Cruel As The Grave

"Their love was like the lava flood

That burns in Etna's breast of flame."

Near the end of a dark autumn-day, not many years ago, a young couple,

returning from their bridal tour arrived by steamer at the old city of

Norfolk; and, taking a hack, drove directly to the best inn.

They were attended by the gentleman's valet and the lady's maid, and

encumbered besides with a great amount of baggage, so that altogether

their appearance was so promising that the landlord of the "Anchor" came

forward in person to receive them and bow them into the best parlor.

The gentleman registered himself and his party as Mr. and Mrs. Lyon

Berners, of Black Hall, Virginia, and two servants.

"We shall need a private parlor and chamber communicating for our own

use, and a couple of bedrooms for our servants," said Mr. Berners, as he

handed his hat and cane to the bowing waiter.

"They shall be prepared immediately," answered the polite landlord.

"We shall remain here only for the night, and go on in the morning, and

should like to have two inside and two outside places secured in the

Staunton stage-coach for to-morrow."

"I will send and take them at once, sir."

"Thanks. We should also like tea got ready as soon as possible in our

private parlor."

"Certainly, sir. What would you like for tea?"

"Oh, anything you please, so that it is nice and neatly served," said

Mr. Berners, with a slightly impatient wave of his hand as if he would

have been rid of his obsequious host.

"Ah-ha! anything I please! It is easy to see what ails him. He lives

upon love just now; but he'll care more about his bill of fare a few

weeks hence," chuckled the landlord, as he left the public parlor to

execute his guest's orders.

The bridegroom was no sooner left alone with his bride than he seated

her in the easiest arm-chair, and began with affectionate zeal to untie

her bonnet-strings and unclasp her mantle.

"You make my maid a useless appendage, dear Lyon," said the little lady,

smiling up in his eyes.

"Because I like to do everything for you myself, sweet Sybil; because I

am jealous of every hand that touches your dear person, except my own,"

he murmured tenderly as he removed her bonnet, and with all his

worshipping soul glowing through his eyes, gazed upon her beautiful and

beaming face.

"You love me so much, dear Lyon! You love me so much! Yet not too much

either! for oh! if you should ever cease to love me, or even if you were

ever to love me less,--I--I dare not think what I should do!" she

muttered in a long, deep, shuddering tone.