birth of her baby, that ever since her marriage she had wanted to go abroad, and from timidity had restrained the expression of her wish.

They went abroad, and to Paris. Here Eugénie found her mother's kindred, and the little American lady made a sensation in charming circles, for her beauty, her diamonds, and the open devotion of her grave husband. Mr. Mabyn enjoyed her enjoyment, but it can not be said that he was entirely happy during this interval. He was not exactly jealous, but he possessed in an extreme degree that sense of appropriation which made it a positive pain that the least smile from his wife's eyes should shine on another man. men are more or less Turks at heart, and I really think Francis Mabyn would have liked to shut his wife away in a guarded palace. She was very docile; she was ready to leave the Paris gayeties at the least sign from him, secure in the consciousness of crossing the ocean again whenever it should please her little ladyship.

All

It had happened that a few weeks before, after a slight illness of Eugénie's, the family medical man had said something that, if possible, had intensified her husband's protecting tenderness.

"Your wife's constitution is good," he had said, with an alarming seriousness; "but there is some trouble with her heart. She must not be excited, and you must beware of sudden shocks. You must guard her carefully."

"Guard her!" he thought, passionately; "ay, as the royal diamond was never guarded. Father, mother, husband, I will be to my darling!"

No

It was the fairy time of the year. beach in the country was so fine as this long shining sandy stretch running from east to west, level and hard as a race-track or rope-walk-and thirty miles of it. Wet with sea-foam, it glistened before them, fringed on one side with the curling waves, and on the other with scrubby grasses, prickly plants, and zigzag streaks of yellow flowers, inch high from the earth, and flaring wide as Æsop's nostrils to the breeze. The village lay behind, with all its streets sloping to the beach-a collection of low, scattered houses, hedged with oleanders and Cape jasmines, but scarcely shaded with the salt cedars and stunted live-oaks that were the only trees growing from the thin soil.

At this time always the beach was crowded with pleasure-seekers. Again and again Eugénie and Mr. Mabyn checked their horses to interchange greetings with their friends. Young men were bowing, ladies stopping their little pony-carriages, or halting under sun-shades, to chat with this gay little princess of a wife, who was so strong in the protection of her home, her wealth, and her husband's adoring love. People said of her afterward that there had never been such a glow to her beauty, nor such a sparkle twinkling through her gay talk. Her husband was unconscious that he observed her with any unusual tenderness, but afterward every word and look came to his memory as vividly as the impression of a photograph after the touch of the acids.

"Not many more rides," said Eugénie. "We shall soon be ready for our Northern tour."

"Of which the greatest pleasure will be the home-coming," returned her husband. "Tell me, darling, is not the home life the dearest life?"

'Why, of course, Frankie”—there was a pretty absurdity in the diminutive as applied to grave Mr. Mabyn-" but perhaps it would not be if I were tied to it. I can't bear to feel like a bird in a cage."

"Well, my lady, you are the only captain whose orders I obey. You've only to lift that small finger, and we start for China to-morrow, if you will it."

"Travelling is a bore, after all. One can not keep clean."

"I wish that I could get the magic carpet for you," said Mr. Mabyn, regretfully, and really with a slight feeling of indignation that this article was not in the market.

"Dear old fellow, how you would spoil me, if I could be spoiled!"

her, a cold horror crawled like a leech to his heart, sucking away its very lifeblood. It has been said that possession is the death of love. To Francis Mabyn it seemed merely its birth. Each kiss that he spent on the lips of his wife seemed sweeter and more passionate than any he had given to sweetheart or bride. Far from being satiated, in all love's evidence there was not enough of variety or intensity to satisfy love. It was a fantastic sorrow of his married life, this longing for a deeper expression of the love that vitalized and sanctified body and soul.

As for his wife, her only sorrow was that her Virginia husband, with his English descent, would call her "Eugenia" instead of "Eugénie." She had her way, however, about the naming of their child, and the little Adine-or Dina-was called for her French grandmother.

They had ridden beyond the crowd, far out on the silver road, when Eugénie exclaimed, "Why, Frank, I believe a storm is coming up!"

A few clouds had gathered in the sky, pale and light as the pollen of a flower; but they were floating together in deepening tints. The sea's monotonous beats were broken as the waves whirled against each other. Color was gone from sea and sky, hidden under a gray veil that made the earth ugly as a dying face.

