ry. There was no one to care now for her success or failure. It
mattered little how the years were passed. They would find her a lonely,
sorrowing woman, without home or friends. No one, be they never so
hopeful, could anticipate happiness in such a future. Clemence did not,
but she knew she should, in time, learn to be contented with her lot.
Others had been before her. Then, too, something whispered that it would
not be for long.

Mrs. Linden watched her anxiously, noting the troubled look on the
girl's face, and questioned her as to its cause.

"Don't yield to despondency," she would say. "You must go more into
society. Solitude is not good for you."

Obedient to her wish, Clemence afterwards accompanied her whenever she
went from home.

Thus passed the time until her twentieth birthday. She reviewed, sadly,
on that occasion, her past life, and formed her plans for the future.
The result of her cogitations was, that not long after, she left the
roof that had sheltered her since her bereavement, but to which she had
no real claim, and commenced upon a new life.

This was very much against her friend's wishes.

"What wild idea has taken possession of your visionary mind now?" she
queried. "Just when I thought you were quite contented to stay with me,
you start off to teach a score or more of ignorant little savages in
some obscure part of some obscure region, not yet blessed with the
telegraph or railroad."

"Not quite so bad as that, I hope," said Clemence, laughing. "Don't,
please, raise any objections to my plan, kind friend; for I want to feel
that it has your sanction. Perhaps, if I get tired of teaching, I will
come back to you again."

"Very well," was the rejoinder, "in that case you may go, but I shall
expect to see you again very soon. You will die of home-sickness."

CHAPTER V.

A lovely June day was drawing to a close, as a stage coach drew up at
the one hotel in the little village of Waveland.

"Here at last, mum," said the driver, stepping forward to assist a lady
to alight. "It's been a tedious ride for a delicate looking lady like
you."

She _was_ delicate looking, and _very_ pretty, with an air of refinement
that betokened good birth and careful culture.

"Yes," she said, "it has been a weary day's journey, and I shall be glad
to rest."

She went into the little homespun sitting-room, and laid aside her
bonnet and shawl, then went to the window, and looked out in an absent
wa