altogether different. Only in age does he bear any similarity to the
planter's son; for he is also a youth of some three or four and twenty.
In all else he is unlike Dick Darke, as one man could well be to
another.

He is of medium size and height, with a figure pleasingly proportioned.
His shoulders squarely set, and chest rounded out, tell of great
strength; while limbs tersely knit, and a firm elastic tread betoken
toughness and activity. Features of smooth, regular outline--the jaws
broad, and well balanced; the chin prominent; the nose nearly Grecian--
while eminently handsome, proclaim a noble nature, with courage equal to
any demand that may be made upon it. Not less the glance of a blue-grey
eye, unquailing as an eagle's.

A grand shock of hair, slightly curled, and dark brown in colour, gives
the finishing touch to his fine countenance, as the feather to a
Tyrolese hat.

Dressed in a sort of shooting costume, with jack-boots, and gaiters
buttoned above them, he carries a gun; which, as can be seen, is a
single-barrelled rifle; while at his heels trots a dog of large size,
apparently a cross between stag-hound and mastiff, with a spice of
terrier in its composition. Such mongrels are not necessarily curs, but
often the best breed for backwoods' sport; where the keenness of scent
required to track a deer, needs supplementing by strength and
staunchness, when the game chances, as it often does, to be a bear, a
wolf, or a panther.

The master of this trebly crossed canine is the man whose name rose upon
the lips of Richard Darke, after reading the purloined epistle--Charles
Clancy. To him was it addressed, and for him intended, as also the
photograph found inside.

Several days have elapsed since his return from Texas, having come back,
as already known, to find himself fatherless. During the interval he
has remained much at home--a dutiful son, doing all he can to console a
sorrowing mother. Only now and then has he sought relaxation in the
chase, of which he is devotedly fond. On this occasion he has come down
to the cypress swamp; but, having encountered no game, is going back
with an empty bag.

He is not in low spirits at his ill success; for he has something to
console him--that which gives gladness to his heart--joy almost reaching
delirium. She, who has won it, loves him.

This she is Helen Armstrong. She has not signified as much, in words;
but by ways equally expressive, and quite as c