and
perhaps you will conclude differently."

"No, mamma, my resolution is unalterable!"

"Let me at least soften your refusal to poor Perozzi--indeed, he is
quite overwhelmed with despair; let me bid him hope that in time you
may be brought to listen more favorably to his suit."

"O, not for worlds, mamma--not for worlds!"

"Well, well, my dear, you are strangely agitated. There, go--retire to
your chamber, and compose yourself, my love;" and affectionately
kissing her daughter, Mrs. Donaldson repaired to the library, where
her husband and Perozzi were awaiting the result of this interview.

Had Mrs. Donaldson forgotten her own youth?

From that day Mildred was the object of ceaseless persecution. Go
where she would, there was Perozzi ever at her side, to annoy her with
his odious attentions; walking or riding, he intruded himself upon
her; no room in the house seemed sacred from his approach; and even
when she retired to her own apartment, he either stationed himself
beneath her window, or stood at her door, ready to greet her with his
hateful smile as she issued forth. Constantly, too, was he urging his
suit, while her repeated refusals, her cold words, and still colder
looks, might as well have been spent upon a rock--for a rock could not
be more impressionless to their meaning. The persecution she underwent
from the odious Perozzi, had, perhaps, revealed to her the true nature
of her regard for Rupert, and in so doing, brought also the pleasing
consciousness that she was beloved even as she loved him. How
aggravating, then, her situation. Daily her life grew more wretched,
nor had she even the consolation of sympathy. With a yearning heart
did she now recall the happy days at Norcross Hall, rendered by
contrast still more dear. "O!" she cried, in her anguish, "could I but
once more rest in their loving arms, what power could tear me thence!
Dearest Helen! Dearest Rupert, come to me! O, hasten thither and
rescue me from this horrible thraldom!"

But months passed in sorrow; there came no letters from
England--nothing to cheer up her fainting heart, and finally, Mildred,
the once gay, happy Mildred, sunk into a state of utter despondency.

CHAPTER VI.

"_Hist--hist_, Pedro!" and a tall, swarthy Creole, obeying the finger
of Perozzi, glided stealthily behind a large tree, where stood the
Spaniard, both screened from observation by the thick drapery of
ferns and parasitic plants clinging around its trunk. E