of cheering words, as he should ride by her
side on their return trip, and, finally, to prevail upon her to reward
his unequalled constancy, by becoming his wife, he was quite
unprepared to meet the pale anguished face beneath the long black veil
of which, for the first time, he caught a glimpse on the funeral day.
Having witnessed the quiver that shook her delicate frame, as the
grave received its dead, he lost all confidence in his pre-arranged
means of consolation, and the words of his mother, not having been
calculated to reassure him he was now thoroughly annoyed at the course
things had taken.

But as Mrs. Tinknor well knew that Tom's feelings were evanescent, and
seldom went beyond the surface, she immediately arose to go to Little
Wolf, comforting herself with the reflection, that the storm she was
leaving would be of short duration.

CHAPTER XX.

A WEIGHT OF SORROW--MARRYING A DRUNKARD--SUSPENSE.

Meantime Little Wolf had not stirred from her place by the window,
neither had she withdrawn her gaze from the desolate scene without.
All nature was shrouded in snow. On the ground, on every tree and
shrub, and in the air; snow was everywhere. But Little Wolf was too
much absorbed in her own reflections to bestow a thought upon the
raging storm.

From the graves of her parents, dimly seen through the whirling
flakes, her mind had wandered to an equally painful subject, upon
which the timely appearance of her beloved friend, Mrs. Tinknor, gave
her the longed for opportunity to converse. She had always confided in
that lady, as in a mother, and in the present instance, nothing was
witheld pertaining to her feelings past and present towards Edward
Sherman, and the relation in which he stood to her.

Mrs. Tinknor's previous interview with Tom had in a measure prepared
her for Little Wolf's communication, but the tearless eye, so full of
anguish, the white cheek and compressed lips, all so unlike her
brilliant little friend, struck her painfully; and indignation towards
the author of so much wretchedness was the uppermost feeling as, in
conclusion, Little Wolf pleadingly asked, "what can I do, my dear Mrs.
Tinknor?"

Now Mrs. Tinknor was a mild, undemonstrative woman, not prone to
giving advice, but the memory of all the wrongs which she had endured
through the intemperance of her husband, wrongs which had sunk deep
within her bleeding heart, nerved her to raise a warning voice, to
save, if possible,