Mr. Mabyn seized the bridle of Eugénie's horse, and looked hurriedly around him. "A norther!" he cried; for the swift glance was a practiced one.

Eugénie turned her horse sharply, and in another second they were galloping homeward.

The skies grew darker, and the wind

rose.

The white sand was driven before the tumultuous zephyrs, until it seemed to fly like a herd of wild sheep. The waves dashed further and further inland, and the line of sluggish jelly-fish, that lay like moulded isinglass on the beach, was swept out to sea. The branches of the oleander-trees bent and twisted, and their pink and white blooms went crazily flying to the moon.

Mr. Mabyn looked anxiously at his wife. She was pale, and a little frightened; but she smiled as her eyes met his, and rode faster. They were riding in the face of the wind, and the horses showed signs of fatigue. The wind swept against them like waves, each colder than the last.

But at last they were at home, although

by this time trees were falling, and the air was of an icy coldness.

"No wonder those poor drivers are frozen who are caught on the plains by a norther!" shivered Eugénie, as her husband lifted her from her horse and carried her in-doors.

The servants had known what to do; the windows were fastened, and fires were lighted all over the house, and Maum Dulcie was waiting with hot drinks, and blankets and shawls from the cedar chest.

No sleep was possible that night of awful storm. Wilder and fiercer it grew, with the wind blowing sixty miles an hour. Rain and hail-stones fell from the skies, striking like discharges of shot on the roof. The house swayed on its foundations as if it were a swinging garden in a gale. Mr. Mabyn tried in vain to persuade his wife to rest; but, excited and nervous, she walked up and down the floor, uttering prayers to the Virgin, and sharp ejaculations of terror. Her husband attempted in vain to hold her in his arms, and magnetize her to quiet. With a fear crouching beside him, he followed her, talking cheerily, even jesting. Maum Dulcie had persuaded her mistress to lay aside her heavy habit, and had robed her in a soft crimson dressing-gown, over which her hair streamed in dark profusion, unlighted by the pink blossoms of the morning. After that, Dulcie's courage seemed to desert her, and she sat with her apron over her head, moaning softly. She did not dare do more; for, after shrieking once that the end of the world had come, and increasing tenfold Eugénie's agitation, Mr. Mabyn silenced her with a vigor almost as frightful as the storm to poor Dulcie.

Morning broke on a wild scene. The wind was still blowing, though the rain had ceased to fall. On either side of the island the gulf and the bay had risen, and they leaped forward like hungry beasts longing to meet in an embrace of death. The day's light was dim, as though all the air were cloud. The sea had overflowed the land, and on its swift and turgid waters a queer débris floated out to the indifferent ocean-drowned chickens and pigs, uprooted rose and fig bushes, window-shutters, and the roofs from houses.

Eugénie's courage had revived with the morning. She stood in the piazza, her face pressed against the pane of a glass door. "It is like Venice," she cried, with

a laugh.

a gondola rigged up?"

Seeing her smile, Mr. Mabyn felt that the sun had suddenly burst through the sky. "I hope we are provisioned for a siege," he said, gayly. 'At any rate, we can lean out of the window and fish." With his words, a wilder war of wind foamed the water at their doors, and diverted the current. Something was tossed from its bosom against the glass by which they stood. Her husband drew Eugénie away; but again, with an angry thud, the glass was struck with such violence that it shattered to fragments, and the prey of the waves was thrown at Eugénie's feet.

It was the dead body of a man. One cry from poor Eugénie, as she looked with eyes distended with horror. Then, throwing her hands above her head, she fell, her hair mingling with the water that streamed in, her hands cut with the broken glass, her crimson robe covering the frightful corpse.

Her husband caught her up, after one frozen moment. 'Go!" he shouted. "A doctor! Swim-kill a dozen horses if need be. Tell Dick to risk his life, but bring a doctor here."

Maum Dulcie disappeared to fulfill his commands, and re-appeared, treading softly.

"Let me see, marster, if de doctor can help her."

IV.

AFTER TWELVE YEARS.

"Now, Maumie, you ought to be ashamed to have secrets from me!"

So cried a lithe young maiden of sixteen, sitting comfortably on the twisted limb of a fig bush, watching a turbaned old black woman gather the purple fruit, and drop it into a great basket on her

arm.

"Now, honey, don' you worry yo'self 'bout Maumie's secrets; you's jes' a little chile."

