The tops of the Alleghanies loomed up darkly against the eastern sky as it flushed with the rosy hues of a new day; the delicate shades of rose pink and pale blue changed to crimson and gold, and anon the increasing light aroused old Vashti from the heavy slumber into which she had fallen some hours before.

She started up, rubbed her eyes, and glancing from the window, muttered, "'Bout time dis chile was wakin' up and lookin' after tings. Sun's jus' gwine to peep 'bove dose mountings. Wonder how ole marster is 'bout dis time?"

She had thrown herself down upon her bed without undressing. Finishing her remarks with something between a sigh and a groan, she slowly gathered herself up and went stumbling from the room, hardly more than half awake yet, having lost much sleep in the last two or three weeks.

But reaching the upper chamber where her mistress had kept solitary vigil through the night, she entered very quietly, extinguished the candle, drew aside the window curtains, letting in the morning light and air, then stepping to the foot of the bed, stood silently gazing upon its occupant, the big tears stealing down her sable cheeks.

The form lying there was attenuated, the face thin, haggard, deathly; the sunken eyes were closed, and the breath came fitfully from the ghastly, parted lips.

Mrs. Clendenin seemed unconscious of Vashti's entrance; her eyes were riveted upon that pallid face, the cold hand was clasped in hers, and her heart was sending up agonizing petitions.

They were granted; he stirred slightly, opened his eyes, looking full into hers with a clear, steady, loving gaze, while the cold fingers feebly responded to her tender clasp.

"My wife, my darling!" he whispered, and she bent eagerly to catch the low breathed words. "God bless you for your faithful love! I'm going—going home to be with Christ; and it's all peace—peace and light."

The eyelids drooped, the fingers fell away from her grasp, the breast heaved with one long-drawn sigh, and all was still.

She fell upon her knees at his side, still with his hand in hers, her face radiant with unutterable joy.

"Oh, thank God! thank God!" she cried. "My darling, my darling! at rest, at rest, and safe at last!"

"Dat he is, dat he is, bress de Lord!" ejaculated the old negress.

For many minutes the new-made widow knelt there gazing fixedly into the calm face of the dead; then rising she gently closed the eyes and composed the limbs of him who had been to her nearer and dearer than aught else on earth, not a tear dimming her eyes, but a light shining in them as in those of one on whom had been suddenly bestowed an intensely longed for and almost despaired of boon.

"No strange hands shall busy themselves about thee, my beloved," she murmured, "mine, only mine shall make you ready for your quiet, peaceful sleep, 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.'" Vashti looked on in wonder and surprise, silently giving such assistance as she might, without waiting for orders, bringing needed articles and making the room neat.

At length, the task completed, Vashti went down to her kitchen, but Mrs. Clendenin lingered still by the side of the beloved clay, gazing with hungry eyes upon the face that must soon be hidden from the sight beneath the clods of the valley.

A light step crossed the threshold and a slight girlish figure stood beside her. In an instant Marian's arms were round her mother's neck, her kisses and tears warm upon her cheek.

"Precious, precious mother! Oh, don't let your heart break!"

"No, darling!" she whispered, clasping the weeping girl in her arms; "it is full of joy and thankfulness for him, for he has laid down his heavy, heavy cross and received his crown, the crown of righteousness bought for him with the precious blood of Christ.

"Ah, my Angus, how blest, how blest art thou!" she cried, bending over the still form and pressing her lips to the cold brow.

They lingered over him for some minutes, the girl weeping and sobbing, the mother calm and placid; then together they went down-stairs and out into the shrubbery.

There were no curious eyes to watch them as they paced slowly up and down the walks, for the nearest neighbor was a full half mile away, on the farther side of the western hills.

The mother talked low and soothingly to her weeping child, speaking of the glories and bliss of heaven, and of the loving care of the Lord for His saints on earth.

"Mother, mother!" cried the girl, "I feared your heart would break; but instead you seem full of joy!"

"Ah, dear one, life has been a terror to him for many years; and shall I mourn that he has at last gotten the victory? That he is gone home to his Father's house, where there is perfect safety and fulness of joy forever more?"

"Mother," whispered the girl with a shudder, "what did he fear? Why have I never been told?"

"Dear child, do not ask! Oh, never ask that!" cried the mother in a startled tone, and turning a look of anguish upon her questioner.

The girl's face reflected it.

"Oh, why is it that I am not to be trusted?" she sobbed, almost wringing her hands in her bitter grief and distress; "why should I be deemed unworthy of confidence, even by my own mother? Would I—". But sobs choked her utterance.

"My darling, my precious child, it is not that, not that," faltered the mother, clasping her in her arms with tender caresses. "But let us speak of this no more, let us forget his sufferings, as he has forgotten them now. It is what he would have wished. Shall we not try, daughter?"

"Yes, yes, my poor, dear mother, I will for your sake," sobbed the girl. "Ah, if Kenneth were only here! When will he come?"

