hanging notes. Sometimes there are other sounds in this shady
retreat, still more congenial to the ears of those who hear them. Oft
is it tenanted by dark-eyed demoiselles, and their Creole cavaliers, who
converse in the low whisperings of love, to them far sweeter than song
of thrush, or note of nightingale--words speaking the surrender of a
heart, with others signifying its acceptance.

To-night there is nothing of this within the vine-trellised verandah;
for only two individuals occupy it, both ladies. By the light from
street lamps and open casements, from moonbeams shining through the
lilac leaves, from fire-flies hovering and shooting about, it can be
seen that both are young, and both beautiful. Of two different types,
dark and fair: for they are the two daughters of Archibald Armstrong.

As said, they are alone, nor man nor woman near. There have been others
of both sexes, but all have gone inside; most to retire for the night,
now getting late.

Colonel Armstrong is not in the hotel, nor Dupre. Both are abroad on
the business of their colonising scheme. About this everything has been
arranged, even to selection of the place. A Texan land speculator, who
holds a large "grant" upon the San Saba river, opportunely chances to be
in Natchitoches at the time. It is a tract of territory surrounding,
and formerly belonging to, an old mission by the monks, long ago
abandoned. Dupre has purchased it; and all now remaining to be done is
to complete the make-up of the migrating party, and start off to take
possession.

Busied with these preparations, the young Creole, and his future
father-in-law, are out to a later hour than usual, which accounts for
the ladies being left alone. Otherwise, one, at least, would not be
long left to herself. If within the hotel, Dupre would certainly be by
the side of his Jessie.

The girls are together, standing by the baluster rail, with eyes bent
upon the street. They have been conversing, but have ceased. As usual,
the younger has been trying to cheer the elder, still sad, though now
from a far different cause. The pain at her heart is no longer that of
jealousy, but pure grief, with an admixture of remorse. The Natchez
newspaper has caused this change; what she read there, clearing Clancy
of all treason, leaving herself guilty for having suspected him.

But, oh! such an _eclaircissement_! Obtained at the expense of a life
dear to her as her own--dearer now she kno