husbandman and his cattle were seen wending their way to their accustomed abodes for the night; and the feathered tribes had already sought the resting-places which nature so plentifully provides for them in our well-wooded land. The sad, and it may be pleasing reflections which such sights produced, were occasionally interrupted by the clattering of a horse's hoofs upon the turnpike, as some belated countryman sought to redeem the time he had spent at the alehouse; or as the solitary marketman, with more staid and quiet demeanour, sped upon a like errand. Occasionally the scene was marred by some besotted and staggering wretch, seeking his lowly and miserable hut in the suburbs. At intervals too, the barking of dogs and the lowing of cattle contributed their share to remind our friends that they were about to take leave of these quiet and pastoral scenes, for an indefinite period, and to mix in the bustle and gay assemblage of city life. Often, at such junctures, there is a presentiment of the evil which awaits the unhappy exchange. Warning clouds of the mind are believed to exist by many of the clearest heads and soundest hearts: we do not say that our heroes were thus sadly affected, nor that the Kentuckian had a fore-taste of evil; but certain it is, that all were silent until they arrived at the place of separation. All things having been previously settled, they exchanged salutations, and departed upon their separate routes. They passed a variety of streets in that most gloomy period of the day when lamp-lighters are to be seen, with their torches and ladders, starting their glimmering lights first in one direction and then in another, as they hurry from post to post. Draymen were driving home with reckless and Jehu-like speed; and the brilliant lights which began to appear at long intervals, gave evidence that the trading community carried their operations also into that portion of time which nature has allotted for rest and repose to nearly all living things. Our travellers now alighted at Barnum's; but as their adventures were of an interesting character, we shall defer them till a new chapter.

CHAPTER III.

After a substantial meal had been despatched, our travellers repaired to the livery-stable, to inspect in person the condition of their horses. The establishment was lighted with a single lamp, swung in the centre of the building. The approach of the two young gentlemen was not therefore immediately noticed by old Cato and another groom (who proved to be the coachman of the equipage they had left on the road), as they were busily engaged in rubbing down their horses, the dialogue between them was not brought to a close at once.

"Who did you say the gentleman was?" said old Cato.

"His name is Brumley," replied coachee.

"And the young lady is his daughter, I suppose?" continued Cato.

"Oh! as to that, I cannot say," continued coachee, "but I believe she is only his step-daughter; they calls her Miss Fanny St. Clair, and sometimes of late the old gentleman calls her Mrs. Frances; but between you and me and the horse-stall, there is some strange things about this family; I rather guess that Sukey, the maid up yonder, could tell us something that would make us open our eyes, if she was not so confounded close; all that I know about it is, that the harsh old gentleman sometimes gives her a talk in the carriage that throws her a'most into a faintin' spell. But I could never see into it, not I; I don't somehow believe in all these little hurrahs the women kicks up just for pastime."

Our travellers did not think proper to listen further to the gossip of the grooms, and having executed their business at the livery, they retraced their steps to the splendid establishment at which they had put up. Notwithstanding the doubtful source from which Chevillere had gained his latest information concerning the singularly interesting young lady whom they had seen at the inn, it made its impression. Corrupt indeed must be that channel of information relative to a beautiful and attractive female, apparently in distress, which will not find an auditor in the person of a sensitive young man just emancipated from college. On such occasions, and with such persons, the credibility of all witnesses is the same, and the most improbable tale is taken at once, and made the foundation of a whole train of reveries, dreams, and plans.

It is not to be denied that Victor Chevillere had worked his imagination up to a very romantic height, and had allowed his curiosity concerning the youthful lady to reach such a pitch that little else gave occupation to his fancies.

He was in this state of mind, leisurely marking time with lazy steps, and in an abstracted mood, as he ascended the grand staircase of the establishment, when his attention was again riveted by the sound of the lady's voice in earnest entreaty with the old gentleman.

"Consider, my dear Frances," said the latter, "that your health is now nearly re-established, and that these are subjects that you must dwell upon; why not, therefore, become accustomed to it at once?"

"For heaven's sake! for my dear mother's! never, sir, mention that fearful marriage, and more fearful death to me again! Why should I recall hideous and frightful dreams!"

Chevillere was compelled to move on, but it must be confessed that his steps were slower than before; and it may be readily imagined, that his fancy and his curiosity were not much allayed by the shreds of conversation which he had involuntarily overheard. When he had ascended to his own apartment, and could indulge freely in that bachelor recreation of pacing to and fro, the two words still involuntarily quickened his movements whenever they flashed through his mind—-"marriage" and "death" were words of opposite import certainly, viewed in the abstract, and we doubt whether he had ever connected them together before;—-"Fearful marriage! and more fearful death!" what could it mean? to whom could they refer? Only one of them could refer to her, that was certain; who then was married and died so fearfully? Ah! thought he, I have it! her mother has married this old man, and died suddenly; and he has got the fortune of both in his hands! Suspicious circumstance! If fortune puts it in my power, I will watch him narrowly! I disliked his countenance from the first!—must be cool, however, and deliberate—must watch—and wait! pshaw, what am I at! Thus ended Victor Chevillere's solution of the enigma, when Lamar stepped into the room and disturbed his revery.

"What! still musing, Chevillere. By my troth, she must be a witch; but it will be glorious news to write to our friend Beverly Randolph, of old Virginia. What say you? Shall I sit down and indite an epistle? Let me see—how do such narratives generally begin? Cupid, and darts, and arrows—blind of an eye—shot right through the vitals of a poor innocent youth that never did him any harm—never was struck before—covered with a panoply, and shield, and armour, and all that; and then worship prostrate before the shrine; and vows, and tears, and tokens; and then the dart is taken out—and the wound heals up—and then—'Richard's himself again!' What say you to that, or rather what would Randolph say to that, think you?"

"He would say that Augustus Lamar was still the same mirth-loving fellow, without regard to time or place."

"Then it is a serious affair, and too true to make a joke of! Well, then I have done! She's a beautiful young creature, it is true; but then from what I had seen of your cold philosophy, I did not think you were the man to be slain at first sight, and surrender at