d long
vibrate.

The first time a young girl listens to the language of love, even if it
steals into her heart gently and soothingly as the sweet south wind,
wakening the sleeping fragrance of a thousand bosom flowers, every
feeling flutters and trembles like the leaves of the mimosa, and recoils
from the slightest contact. But when she is forced suddenly and rudely
to hear the accents of passion, with which she associates the idea of
guilt, and treachery, and shame, she feels as if some robber had broken
into the temple consecrated to the purest, most innocent emotions, and
stolen the golden treasures hidden there. This alone was sufficient to
wound and terrify the young and sensitive Helen, but when her sister
assailed her with such a temper of wrathful accusations, accusations so
shameful and degrading, it is not strange that she was wrought up to the
state of partial frenzy which led her to rush to a father's bosom for
safety and repose.

And where was Mittie, the unhappy victim of her own wild, ungovernable
passion?

She remained in her room with her door locked, seated at the window,
looking out into the darkness, which was illuminated by the rays of a
waxing moon. She could see the white bark of the beech tree, conspicuous
among the other trees, and knowing the spot where the letters were
carved, she imagined she could trace them all, and that they were the
scarlet color of blood.

She had no light in her room, but feeling in her writing desk for the
pen-knife, she stole down stairs the back way and took the path she had
so often walked with Clinton. She was obliged to pass the room where
Helen lay, and glancing in at the window when the curtain fluttered, she
could see her pale, sad-looking face, and she did not like to look
again. She knew she had wronged her, for the moment she had given
utterance to her railing words, conscience told her they were false.
This conviction, however, did not lessen the rancor and bitterness of
her feelings. Hurrying on, she paused in front of the beech tree, and
the cyphers glared Upon her as if seen through a magnifying glass--they
looked so large and fiery. Opening her pen-knife, she smiled as a
moonbeam glared on its keen, blue edge. Had any one seen the expression
of her features, as she gazed at that shining, open blade, they would
have shuddered, and trembled for her purpose.

With a quick, hurried motion, she began to cut the bark from round the
letters, till they s