man of proud spirit, queenly and commanding, beyond air
beautiful.

She does not think thus of herself, as, leaning over the guard-rail,
with eyes mechanically bent upon the wheel, she watches it whipping the
water into spray. Her thoughts are not of lofty pride, but low
humiliation. Spurned by him at whose feet she has flung herself, so
fondly, so rashly--ay, recklessly--surrendering even that which woman
deems most dear, and holds back to the ultimate moment of rendition--the
word which speaks it!

To Charles Clancy she has spoken it. True, only in writing; but still
in terms unmistakeable, and with nothing reserved. And how has he
treated them? No response--not even denial! Only contemptuous silence,
worse than outspoken scorn!

No wonder her breast is filled with chagrin, and her brow burning with
shame!

Both may be ended in an instant. A step over the low rail--a plunge
into the red rolling river--a momentary struggle amidst its seething
waters--not to preserve life, but destroy it--this, and all will be
over! Sadness, jealousy, the pangs of disappointed love--these baleful
passions, and all others alike, can be soothed, and set at rest, by one
little effort--a leap into oblivion!

Her nerves are fast becoming strung to the taking it. The past seems
all dark, the future yet darker. For her, life has lost its
fascinations, while death is divested of its terrors.

Suicide in one so young, so fair, so incomparably lovely; one capable of
charming others, no longer to be charmed herself! A thing fearful to
reflect upon.

And yet is she contemplating it!

She stands close to the rail, wavering, irresolute. It is no lingering
love of life which causes her to hesitate. Nor yet fear of death, even
in the horrid form, she cannot fail to see before her, spring she but
over that slight railing.

The moon has arisen, and now courses across the blue canopy of sky, in
full effulgence, her beams falling bright upon the bosom of the river.
At intervals the boat, keeping the deeper channel, is forced close to
either bank. Then, as the surging eddies set the floating but
stationary logs in motion, the huge saurian asleep on them can be heard
giving a grunt of anger for the rude arousing, and pitching over into
the current with dull sullen plash.

She sees, and hears all this. It should shake her nerves, and cause
shivering throughout her frame.

It does neither. The despair of life has deadened the dre