THE MYSTERY OF HADDON'S FERRY.

By E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH,

CHAPTER IH.

THE FLIGHT.

Tho niora iB bright July, I trow, Tbe rose is blooming: fain, But \to shall blow in winter snow, My love! Ero wo two meet again.

Ho turziod his charger, as he spnkcs, Upon tho river shore ; Ho yave his bridle reins a shako, Said, " Adieu once more. My love!" And " Adieu ouco moro !"

Sm Walter Scott.

The fugitive dropped Gertrude's hand and sank back in his seat, quite overcome with the reaction of excitement. His face was palo as death ; his brow was bathed in perspiration ; las fnuuo shaking as with an ague tit. The ferry-girl gazed on him with wonder and pity. Now, "if pity be akin to love "on tho one hand, it is allied to contempt on the other. Perhaps the youth, as he raised his-eyes and caught the expression of her face, might have fancied that the maiden's

pity was. the nearer to contempt, for he suddenly exclaimed :

"I'm no coward. I declare I am not. But, you see, hanging isn't what it s craclied up to be. No, that it isn't." " 1 do not think that you are a coward/ said Gertrude, quietly, dropping her eyes. " No, nor I'm no criminal neither. Upon my sacred word of honour, I'm not," he added, earnestly.

" I am sure you are not," said Gertrude, readily. " Though, I dare say, I do look like one," he observed, with a rueful sigh. Gertrude could.not forbear a sir.ilo as she glanced at the open, innocent face of tho youth, with its broad, full forehead, frank light blue eyes, turned-wpnose, soft, girlish mouth, and smooth, beardless chin.

" No, no," she answered, quickly. " You certainly do not look the least bit like a criminal."

"Why? Did you ever see one?" he in quired, lifting his eyebrows. " No, I never saw one ; but I can easily imagine that no criminal over. looked like you," she answered with a smile.

"Do yon know now that makes me feel quite happy ? I declare it does ! Well, now—"

Before ho could add another word tho noise that had ceased for a while re-com menced. " Boat !" roared a chorus o£ voices from across the river. "Set fire to your throats! Now, then, yell to your hew;';'" content! .You won't get any boat to-ni:. sharply exclaimed the stranger. Tlk ing to the.ferry-girl, he inquired : " . ■ say, you don't mind their howling, (it., . ■• "Not.at all," answi: ■ Gertrude; "You are the very jolliest brick! All right, then ; let them bawl to their souls' satisfaction." " B-o-A-T !" roared the voices. " Oh, go it! Don't stop in consideration of our feelings ! We can find ears as long a,s you can find throats," coolly remarked the young- man. Then, as if suddenly re membering something, he looked at the ferry-girl, and said : y " Oh, I say, how. did. you find out that I am no criminal and no coward, much as I look and act like both, eh ?"

" You neither look nor act like either," persisted Gertrude. " Oh, yes, Ido ! I know I do. I feel I do. Haven't I run away ?"

" For some good reason, doubtless, which is neither criminal nor cowardly."'

■ " But they say flight is always a sign of guilt."

" Not always ; not in your case."

" W 7ell, now, do you know you lift mo right off my feet when you say that ? But how did you find it out? That is what I want to know." §

" Oh, easily enough. When your pursuers reached the opposite side of the-river and called for the boat, you pleaded with me, ■when you might have compelled me. A criminal and cowardly fugitive, under the same circumstances, would have insured his safety by binding me hand and foot, or locking me in the room to prevent me from crossing the ferry. You did not attempt to do anything of the sorb."

While Gertrude, spolce the young man's eyebrows lifted themselves higher and higher, his blue eyes opened wider and wider, his lips fell apart, his whole counten ance expressed the drollest astonishment.

" You'said that before !" he exclaimed. '■' But, in the first place; I repeat, I never once thought of such a base and treacherous act. And, in the second place, if the father of fraud had suggested it to mo, 1 would have died before yielding to such a tempta tion. Yes, ma'am. If you had chosen to refuse my plea, and had gone across the water in your ferry-boat to bring the blpodhound3 tipon my track, 1 should have mounted my horse and tried to escape ; but what could 1 have done with tired horse, that I had ridden all day long, against half a dozen men mounted on fresh horses, probably obtained from the last post-house on their road ? I could have done nothing. I should have been brought to bay .by my hunters: before morning. ■ But I would not have been taken alive, to bring shame upon my family. . No ! I should have been a dead man, probably, by this time. There ! Don't let's talk about it. It makes your flesh creep, I see," he con cluded, with a slight shiver.

