without perceiving me. I did not like the idea
of strangers peeping in behind the screen and
wondering who I could be. But the people
came nearer, still conversing in low earnest
tones, the sound of which, made me start and
wonder. They came up to the screen, which
was just at the end of the gallery, and stopped
there as people will pause at the extremity of a
walk before they turn to retrace their steps.
And it seemed as if my heart paused with them,
for the speakers were Rachel Leonard and John
Hollingford, and this was the conversation I
heard:

"I think you are very unkind, John," said
Rachel; and she spoke sullenly, and as if she
had been crying. "I only ask you not to hurry
me, to give me time, and you complain as if I
had refused altogether."

"I do not understand why you should want
time," replied John; "if what you have told
me is true, if what you have promised is in good
faith, I do not see why you should delay making
everything known."

"Nor do I see why you should wish for
haste," said Rachel. "The announcement
will be painful enough when it must be made.
Have you ever thought of what Margery will
say?"

"Margery! God bless her!" said John,
earnestly. "Sweet, unselfish soul! It will be
a shock, but she will get over it. While this is
going on, her eyes are a continual reproach to
me. The position is intolerable. If you will
not speak soon I must break my promise to you,
and enlighten her"

"No, no, no!" said Rachel, passionately.
"She suspects nothing, and let her rest awhile.
She will not take it so quietly as you think.
Every one will cry out at me, and I know that
I deserve it. Pity me, John"—here her voice
broke down—"but, for God's sake, leave me to
myself for a time."

"Let it be a short time, then," said John,
sadly. "I must say I am grieved to see that
this is such a hard trial to you. After all that
has been, all you have told me, I did not expect
to find you so weak and selfish."

"I am weak and I am selfish," sobbed Rachel;
"do not expect to find me anything else. I am
struggling to be something better; but
whatever I am, John, be sure that I love you, and
have loved you all these years. Leave me a
little time, and I will do everything you
wish."

"Let it be so, then," said John "—a short
time, remember. My poor, dear girl! My
lost darling, so unexpectedly found."

And they walked away together down the
gallery talking, till their voices and their steps
died away. The thick yellow daylight was
almost extinct in the gallery by this time, and
it was nearly dark behind the screen. It
was night at four o'clock in those days, and it
was not till the dressing-bell for dinner rang at
near seven that I went feeling my way along
the gallery, back to my own chamber. I do
not know what I had been doing in the mean
time. A chorus of soft voices warbled in
conversation on the stairs as a band of graceful
ladies tripped up to their several apartments.
Miss Leonard came to me in my rich, hot,
heavy room, and helped me to dress. I told
her I had come too soon, and had been rambling
about. I believe that was what I said. She
fastened my sash, and even tied my sandals, for
my fingers were shaking. She bent over my
feet with her glorious face and her firm white
hands. I think she had a black velvet frock
and a diamond waist buckle; but I am not
sure. The charm of her beauty overshone these
things. As she busied herself among my hooks
and eyes, I saw our two reflections, in a glass
—she who had loved John for years, and I who
had only known him for a few short months.

As I went down the stairs with Rachel, I told
myself it was true what John said, that I should
get over it. The drawing-room was full of gay
people, and my first thought was, looking round
it, that there was no man there equal to John—
no woman there equal to Rachel. Why had I
thrust myself between them?

When John took my hand with just his old
loving pressure, the first wave of despair broke
over me. "Get over it?" I asked myself; but
that was all. I believed that John was sitting
by Rachel, but I did not see the dinner-table,
nor the people sitting at it. They thought I
was shy or proud, and did not trouble me with
conversation. A sound was in my ears, which
I thought was like the rushing of a storm in an
Indian forest. All my life lay before me like a
blot of ink on a bright page. Why must I give
trouble, and carry a sore heart? Why was I
left behind to come to Hillsbro'? Why did not
my father and mother take me with them that I
might have died of their fever and been buried
in their Indian grave? But how Rachel laughed.
All the evening she was the most brilliant,
beautiful, witty creature that ever enlivened a
company.

CHAPTER VIII.

MY children, when I sat that night over the
embers of my dying fire in my chamber at
Hillsbro' Hall, whilst every one else was asleep,
there has never been a more desolate creature
in the world than I felt myself to be. I had
behaved all the evening very meekly and quietly,
keeping out of John's way, accepting Rachel's
attentions, watching and admiring her with a
dull kind of fascination. I remember observing
absently, in a mirror at the other end of the
room, the white pensive face of a young girl
sitting very still in a corner, wrapped in thought
or pain. I wondered whether she was sick or
in trouble; but afterwards I found by accident
that I had been speculating about myself. A
little chill smile came to my lips at this
discovery; but I felt hardly any surprise at seeing
myself thus so different from what I had
ever been before. The world had changed,
and I with it, since the fall of twilight in the
gallery.

Rachel sang and the room applauded; people