off. And here, amid the adieus of departing guests, we will take our
leave of the young couple; for it is far pleasanter to bid farewell to
those whose friendship we have cherished when hope is strong and bright,
than when care or disappointment has flung its shadow over their hearts.

CHAPTER THE LAST.

A few weeks had elapsed, and a small group were gathered one evening at
Harson's fireside. It was composed of three persons beside Harson. The
first was a man of about fifty; he might have been younger; and the heavy
wrinkles which were scored across his forehead may have been the fruit of
trouble and care, for they were almost too deep for his years; his mouth
was firmly compressed, like that of one in the habit of mastering strong
feelings; and the whole character of his face would have been stern, but
for his dark, gray eye, which at times brightened up almost to childish
playfulness. This was Mr. Colton, the father of Harson's protege, Annie.
The child herself was seated on Harson's knee, sound asleep, with her head
resting on his breast. The only other person in the group was the wife of
Mr. Colton. She was quite young, and had once possessed great beauty--the
beauty of youth and happiness; but that was gone, and in its place was the
patient look of one who had suffered much, and in silence. She spoke
seldom, and in a low tone, so soft and musical that one regretted when the
voice ceased.

'Your letter,' said Mr. Colton, in continuation of a previous
conversation, 'put an end to all my plans respecting my poor niece. I had
hoped to assist her; for knowing her father's hostility to her, I feared
that she might be in want. Her death was a very melancholy one.'

He looked in the fire in deep thought, and for a short time a silence
ensued which no one seemed inclined to break.

'I never saw her,' said his wife, after some moments; 'I think _you_ did.'

'Yes, once--at the trial,' replied he, uttering the last words with an
effort, as if the subject were painful. 'She was very beautiful.'

'Did she resemble her father?' inquired Mrs. Colton.

'Perhaps I can settle that question more easily than any one,' said
Harson, rising up, 'by letting you judge for yourself.'

He went to a small curtain which hung against the wall, and drawing it
aside, disclosed a portrait of Rust's daughter--the same which Rust had
brooded over with such mingled emotions on the night previous to the
murder. The same childlike, innocent