ght who that midnight-rider was. Arrived in
Frankfort only an hour before, he had hastened forward, impelled by a
something he could not resist. From afar he had caught the glimmering
light, and he felt he was not too late. He knew how to enter the
house, and on through the wide hall and up the broad staircase he came,
until he stood in the chamber, where before him another guest had
entered, whose name was Death!

Face to face he stood with Nellie Douglass, and between them lay _his_
wife--_her_ rival--the white hands folded meekly upon her bosom, and
the pale lips just as they had breathed a prayer for him.

"Mabel! She is dead!" was all he uttered, and falling upon his knees,
he buried his face in the pillow, while half scornfully, half
pityingly, Nellie gazed upon him.

There was much of bitterness in her heart toward him, not for the wrong
he had done her, but for the sake of the young girl, now passed forever
away. 'Lena felt differently. His silent grief conquered all
resentment, and going to his side, she told him how peacefully Mabel
had died--how to the last she had loved and remembered him, praying
that he might be happy when she was gone,

"Poor little Meb, she deserved a better fate," was all he said, as he
continued his kneeling posture, until the family and servants, whom
Nellie had summoned, came crowding round, the cries of the latter
grating on the ear, and seeming sadly out of place for her whose short
life had been so dreary, and who had welcomed death as a release from
all her pain.

It was Mrs. Livingstone's wish that Mabel should be arrayed in her
bridal robes, but with a shudder at the idle mockery, John Jr.
answered, "No," and in a plain white muslin, her shining hair arrayed
as she was wont to wear it, they placed her in her coffin, and on a
sunny slope where the golden sunlight and the pale moonbeams latest
fell, and where in spring the bright green grass and the sweet wild
flowers are earliest seen, laid her down to steep.

That night, when all around was still, John Jr. lay musing sadly of
the past. His affection for Mabel had been slight and variable, but
now that she was gone, he missed her. The large easy-chair, with its
cushions and pillows, was empty, and as he thought of the pale, dark
face and aching head he had so often seen reclining there, and which he
would never see again, he groaned in bitterness of spirit, for well he
knew that he had helped to break the heart n