ing his old slave the lash: both pleasant if
realised, but painful the thought in both to be foiled.

Still keeping in concealment, he permits Julia to depart, not only
unmolested, but unchallenged. There may be some secret in the letter to
concern, though it may not console him. In any case, it will soon be
his.

And it soon is, without imparting consolation. Rather the reverse.
Whatever the contents of that epistle, so curiously deposited, Richard
Darke, on becoming acquainted with them, reels like a drunken man; and
to save himself from falling, seeks support against the trunk of the
tree!

After a time, recovering, he re-reads the letter, and gazes at a
picture--a photograph--also found within the envelope.

Then from his lips come words, low-muttered--words of menace, made
emphatic by an oath.

A man's name is heard among his mutterings, more than once repeated.

As Dick Darke, after thrusting letter and picture into his pocket,
strides away from the spot, his clenched teeth, with the lurid light
scintillating in his eyes, to this man foretell danger--maybe death.

CHAPTER FOUR.

TWO GOOD GIRLS.

The dark cloud, long lowering over Colonel Armstrong and his fortunes,
is about to fall. A dialogue with his eldest daughter occurring on the
same day--indeed in the same hour--when she refused Richard Darke, shows
him to have been but too well aware of the prospect of impending ruin.

The disappointed suitor had not long left the presence of the lady, who
so laconically denied him, when another appears by her side. A man,
too; but no rival of Richard Darke--no lover of Helen Armstrong. The
venerable white-haired gentleman, who has taken Darke's place, is her
father, the old colonel himself. His air, on entering the room, betrays
uneasiness about the errand of the planter's son--a suspicion there is
something amiss. He is soon made certain of it, by his daughter
unreservedly communicating the object of the interview. He says in
rejoinder:--

"I supposed that to be his purpose; though, from his coming at this
early hour, I feared something worse."

These words bring a shadow over the countenance of her to whom they are
addressed, simultaneous with a glance of inquiry from her grand,
glistening eyes.

First exclaiming, then interrogating, she says:--

"Worse! Feared! Father, what should you be afraid of?"

"Never mind, my child; nothing that concerns you. Tell me: in what way
did you give