took from it
one of Dr. Lacey's letters. Going to her writing desk, she sat down and
commenced imitating his handwriting. She was very skillful in the art of
imitation, and was delighted to find herself rapidly succeeding in her
attempts at counterfeiting. So busily engaged was she that she did not
heed the lapse of time, until her sister's footsteps were heard ascending
the stairs. She sprang hastily up, and thrusting her writing materials
into the box locked it, and had just time to throw herself upon the sofa
when Fanny knocked at the door. Julia allowed her to knock twice, and then
getting up she unfastened the door, at the same time yawning and rubbing
her eyes as if just awakened from a sound slumber.

"Why, sister, I woke you up, didn't I?" said Fanny. "I am sorry."

"No matter," answered Julia, with another yawn, "I feel better. My nap has
done my head good."

In the afternoon Fanny again went to church, and Julia resumed the
occupation of the morning. She succeeded so well that before church was
out she felt sure that after a few more attempts she could imitate Dr.
Lacey's writing so exactly as to thoroughly deceive Fanny. "But not yet,"
said she to herself; "I do not wish to test my skill yet. It is hardly
time."

Thus the days glided away. Nearly two weeks passed, and there came no
answer to Fanny's letter. She did not know that regularly, twice a week,
letters had arrived from New Orleans, and had been handed to Julia by Mr.
Dunn. In the last of these letters, Dr. Lacey complained because Fanny had
neglected writing so long. We will give the following extract:

"MY PRECIOUS SUNSHINE:

"--Can it be that you are sick? I do not wish to think so; and yet what
else can prevent your writing? I have not a thought that you are forgetful
of me, for you are too pure, too innocent to play me false. And yet I am
sometimes haunted by a vague fear that all is not right, for a dark shadow
seems resting over me. One line from you, dearest Fanny, will fill my
heart with sunshine again--"

Thus wrote the doctor, and Julia commented on it as follows: "Yes, you are
haunted, and I am glad of it. The pill is working well; I'll see whether
'Sunshine,' as you and my old fool father call her, will steal away
everybody's love for me. I suppose I'm the dark shadow, for father calls
me a spirit of darkness, and yet, perhaps, if he had been more gentle with
me, I might have been better; but now it's too late." And the letter was