ose figure is enfolded in the
shapeless garment, giving it shape. He would at once identify it as
that of his master's daughter. For no wrap however loosely flung over
it, could hide the queenly form of Helen Armstrong, or conceal the
splendid symmetry of her person. Arrayed in the garb of a laundress,
she would still look the lady.

Perhaps, for the first time in her life she is walking with stealthy
step, crouched form, and countenance showing fear. Daughter of a large
slave-owner--mistress over many slaves--she is accustomed to an upright
attitude, and aristocratic bearing. But she is now on an errand that
calls for more than ordinary caution, and would dread being recognised
by the humblest slave on her father's estate.

Fortunately for her, none see; therefore no one takes note of her
movements, or the mode of her apparel. If one did, the last might cause
remark. A woman cloaked, with head hooded in a warm summer night, the
thermometer at ninety!

Notwithstanding the numerous lights, she is not observed as she glides
through their crossing coruscations. And beyond, there is but little
danger--while passing through the peach orchard, that stretches rearward
from the dwelling. Still less, after getting out through a wicket-gate,
which communicates with a tract of woodland. For then she is among
trees whose trunks stand close, the spaces between buried in deep
obscurity--deeper from the night being a dark one. It is not likely so
to continue: for, before entering into the timber, she glances up to the
sky, and sees that the cloud canopy has broken; here and there stars
scintillating in the blue spaces between. While, on the farther edge of
the plantation clearing, a brighter belt along the horizon foretells the
uprising of the moon.

She does not wait for this; but plunges into the shadowy forest, daring
its darkness, regardless of its dangers.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

UNDER THE TRYSTING TREE.

Still stooping in her gait, casting furtive glances to right, to left,
before and behind--at intervals stopping to listen--Helen Armstrong
continues her nocturnal excursion. Notwithstanding the obscurity, she
keeps in a direct course, as if to reach some particular point, and for
a particular reason.

What this is needs not be told. Only love could lure a young lady out
at that late hour, and carry her along a forest path, dark, and not
without dangers. And love unsanctioned, unallowed--perhaps forbidden,