ittered by the fear of future want to those
who had been reared amid all the refinements of luxury. The mother
looked upon her remaining child, and felt that she was not formed to
struggle with poverty and neglect, and the daughter bent her earful
eyes on that venerable form, and in the depths of her soul, prayed
that her old age might be spared the grinding cares of want.

The watch struck the half hour--then the quarter--and a feeble motion
of Euston stopped the hand of Edith as she swept it over the strings
of her instrument. She arose and stood beside him; a breathless
silence reigned throughout the apartment, only broken by the
monotonous ticking of the watch, which struck upon the excited nerves
of those around with a sound as distinct as the reverberations of
thunder.

Not a word was uttered until the hand pointed to the hour, then, as if
endued with sudden energy, the dying man stretched forth his hand, and
grasping the pen, said in a firm, distinct voice,

"Now let me sign my name, and yield up my spirit to the angel that has
been beckoning me away for hours. My mother--my sister, God has
vouchsafed to me a mercy I did not deserve. Thank Heaven! your
interests are safe. You are free from _his_ power."

At that instant a strange cry was heard; a bird flew into the room,
and, dazzled by the light, flapped his wings against the shade of the
lamp, overturned it, and left the apartment in utter darkness. In the
confusion of the moment, a figure glided through the open window, and
stood beside the chair of Euston. He noiselessly placed his firm grasp
upon his laboring breast, and held it there a single instant. A faint
rattling sound was heard, and Edith wildly called for lights.

Noiselessly as he had entered glided that dark form from the side of
his victim, and buried itself in the shadows of the trees without.
Many lights flashed into the room--they glared coldly on the face of
the dead, and the mother sunk senseless in the arms of her daughter.

PART II.

Several months have passed away, and Mrs. Euston and her daughter have
returned to their native land. A single room in an obscure
boarding-house in the heart of a southern city was occupied by both.
The expenses of their voyage to New Orleans, and a few months sojourn
in their present abode, humble as it was, had nearly exhausted their
slender resources. Edith had made many efforts to procure a few
scholars to instruct in music and drawing, but the de