youth and beauty, and a little one, who lay down to sleep with but the shadows of nine short summers in his golden hair; and to-day, for them a mother still mourns who will not be comforted, because, like weeping Rachel, her children “

are not."

But alas, if Remorse wrings the heart of the mourner! Grief-stricken Mrs. Earle was less miserable in her sorrow, than the pale, haggard man who, with the shadows of night, crept stealthily from the dense wood of pines and knelt at Leafy Earle's grave.

His attire was disordered, his thick hair dishevelled, and his frame trembled with fear and weakness as he feebly staggered forward.

Hugh Golding was a hunted man. For two days and nights, the officers of the law had been on the search in the great city; every vessel leaving port had been searched, cutting off his contemplated avenue of escape by the foreign steamer; advertisements, with descriptions of his person and offers of reward, were everywhere; and in desperation he had bent his footsteps to the spot of all others most terrible to him, and for two days and nights lain concealed in the dense pine forests.

"Hunted down like a dog!" he muttered as he sunk upon the turf. "It has come to this, then! To hide and skulk away, and starve here! devil! who could have foreseen it? But this is hardest of all!" and he struck the sod with his clenched fist "to know that my own madness did this! - Oh Leafy, Leafy - pure and beautiful! Did I believe there is a GodI would say he sent your death as a judgment— a judgment!" and with a groan, he buried his face in his hands.

"Hugh Golding, it is a judgment !

The miserable man sprang up as though an arrow had pierced his heart, and glared around with a frightened air.

A woman knelt at the head of the grave.

Golding knew his danger. He went close beside her, and crouching down like the humblest beggar said in a hollow voice,

"Mrs. Earle, for God's sake be my friend. I swear to you here, that I never meant what I uttered in a moment of madness and she overheard. God knows that I am wretched enough this night, to know that her ears can never hear my words of repentance. But I cannot stay to weep over her grave. Mrs. Earle," and he lowered his voice to a whisper, "do you know that I am hunted - hunted? that a price is set upon my head? I have done a deed, for which, if once within the clutch of the men upon my track, I suffer the full penalty of Justice. You are a woman save me -hide me till the search is over.

give me See! I

shelter, rest, food will make you a rich woman for life," and a purse fell heavily before her "there are hundreds of golden eagles - only save me!" and he sank abjectly on his knees.

"Make me rich?" echoed Mrs. Earle sadly, reproachfully. "Oh, miserable man, what are earthly riches to a mother who has laid her only treasure here? Hugh Golding, I would not touch a dollar of your gold, were I starving. Could it ever bring back her?" and she swayed her body to and fro with convulsive moans.

66

hands. my

'Hugh Golding, you killed my child; you have desolated my life; and now you come with another confession on your lips: and I hold life in your But I will not betray you.' 'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord.' You are safe! In yonder house you will find food and shelter-I would not harm a hair of your head because she loved you!" and a quick, choking sob stifled the mother's voice.

Humbly, abjectly, the miserable man crept away.

But Justice, long wronged of her rightful prey, could be

defeated no longer. The last leaf in the life of that evil man was turned.

That twilight, two travellers-in supping at a little village inn three miles down the river-exchanged intelligent glances as the garrulous landlord detailed an event that had stirred the whole surrounding country.

"Mayhap you've heard of it, strangers," he said "about the young girl killed by lightning the other night? "Twas dreadful lonesome where they lived - she and her mother - in the old stone house on the hill. Everybody, a'most, went up to the funeral: they said she looked jest like a child asleep — beautiful as a picter. There was a gentleman used to come up often from York, and take his fine horse from the stables - he kept it here and ride up there. I've watched him twenty times; and he always come back late and slept here, then took the first morning boat for the city. He was her sweetheart, maybe, but it seems strange he didn't come nigh at the funeral."

"You say this man was from New York? Who was he? his name?" asked one of the strangers.

the next after

"Don't know. He always paid his bills like a gentleman. Settled up the last night when he went away the thunder-storm. Was a tall man

- black eyes and hair

every inch a gentleman. By the way, strangers, maybe you're from York? Have they found the Bank robber yet? Pretty bold stroke, that!"

--

"No! so far, the villain is scot free," answered the man, rising. "But I forgot-you said, I believe, sir, that this death by lightning was in these parts. Whereabouts is the stone cottage, sir?”

The landlord pointed from an open window. "There, you can see the hill from here -'Eagle's Nest Hill' some call it. The old stone house is just round the corner of the bluff."

"Thank you!" said his interrrogator. Then, settling the bill, he took his companion's arm and sauntered slowly from the low porch of the country inn.

"This must be the region. Smyth put us on the right trail. If he has not fled the country, we shall find him here," and they quickened their pace along the lonely highway.

When Hugh Golding crossed the threshold of the stone cottage, two tall, powerful men stood before him in the gloom. Strong hands were laid upon his arms. With a sudden bound and infuriate cry of despair, he dashed off their grasp and fled toward the forest. But they were with him there. Midway between the house and the wood, their footsteps paused beside his own.

"Hugh Golding, you are our prisoner!" and a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

Like a panorama the Future swept before his mental vision. Fetters the prison cell the trial and condemnation

- the

jeers of the rabble, and the penalty of the inexorable law. The resolve of that desperate man was taken. "Never! By heaven, I will never see Sing Sing! Thus I defy you! Now-ha! ha!- now take me on her grave!" and with a sudden bound forward, a pistol-shot woke a hundred echoes among the hills; and a shrill scream of mortal agony louder than the cry of the frightened woman who stood spellbound in terror - rang out on the night air, as he staggered heavily forward on Leafy Earle's grave.

The officers raised him; but a blood-red stream dyed the turf and dabbled their hands, and a white, ghastly, convulsed face was upturned to the solemn starlight.

The soul of the Suicide had passed into the presence of its God.
Retribution had begun!

CHAPTER XLIV.

A consummation most devoutly to be wished.

SHAKSPEARE.

SOME one has said, reader, that modern novels always terminate with a wedding. And pray, why not?

Nor shall we depart from the established rule. In this, our novel, we will have a bridal alsq — and readers, one and all, you are bidden; for, mayhap, if your eye has followed these pages thus far, with us, you may desire the completion of our gentle Peace's happiness. For how could it be otherwise?

Tell us not, O, cold worldling, "It is a sin to love too much! God will claim your idols!" We never love "too much." God never sent Death, or Change, or any other messenger, to take away our treasures because we loved them too fondly — it is because we love HIM too little; for "God is love," and He never bestowed upon his creatures hearts to lie rusted, and affections whose "fine gold" should become dimmed. Only let us take heed that the image of the human comes not between us and the Divine.

At the altar, looking into eyes that make brightest stars in our life-sky, clasping hands that henceforth lead us on our life-path, - do we love "too much" then? Beside the dying, pressing quivering lips to marble foreheads, clinging fast to fingers Death is striving to wrest from ours, or dropping tears upon the coffinlid, - do we love "too much" then?

Oh, no! Whether at bridal or burial the sunshine or the gloom

in joy or woe

we never love too strongly !

- in