, will
account for his commencing the journey at so early an hour. To be seen
going off in the open daylight would attract spectators around; it may
be many sympathisers. But in the hour of adversity his sensitive nature
shrinks from the glance of sympathy, as he would dread the stare of
exultation, were any disposed to indulge in it.

But besides the sentiment, there is another cause for their night
moving--an inexorable necessity as to time. The steamboat, which is to
take them up Red River, leaves Natchez at sunrise. He must be aboard by
daybreak.

If the bankrupt planter be thus broken-spirited, his eldest daughter is
as much cast down as he, and far more unhappily reflecting.

Throughout all that night Helen Armstrong has had no sleep; and now, in
the pale moonlight of the morning, her cheeks show white and wan, while
a dark shadow broods upon her brow, and her eyes glisten with wild
unnatural light, as one in a raging fever. Absorbed in thought, she
takes no heed of anything along the road; and scarce makes answer to an
occasional observation addressed to her by her sifter, evidently with
the intention to cheer her. It has less chance of success, because of
Jessie herself being somewhat out of sorts. Even she, habitually merry,
is for the time sobered; indeed saddened at the thought of that they are
leaving behind, and what may be before them. Possibly, as she looks
back at the gate of their grand old home, through which they will never
again go, she may be reflecting on the change from their late luxurious
life, to the log-cabin and coarse fare, of which her father had
forewarned them.

If so, the reflection is hers--not Helen's. Different with the latter,
and far more bitter the emotion that stirs within her person, scalding
her heart. Little cares she what sort of house she is hitherto to dwell
in, what she will have to wear, or eat. The scantiest raiment, or
coarsest food, can give no discomfort now. She could bear the thought
of sheltering under the humblest roof in Texas--ay, think of it with
cheerfulness--had Charles Clancy been but true, to share its shelter
along with her. He has not, and that is an end of it.

Is it? No; not for her, though it may be for him. In the company of
his Creole girl he will soon cease to think of her--forget the solemn
vows made, and the sweet words spoken, beneath the magnolia--tree, in
her retrospect seeming sadder than yew, or cypress.

Will she ever fo