" B-o-A-T !" thundered a full orchestra of voices from over the water.

" Encore .'" laughed the fugitive. "You are sure you don't mind- their bellowing ?" he inquired, considerately, of his com panion. . " Quite sure," she answered. " All right, then ; let them bellow. : It will do them good. Oh ! I say; you are such a regular "trump I'd like ever so much to give you a kiss.; But, oh !■- I beg your pardon I declare I do ! The words slipped out—upon my word they did ! I wouldn't offer to.do such a rude, impertinent, offen sive thing for the.world, under these cir cumstances—l declare upon my honour I wouldn't. You' are not angry wttth me, I hope ?" he eagerly, inquired. " No, I am not; but 1 trust that you will remember you are my guest," gantly re plied the ferry-girl. .:■■•■. " And your debtor for my life, too ! In deed, I will remember; and 1 tell you what else I will do : I will marry you just as soon as ever I get out of this awful scrape —that is to say, of course, if you will have, me ; and I think you will know me better I do, really. I'm rather a good sorb—l am, indeed ; and I'm awful lich. When I say 'awful' rich, I know what I am talking about, for I have an immense property, and I know it is going to be a horrid bother to take care of it at all. So I'll marry you, if you will have me, and you will walk into the finest estates on this continent—l de clare you will. • And you deserve it, too, a great deal better than 1 do, who was bom to it. You will be the mistress of. the grandest old house in the country you will really an old ancestral home built in 1648'; and you'll be an honour to it, you are such a regular stunner that you.are. Now you just'thin!; oi) what I have told you - that's a good fellow—and don't go marrying any

other beat, and I'll come straight back.to you the minute I am out of this horrid mess —you sco if I don't now !" concluded the \ youth, rising and looking about himself. "Whati/it that you want?" inquired Gertrude. , "My hat. lam going now. My horse has had a feed and a rest, thanks to your goodness—you are such a perfeot trump . that I think he can take me another stage to-night. To-nif?ht! — this morning, I mean. Look at the clock." Gertrude glanced at the time-piece and saw that the hands pointed to half-past three. "Oh ! I wonder —I wonder what keops my grandfather?" sho exclaimed, in dis may. ~ ,1 " I don't know, my dear girl ; not having tho pleasure of tho old gentleman's ac quaintance, much less the honour of his confidence, I can't say ; but I know it is very fortunate for me that something keeps him. li'he were here, he might take it into his grandfatherly head to go and fetch tho enemy over the water. Good-by, my dear. I am going now to get my horse and shall pass out through tho alley." "But—do you not wish to put on your own proper clothing '!" inquired his young hostess, hesitating and blushing. "Ah, no. The grandfathorly raiment makes a better disguise. Stay—bless my soul alive. Ido believe I have loft my pocket-book and all my money in the coat pocket of my other suit. If you will permit me, I-will go and get it." Ge trade bowed assent, and tho young man went across the passage to Gabriel Haddon's room, and soon returned, bringing what scorned to bo a well-iilled portemon naio with him. "Here, my dear girl," he said, selecting three notes of twenty dollars each, " hero 1 leave my wet clothes to get dry, and I leave this'sum in payment of tho patri archal suit i wear away. Tako it, if you please." " No, no, no ! indeed I cannot!" ex claimed Gertrude, shaking her head and putting her hands behind her. " Oh, well, 1 will put it on tho mantel piece, and put this brass candlestick down ou it to keep it from blowing away. You have no right to refuse it, you know. And I have no right to wear away these clothes without paying for them, eithor," said the young man, suiting the action to the word, and ofepositing tho notes in tho improvised bank. "I do wish you would not persist in leaving that money here," expostulated the ferry-girl. "Do you, my dear? You are such a tip-top, out and out trump ! A number one, jolly stunner ! Wouldn't Pat take a shine to you, neither '!" he exclaimed, in. enthusiasm. " I don't know, though, after all," he added, contemplatively^ " She might be jealous—this absurd Pat?" " Pat ?" echoed Gertrude, intorroga-

tively. " Yes, Pat—Pat Fitz ! I say, she might bo jealous and give me fits." " Do you mean Miss Patricia Fitz-

Gerald ?" "Yes, I mean Miss Patricia Fitzgerald, my imp of a cousin ! We are all cousins in Wilde country, yon know. 1 have not tho slightest; doubt in the world that you are my cousin also. In fact, you must be if you are a native of Wilde county. Well, good-night, Cousin Gertrude:

' Goocl-nteht, good-night, parting is such sweet That I shall' say good-night 'till it bo to-mor row !'