"I am taller than you," cried the girl, aiming a fig at a redbird; "and I shall soon be as tall as papa."

"Yo' po' pappy! he's kind o' bent wid his troubles.'

"But the secret! the secret!" cried Dina Mabyn. "Tell me; if you don't, I'll jump down and break my arm, or leg, or something, and it will be all your fault."

Maum Dulcie put her hand to her ear, and appeared to listen.

"Dar's somebody a-callin' me from de house. Honey, I reckon yo' pappy's come, an' wants his dinner. You know I don't trust nobody but myself to set de table."

called away when Dina approached a forbidden subject.

"I'm very curious," she mused, throwing her head back and peeping at the bright sky. "I wish I could see as much as you, you old one-eyed sun! Think of all you take in at one big glance! It is the moon, however, that knows Maum Dulcie's secret; whatever it may be, it's an affair of the night."

When Dina was quite a child, she had observed that Maum Dulcie had some mys

So sweet Eugénie was hidden from the sun in an unshared vault; and the man

had determined to find out all about it. As a rule, Dulcie had been contented to spend the evenings with her young mistress, telling over wild tales, or combing Dina's dark hair, or bathing her lazy little feet with perfumed water. But there were other nights in which Dina was hurried

66

to bed, without saying her prayers, perhaps, and Dulcie, crying Good-night, honey," in a voice of curiously blended fright and exultation, would take herself off-the moon, but not Dina, knew where. In the days following, Dulcie would go about the house an image of worn-out woe, starting nervously if suddenly addressed, weeping without cause, and spending many hours in the little chapel built for Dina's mother, prostrate before the sad Virgin beside the altar.

Poor little Dina! her mind would not have dwelt so much on this matter if there had been other things for her to think about. But never had young girl led more lonely life.

In truth, Maum Dulcie's guardianship was all that Dina had-a very loving one it was, but it did not advance her in a young lady's education. Governesses had come and gone at the Mabyn house, but one after another found cause for brief reign. Either Dulcie, housekeeper and nurse, was jealous, or Dina's temper proved unbearable, or the isolation of the home life was not to be borne. Mr. Mabyn had no friends daring enough to suggest that he send Dina to boarding-school; so the little thing had been almost forgotten.

For Mr. Mabyn, after many desolate years, had come out from his seclusion. He had grown old in these years; his hair had whitened, and his face wrinkled. On what husks he had fed his heart, those who have loved may know; but at last he reappeared in the world, and became the victim of a cruel mistress. Many men had bowed before her, and to their cost. Perhaps of all who had wooed her, she treated worst the man who came to her broken-hearted, seeking her first as a distraction, but giving her his soul at last. She flouted, and deceived, but forever allured him. She was insatiate in her demands. Bank stock, wharf stock, and sugar plantations were sacrificed in her behalf; and not his wealth alone, but his time, must spend itself, his heart forswear all other interests. His daughter grew to womanhood, neglected and unnoticed. His State plunged into war, and it only affected him as affecting his idol. He studied her past history, that he might judge of her possibilities in the present, and foretell immense gifts from her in the future. And all of this may be understood by the fact that her name was-Cotton.

Cotton speculation did not mean in those days what it has since come to signify-the desperate gambling game in which no cotton is actually involved, fatiguing even to think on, filling the soul with visions as distorted, immense, and unreal as buzz in the brain of a man distracted with cinchona. There was no cable news, railways were few, and "spots,' "futures," "longs," and "shorts" were unknown terms. Only men of substance dared to speculate; they bought the cotton, shipped it to Liverpool, drew long bills against it, and awaited results with admirable coolness. They made wagers with fate, but they dealt with realities, and heaped up bulky fortunes, or met beggary bravely.

In Mr. Mabyn's first venture he lost money. This piqued his interest; he saw just where he had taken a wrong step, and the next season bought with three times more boldness, convinced of being right in his calculations. The event proved him so indeed; and the excitement and triumph were so agreeable that he gave himself entirely to his new pursuit. He called himself a prudent man, and he studied his subject thoroughly. He could tell at any time the state of the cotton market all over the world, and prove logically that his conclusions were correctly drawn. But some impish angel of the odd was forever upsetting his plans. Year by year he was forced to some sacrifice of property, that he might meet his obligations. His ill luck grew to be proverbial. It became a common saying among cotton men that when Frank Mabyn said, "Buy," hold off; but get all you could if he said, "Wait for a decline." The capriciousness of fortune perplexed, irritated, and absorbed him in vain calculations.

