by some one who has ascendancy over her.

Just the first it is which has tempted her forth; while the last, not
the cold, has caused her to cloak herself, and go close hooded. If her
father but knew of the errand she is on, it could not be executed. And
well is she aware of this. For the proud planter is still proud,
despite his reverses, still clings to the phantom of social superiority;
and if he saw her now, wandering through the woods at an hour near
midnight, alone; if he could divine her purpose: to meet a man, who in
time past has been rather coldly received at his house--because scarce
ranking with his own select circle--had Colonel Armstrong but the gift
of clairvoyance, in all probability he would at once suspend the
preparations for departure, rush to his rifle, then off through the
woods on the track of his erring daughter, with the intent to do a deed
sanguinary as that recorded, if not so repulsive.

The girl has not far to go--only half a mile or so, from the house, and
less than a quarter beyond the zigzag rail fence, which forms a boundary
line between the maize fields and primeval forest. Her journey, when
completed, will bring her under a tree--a grand magnolia, monarch of the
forest surrounding. Well does she know it, as the way thither.

Arriving at the tree, she pauses beneath its far-stretching boughs. At
the same time tossing back her hood, she shows her face unveiled.

She has no fear now. The place is beyond the range of night-strolling
negroes. Only one in pursuit of 'possum, or 'coon, would be likely to
come that way; a contingency too rare to give her uneasiness.

With features set in expectation, she stands. The fire-flies illuminate
her countenance--deserving a better light. But seen, even under their
pale fitful coruscation, its beauty is beyond question. Her features of
gipsy cast--to which the cloak's hood adds characteristic expression--
produce a picture appropriate to its framing--the forest.

Only for a few short moments does she remain motionless. Just long
enough to get back her breath, spent by some exertion in making her way
through the wood--more difficult in the darkness. Strong emotions, too,
contribute to the pulsations of her heart.

She does not wait for them to be stilled. Facing towards the tree, and
standing on tiptoe, she raises her hand aloft, and commences groping
against the trunk. The fire-flies flicker over her snow-white fingers,
as these st