en called on thus to
witness our misfortunes."

Barclay bowed, and haughtily strode from the room.

"Another month of privation," he muttered, "and she will surely be
mine or Death's. It does not much matter to which she belongs. Ah, if
she only knew all!" and he sprung into his cabriolet, and dashed off
toward the more aristocratic portion of the city.

In the hope that Edith would be forced to relent, Barclay had remained
in New Orleans thus late in the season, and he resolved to linger yet
a little longer, until want and suffering should leave her no choice.
His passion for her was one of those insanities to which men of his
violent character are often liable. He desired her as the one great
gift, which was to purify, to exalt him in the scale of humanity. The
delicate beauty of her person, the sensibility of her soul, the grace
of her manner, rendered her irresistibly attractive to him; but so
selfish was his love, that he would sooner have seen her perish at his
feet, than have rendered her assistance, except at the price proposed.

Another month passed by, and still there was no news of Edith or her
mother. He grasped the daily paper, almost with a sensation of fear,
and glanced at the column of deaths, which at that season usually
contains a goodly array. Their names were not yet among them, or
perchance in their poverty and obscurity they would not find
admittance even among the daily list of mortality.

The yellow fever had commenced its annual ravages, and Barclay
retreated to a country-house in the vicinity, owned by a friend, and
dispatched a confidential servant to inquire concerning Mrs. Euston
and her daughter. They were still in the same place, but the mother
had been ill, and was still confined to her bed.

One morning, about two weeks afterward, Barclay was seated in a
delightful little saloon, over a late breakfast. The room was
furnished with every appliance of modern luxury, and the morning air
stirred the branches of noble trees without, whose verdant shade
completely shut out the glare of the sun. A servant entered, and
presented to him a letter which had just been left. The irregular hand
with which it was directed, prevented him from recognizing the writing
of Edith, and when he opened the missive, which had evidently been
blotted with her bitter tears, a flush of triumph mounted to his
cheek, and he exclaimed with an oath,

"Mine at last!--I knew it must end thus!"

The letter contain