แ

Dina's earliest memory of her father was of seeing a gray-haired man with a slight stoop in his shoulders scribbling figures on a long strip of paper, then tearing it into little bits, which he would roll tightly, and throw on the floor. After this he would get up and wash his hands, Dina, sitting in one corner, watching him with big eyes, asking no question, offering no kiss, expecting no notice.

"I wish I were a little dog," she said once to Maum Dulcie; "then I could lick papa's hand, and perhaps he would pat my head."

"You po' little sweet rose-bud!” cried

And in her compassionate tenderness, Maum Dulcie did her best to spoil her charge by too great indulgence.

So Eugénie's little girl grew up wild and sweet, like a flower

"A smile of the sun,

A tear of the rain-"

and she unfolded into a delicate dark beauty, with a sparkling look of intelligence that would have forbidden one to laugh at her ignorance. She had a temper; indeed, she was a willful little spitfire; but she was not obstinate, and her sense of justice was keen. Wild, not bold; modest, not shy; frank, untutored, lonely, yet untroubled by dreams-she was not one for the gods who " use us for their sport" to forget or pass by.

V.

It was Sunday afternoon. Maum Dulcie had taken her little mistress to early mass that morning, walking behind her carrying her prayer-book as decorous as a duenna. After dinner she seated herself in the kitchen, rocking gently, and looking over a book of Bible pictures. Dina, not far away, was swinging in a hammock swung between two oleander-trees. The sea sparkled, the sun shone with a mellowed warmth, and a broad golden bar lay on the floor at Maum Dulcie's feet. Into this peaceful scene intruded a strange figure-old Sinai, the beggar-woman. Sinai was a character. She had ceased to be a beggar, so to speak, and had become an institution. The careless way she had of waving her hand toward her basket, as if merely to indicate where you might place your gifts, was a delicate tribute to your royal quality impossible to withstand. In return, she was prodigal of her company and her conversation. Both were sufficiently amusing, as she was a violent old devil when aroused, and spat out her words in a queer jargon that one needed a dexterous ear to follow. One of her habits was getting drunk on black coffee, which she made by her neighbors' fires at any hour of night or day. She always came provided with the apparatus for making her coffee, and it was of a beautiful simplicity. It consisted of a tin cup, and a sort of woollen bag, of so suspicious a shape as to suggest that it had been a stocking. Its color showed

at the tip, and shading up into a dingy white. She got her coffee, of course, from her hosts of the time being; but she was very particular as to its quality, insisting always on having it green, and parching it herself. This was an anxious performance, and she bent over the grains, stirring constantly until they were as brown as her face. Then crushing them between two stones, she flung them into her coffee bag. The next step was to hang this on the back of a chair, and pour boiling water into the bag, greedily watching it drip into her tin cup. Then to see her drink the bitter fluid and roll her eyes in ecstasy was to get a glimpse into her heaven.

"How joo?" she said, as she entered Dulcie's kitchen. "Got leetle café f' ole Sinai ?"

"Dar's a fresh han'ful lef' from dis mornin's parchin'," said Dulcie. "I thought you'd be a-rovin' in ter-day, an' I saved it a-purpose.

Glad yer got Sunday heart in yer breast. Zat mooch my good."

Never was there a greater contrast than between these ancient crones. Dulcie sat there, personified respectability. Her features were high, and more regular than is common among her people. Her head was wrapped in a stiff white handkerchief tied in four twists that stood up like pointing dead fingers. Of starched and stainless white, too, was the handkerchief crossed on her bosom, confined by a great brooch of Florentine mosaic. Her gown was of rustling black silk, owned for many years, and reserved for Sunday use. Dulcie always wore black, however, and was proud of the air of distinction she thus gained. She had been fond of gay colors, but when her young mistress died, she had made a solemn sacrifice of all her finery, giving to the gay negro lasses her bright turbans and many-flowered gowns.

"Black wuz de day when dat sweet flower was broke from its stalk," she said, "an' black shall be de color in which I mourns her while de breff is in dis body."

Sinai was the most disreputable-looking old savage a painter of the Ugly Real could desire for a model. She had a great mop of kinky hair, separated into some fifty twists, each wrapped tightly to its end with a red string, and standing out like quills. Her eyes were small and cunning as a ferret's, her forehead high, sunken,