out, and I give him joy for the work he will git out of me."

"Put up your gun, young bloodhound,” said the man, who had visibly turned pale, under the shade of his shaggy brows," and keep your old nigger, if you want her. The next time I make a bargain with a drunken I will know what I am about. Look here, sir, you had better take care of yourself. If you ever make such a fool of me again-do you hear?—I will blow your brains out.".

man,

With long strides and muttering threats he cleared the cabin, slamming the door after him, so that every plank of the floor vibrated from the concussion. There was silence for a few moments, first broken by the loud sobs of Milly, mingled with the gentler moans of the almost heart-broken little Katy. Marcus went to the door, and, stepping out, shot off the rifle in the air. The echoes went rattling across the river, and fell like rocks on the opposite side.

"What did you do that for?" asked his father, sullenly ; "have not you made noise enough yet?"

"I will tell you what I did it for," answered the boy, with a face as pallid as marble, and an eye glittering like steel. "I was afraid I should kill you, father, and myself too; yes, I was. I never felt as I did just now. I wish we were all dead, Katy and Aunt Milly, and I too. You may live, if you wish, father, for you ought to be afraid to die. You have broken your promise to Mr Bellamy; you have broken your promise to my dead mother; you have broken your promise to God; yes, you ought to be afraid to die."

Here Marcus, who was excited to a transient delirium by the events of the evening, pressed his hands on his forehead, and uttered a cry of pain. Aunt Milly caught him in her arms, and as she did so the soft cheek of little Katy pressed against his own. That gentle, velvet pressure seemed to melt him. He put his arms round these beloved friends, all he had in the world, and burst into tears. The image of the beautiful Mrs Bellamy rose before him, even in that dark moment, but she seemed a star shining too far for him to feel its lustre. His father had fallen lower than ever, and there was a barrier shutting him from all the good and pure. In the sudden de ́struction of his long cherished hopes, he felt as if all his bright future were blackened and laid waste.

"Yes," repeated he, as he pressed his little sister closer and closer to his aching bosom, " it would be better that we were dead and laid in our mother's grave, than live such a life of shame and sorrow as lies before us."

Here Marcus, who was excited to a transient delirium by the events of the evening, pressed his hands on his forehead, and uttered a cry of pain. Aunt Milly caught him in her arms, and as she did so the soft cheek of little Katy pressed against his own. That gentle, velvet pressure seemed to melt him. He put his arms round these beloved friends, all he had in the world, and burst into tears. The image of the beautiful Mrs Bellamy rose before him, even in that dark moment, but she seemed a star shining too far for him to feel its lustre. His father had fallen lower than ever, and there was a barrier shutting him from all the good and pure. In the sudden de'struction of his long cherished hopes, he felt as if all his bright future were blackened and laid waste.

"Yes," repeated he, as he pressed his little sister closer and closer to his aching bosom," it would be better that we were dead and laid in our mother's grave, than live such a life of shame and sorrow as lies before us."

CHAPTER III.

"The water! the water!
Where I have shed salt tears;
In loneliness and friendliness,
A thing of tender years.
The water! the water!

How bless'd to me thou art,

Thus sounding in life's solitude
The music of my heart,

And filling it, despite of sadness,

With dreamings of departed gladness."
MOTHERWELL.

MARCUS sat beside the Long Moss Spring, the morning sunbeams glancing through the broad leaves of the magnolia and the brilliant foliage of the holly, and playing on his golden hair. He held in his hand a fishingrod, whose long line floated on the water; and though his eye was fixed on the buoyant cork, there was no hope or excitement in its gaze. His face was pale, and wore a severe expression, very different from the usual joyousness and thoughtlessness of childhood. Even when the silvery trout and shining perch, lured by the bait, hung quivering on the hook, and were thrown at his side, he shewed no consciousness of success, no elation at their number. Slowly gathering tears rolled gradually and reluctantly down his cheeks; they were not like the sudden drenching shower, that leaves the air purer and the sky bluer, but the drops that issue from the wounded bark formed of the life-blood of the tree.