And I'm blessed if it isn't already to morrow, too, as Pat would say. Look at the clock ! So good-morning, my dear gin. lam really oil" now. And now for the Summit, like a bird.of ill omen, to carry bad news to a waiting bride. Anathemas . I hope Gerry wont strike me down dead with the black lightning of her eyes ?" "Gerry?" repeated Gertrude, in per plexity. • " Yes, Gerry Fitz-7-" ■■ ' From the glance of her cyo Shun danger and fly, For fatal 's tho glance.' And I have got to brave if this morning. Pray for me, my dear girl. Pray that I may be delivered from the death, the devil, and Gerry's angry byos. X '' Are you talking of Miss Goraldine Fitz gerald, Ljic bride-tiled f" inquired tho ferry girl, in a tone of awe. "Just! lam talking of Miss Goraldine Fitzgerald, the bride-elect—' the queenly, dark-eyed Geraldine.' She is another cousin. What did I toll you ? We are all cousins in Wilde county—we are all cousins in Virginia, I meant. Well, onco more, good-morning, Cousin Gertrude. I tear myself away. I go, like good King Arthur of tho legend— 'To slay and to bo slain.'" So saying, with a melodramatic flourish, the eccentric traveller bowed himself out of the room. In one minute afterwards, sho heard his voice in tho backyard expostulating with tho bull-dogs, who first resented his intru sion there with deep growls of hatred and defiance ; and then, as they recognised, wel comed him with glad barks of friendship and apology. Two minutes afterwards she heard him gallop through the alley, and down the turnpike road in the direction of the Old Red Sandstone Church..

CHAPTER VI

THE FIT2OERALDS OF THE SUMMIT.

The Ocraldine3! The Geraldinea Tis full a thousand yoa.rs Since 'mid the Tuscan vineyards Bright flashed their battlju-spears,

When Capet seized the crown of Franco Their iron shields were known, i And their sabre a sweep struck terror On the banks of the Garonne.

B"t nsvor there, nor thence till now, ; Has falsehood or disgrace Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, Or mantle on Ms face.

. Thomas Davis. On the same stormy night that Avifcnessed the night of young Sallust Rowley across the Wilde, the beautiful Geraldine Fitz gerald sat in her bower, in Summit Manor House, wounded, sorrowful, indignant, awaiting the coming of her laggard bride groom. No purer, nobler race of men ever bore the honours of a long descent, or wore them with more grace and courtesy, than did the far-famed and widely-scattered family of the Gherardini, or Fitzgeralds, a great house of remote Italian origin, now colonised all over the civilised world, who still honour as their head the Irish Duke of Leinster. More than two hundred years ago, a brave cadet of that princely house, one Otho- Maurice-Gerald Fitzgerald, for some great service rendered the realm, received a royal grant of land and a munificent sum of money from Queen Elizabeth, with which he emigrated •to Virginia, settled on his estate, and built an immense manor-house after the model of the strongest "seats " in the old country. He brought with him as his bride a young lady of the noble Scottish house of Douglas, and in due course of time he became the patriarch of a numerous tribe of sons and grandsons, . all of whom received royal ■gi-ants of lands in the immediate vicinity of.the Summit; Manor, and daughters, all of whom married large landed proprietors in the neighbourhood, until at length nearly the whole extensive tract known as the Wildes became the property of the Fitzgerald 3 and their connections. The Summit Manor, however, descended in a straight line from father to eldest son, until about the time of the commencement of our story it came into the possession of Gerald Fitzgerald, one of the noblest, finest and most accomplished gentlemen of his race.

