om its framework of
brown curls, that were almost ever in perpetual motion from the frequent
toss of the busy little head.

But memory, though faithful, was pitiful, and kept presenting, one after
another, undarkened pictures, full of glow and sunshine; she had not
come down to the last three days of suspense and pain, of agony and
desolation. Ere that cruel curtain of gloom should shut from the
dreamer's eye his pleasant fancies, and with them the dying flames, the
loud barking of dogs, soon succeeded by hurried steps and voices,
aroused the half-conscious master of Kennons to the stern reality of the
present moment.

CHAPTER IV.

PHILIP ST. LEGER.

Duncan Lisle, at once thoroughly aroused, laid his sleeping child upon
the lounge, and then hastily opening the door, which led upon the
veranda, encountered the bronzed face and flashing eyes of his
brother-inlaw, Philip St. Leger. Now this gentleman from Turkey was not
a ghost, nor had he rained down. A staunch ship had brought him from
Constantinople to New York; a week he had spent with his friends at
Troy; the lightning express, then so-called, from the latter city to
Richmond; thence a stage had set him down at Flat-Rock; here, public
conveyance went no farther. The best and only means of transportation
was on horseback. The roads were in too wretched a condition for the
"Bald Eagle's" one rickety carriage to attempt to plough through.

The returned missionary, almost distracted with care and fatigue, made a
virtue of necessity. With black Sam as guide, he set off amid the rain
and darkness for Kennons.

"It were better," he said, mentally, "that I should myself remain until
the morning; but having come so far, so near, I should be on thorns; I
must go."

Philip St. Leger was not a Virginian by birth. He was a native of the
city at whose distinguished school Della Lisle had graduated. Only on
the day of graduation and at the time of her marriage had the brother
and husband of Della met.

It was a sad meeting now, on this dreary night. These men, still in the
flush of manhood, clasped hands, and looked into each others' eyes, with
a despairing, inquiring eagerness.

Their chill fingers were scarce unlocked when Duncan asked:

"And did you come alone?"

"I brought her child; but Della-- I left her sleeping beneath the
shadow of the minarets."

Duncan stamped his foot. His cup of sorrow had been full. He had quaffed
with what patience possible it