ng. If you think you could not be contented--happy--with Richard
Darke for your husband, better it should never be. Consult your own
heart, and do not be swayed by me, or my necessities. Say, is the thing
impossible?"

"I have said. _It is impossible_!"

For a moment both remain silent; the father drooping, spiritless, as if
struck by a galvanic shock; the daughter looking sorrowful, as though
she had given it.

She soonest recovering, makes an effort to restore him.

"Dear father!" she exclaims, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and
gazing tenderly into his eyes; "you speak of a change in our
circumstances--of bankruptcy and other ills. Let them come! For myself
I care not. Even if the alternative were death, I've told you--I tell
you again--I would rather that, than be the wife of Richard Darke."

"Then his wife you'll never be! Now, let the subject drop, and the ruin
fall! We must prepare for poverty, and Texas!"

"Texas, if you will, but not poverty. Nothing of the kind. The wealth
of affection will make you feel rich; and in a lowly log-hut, as in this
grand house, you'll still have mine."

So speaking, the fair girl flings herself upon her father's breast, her
hand laid across his forehead, the white fingers soothingly caressing
it.

The door opens. Another enters the room--another girl, almost fair as
she, but brighter, and younger. 'Tis Jessie.

"Not only my affection," Helen adds, at sight of the newcomer, "but hers
as well. Won't he, sister?"

Sister, wondering what it is all about, nevertheless sees something is
wanted of her. She has caught the word "affection," at the same time
observing an afflicted cast upon her father's countenance. This decides
her; and, gliding forward, in another instant she is by his side,
clinging to the opposite shoulder, with an arm around his neck.

Thus grouped, the three figures compose a family picture expressive of
purest love.

A pleasing tableau to one who knew nothing of what has thus drawn them
together; or knowing it, could truly appreciate. For in the faces of
all beams affection, which bespeaks a happy, if not prosperous, future--
without any doubting fear of either poverty, or Texas.

CHAPTER FIVE.

A PHOTOGRAPH IN THE FOREST.

On the third day, after that on which Richard Darke abstracted the
letter from the magnolia, a man is seen strolling along the edge of the
cypress swamp. The hour is nearly the same, but the individual