ly selected a late hour, that on their
return they might realize the tranquil pleasures of a sail by moonlight.
Beverly was busy finishing some correspondence for the North, which he
intended giving into the charge of his friend Arthur, and he therefore
remained at home. Phil, a smart mulatto, about ten years of age, who was
a general favorite in the family and an especial pet of Oriana, was
allowed to accompany the party.

It was a lovely evening, only cool enough to be comfortable for Oriana
to be wrapped in her woollen shawl. As the shadows of twilight darkened
on the silent river, a spirit of sadness was with the party, that vague
and painful melancholy that weighs upon the heart when happy ties are
about to be sundered, and loved ones are about to part. Arthur had
brought his flute, and with an effort to throw off the feeling of gloom,
he essayed a lively air; but it seemed like discord by association with
their thoughts. He ceased abruptly, and, at Oriana's request, chose a
more mournful theme. When the last notes of the plaintive melody had
been lost in the stillness of the night, there was an oppressive pause,
only broken by the rustle of the little sail and the faint rippling of
the wave.

"I seem to be sailing into the shadows of misfortune," said Oriana, in a
low, sad tone. "I wish the moon would rise, for this darkness presses
upon my heart like the fingers of a sorrowful destiny. What a coward I
am to-night!"

"A most obedient satellite," replied Arthur. "Look where she heralds
her approach by spreading a misty glow on the brow of yonder hill."

"We have left the shadows of misfortune behind us," said Harold, as a
flood of moonlight flashed over the river, seeming to dash a million of
diamonds in the path of the gliding boat.

"Alas! the fickle orb!" murmured Oriana; "it rises but to mock us, and
hides itself already in the bosom of that sable cloud. Is there not a
threat of rain there, Mr. Hare?"

"It looks unpromising, at the best," said Harold; "I think it would be
prudent to return."

Suddenly, little Phil, who had been lying at ease, with his head against
the thwarts, arose on his elbow and cried out:

"Wha'dat?"

"What is what, Phil?" asked Oriana. "Why, Phil, you have been dreaming,"
she added, observing the lad's confusion at having spoken so vehemently.

"Miss Orany, dar's a boat out yonder. I heard 'em pulling, sure."

"Nonsense, Phil! you've been asleep."

"By Gol! I heard 'em, sur