But " Well-a-day 1" as the old retainers say, all the other manors of the Fitzgeralds hi Wilde county had " fallen to the distaff" —that is to Bay, thafc failing male heirs, they had passed into the possession of a girl, the only daughter of Otho Fitzgerald, of Forest Lodge, the dark-eyed, queenly Geraldine, who, to keep the estates in tho family name, had been from her earliest childhood betrothed to her cousin, Gerald, second son of Maurice Fitzgerald, of the Summit Manor. When Geraldine was but five years of age she lost both her parents by a catas trophe. While crossing the Wilde in an open boat they were overtaken by a sudden squall, capsized and drowned. After their death a search was made for a will, but none was found-none had been thought necessary to be executed at that early stage of their life's journey. The Orphan's Court acted in the premises, and appointed the child's nearest of kin, her two uncles, Maurice Fitzgerald, of the Summit Manor, and Royal Greenleaf, of Greenwood, as guardians of the heiress and trustees of her estates. Royal Greenleaf, a wild bachelor, left the child entirely to tho charge of her senior guardian. All tho Fitzgeralds had been Roman Catholics, from tho time when, a thousand years before, their Tuscan progenitors, the renowned Gherardini, hud gone carpet-bag ging into Ireland ; therefore, the heiress of half a dozen manors must be educated as a Roman Catholic. Maurice Fitzgerald was a widower, with two sons—Maurice, the heir of the Summit Manor, and Gerald, tho cadet, heir to noth ing but the Fitzgeralds' ancient name, and the Fitzgeralds' dark Irish-Italian beauty, with no daughters, and with only a faithful old coloured housekeeper at the head of his establishment. Taking all these circumstances into con sideration, Maurice Fitzgerald resolved to convey his infant ward to Parifl ; and leave her there to bo educated in a French Con vent. His second son, Gerald, ho had long de termined, should be sent to West Point to be educated for the army. And now, since getting the little heiress of many manors into his hands, he destined these cousins for each other. The fortune of Geraldine would make his portionless younger son much richer than his eldest son and heir.

As if to favour his project, tho orphan child of five summers had formed a strong and passionate attachment, as infants will sometimes, to the handsome lad of fil teen. And when the farce of a betrothal was per formed between these two, and a tiny diamond ring was placed upon tho finger of little Geraldine, she readily promised that when she should grow up to be a woman sho would marry her dear Cousin Gerald, and no other.

The lad, on his part, laughingly yielded bo his father's will in what he considered a mere comedy, but had thought enough to limit his promise with a condition : he would marry his cousin when she .should grow up to be a woman if she should continue to love him.

Thus tho young cousins parted. The youth left noino to enter tho Military Academy at West Point

Tho child was conveyed abroad. During the whole voyage across the Atlantic Ocean Mr Fitzgerald took care to impress upon the little one's mind and heart tho solemn nature of a betrothal, and her duty always to think of her Cousin Gerald as her future husband, and the only one she ever could possibly marry. And tho infant as constantly answered, assuring him that she never would be so naughty as to think about marrying any body else, and revealing her pathetic " innocence is ignorance " by such words as those : " No, unky, I never will marry nobody but dear, darling, precious Cousin Gerald —not even a queen or a fairy lady." " Early impressions arc always the deepest and strongest, and I think the child will keep her promise and the woman will redeem it," said .Maurice Fitzgerald to him self. When he left Geraldine at the convent of tho Visitation in Paris, he took care to havo a private interview with- the Mother Superior, in which he informed that lady that the infant heiress lie had just left in her charge was betrothed to her cousin, a worthy son of tho Church, whom it was ex tromely desirable that she should marry, and that the child must be constantly kept in tho thought that she must be as faithful to hot- betrothed as she was to her religion.

The Mother Snporior promised to follow the instructions of Mr Fitzgerald, and so the interview terminated, and the Virginian gentleman, having no further business in Paris, returned to his native country. Years passed. The young cadet, Gerald Fitz gerald, graduated lirst in his class, and received 1113 commission as a lieutenant of cavalry. To mako the most of a short leave of ab sence, he ran over to Paris on a Hying visit to his little betrothed. He found her now a beautiful child, ten years old, and tall for her age. She had not forgotten him. She had been as faithful to his memory as any veiled votress in that convent to her Lord. And, oh ! with what worshipping, adoring eyes the child looked up to him now, in the splendour of his manhood.arrayed, too, in the handsome uniform of a cavalry officer, which is sure to attract the admiring eyes of childhood or girlhood.

He thought her the loveliest rosebud that had ever bloomed within convent walls, and he hoped that he would be able to wait patiently and keep faith like a true knight during the eight years that must pass before she could reach a marriageable state.

He returned home, and was soon ap pointed to a regiment ordered to Florida, where the Indian war had just broken out.

There he so distinguished himself for courage, skill and tactics that he soon rose to the rank of a captain. When the war was successfully ter minated he came home on a long leave, and went abroad once more to visit his betrothed at her convent.

He found her now a most beautiful bru nette of fourteen, so tall for her age that she looked full sixteen years old ; and if she no longer looked up to him with tho innocent, worshiping gaze of childhood, she dropped her beautiful eyes as her colour deepened beneath his ardent gaze ; for now he was really and passionately in love with her.

