sion for scarlet has led him on to deeds of blood and viclence. This gentleman can prove the truth of my assertion." The gentleman to whom Marcus referred was a witness he had summoned from the county where Idiot Ben formerly resided. He stated that a few years before the community of which he was a member was startled by a murder as singular and apparently as motiveless as the one now under judicial examination. A little child, who was dressed in a scarlet frock, was found bathed in blood, destitute of her showy garment. The deepest mystery involved the transaction, till the little red garment, stained with a yet deeper red, was discovered in the possession of Ben, who was immediately arrested and imprisoned. Soon after his imprisonment, several white men escaped from jail, and Ben must have fled at the same time. Where he had been wandering no one knew. Nothing had been heard of the unfortunate creature till the inquiries of Marcus concerning him recalled the remembrance of the dreadful tragedy of which he had been the hero. The exhibition of the shawl and blood-stained linen was hardly necessary to confirm the innocence of Willie; but when they were brought in court and unrolled before the judge and jury, a noise went through the hall, like the dull roar of the ocean. But when Marcus, with an irrepressible impulse, seized the scarlet mantle and waved it like a victorious banner over his head, and Idiot Ben, protruding his red serpent-tongue, shuffled forward, exclaiming, "That are Ben's -Ben want it-Ben will have it," a loud, simultaneous shout burst forth from the assembly, reverberating through the walls of the court-room, and rolling out of doors and windows, proclaimed through the length and breadth of the street and public square the innocence of Willie. It is unnecessary to proceed in the closing details of a trial which terminated in the triumphant acquittal of the prisoner, and the imprisonment of poor Ben, not for personal punishment, but public safety. The populace, in their enthusiasm, would have borne Marcus on their shoulders from the hall, if he would have permitted such an apotheosis; but, baffled in their attempt to deify the young orator whose eloquence had excited them to momentary intoxication, they seized hold of the weak and slender prisoner, and carried him aloft with deafening acclamations. With his long, dark hair floating back from his white forehead, his pale face lustrous with gratitude and joy, his hands and eyes uplifted to heaven, in a kind of devout extasy, Willie was borne along beyond the limits of the courtyard. The moment he was released, he flew to him who had saved him from an ignominious death. With a heart too full for words, he caught his hands and pressed them to his heart and his lips, and then, borne down by the weight of his emotions, he sank at his feet weeping and sobbing, and wrapped his arms around his knees. The widow, too, lifting her trembling hands to heaven, prayed the God of the widow and tho Father of the orphan to bless him for ever and ever. Marcus passed his hand over his moistened eyes. Life could not be a wilderness, bedewed by such heaven-born showers. A divine philanthropy warmed his soul. It was nobler to live for the interests of mankind than for individual happiness. The boy, whose life Providence had made him the honoured instrument of saving from a death of shame, should henceforth be the object of his peculiar interest and care. The pious and grateful widow should never know a want or sorrow that he could avert. As soon as he could free himself from the almost oppressive congratulations of the crowd, he sought the solitude of his There on his knees he blessed the God of Innocence and Youth, the Great God of truth and justice, for having given him a mind capable of benefiting his fellow-man, a heart open to the wants and sufferings of oppressed humanity. He renewed the solemn dedication of himself to the sacred Trio whose altar he had elevated on the ruins of Love. Then he took the letters of Florence, the ring of betrothal, and every pledge of faith and affection he had so carefully cherished, and sealing them in a packet, sent them by express to Wood Lawn. room. It seemed that all the elements which formed the being of Marcus were to pass through the refiner's fire. About a week after the trial a letter from Katy arrived, announcing the dangerous illness of their father. In less than an hour he was or his way to Hickory Hill, over whose shades a shade deeper than the forest gloom was now hovering. CHAPTER XV. "Fair was that young girl and meek, The clouds in spirit-like descent Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent, And the wild storms linked them to each other How dear can sorrow make a brother!"-HEMANS. "Murmur glad waters by Faint gales with happy sigh Storms beat no more."