"Thanks!" answered Sybil, sweetly, forgetting her assumed character, and

beginning to speak in her natural voice, for it seemed so difficult to

act a part in the presence of this girl.

But Lyon set his coarse boot upon Sybil's foot, and pressed it as a

warning, and then answered for both, saying: "Thank y', honey, but I don't reckon we'll want anything but our supper,

and the old man said how he'd send that up here himself."

"Then I will leave you. Good night. I hope you will have a good sleep,"

answered Rachel, bending her head.

"What a fine face that girl has," said Lyon Berners, as she withdrew.

"Yes; and what a sweet voice!" answered Sybil.

"But she is very pale, and she limps as she walks; did you notice?"

"Yes; I suppose she has ill health--probably the same malady that

carried off her mother, and all her sisters and brothers."

"Very likely."

"Consumption?" suggested Sybil.

"Scrofula," sententiously replied Lyon.

"Oh, what a pity!" said Sybil, when their conversation was cut short by

the entrance of the landlord, bringing a waiter with the plain supper

service and a folded table-cloth, and followed by a young man bearing

another waiter piled up with materials for a supper more substantial

than delicate.

The little table was quickly set, and the meal arranged and then the

landlord, after asking if anything more was wanted, and being told there

was not, left the room, followed by his attendant.

Lyon and Sybil made a good supper, and then, as there were no bells in

that primitive house of entertainment, he put his head out of the door

and called for some one to come and take away the service.

When the waiter had cleared the table, and the travellers were again

left alone, Lyon said to Sybil: "I must leave you here, dear, while I go down to the water-side and

inquire what ships are about to sail for Europe. You will not be afraid

to stay here by yourself?"

"Oh, no indeed! this is not the Haunted Chapel, thank Heaven!" answered

his wife.

"Nor Rachel, the damp girl," added Lyon.

"No, poor child; but she may very soon become one," sighed Sybil.

And Lyon put on his broad-brimmed hat and went out.

Sybil locked the door, took off her red wig, and her coarse outer

garment, and took from her travelling bag a soft woolen wrapper and a

pair of slippers and put them on, and sat down before the fire to make

herself comfortable. At first the sense of relief and rest and warmth

was enough to satisfy her; but after an hour's waiting in idleness, the

time hung heavily on her hands, and she grew homesick and lonesome. She

thought of the well-stocked library of Black Hall; of her bright

drawing-room, her birds, her flowers, her piano, her easel, her

embroidery frame, her Skie terrier, her tortoise shell cat and kittens,

her fond and faithful servant, the many grand rooms in the old hall; the

negroes' cabins, the ancient trees, the river, the cascade, the

mountains--the thousand means of occupation, amusement, and interest,

within and around her patrimonial home, the ten thousand ties of

association and affection that bound her to her old place, and she

realized her exile as she had never done before. Her spirit grew very

desolate, and her heart very heavy.




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