He lingered in Paris, visiting her every clay. He was permitted to do so by the Mother Superior, for was he not her be trothed husband and a true son of the Church ? So he went to see her every day and stayed as long as he liked, and that was generally very ; for in the fervid exag geration of his love, he declared that he lived only in her presence, died as soon as ho left her, and came to life again only when it was time to re-visit her. He lingered in Paris up to the latest day that he could stay with safety, and left only when he was forced to hurry, away in order to reach his native country in time to report for duty at the expiration of his le.ave of absence. '.

When he reached Washington, he learned that war had just been declared against Mexico, and the whole country was arm ing for the conflict. His regiment was ordered to join General Scott.

In Mexico the gallant young officer per formed miracles of military skill and valour, made his name famous all over the country, and rose to the rank of Brevet- Brigadier-General. After the victorious termination of the war, he was sent in command of an expedition against the hostile Indians of the Plains, whose tur bulence kepb him on active duty on the frontier for some years longer, and, indeed, until an urgent letter from his father, informing him of the sudden death of

his elder brother, from congestion of the brain, summoned him home. Then he asked and obtained leave of absence, and hastened back to his native State. He found his father very much shattered by the heavy blow he received on the unexpected death of his eldest son, which Gerald learned had been occasioned by exposure to the rays of a burning August sun, while out riding on horseback. To distract his grief, the old gentleman proposed to go to France and bring back his young ward, Geraldino Fitzgerald, who was then in her nineteenth year. Colonel Fitzgerald (for ho was still called Colonel Fitzgerald at home, although he was a Brigadier-General by brevet) would have gladly gone with his father on this mission of love had his short leave of absence allowed him ; but ib did not, nor would the gallant soldier ask for an exten sion of leave, while lie knew that his pre sence was so much needed at his dangerous frontier post of duty. So in September the father and .son parted the father to go on his sea-voyage, tho son to return to the Western plains. If any circumstance could have consoled Maurice Fitzgerald for tho loss of hie eldest .son, it must nave been, the finding of his queenly niece and prospective daughter-in law.

Geraldine Fitzgerald, at nineteen years of age, was one of the most imperial beauties that ever lived in this or any other age or country ; and, ah, she was not only imperial in presence, but imperious in temper ! Her form was unusually tall for a woman,but so perfectly proportioned that her every atti tude and motion was full of majestic grace. Her features were cast in tno purest Grecian mould ; her complexion was like the tea rose, palo and clear, save where it Hushed aintly on the cheeks and glowed brightly on the lips ; her eyes were large, deep blue and fringed wi#i thick, black lashes, that made them seem also black as night; her hair was long, black, and lustrous, and worn in heavy braids, partly coiled in a large roll ■it the back of her head, partly wound around and set in a natural crown above her forchood. She still wore the convent-school uniform of black cashmere, with white collar and cuffs ; but wore it with such grace and dignity they might have seemed regal lobes. Air Fitzgerald was very proud of his daughter-in-law elect. Looking on her, he also thought thafc she would not only make his beloved son doubly rich with her wealth, but very happy with her love ; for it was apparent to Mr Fitzgerald that this beauti ful woman still kept the child's promise, still loved her handsome cousin.

But he did not thoroughly know her. She was, after all, but a brilliant young panther, capable of loving, adoring, yea, worshipping, her betrothed husband, so long as she believed herself to be the first object of his thoughts ; capable, also, of wounding him unto death if her suspicion of-his fidelity-should be aroused. Asyet nothing had occurred to disturb her confidence. Her faitli in her betrothed was as strong as her love for him, and both wore as strong as life and death. . He was the one passion of her life., She parted with the tender abbess the only mother she had ever known- and with the kindly nun.s, her companions for man_ years, and with her schoolmates, who loved her well; and she left them gladly, without an instant's regret, because she was. think ing only of her betrothed husband, caring only for him, and going-to him. But, ah i disappointment awaited her at home. She was brought by her guardian to the Summit Man or "Ho use, where now his own old maiden cousin, Miss Maxima Row ley, had been induced to come and act as the chaperon of the young heiress until such time as her marriage with Gerald Fitz gerald should enable her to dispense with such feminine protection.

Hut the bridegroom expectant was not there to meet them, as they had confidently hoped that he would be. A letter met them instead, in which the writer informed his waiting betrothed bride that the Comanche and A.paehe tribes of Indians were again giving great trouble to the frontier settlers, and that he could not then ask for a fur lough, a soldier's place in the hour of danger was at his post. Mr Fitzgerald was very much disap pointed. "Gerald ought to have asked for a fur lough. He could have got one at once on the asking,but his chivalricserise of honour prevented him from doing so, I suppose," lie said.

