one thought--she must get away. The very air
seemed to stifle her; her heart seemed numb--an icy band seemed
pressing round it, and her poor forehead was burning hot. It did not
matter much where she went, nobody loved her, nobody cared for her. As
softly as she came, she glided down the path that led to the
entrance-gate beyond. She passed through the moonlighted grounds,
where the music and fragrance of the summer night was at its height.
The night wind stirred the pink clover and the blue-bells beneath her
feet. Her eyes were hot and dry; tears would have been a world of
relief to her, but none came to her parched eyelids.

She paid little heed to the direction she took. One idea alone took
possession of her--she must get away.

"If I could only go back to dear old Uncle John," she sighed. "His
love has never failed me."

It seemed long years back since she had romped with him, a happy,
merry child, over the cotton fields, and he had called her his sunbeam
during all those years when no one lived at Whitestone Hall and the
wild ivy climbed riotously over the windows and doors. Even Septima's
voice would have sounded so sweet to her. She would have lived over
again those happy, childish days, if she only could. She remembered
how Septima would send her to the brook for water, and how she
sprinkled every flower in the path-way that bore her name; and how
Septima would scold her when she returned with her bucket scarce half
full; and how she had loved to dream away those sunny summer days,
lying under the cool, shady trees, listening to the songs the robins
sang as they glanced down at her with their little sparkling eyes.

How she had dreamed of the gallant young hero who was to come to her
some day. She had wondered how she would know him, and what were the
words he first would say! If he would come riding by, as the judge did
when "Maud Muller stood in the hay-fields;" and she remembered, too,
the story of "Rebecca at the Well." A weary smile flitted over her
face as she remembered when she went to the brook she had always put
on her prettiest blue ribbons, in case she might meet her hero.

Oh, those sweet, bright, rosy dreams of girlhood! What a pity it is
they do not last forever! Those girlish dreams, where glowing fancy
reigns supreme, and the prosaic future is all unknown. She remembered
her meeting with Rex, how every nerve in her whole being thrilled, and
how she had felt her cheeks grow flaming hot, jus