"I do not know," said Mrs. Clendenin, sighing slightly. "It is now several weeks since my letter went, but there are often delays, and it may not have reached him yet. I think he would start at once on receiving it, but the journey is long and tedious at the best, and there may be unlooked-for detentions consuming much time, so that we can hardly expect him for many days to come."

The letter she spoke of was the same that had caused Kenneth's sudden departure from Chillicothe only the previous day. A month later he reached Glen Forest.

Mrs. Clendenin, seated at the open window, saw him alight at the gate, and hastened out to meet him. There was a silent embrace, then an earnest scanning by each of the other's face, noting the changes wrought by time and the wear and tear of life.

Kenneth's eyes grew misty, for the dear face before him had aged very much since last he had looked upon it, and the dark hair had turned to silvery white.

She was regarding him with wistful tenderness. "Yes," she said, answering his unspoken thought in a half playful tone, yet smiling through gathering tears, "I am growing old, and you, my dear boy, are not quite so young as you were. Come in. Ah, it is good to have you here, at home again! You have heard, of course—"

"Yes, since arriving in the neighborhood, but I knew from your letter that all would be over long before I could reach you. It was a sore trial to think that even the small comfort and support of your boy's presence must be denied you."

"It was all right," she answered in low, sweet tones. "He was with me who has promised never to leave nor forsake those who trust in Him."

"I knew He would be, and that was my consolation," Kenneth returned in moved tones.

Then glancing about as they entered the house, "Where is Marian?" he asked. The mother explained that she had gone on an errand to a neighbor's half a mile away, and would not probably be back for an hour or more.

Vashti was summoned, bade her young master welcome with tears of joy, and hastened to set refreshments before him.

But he did them scant justice. His heart was too full of contending emotions to allow of much appetite, though he had not tasted food for some hours.

Gazing upon the loved face he had not seen for years, listening to the well remembered tones of the dear voice that had been wont to soothe his childish griefs, to give the well earned meed of praise which was the highly prized reward of his boyish efforts to be and do all that was good, noble, and manly, he forgot to eat.

She had much to tell of all that had occurred in the family during his absence, but her principal theme was the sickness and death of her husband.

Kenneth listened with intense, sorrowful interest to her description of that last scene, and seemed to feel no surprise when she told of the joy and thankfulness with which she had parted from her heart's best treasure.

He had risen from the table and drawn a chair to her side. "Dear mother," he said in faltering accents, taking her hand in his, "what a life yours has been! What but the grace of God could have sustained you through it all!"

"Blessed be His holy name, it has always been sufficient for me!" she answered. "'Hitherto hath the Lord helped me,' and I am persuaded that He will help me to the end."

A moment's silence, which Kenneth was the first to break. "Tell me of Marian, mother," he said. "She has grown? I shall doubtless find her greatly changed."

"More perhaps than you think; the dear child has shot up into a tall, graceful, blooming girl, very sweet and lovable, in her mother's eyes at least, with a beauty that oftentimes makes me tremble for her future. Kenneth, Kenneth, the child will surely be sought in marriage, and what shall we do?"

With the last words her voice took on a tone of keen distress and the eyes she lifted to his were full of anguish.

"It must not, must not be!" he answered hurriedly, his brow contracting in a spasm of pain. "Mother, keep her secluded here with you; let her have no communication with the other sex, old or young."

"Alas, I fear the utmost vigilance will not prevent it!" she cried, heaving a deep drawn sigh. "Oh, my darling, my darling, your mother's heart bleeds for you!"

"Dear mother," he said, again taking her hand and speaking low and tremulously, "can you not cast this burden also upon the Lord?"

"Sometimes," she said; "ah, I should die if I could not! But, Kenneth, what shall we do? Would it not be better to tell her all—to warn her in time?"

"Never!" he cried with energy, "it were too fearful a risk; it might cause the very calamity we so dread."

"Too true! too true!" she sighed, clasping her hands in her lap and closing her eyes, while her very lips grew white.

He bent over her, taking her cold hands in his, repeating low and tenderly the precious promise, "'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee: and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.'"

"Yes, yes, sweet words, sweet words!" she murmured. "Lord, increase my faith! But, Kenneth," opening her eyes and looking up earnestly, entreatingly, as it seemed, into his face, "you are sure, quite sure that this is the best, wisest, kindest course? not risking a greater danger than the one avoided?"

He answered her question with another.

"If we take the other course shall we not be running into a certain danger in the effort to avoid one that may never threaten us?"

"Perhaps. But ah, what a hard choice we must sometimes make! Yet He knows and will never send one unneeded pang; will cause all things to work together for good to them that love Him. May He in His tender mercy forgive my unbelieving fears!"

Oh, how Kenneth's heart yearned over her, as he gazed into the dear, patient, sorrowful face, how he felt that he would willingly give the best years of his life to remove every thorn from her path! And yet—and yet, was not the Love which permitted them to remain, infinitely greater than his?

Silence again fell between them for a short space. Then looking tenderly upon him she asked:

"But what of your quest, Kenneth?"

He shook his head sorrowfully. "Nothing yet, absolutely nothing. Hopes raised now and again but to be utterly disappointed."