Bub Geraldine was more than disap pointed ; siie was embittered. Her lips quivered for a moment, and then closed firmly ; the tears sprang to her eyes, but were proudly repressed. Mr Fitzgerald saw the indignation, with out perceiving the wounded love beneath it. " it is Gerald's chivalrie sense of honour, you know, my dear," he repeated, depre catinHy. " Colonel Fitzgerald should resign. There can bo no earthly reason why the heir-apparent of Summit Manor should continue to wear the livery of any govern ment under the sun ; for the uniform is a livery, a mere badge of servitude, after all. Gerald Fitzgerald, the heir of Summit Manor and my own betrothed husband, should resign his commission at once," she answered, haughtily. " An officer and a gentleman as my son never resigns in time of danger. He re signs if he pleases, when the danger is over," exclaimed Mr Fitzgerald, with stately courtesy. Geraldine's lips curled as sho turned silently and proudly away. But the next day' another letter came from Colonel Fitzgerald—a letter so ele quent of the soldier's noble love for his be loved bride that her anger was almost ap peased, although he still talked of a long campaign in the Indian country, and still set his duty above his love. But when Christmas and New Year came and passed without bringing him home, her indignation blazed forth again, especially when saucy little cousin, Patricia Fitzgerald commonly called Pat Fitz, sang out: " • Oh. a laßgard in love and a' Quixote' in war Is to wed the fair Helen of young Lochinvar.' " Winter melted into spring, and spring bloomed into summer before the Indian troubles were over and the faithful soldier was reoalled home, He hastened down into Virginia to Bee his betrothed, whom he had not seen for five long, tedious years. Their meeting was a compensation for all the trying days of absence. Tie found her more imperially beautiful than ever, She thought him even move princely and heroic than the dreams of her fancy had ever pic tured him.,

Their marriage day was fixed for the six teenth- of July. And this being settled, Colonel Fitzgerald left for the city of Wash ington to transact some important business there, previous to resigning hi 3 commission as a colonel of cavalry. Tho dark-eyed, queenly (Jeraldine now busied herself with preparations for her wedding.

The Summit Manor House was well named. It was a huge structure of old red sandstone, built somewhat in the form of the letter H, upon a lofty plateau over looking the Wilde, about half way between Haddon's Ferry and the village of Wilde ville. The grounds were terraced in front of the house, and planted with the rarest and most beautiful trees and shrubs. And both house and grounds had been lately renovated in honour of the approaching nuptials. On the morning of the day on which our story began, a pleasant party of young people were assembled in one of the upper front chambers of the manor-house, whose open front windows commanded a mag nificent view of the Wilde River and the Eagle Roost Ridge beyond it. ■fhe youthful party consisted of the bride eleet and her bridesmaids, all chosen from

among her nearest relatives and best beloved friends, and all gathered here, by previous arrangement, on the eve of her wedding day. , . i The beautiful, stately, dark-haired Geraldine sat at one of the windows, wit* her elbow leaning on tho sill, her neaa resting on her hand, and her gaze absontiy fixed on the winding bridle-path that lea down the Summit to the Wildeville Turnpike. She was very carelessly clothed. She wore a rich loose wrapper ol maize - coloured Indian silk, em broidered with gold, and lightly folded around her regal form. Her long, shining black hair flowed freely, rippling down her shoulders. Her feet, thrust into cool India satin slippers, rested on a footstool. She had been trying on dress after dress from the costly trosseau that had arrived that morning. She was very weary of it all, a3 it lay beaming and glowing in heaps upon the bed, upon the table, upon the chairs, and upon every available place in the splendid disorder of her chamber ; and she was weary—oh, how weary !—ot wait ing for her lagging bridegroom. He had been duo here for more than a week, for this house was his home even more than hers. It was his home in right ot his father, and it was her home in right Ol her guardian, and yet he neither came nor wrote, though their wedding-day was at hand. Why had he not come, according to pro mise '( Or, if an insurmountable obstacle prevented him from coining, why had he not written to explain '! There were two arrivals from Washington by coach to Wildeville every day, yet morn ings and evenings had passed for a week without bringing the man himself or any message from iiirn. Geraldine had written to him twice m succession, but her letters remaining un answered, she had stopped in very pride. Mr Fitzgerald had written several time 3, but his letters shared the same fate- with hers. He would have gone to Washington himself to make inquiries for his missing son, but that he was held a prisoner in his chamber by the gout. He might have written and made inquiries of other parties in Washington, but that during the recess of Congress he had not a single acquain tance in the city ; nor did he like to address any stranger on a private family matter, unless driven to do so by the greatest stress of circumstances. And he considered that this case did not yet require such desperate remedies.

