oyed themselves much, this term, at the Institute,
and thought they were making rapid progress in their studies. There was
a great enthusiasm for the young master's reading-classes in English
poetry. Some of the poor little things began to adorn themselves with an
extra ribbon, or a bit of such jewelry as they had before kept for great
occasions. Dear souls! they only half knew what they were doing it for.
Does the bird know why its feathers grow more brilliant and its voice
becomes musical in the pairing season?

And so, in the midst of this quiet inland town, where a mere accident
had placed Mr. Bernard Langdon, there was a concentration of explosive
materials which might at any time change its Arcadian and academic
repose into a scene of dangerous commotion. What said Helen Darley, when
she saw with her woman's glance that more than one girl, when she should
be looking at her book, was looking over it toward the master's desk?
Was her own heart warmed by any livelier feeling than gratitude, as its
life began to flow with fuller pulses, and the morning sky again looked
bright and the flowers recovered their lost fragrance? Was there any
strange, mysterious affinity between the master and the dark girl who
sat by herself? Could she call him at will by looking at him? Could it
be that--? It made her shiver to think of it.--And who was that strange
horseman who passed Mr. Bernard at dusk the other evening, looking
so like Mephistopheles galloping hard to be in season at the witches'
Sabbath-gathering? That must be the cousin of Elsie's who wants to marry
her, they say. A dangerous-looking fellow for a rival, if one took a
fancy to the dark girl! And who is she, and what?--by what demon is she
haunted, by what taint is she blighted, by what curse is she followed,
by what destiny is she marked, that her strange beauty has such a terror
in it, and that hardly one shall dare to love her, and her eye glitters
always, but warms for none?

Some of these questions are ours. Some were Helen Darley's. Some of them
mingled with the dreams of Bernard Langdon, as he slept the night after
meeting the strange horseman. In the morning he happened to be a little
late in entering the schoolroom. There was something between the leaves
of the Virgil which lay upon his desk. He opened it and saw a
freshly gathered mountain-flower. He looked at Elsie, instinctively,
involuntarily. She had another such flower on her breast.

A young girl's g