state of feeling that existed between his brother-
in-law and Maud, and he advised an immediate union.

"Be happy while you can," he said, with bitter emphasis. "We live in
troubled times, and heaven knows when we shall see better. Maud has not
a blood-relation in all America, unless there may happen to be some in
the British army. Though we should all be happy to protect and cherish
the dear girl, she herself would probably, prefer to be near those whom
nature has appointed her friends. To me, she will always seem a sister,
as you must ever be a brother. By uniting yourselves at once, all
appearances of impropriety will be avoided; and in time, God averting
evil, you can introduce your wife to her English connections."

"You forget, Beekman, that you are giving this advice to one who is a
prisoner on parole, and one who may possibly be treated as a spy."

"No--that is impossible. Schuyler, our noble commander, is both just
and a gentleman. He will tolerate nothing of the sort. Your exchange
can easily be effected, and, beyond your present difficulties, I can
pledge myself to be able to protect you."

Willoughby was not averse to following this advice; and he urged it
upon Maud, as the safest and most prudent course they could pursue. Our
heroine, however, was so reluctant even to assuming the appearance of
happiness, so recently after the losses she had experienced, that the
lover's task of persuasion was by no means easy. Maud was totally free
from affectation, while she possessed the keenest sense of womanly
propriety. Her intercourse with Robert Willoughby had been of the
tenderest and most confidential nature, above every pretence of
concealment, and was rendered sacred by the scenes through which they
had passed. Her love, her passionate, engrossing attachment, she did
not scruple to avow; but she could not become a bride while the stains
of blood seemed so recent on the very hearth around which they were
sitting. She still saw the forms of the dead, in their customary
places, heard their laughs, the tones of their affectionate voices, the
maternal whisper, the playful, paternal reproof, or Beulah's gentle
call.

"Yet, Robert," said Maud, for she could now call him by that name, and
drop the desperate familiarity of 'Bob,'--"yet, Robert, there would be
a melancholy satisfaction in making our vows at the altar of the little
chapel, where we have so often worshipped together--the loved ones who
are gone and we