courteous and munificent hosts, and did all that was possible to make the guest happy. He was happy, but he could not help seeing that his old college friend was not.

"What's the matter with you, Ned?" said Tom, as they sailed in a small yacht on the bright waters of Penobscot Bay, on one of the soft days of the Indian summer. "You are as blue as a Yankee whetstone."

"Am I? I was not aware of it," replied Edward, shaking off his moodiness for the moment.

"Yes, you are. If I stop talking for a moment, you sink away into a gloomy dream. You seem to me to be half muddled. What ails you?"

"O, nothing."

"I don't believe you. You haven't seemed at all natural since I came. I hope I'm not in the way of anything."

"Certainly not, Tom. You are never in the way."

"But, candidly and seriously, now, what ails you?"

"Nothing at all ails me, my dear fellow. If anything did, I would tell you sooner than I would my own father."

"Not in love—are you, Ned?" added Tom, straightening up, and looking full into the face of his friend. "By the way, where is the daughter of that member of Congress whom you used to be sweet upon?"

"She has gone to Cuba to spend the winter," replied Edward.

"I see just how the land lies now. She has gone to Cuba for her health, and you are pining away in solitude in the frozen north. But, Ned, didn't you write me that the affair had slipped up, fallen through, or something of that sort?"

"I thought it had; but I didn't know myself," replied the lover, with a sigh.

"O, ho! I see. She's a beautiful girl. Upon my word, I envy you, Ned. If you hadn't stepped in before me, my dear fellow, I should have fallen into that trap myself."

"Don't say anything about a trap, Tom. You make me shudder."

"What ails you, Ned? Isn't it all smooth—the course of true love, and all that sort of thing? Has she given you the mitten?"

"No, no. Everything is lovely so far as she is concerned."

"Is her father inimical? Does her mother dislike you, or her grandmother frown upon your hopes?"

"No. Her father and mother are entirely satisfied to let the affair take its course."

"Then what are you moping about?" demanded Tom.

"The opposition comes from my father," answered Edward, as he tacked the boat, and stood off on a long stretch, evidently with the intention of telling his friend all about it.

"What has your father to do with it?" asked Tom.

"He dislikes her father."

"But, if I understand you correctly, you don't purpose to marry her father."

"There is an old feud, a political affair, between them. The row occurred while I was away from home, fitting for college," added Edward, as he proceeded to disclose his present relations with Sara Medway, and to explain the nature and intensity of his father's opposition to the match.

"That's awkward, Ned," said Tom. "Your governor is a hard case on a feud."

"But in everything else he is as indulgent as he can be. I tried to be dutiful, even in a matter of this kind; and I did not see Miss Medway for three months. Then I heard she was ill, and my conscience reproached me. I called to see her. I shall never forget the expression of joy she bestowed upon me. She is as much attached to me as I am to her, and I know that if I desert her she will die of grief."

"You have a good opinion of yourself, Ned."

"I am in earnest. I think so. I made the first advances, not she."

"I should hope not," laughed Tom.

"And for that reason I feel a sense of responsibility, in addition to my devotion to Sara. Now you know all. What can I do?"

"Upon my word, Ned, that's a hard question; and a man must be a Solon to advise you."

"You are the sole un who can advise me, Tom," replied Edward, with a sickly smile.

"That's a lovesick pun. You are in a tight place. If you hold on, you will be frozen to death; if you let go, you will be burned to death. But I am inclined to think, my dear fellow, from what I have seen of you since I came here, that there is still a third consideration. If you obey your governor, the girl will die of grief; if you marry her, you lose fortune and father; but if you retain fortune and father, you may die of grief yourself. You are moping now; you look pale, and the situation is wearing upon you."

"But what can I do?"

"I'll tell you. I'm going to read law this winter with Colonel Bushnel, in New Orleans. Come with me, and we will read law together. Before spring we shall be able to solve the problem."

The boat returned to the town. Edward liked the plan, for Louisiana was nearer Cuba than Maine was. His father did not seriously object; and in another fortnight both the young men were in the Crescent City.

CHAPTER II.

THE END OF A SAD STORY.

In New York Edward Montague mailed a letter to Sara Medway. Before he had been in New Orleans a week her answer came to him. She was better; her cough had entirely left her, and she slept well. Nothing was needed to make her happy but his presence.

"Go, Ned; go, by all means," said Tom Barkesdale.

"But my father—"

"Never mind your father," interposed Tom, whose impetuous southern temperament could hardly brook the cold caution of his friend.

"I promised to write to him at least once a month."

"Do so, then."

"But my letters will betray me."

"Date them at New Orleans, a day or two ahead, and send them to me under cover. I will mail them here, and your father will believe you are in this city all the time."

"That's a mean deception," said Edward, whose impulses were rather above such conduct.

"All is fair in love and war," laughed Tom. "Your letters from home will come here, and I will forward them to you."

Under the temptation that beset him Edward did not long consider this scheme before he adopted it; and he went to Havana in the steamer which had brought the letter from Sara. The Medways were still in the city, for the cottage at Limonar, which was to be their residence, was not yet ready for their reception. On his arrival Edward found father and daughter plunged in the deepest grief. However the climate agreed with Sara, it did not agree with her mother. She was taken sick in a sudden and violent manner, and in less than three days she breathed her last, though she was attended by the most skilful resident and foreign physicians.

Edward's office was now that of comforter, and his presence alone seemed to save the stricken ones from utter despair. Both father and daughter leaned upon him, and he faithfully discharged the duties which devolved upon him. After the funeral of Mrs. Medway, Edward conducted Mr. Medway and Sara to their new home at Limonar. In a few weeks the poignancy of their grief was abated; but Edward's presence seemed to be even more necessary than ever. Tom Barkesdale forwarded his letters and cashed his drafts in New Orleans; and the Honorable Mr. Montague in Maine had no suspicion that his son was not reading law in the Crescent City.

Two months after the death of Mrs. Medway, Edward Montague was privately married, by an English clergyman, to Sara Medway. The circumstances seemed to justify the breaking through of the ordinary proprieties which regulate the interval between a funeral and a wedding. This event seemed to sweep away all the clouds which lowered over the happiness of the young people.

Edward had made up his mind to face the wrath of his father, but he desired to postpone the tempest as long as