r's
resolution.

The summer flew away. In October, Governor Alston visited the island.
Many consultations were held in the gilded parlor and in the hushed
library; more plans were divulged, more pledges given--and Burr
departed never again to cross the threshold of the house on the
island. Theodosia and her husband and child went to Lexington,
Kentucky, whither they were accompanied by Blennerhassett.

Left alone in the great ghost-white house, its mistress wandered from
room to room, restless and melancholy. The boys were at play on the
lawn; she could hear their mirthful shouts. She felt a vague longing,
like homesickness, and yet she was at home. Wearily she sat down in
her husband's study chair in the quiet library. She glanced round at
the books, the apparatus, the musical instruments. Everything
presented an unnatural aspect. Startled by the snapping of a string on
the untouched violincello, she uttered an involuntary exclamation,
rose, and went up close to the portrait of her husband. But owing to
the dimness of the light or the sadness of her mood, the features,
instead of smiling, seemed to regard her with a mournful gaze. A sense
of desolation overwhelmed her. Endeavoring once more to fly from
herself, she called her children. They came, and she kissed them,
putting an arm around each.

"Dominick, do you want to go away, away to Mexico, and become rich and
great?"

"No, no, mamma; I want to live here forever with you and papa."

"We both do," iterated Harman. "We both do."

"Colonel Burr will be there to take care of us all. He saved your
life, Harman, and he loves you, I am sure."

"Mamma, he loves _you_, but he don't love papa."

The mother blushed, and a big tear rolled down her cheek.

XVIII. THE VOYAGE OF THE BUCKEYE.

George Hale, yielding to the importuning letters of his brother
Richard, consented that Evaleen should risk the peril of a voyage to
New Orleans. Luckily the young lady was to have travelling companions.
One of her uncle's letters contained this passage: "Ask your father to
hunt up my old-time friend, Dr. Eloy Deville, to whose care and
medical skill I owe my life. He still lives, I believe, in Gallipolis.
Tell dear old Frenchy and little Lucrece--I suppose she is now
almost grown--that I have unearthed family facts much to their
worldly advantage. They must come to this city, to the French quarter.
My discoveries are astounding, but credible. Eloy may inherit a
fortun