earest one; we will never be
parted again."

So absorbed was he in his newly-recovered treasure, that he did not
observe the fiery eye, the glittering teeth, and clenched first of
Durward Bellmont, who had returned from his walk, and who, in coming
up to his, room, had recognized the tones of his father's voice.
Recoiling backward a step or two, he was just in time to see 'Lena as
she threw herself into Mr. Graham's, arms--in time to hear the tender
words of endearment lavished upon her by his father. Staggering
backward, he caught at the banister to keep from falling, while a
moan of anguish came from his ashen lips. Alone in his room, he grew
calmer, though his heart still quivered with unutterable agony as he
strode up and down the room, exclaiming, as he had once done before,
"I would far rather see her dead than thus--my lost, lost 'Lena!"

Then, in the deep bitterness of his spirit, he cursed his father,
whom he believed to be far more guilty than she. "I cannot meet
him," thought he; "there is murder at my heart, and I must away ere
he knows of my presence."

Suiting the action to the word, he hastened down the stairs, glancing
back once, and seeing 'Lena reclining upon his father's arm, while
her eyes were raised to his with a sweet, confiding smile, which told
of perfect happiness.

"Thank God that I am unarmed, else he could not live," thought he,
hurrying into the bar-room, where he placed in Uncle Timothy's hands
double the sum due for himself and 'Lena, and then, without a word of
explanation, he walked away.

He was a good pedestrian, and preferring solitude in his present
state of feeling, he determined to go on foot to Canandaigua, a
distance of little more than a dozen miles. Meantime, Mr. Graham was
learning from 'Lena the cause of her being there, and though she, as
far as possible, softened the fact of his having been accessory to
her misfortunes, he felt it none the less keenly, and would
frequently interrupt her with the exclamation that it was the result
of his cowardice--his despicable habit of secrecy. When she spoke of
the curl which his wife had burned, he seemed deeply affected,
groaning aloud as he hid his face in his hands,

"And _she_ found it--she burned it," said he; "and it was all I had
left of my Helena. I cut it from her head on the morning of my
departure, when she lay sleeping, little dreaming of my cruel
desertion. But," he added, "I can bear it better now that I ha