--IBID. WHEN Marcus was about halfway on his sad and solitary journey, he met a very elegant equipage, which was accompanied by a gentleman on horseback. So absorbed was he by his meditations, he came upon them before he was aware of their approach; but at one glance he recognised the coal-black eyes of Delaval, on whose brow a cloud as black was resting. No sign of greeting was exchanged between the two haughty equestrians. Marcus felt the darkness gathering over his own face. Leaning back in the carriage, with listless languor, her arms folded in a lace shawl, he had a glimpse of Florence. Raising her eyes dreamily, as the shadow of the horseman fell on the carriage window, she beheld Marcus Warland, and a quick vibration of light, cold and dazzling as the nightgleam of the aurora borealis, passed over her features. They passed each other thus-they, whose hearts at their last part ing throbbed against each other with mutual pulsations, whose lips exchanged the most sacred pledge of love and faith. How estranged, how altered now! Could that pale, cold, icy-looking girl be the bright, impassioned L'éclair?-that haughty, stormy-browed young man, the warm-hearted and impulsive Delaval? Was he indeed Marcus Warland? and was he hastening to perhaps a dying parent? This last interrogation subdued his rebellious thoughts. Death! the great peacemaker-Death! the stern rebuker of passion. As its shadow glided on before him, chill and mournful, all present interests were lost in its awful eclipse. A few short years, and those resplendent eyes, whose altered glance had just now filled him with such anguish and indignation, would be rayless and closed; those once love-breathing, now disdainful lips, claycold and wan. Youth, beauty, and love-what were they but a dream? What was life itself but a dream? the dream of a feverish, troubled sleep, from which the soul would awake in the morning-light of an eternal day?+Continuing his journey through the night, Marcus rode on under a midnight moon, his spirit bathed in its serene and solemn splendour. A thousand times had he gazed on its unearthly beauty, and felt the dominant passion of the hour glorified by its influence. A thousand times had the tide of his heart swelled to overflowing, beneath its sweet, celestial attraction. Sometimes, when he saw it riding at anchor on the azure waves of heaven, like a ship with silver sails and majestic motion, he beheld an image of his own ambition, so lofty in its destination, so unswerving in its course. Again, when it rose behind an argent cloud, leaning softly over to gaze upon its image in some limpid wave that seemed panting to receive it, he saw a type of love, mirroring itself in some pure, transparent heart. Now, as he gazed up to the beautiful mirror of the sun, shining so high and lonely in the dark blue zenith of midnight, it was to him an emblem of Faith, reflecting to the pilgrim of Time, through the nightshade of sorrow and care, another and heavenlier home. Oh! could Florence but look into the heart 248 the any deer's got insweetly waged! But bore we see through a glass darkly, even in our clearest moments; and when the mirror is shivered by passion, what frightful distortion di-figures the image it reflecta! "My father were the only words he uttered, when he arrived at Bellamy Place, and Katy few into his arms. "He lives he is better," she cried, "but still weak and suffering. Oh! Marcus, dear, dear brother, how I have longed to see you-to be near you once more." Katy was always pale, and her eyes had a pensive expression, when unillumined by a smile; but her paleness was that of the white rose in its bloom, sweet and fair to look upon. Now her cheek had a sickly pallor, and her countenance was very sad. Was it filial anxiety alone that caused this? or was it blended with some secret grief? He thought of the dark-browed Delaval, and felt a conviction that his sister's happiness was wrecked, as well as his own. Never had he loved her with such heart-aching tenderness. "My Katy, my darling, my own sweet, precious sister," he cried, kissing her colourless cheek. "Mrs. Bellamy, my more than mother!" Her arms too were round him, her mild, benignant countenance emanating unspeakable love. Mr. Bellamy greeted him with all the affection of a father and all the pride of a man. He was proud of the glorious boy he had reared, for his fame had gone abroad into the land. "My father" again repeated Marcus, grasping Mr. Bellamy's hand. "Is he really better? Is his life in danger?" "There is danger," answered Mr. Bellamy; "but there is hope also; so Doctor Manning says, who never deludes his friends." Katy led her brother to the room where their father lay, at whose bedside Milly was seated, in her ancient costume, waving the feathers of mingled green, gold, and purple over the head of her master. He was asleep, and their gentle entranco did not awake him. Milly could scarcely repress a loud cry of joy at beholding him, but she did, though the big drops burs from her eyes and rolled down her face. Holding the |