Seymore hastened herself to give information, and since the first storyteller knew only plans, but no names, our friend was able to improve on the matter, and add the name of a man who had escaped that very hour she drove up to the White House. If her advice had been followed, I believe, too, that we would have had something more than the debris of an explosion at Harper's Ferry. We have other plans now

which I dare not speak of here, and she is equally uncompromising. Her motto is that 'dead men tell no tales.""

"I don't wish to know such a person," said Cora Ware, abruptly. She is unwomanly, unnatural! Let men fight, but fight in open field, and let women keep their hands clean of blood, save such as flows from wounds they strive to heal. Spies may be necessary, but they are despicable!"

"You are right," her companion said, rather coldly, tossing back his hair with the hand which she had released while speaking, and by the gesture baring the ugly line of a scarcely-healed wound in his temple. "But I like to see a woman in earnest, and all our women are so, Cora. I hope the Northern skies have not chilled your heart."

She looked at him indignantly, but in looking saw the mark of the wound.

"You dear boy," she said, fondly, "do not let us quarrel. Do you think I love the hand that struck that blow ?"

After the first few times, Cora found herself more comfortable with Helen Jameson for a third in her interviews with her cousin. He was no longer the light-hearted, boyish friend, but after the first flush of joy at meeting her was over, she found him gloomy, bitter and exacting. Besides, there could be no doubt left in her mind as to his wishes and expectations. The tender affection which she had cherished for him, never asking herself what its nature was, only knowing that no one was dearer to her than he, she felt now would not content him. Someway in the last year she had seemed to grow beyond him, to feel herself older and loftier than he. She perceived in him a lack of that strength on which she could lean securely, and of that heroic nobleness which alone could win her homage. Albert Granger could utter noble sentiments, and perform gallant deeds, but they were the moments of conscious elevation in an unstable character. He was fiery, but the strength that waits and is patient and can afford to forgive, he had not. Besides this, Cora had begun almost unconsciously to feel that the pride in which she had been trained was weak and childlike, and without being less proud, had learned to base that sentiment on far other foundations than hereditary caste. She liked her guineas stamped, but she believed that "the man's the gowd for a that."

Helen Jameson treated the stranger within her gates after a fashion of her own. She

quarrelled with him in the frankest possible manner, laughed if he got angry, refused to be angry herself, and was perfectly kind and cordial after having set him "to rights," as she called it.

At first the young man stared at her free and easy manner of dealing with him, but he grew accustomed to it after a while. She was never coarse, and touches of delicate feeling showed through her most jeering and tantalizing moods. Besides, she was exceedingly pretty, and appeared uncommonly well at home. It was pleasant to see with what perfect regularity and noiselessness the machinery of their little menage moved under her direction, and how much at ease she made everybody in the house. Her welcomes were cordial, her entertainment generous and in good taste, and she was always planning little surprises to chase away the slightest appearance of ennui. Every day spent with her was like a festival, delightful, but not fatiguing. Young Granger often found himself glad to turn from Cora's fitful and embarrassed manner to the ever fresh and cheerful face of her young hostess, and to feel that, however she might gibe and mock at him, in her eyes he was a hero. He had begun to feel a sharp kalf-suspicion that his cousin no longer looked to him to mould her opinions, but formed them herself quite independently.

The week of his intended stay was drawing to an end, and nothing had as yet been gained by his visit. He had not forgotten Colonel Burkmar. Indeed, it was impossible to do so had he willed it, for that gentleman's name was in every lady's mouth. The hot-headed Southerner could scarcely keep silence when he heard the man he hated lauded as a hero. But he did succeed in curbing his rage for a time.

Colonel Burkmar was about going to Washington with his regiment, and there, or on ground further south the rebel resolved to have out his reckoning with him. For the present that matter could wait. But not so with the hope which had drawn him northward, as the pole draws the needle. He must settle with Cora. He had almost claimed her as his own, had told her that when the Confederacy should be established she was to return and take a shining position in its capital; but she had not appeared to understand anything.

The reserve with which she spoke in answer to his hints drove him to speak more plainl

"Cora," he said, “do you mean to say that when I shall have a home for you, you will not come to it?"

She sat toying with the tassel of her morning-dress, her eyes downcast, her cheeks burning.

"The home which you could offer me, Albert, would not be mine to take," she said. "I trust that when you have a home, some one nearer than a cousin will share it with you. I shall hope always to be an occasional and welcome visitor there; but when our dear old home in New Orleans was broken up, we went out of paradise, and there is no return. We must both make new nests for ourselves."

His face had been growing pale while she spoke.

"Another woman the mistress of my home!" he exclaimed, almost before she had got through. "Do you wish to see it? Is that your meaning?"

"It is!" she said, faintly. Her fair hands dropped together as she spoke, and she sat mutely awaiting the outbreak which she knew must come.

He leaned over the arm of her chair, and took her folded hands in his strong grasp.

"Cora, do you know how I love you?" he asked, his lowered tones sounding more threatening than tender.

She drew away from him, blushing and vexed.

66

"O hush, Albert! hush!" she said, hastily. "Don't say any more. We are cousins and dear friends, but nothing else."

He flung her hands away from him and started to his feet, pallid with anger and an agony of disappointment.

"You have deceived me!" he exclaimed. "You knew what I meant, and you encouraged me."

"Albert, I never meant to deceive you," she protested, earnestly. "I always loved you dearly, and I do so now. I was not sure of your feelings nor of my own. I simply never questioned them."

His fiery, piercing eyes looked down into hers.

"It is only since you came North, then, that you have discovered your love for me to be but cousinly ?" he asked, bitterly.

"It is only now that I know surely your wishes," was her quiet answer.

But the hands upon her lap began to tremble, and it required all her self-control to enable her to meet steadily his searching

gaze. When once his suspicious nature was aroused it was keen and unscrupulous; who knew what track it might take?

"Perhaps if I were still the heir of a rich man," he sneered, "you might not find your objections to a nearer relationship so insuperable."

"O ungenerous!" she burst forth, with tender scorn. "Shame on you, Albert! You do not think it!"

"Who, then, has come between us?" he demanded. "Who has taught you the difference between the love of a cousin and that of a wife?"

Her eyes began to gather fire, her head to lift.

"Don't speak to me in that tone," she said. "You are presuming."

"Perhaps," he went on, "you may be contemplating an alliance a la Romeo and Juliet. You may have chosen for Romeo Mr. George Francis Burkmar."

At that name Cora rose to her feet as if electrified, her face blazing with haughty anger. But in spite of outraged pride and delicacy, a little tremor of delight shook her. Romeo and Juliet! Ah, that was love! And when she turned without a word and swept from the room, it was not more with indignant pride, than with a strange, sweet exultation.

While he stood there, Helen Jameson came in.

"Why, what is the matter, Mr. Granger?" she exclaimed, startled at his paleness. "What has happened? Pray speak!"

He recalled himself partially, and saluted her with ceremonious politeness, scarcely aware of what he did. His random shot had struck nearer home than he had dreamed it would. Could he believe that Cora's agitation meant only insulted dignity? Whatever it meant, the very fact that he had broken silence and mentioned that man's name, seemed to loosen the hold with which he had restrained his anger. Love was balked, but hate should have its way.

"Will you tell me, Miss Jameson," he said, "if my cousin has much acquaintance with this Colonel Burkmar?"

"I should think Cora the one to reply to that question, Mr. Granger; but since you ask me, I should say that their acquaintance was very slight."

"Did she allow any intercourse at all?" he demanded. "Did she notice him ?" "Certainly she did!" the girl replied, with