alk so. I am engaged."

Abel turned pale. Grace Plumer was frightened. He sprang forward and
seized her hand.

"Oh! Grace, hear me but one word! You knew that I loved you, and you
allowed me to come. In honor, in truth, before God, you are mine!"

She struggled to release her hand. As she looked in his face she saw
there an expression which assured her that he was capable of saying any
thing, of doing any thing; and she trembled to think how much she might
be--how much any woman is--in the power of a desperate man.

"Indeed, Mr. Newt, you must let me go!"

"Grace, Grace, say that you love me!"

The frightened girl broke away from him, and ran toward the door. Abel
followed her, but the door opened, and Sligo Moultrie entered.

"Oh, Sligo!" cried Grace, as he put his arm around her.

Abel stopped and bowed.

"Pardon me, Miss Plumer. Certainly Mr. Moultrie will understand the ardor
of a passion which in his case has been so fortunate. I am sorry, Sir,"
he said, turning to Sligo, "that my ignorance of your relation to Miss
Plumer should have betrayed me. I congratulate you both from my soul!"

He bowed again, and before they could speak he was gone. The tone of his
voice lingering upon their ears was like a hiss. It was a most sinister
felicitation.

CHAPTER LIV.

CLOUDS AND DARKNESS.

"At least, Miss Amy--at least, we shall be friends."

Amy Waring sat in her chamber on the evening of the day that Lawrence
Newt had said these words. Her long rich brown hair clustered upon her
shoulders, and the womanly brown eyes were fixed upon a handful of
withered flowers. They were the blossoms she had laid away at various
times--gifts of Lawrence Newt, or consecrated by his touch.

She sat musing for a long time. The womanly brown eyes were soft with
a look of aching regret rather than of sharp disappointment. Then she
rose--still holding the withered remains--and paced thoughtfully up and
down the room. The night hours passed, and still she softly paced, or
tranquilly seated herself, without the falling of a tear, and only
now and then a long deep breath rather than a sigh.

At last she took all the flowers--dry, yellow, lustreless--and opened a
sheet of white paper. She laid them in it, and the brown womanly eyes
looked at them with yearning fondness. She sat motionless, as if she
could not prevail upon herself to fold the paper. But at length she sank
gradually to her knees--a sinless Magdalen; her brown