Some little affair, easily explained, had probably taken his son out of town for a day or two. Doubtless, he had written to apprise them of his short absence, but had left his letter to be posted by the careless hotel waiters, and it had been neglected and lost. Something like that had most probably happened. But Gerald Fitzgerald was the very soul of honour, and would keep his tryst with his bride, come what might. " There are yet three more chances for him to be in time," Mr Fitzgerald had ex plained to his niece that very morning. " He may come by this evening's coach, or by to-morrow morning's, or, though that will be late, by to-morrow evening's coach." "But, if he should fail to come, and so shame me before the assembled gentry of Wilde country !" muttered Geraldine, with bitter, .white lips. " Gerald Fitzgerald will never fail to keep his plighted word. ' For never then, nor thence, till now, Has falsehood or disgrace Been Been to soil Fitzgerald's plume, Or mant c in his face.' He will come up to time, be sure of it." This conversation had taken place be tween the guardian and his ward during the short visit she had that morning made to him in his chamber. But now, some hours later, when the bride-elect sat at the window of her cham ber, attended by her admiring brides maids, she did not feel by any means so sure of her bridegroom's punctuality. She recalled the lnonths'sTie had waited for him, while he was out defending' the frontier settlers against the Indians of the plains, when he might have resigned and returned to her, but would not.

She bitterly reflected that she had never been the first object of his life as he had always been of hers. She knew that there were several principles he rated far above his love for her there was honour, duty, to which his love for her had always to give way—while with her, neither honour, duty, " nor any other creature/ ever had, or ever could, stand between her love and him.

She said to herself that some real or fancied "point of honour, or sense of duty," kept him absent and silent now, and might keep him from her even on their appointed wedding-day, and so expose her proud spirit to the bitter humiliation of seeming to be a discarded bride at the very alter.

While she sat there, silent, wounded, sry -owful and indignant, her young bride maids, and one or two household servants, who were engaged in folding and arranging the dresses, chattered about her over the magnificence of her trousseau. Nearest the stately Geraldine loitered her cousin, Patricia Fitzgerald, a black-haired, grey-eyed, pug-nosed, yet very pretty, rosy, and bewitching little imp of about fifteen years of age. She was carelessly attired in a blue gingham dress, with little white rufl'les around her neck and wrists, and her black .hair curling wildly around her piquant little face. She had come to the Summit only that morning to meet the other bridesmaids, and expecting also to meet the bridegroom and groomsman, and, in fact, all the immediate bridal party. She felt much anxiety to know the reason for the delay ; but her interest in the splen did display of wedding finery had held that anxiety in abeyance until now. Now she could control her curiosity no lono-er. She dropped herself down on the carpet beside the queenly Geraldine, and sitting there, looked up into her beautiful grave face and exclaimed :

"Cousin Gerry !" The stately head lifted itself slowly from its loaning posture, the large, haughty eyes turned on the speaker. ' ' " I must request you, Patricia, not to ad dress me in that manner. To think of calling any lady ' Gerry' !" she coldly re marked,

" Gerry is the short for Geraldine, is it not ? Besides, don't everyone call me ' Pat' ?" laughed Patricia. \ " / do notjinost certainly,"said the youno lady. . ,;, ■-~-;,

" Well, but, Miss Geraldine Fitzgerald, 'Eternity's too short To utter all your name.' " " Do not be profane, Patricia." " Well, I won't, then. Where is the gallant Captain Gerry ?" "Ifyou refer to Colonel Fitzgerald, he is still in Washington, detained by his affairs." " When do you expect him ?" " This evening, or to-morrow morning." " ' Oli! a laggard in love and a Quixote in war Is to wed the fair Helen of young Lochiuvar," sang Patricia, with mischievous delight. "I do not see the point of your quota tion, Patricia, but you were right in chang ing one word ; Gerald Fitzgerald may be a ' Quixote,' but he is not a ' craven in war,' by any means."

" Who insinivated as he was? Not I! but that's not the point. Where's my Sally?" J

"Your— what?' "He's not a 'what.' he's a 'who'—my Sally- Sally Row." " I presume you mean Mr Sallust Row ley ?"

