o young people! How her eyes filled as she gazed after
them!

She sat down in her easy-chair, serene and happy. The very absence of
the harassing doubts that had tormented her, was in itself almost a
bliss.

The day was quiet and dreamy--one of those late Indian Summer mornings,
when existence itself seems heavenly. The sash was open, and the odor of
heliotrope and roses came through, softening the sweet thoughts that
floated in her brain, and becoming, as it were, a part of them. She
became very languid and dreamy after this, for the strain upon her
energies being removed, the reaction rendered her helpless as a little
child. God had put aside the evil day. She was not to be wounded by
those whom she had cherished closest to her heart. Ralph and Lina! How
she loved to murmur over those names in her solitude! How pleasant it
was to think of them, united, and still keeping the family bond
unbroken.

Ralph had forgotten to enforce secrecy on his mother, and her first
thought was to talk this new promise of family union over with James
Harrington. Then, all at once, she remembered that since her accident,
no message had been given her from him, and though he was always
admitted to her boudoir with as little ceremony as her own son, that
privilege had not been once claimed since the storm.

This thought fell like a shadow amid her serene contentment. She began
to wonder at this strange desertion, and have a vague consciousness that
something was wrong between them. Still, how could this be? Had not
Harrington saved her life at the peril of his own? Was not his face,
full of agonized hope, bending over her when she awoke from the midnight
of the deep?

Mabel gave a sudden start, and her eyes took an expression of alarm.
What if he were ill? What if the terrible exertions of that night had
overpowered him, and all this was kept from her knowledge? Starting up
under the excitement of this apprehension, she was approaching the door,
when it opened, and Agnes Barker came in. The young woman looked more
than usually excited that morning. The fire, which always lay
smouldering in her evasive eyes, was kindled up, and a flush lay redly
on her cheek, an evil flush, such as we may imagine the poison in a
laurel plant to spread over its blossoms. In her hand she held a few
leaves of verbena and rose geranium, encircling a white rose-bud, and a
crimson rose, which had evidently been arranged with considerable care.

Mabel moved