the sound of her footsteps, and met her brother on the
threshold.

"Why will you do this, Mittie?" cried he, impatiently. "Do go back--I am
cold and weary, and want to go to bed."

"Only tell me one thing--have you no message for me?"

"None."

"When does he go away?"

"I don't know. But one thing I can tell you; if you value your peace
and happiness, let not your heart anchor its hopes on him. Look upon all
that is past as mere gallantry on his side, and the natural drawing of
youth to youth on yours. Come this way," drawing her into the
sitting-room, where the dying embers still communicated warmth to the
apartment, and shed a dim, lurid light on their faces. "Though my head
aches as if red-hot wires were passing through it, I must guard you at
once against this folly. You know so little of the world, Mittie, you
don't understand the manners of young men, especially when first
released from college. There is a chivalry about them which converts
every young lady into an angel, and they address them as such. Their
attentions seldom admit a more serious construction. Besides--but no
matter--I have said enough, I hope, to rouse the pride of your sex, and
to induce you to banish Clinton from your thoughts. Good-night."

Though he tried to speak carelessly, he was evidently much agitated.

"Good-night," he again repeated, but Mittie stood motionless as a
statue, looking steadfastly on the glimmering embers. "Go up stairs," he
cried, taking her cold hand, and leading her to the door, "you will be
frozen if you stay here much longer."

"I am frozen already," she answered, shuddering, "good night."

The next morning, when the housemaid went into her room to kindle a
fire, she was startled by the appearance of a muffled figure seated at
the window, with the head leaning against the casement; the face was as
white as the snow on the landscape. It was Mittie. She had not laid her
head upon the pillow the whole live-long night.

CHAPTER XII.

"Beautiful tyrant--fiend angelical--
Dove-feathered raven!--wolf-devouring lamb--
Oh, serpent heart--hid in a flowering cave,
Did e'er deceit dwell in so fair a mansion!"--_Shakspeare._

"Pray for the dead.
Why for the dead, who are at rest?
Pray for the living, in whose breast
The struggle between right and wrong
Is raging terrible and strong."--_Longfellow._

"Are you willing to remain with her alone, all night?" asked the young