ws he is dead!

The newspaper has furnished but a meagre account of the murder. It
bears date but two days subsequent, and must have been issued subsequent
to Mrs Clancy's death, as it speaks of this event having occurred.

It would be out at an early hour that same morning.

In epitome its account is: that a man is missing, supposed to be
murdered; by name, Charles Clancy. That search is being made for his
body, not yet found. That the son of a well-known planter, Ephraim
Darke, himself called Richard, has been arrested on suspicion, and
lodged in the county jail; and, just as the paper is going to press, it
has received the additional intelligence, that the mother of the
murdered man has succumbed to the shock, and followed her unfortunate
son to the "bourne from which no traveller returns."

The report is in the flowery phraseology usually indulged, in by the
south-western journals. It is accompanied by comments and conjectures
as to the motive of the crime. Among these Helen Armstrong has read her
own name, with the contents of that letter addressed to Clancy, but
proved to have been in the possession of Darke. Though given only in
epitome--for the editor confesses not to have seen the epistle, but only
had account of it from him who furnished the report--still to Helen
Armstrong is the thing painfully compromising. All the world will now
know the relations that existed between her and Charles Clancy. What
would she care were he alive? And what need she, now he is dead?

She does not care--no. It is not this that afflicts her. Could she but
bring him to life again, she would laugh the world to scorn, brave the
frowns of her father, to prove herself a true woman by becoming the wife
of him her heart had chosen for a husband.

"It cannot be; he is dead--gone--lost for ever!"

So run her reflections, as she stands in silence by her sister's side,
their conversation for the time suspended. Oppressed by their
painfulness, she retires a seep, and sinks down into one of the chairs;
not to escape the bitter thoughts--for she cannot--but to brood on them
alone.

Jessie remains with hands rested on the rail, gazing down into the
street. She is looking for her Luis, who should now soon be returning
to the hotel.

People are passing, some in leisurely promenade, others in hurried step,
telling of early habits and a desire to get home.

One catching her eye, causes her to tremble; one for whom she has a