ned by the
resolution which she had already formed within her not to betray the
feelings of her heart before this other girl. The news, let it be
what it might, must be of him! There was no one else "so young," of
whom it was probable that this young woman would speak to her after
this fashion. She stood silent, motionless, conveying nothing of her
feelings by her face,--unless one might have read something from the
deep flush of her complexion. "I don't know how to say it," said
Clara Demijohn. "There; you had better take the paper and read for
yourself. It's in the last column but one near the bottom. 'Fatal
Accident in the Field!' You'll see it."

Marion took the paper, and read the words through without faltering
or moving a limb. Why would not the cruel young woman go and leave
her to her sorrow? Why did she stand there looking at her, as though
desirous to probe to the bottom the sad secret of her bosom? She kept
her eyes still fixed upon the paper, not knowing where else to turn
them,--for she would not look into her tormentor's face for pity.
"Ain't it sad?" said Clara Demijohn.

Then there came a deep sigh. "Sad," she said, repeating the word;
"sad! Yes, it's sad. I think, if you don't mind, I'll ask you to
leave me now. Oh, yes; there's the newspaper."

"Perhaps you'd like to keep it for your father." Here Marion shook
her head. "Then I'll take it back to aunt. She's hardly looked at it
yet. When she came to the paragraph, of course, she read it out; and
I wouldn't let her have any peace till she gave it me to bring over."

"I wish you'd leave me," said Marion Fay.

Then with a look of mingled surprise and anger she left the room, and
returned across the street to No. 10. "She doesn't seem to me to care
a straw about it," said the niece to her aunt; "but she got up just
as highty tighty as usual and asked me to go away."

When the Quaker came to the door, and opened it with his latch-key,
Marion was in the passage ready to receive him. Till she had heard
the sound of the lock she had not moved from the room, hardly from
the position, in which the other girl had left her. She had sunk into
a chair which had been ready for her, and there she had remained
thinking over it. "Father," she said, laying her hand upon his arm as
she went to meet him, and looking up into his face;--"father?"

"My child!"

"Have you heard any tidings in the City?"

"Have you heard any, Marion?"

"Is it true then?" she said,