wo are not perfectly adapted
to each other, on account of certain differences for which neither of
you is responsible, and that you propose that each should release the
other from the pledge given so long ago,--in that case, I say, I believe
he will think no worse of you for so doing, and may perhaps agree that
it is best for both of you to seek your happiness elsewhere than in each
other."

The book-dusting came to as abrupt a close as the reading of Lancelot.
Susan went straight to her room, dried her tears so as to write in
a fair hand, but had to stop every few lines and take a turn at
the "dust-layers," as Mrs. Clymer Ketchum's friend used to call
the fountains of sensibility. It would seem like betraying Susan's
confidence to reveal the contents of this letter, but the reader may be
assured that it was simple and sincere and very sweetly written, without
the slightest allusion to any other young man, whether of the poetical
or cheaper human varieties.

It was not long before Susan received a reply from Clement Lindsay.
It was as kind and generous and noble as she could have asked. It was
affectionate, as a very amiable brother's letter might be, and candidly
appreciative of the reasons Susan had assigned for her proposal. He gave
her back her freedom, not that he should cease to feel an interest in
her, always. He accepted his own release, not that he would ever think
she could be indifferent to his future fortunes. And within a very
brief period of time after sending his answer to Susan Posey, whether he
wished to see her in person, or whether he had some other motive, he
had packed his trunk, and made his excuses for an absence of uncertain
length at the studio, and was on his way to Oxbow Village.

CHAPTER XXXIII. JUST AS YOU EXPECTED.

The spring of 1861 had now arrived,--that eventful spring which was to
lift the curtain and show the first scene of the first act in the mighty
drama which fixed the eyes of mankind during four bloody years. The
little schemes of little people were going on in all our cities and
villages without thought of the fearful convulsion which was soon coming
to shatter the hopes and cloud the prospects of millions. Our little
Oxbow Village, which held itself by no means the least of human centres,
was the scene of its own commotions, as intense and exciting to those
concerned as if the destiny of the nation had been involved in them.

Mr. Clement Lindsay appeared suddenly in