answered, gently, "do you think I would jest with
you on such a subject? Indeed--indeed it is true. She was married some
ten days ago to Mr. Ferrers, the blind clergyman, who was staying at
Belgrave House. He had come there to look for her. He had known her
from a child, and they had long loved each other."

"Married!" he repeated, in the same dull, hard voice, and there was
something in his face that made Fern throw her arms round his neck.

"Oh, it is hard," she sobbed; "I know how hard it is for you to hear
me say this, but it has to be faced. She never deceived you, dear--she
never let you hope for a single moment; she was always true to herself
and you. Try to bear it, Percy; try to be glad that her unhappiness is
over, and that she is married to the man she loves. It is the only
thing that will help you."

"Nothing will help me," he returned, in the same muffled voice; but
she would not be repulsed. She swept back the dark hair from his
forehead and kissed him. Did she not share his sufferings? Could any
one sympathize with him as she could? "Oh, if mother were only here,"
she sighed, feeling her inability to comfort him. "Mother is so sorry
for you, she cried about it the other night."

"Yes," he answered, "mothers are like that;" and then was silent
again. What was there he could say?--he was in no mood for sympathy.
The touch of Fern's soft arms, her little attempt at consolation, were
torture to him. His idol was gone in another man's possession. He
should never see again the dark southern loveliness that had so
inthralled his imagination; and the idea was maddening to him.

In a little while he rose, but no speech seemed possible to him. A
wall of ice seemed to be built up across his path, and he could see no
outlet. "I can not stay now," he said, and his voice sounded strange
to his own ears. "Will you give my love to my mother, Fern?"

"Oh, do not go," she pleaded, and now the tears were running down her
face. "Do stay with me, Percy."

"Not now; I will come again," he answered, releasing himself
impatiently; but as he mounted his horse, some impulse made him look
up and wave his hand. And then he rode out into the gloom.

It was too early to go home; besides, he did not care to face people.
The fog seemed lifting a little. His mare was fresh, and she might
take her own road, and follow her own pace--a few miles more or less
would not matter to him in this mood.

Black care was sitting behind him