h of a secret. She more than guesses at the cause;
in truth, knows it, as it is known to that mistress herself. For the
wench can read; and made the messenger of that correspondence carried on
clandestinely, strange, if, herself a woman, she should not surmise many
things beyond what could be gleaned from the superscription on the
exchanged epistles.

She has surmised; but, like her mistress, something wide away from the
reality. No wonder at her being surprised at what she sees in a Natchez
newspaper--brought to the hotel from a boat just arrived at
Natchitoches--something concerning Charles Clancy, very different from
that suspected of him. She stays not to consider what impression it may
produce on the mind of the young lady. Unpleasant no doubt; but a
woman's instinct whispers the maid, it will not be worse than the agony
her mistress is now enduring.

Entering the chamber, where the latter is alone, she places the paper in
her hands, saying: "Missy Helen, here's a newspaper from Natchez,
brought by a boat just arrived. There's something in it, I think, will
be news to you--sad too."

Helen Armstrong stretches forth her hand, and takes hold of the sheet.
Her fingers tremble, closing upon it; her whole frame, as she searches
through its columns.

At the same time her eyes glow, burn, almost blaze, with a wild
unnatural light--an expression telling of jealousy roused, rekindled, in
a last spurt of desperation. Among the marriage notices she expects to
see that of Charles Clancy with a Creole girl, whose name is unknown to
her. It will be the latest chapter, climax and culminating point, of
his perfidy!

Who could describe the sudden revulsion of thought; what pen depict the
horror that sweeps through her soul; or pencil portray the expression of
her countenance, as, with eyes glaring aghast, she rests them on a large
type heading, in which is the name "Charles Clancy?"

For, the paragraph underneath tells not of his _marriage_, but his
_murder_!

Not the climax of his perfidy, as expected, but of her suffering. Her
bosom late burning with indignant jealousy, is now the prey of a very
different passion.

Letting the paper fall to the floor, she sinks back into her chair, her
heart audibly beating--threatening to beat no more.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

SPECTRES IN THE STREET.

Colonel Armstrong is staying at the "Planters' House," the chief hotel
in the town of Natchitoches. Not a very grand est