eemed to melt away into one large cavity. She knew
that some one was coming behind her, and she knew, too, by a kind of
intuition, that it was Clinton, but she did not pause in her work of
destruction.

"Mittie! what are you doing?" he exclaimed. "Good Heavens!--give me that
knife."

As she threw up her right hand to elude his grasp, she saw the blood
streaming from her fingers. She was not aware that she had cut herself.
She suffered no pain. She gazed with pleasure on the flowing blood.

"Let me bind my handkerchief round the wound," said Clinton, in a
gentle, sympathizing voice. "You are really enough to drive one
frantic."

"_Your_ handkerchief!" she exclaimed, in an accent of ineffable scorn.
"I would put a bandage of fire round it as soon. _Drive one frantic!_ I
suppose your conduct must make one very calm, very cool and reasonable.
But I can tell you, Bryant Clinton, that when you made me the plaything
of your selfish and changing passions, you began a dangerous game. You
thought me, perchance, a love-sick maiden, whose heart would break in
silence and darkness, but you know me not. I will not suffer alone. If I
sink into an abyss of wretchedness, it shall not be alone. I will drag
down with me all who have part or lot in my misery and despair."

Clinton's eye quailed before the dark, passionate glance riveted upon
him. The moon gave only a pale, doubtful lustre, and its reflection on
her face was like the night-light on deep waters--a dark, quivering
brightness, giving one an idea of beauty and splendor and danger. Her
hair was loose and hung around her in black, massy folds, imparting an
air of wild, tragic majesty to her figure. Twisting one of the sable
tresses round her bleeding fingers, she pressed them against her heart.

"Mittie," said Clinton. There was something remarkable in the voice of
Clinton. Its lowest tones, and they were exceedingly low, were as
distinct and clear as the notes of the most exquisitely tuned
instrument. "Mittie! why have you wrought yourself up to this terrible
pitch of passion? Yet why do I ask? I know but too well. I uttered a few
words of gallant seeming to your young sister, which sent her flying
like a startled deer through the woods. Your reproaches completed the
work my folly began. Between us both we have frightened the poor child
almost into spasms. Verily we have been much to blame."

"Deceiver! you told her that you loved me no more. Deny it if you can."

"I wi