" The same," said Patricia, with theatri cal solemnity. "Where ia that auburn* haired youth ? It is not possible that ho is detained in Washington by his affairs, for he has no affairs, nob even an affair of love, or an affair of honour. He ought to be here to-day. He is to be first groomsman,

and I am to be first bridesmaid; he will have to lead me out. Now, I never acted in the comedy of a marriage ceremony in ail Sy life, and I really should like •to go through one private rehearsal of my part before appearing in public. VV here, oh . where is my Sally !" . " Mr Sallust Rowley is most probably in attendance upon Colonel Gerald. They will most likely travel down here to gether." "Thanks,- dear Geraldine. And now, while I am inquiring after missing people this is a house of the most inexplicable disappearances, like the Ogre's Castle in the nursery tales—where is the terrific Miss Max? I trust it is not a sin to hope that the Ogre may have eaten her ?" solemnly in quired Patricia. ' " Miss Maxima Rowley has been sum moned to Hill Top Hall to attend her uncle, the aged General Slaughter, who has been taken suddenly ill." At this moment the first dinner-bell rang and the bevy of bridesmaids fluttered up and flew away to their several rooms, to make some change in the carriage dresses, in which they had come to the house that morning. After dinner the youthful party as sembled in the drawing-room, where the evening was passed in anxious suspense. All were secretly looking forward to the hour when the bridegroom and his best man would arrive, if, indeed, they should come that night; but no one spoke of it.

All knew fchafc the Washington stage coach would reach Wildeville at seven o'clock ; that if Colonel Fitzgerald, and Mr' Pwowley should come by that conveyance, they would procure horses at the \Vilde ville Hotel, and ride over to the Summit, and so reach home by nine. As the hour approached, the anxiety of the whole party rose to an almost breath less suspense, yet no one spoke of it — no one dared to do so —not even saucy Pat—while the young lady most vitally concerned kept a dignified and ominous silence on that subject. They talked of fashion, dress, the weather, the neigh bours, in short, of anything else but that which occupied their anxious thoughts.

A heavy storm was rising, too ! A storm in the mountains was no trifling peril to be encountered by equestrian travellers, and if Colonel Fitzgerald and Mr Rowley had arrived at Wildeville by the seven o'clock coach, they must then be on their way to the Summit, and sure to meet the storm. The only slight hope was that the coach might have made good time, and they might have started immediately on swift horses, and so might possibly reach the Summit before the utmost fury of the ele ments should burst upon them. It was after midnight before the fury of that terrible tempest had expended itself. Then at length the weai-ied young girls,one after another, arose from their crouching attitudes, and, with fervent thanksgivings that the storm was over and " their lives spared," bade their beautiful hostess good night, and separated to their several rooms to get what sleep they could in the short interval before the morning. When all had left the room, Patricia, who was the last to go, suddenly turned back and looked at her cousin.

Geraldine was seated in the same chair that she had occupied during the whole of that awful night. " Gerry, won't you go to bed ?" " No."

_ " Then neither will I," said Patricia, set ting her candle on a side table, and drawing a footstool to the side of her cousin and seat ing herself upon it. "You had better retire to rest, Patricia."

" And leave you here alone ? I won't! I'm not that sort of fellow !"

" Then do as you please," said Geraldine, wearily.

" I say, Gerry, don't bother about them ! They're all right! You may depend they got to Wildeville last night, but they couldn't brave the storm in the mountains you know, and I don't blame them. They will be here early this morning. You see if they don't. Why, I'm not bothered, be cause I don't believe any harm has happened to them 1 If I thought any harm had happened to my Sally I should cry my eyes out."

" Patricia, if you must stay here, try to keep silence ! Don't talk 1 I cannot bear it!"

" Well, then, I won't. There ! Listen ! What did I tell you ? There they are now, and it is not yet daylight!" exclaimed the girl, as the sound of horses' hoofs was heard galloping into the yard. "It is Gerald ! It can be no one else at this hour !" suddenly exclaimed. Geraldine, thrown off her guard by joy. " And nofc a sen »it in the establishment waking up at this unholy hour to open the door ! I must run and let him in myself !" cried Patricia, starting up and rushing out into the hall. 9

Bars fell down, bolts shot back, locks turned under the eager fingers of the girl, the door flew open, and Mr Sallust Rowley almost fell into the arms of Patricia Fitz gerald. (To be Continued.)

THE AUCKLAND EYEMNG STAR. WEDNESDAY, JUNE I_ L J®^

6



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