h the child as to
visit his anger upon this gentle embodiment of all that is gracious, all
that is trustworthy, all that is fascinating in woman. But am I called
upon to hate her? Am I not in a way required to love her? I will ask
Felix. No, I cannot ask Felix. He would never comprehend her charm or
its influence over me. He would have doubts and come at once to
Montgomery. Good God! Am I proving such a traitor to my own flesh and
blood that I cannot bear to think of Felix contemplating even in secret
the unsuspicious form of his enemy's daughter?

* * * * *

LETTER VIII.

DEAR FELIX:

A picnic on the mountains. It fell to me to escort Miss Poindexter down
a dangerous slope. Though no words of affection passed between us (she
is not yet ready for them), I feel that I have made a decided advance in
her good graces.

Yours, THOMAS.

ENTRY IX.

I have touched her hand! I have felt her sweet form thrilling against
mine as we descended the mountain ledges together! No man was near, no
eye--there were moments in which we were as much alone in the wide
paradise of these wooded slopes as if the world held no other breathing
soul. Yet I no more dared to press her hand, or pour forth the mad
worship of my heart into her innocent ears, than if the eyes of all
Paris had been upon us. How I love her! How far off and faint seem the
years of that dead crime my brother would invoke for the punishment of
this sweet soul! Yes, and how remote that awful hour in which I knelt
beneath the hand of my dying father and swore--Ah, that oath! That oath!

* * * * *

ENTRY X.

The thing I dreaded, the thing I might have foreseen, has occurred.
Felix has made his appearance in Montgomery. I received a communication
to that effect from him to-day; a communication in which he commands me
to meet him to-night, at Evelyn's grave, at the witching hour of twelve.
I do not enjoy the summons. I have a dread of Felix, and begin to think
he calculates upon stage devices to control me. But the day has passed
for that. I will show him that I can be no more influenced in that place
and at that hour than I could be in this hotel room, with the sight of
her little glove--is there sin in such thefts?--lying on the table
before us. Evelyn! She is a sacred memory. But the dead must not
interfere with the living. Eva shall never be sacrificed to Evelyn's
manes, not if John Poindexter lives