oine--a rich and
still young and beautiful widow--unwittingly sought the same medicinal
solitude. Here in the depth of the forest she encountered her former
playmate; the passion which he had fondly supposed was dead revived in
her presence, and for the first time she learned from his bearded lips
the secret of his passion. Alas! not SHE alone! The contiguous forest
could not be bolted out, and the Indian wife heard all. Recognizing the
situation with aboriginal directness of purpose, she committed suicide
in the fond belief that it would reunite the survivors. But in vain; the
cousins parted on the spot to meet no more.

Even Mrs. Ashwood's predilection for the youthful writer could not
overlook the fact that the denouement was by no means novel nor the
situation human, but yet it was here that she was most interested and
fascinated. The description of the forest was a description of the wood
where she had first met Harcourt; the charm of it returned, until she
almost seemed to again inhale its balsamic freshness in the pages before
her. Now, as then, her youth came back with the same longing and regret.
But more bewildering than all, it was herself that moved there, painted
with the loving hand of the narrator. For the first time she experienced
the delicious flattery of seeing herself as only a lover could see her.
The smallest detail of her costume was suggested with an accuracy that
pleasantly thrilled her feminine sense. The grace of her figure slowly
moving through the shadow, the curves of her arm and the delicacy of her
hand that held the bridle rein, the gentle glow of her softly rounded
cheek, the sweet mystery of her veiled eyes and forehead, and the
escaping gold of her lovely hair beneath her hat were all in turn
masterfully touched or tenderly suggested. And when to this was added
the faint perfume of her nearer presence--the scent she always used--the
delicate revelations of her withdrawn gauntlet, the bracelet clasping
her white wrist, and at last the thrilling contact of her soft hand on
his arm,--she put down the manuscript and blushed like a very girl. Then
she started.

A shout!--HIS voice surely!--and the sound of oars in their rowlocks.

An instant revulsion of feeling overtook her. With a quick movement she
instantly hid the manuscript beneath her cloak and stood up erect and
indignant. Not twenty yards away, apparently advancing from the opposite
shore of the bay, was a boat. It contained only