"My poor boy," she sighed, "yours is a heavy cross! but if borne with steadfast patience your crown of righteousness will be all the brighter; for our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

He looked at her with glistening eyes. "Yes," he said, with a slight huskiness in his voice, "and even in this life it may be lightened."

"I fear not," she answered in gentle, pitying tones. "So many years have now passed there seems little hope that she yet lives, and even if she does, if she should be found, there may be nothing gained."

"I know, I know," he returned with emotion, and rising to pace the room, "and yet there are times when hope is still strong within me."

At that instant a slight, graceful, girlish figure came swiftly into the room, and with a glad cry, "Kenneth, Kenneth, you have come at last!" Marian threw herself into the manly arms joyfully opened to receive her.

She clung about his neck weeping from very excess of happiness. "Oh, I have wanted you so much, so much!" she cried. "I thought you would never come! I wish you would never go away again."

He folded her close to his heart with tenderest caresses, then held her off that he might gaze into her blooming face, drinking in its loveliness with feelings of mingled joy and anguish.

It was and yet was not the little pet sister he had left when he went away; she stood on the verge of womanhood now, innocent and fair, with a sweet blending of childish and womanly graces.

Ah, must that deadly curse fall on her? He shuddered at the thought, and almost groaned aloud.

She saw the pain in his face, and redoubling her caresses, "What is it, Kenneth?" she asked; "my poor Kenneth, you are not happy. Has some one been unkind to you? Ah, I know," she added quickly, in a lower tone, "it is for poor, dear father you are grieving; but you know he is so, so happy now, while here he was always sad and suffering."

He sat down and drew her to the old seat upon his knee. The mother had left the room and they were quite alone for the moment.

"How long since you sat here last!" he said, "and how glad I am to have you in the old place again."

And truly he was, yet peradventure not entirely for her own sake. To hold this sweet young creature close, to pet and caress her to his heart's content, was it not some slight relief to the longing desire to embrace that other one who was dearer still?

Had his thoughts some magnetic influence upon Marian's that led her, the next instant, to look up in his face and ask for news of "that pretty Miss Lamar"?

"What do you know of her, little one?" he asked gently smoothing the shining hair, conscious of the tell-tale blood mounting to his forehead, but avoiding the curious gaze of the soft, bright eyes.

"I saw her in church the Sunday before you left, and thought her very sweet and pretty. And do you know, Kenneth," giving him a hug and an arch, bewitching smile, "it's all my own notion and I never told anybody before, but I've had a sort of presentiment that some day you would make her my sister. Ah, I've always wanted a sister so much! But oh, Kenneth, I didn't mean to pain you!" she cried, noting the expression of his face. "Please forgive me and I'll never mention it again."

"Don't, darling!" he said hoarsely. "Marriage is not for me. I can not tell you why," as he read the question in her eyes; "but," with a strange, forced smile, "I want my little sister always to lay her plans to devote herself to the dear mother while she lives, and if it should please God to take her away first, then to come to be the light and joy of her bachelor brother's home."

She half withdrew herself from his arms, her features working with contending emotions.

"What is it, little sister? Do you not love me? do you not want to share my home?" he asked soothingly.

"Yes, yes, you know I love you; you know I'll be glad to be always near you," she cried, flinging her arms about his neck; then hiding her face on his breast in a burst of passionate weeping, "But why do you and mother have secrets from me, family secrets, as if I were not worthy to be trusted?"

"Ah, my little sister, be content with your ignorance!" he said in moved tones, drawing her closer to him. "Can you doubt that we love you well enough to tell you all if it would add to your happiness?"

"But I want to know," she sobbed. "If there is trouble or sorrow I ought to bear my share. Do you think I could be so selfish as not to prefer to do it?"

"No, dear sister, I believe you bear a very unselfish love to your mother and brother, and, therefore, I am sure you will not distress them by refusing to trust to their judgment of what is best in regard to those things. Believe me, the knowledge you crave could bring you nothing but grief and anguish. It is all it has brought me. The day may come when you must be told, but do not try to hasten it. I can be here but a short time to arrange matters for mother and you, and while I stay let us try to be happy."

"Oh yes, yes!" she cried, clinging to him and weeping afresh. "Kenneth, Kenneth, why can't we have you always? I'll try to be content not to know anything; but just tell me one thing: Why do you search for a white woman among the Indians? I've learned from some of your letters about your long journeys in the wilderness, why are you so anxious to find her, so grieved when you fail? Surely I may know that, may I not?"

He considered a moment. "Yes," he sighed, "if you insist upon it I will tell you, though I know you will regret having asked, for the knowledge can bring you only sorrow. Shall I tell you?"

She gave an eager assent; but at that moment the mother returned to the room, and he whispered in Marian's ear that they would defer it until another time.

Some days later, a fitting opportunity presenting itself, she hastened to claim the fulfilment of his promise; but when he answered the question she burst into bitter weeping, crying as she clung about his neck, "Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, why did you tell me, why did I ask? I wish I had not!" and he had much ado to comfort her.