The period of our revolutionary history immediately succeeding the defeat at Camden, is still remembered in the Carolinas with horror. The British, elated with their success, and regarding the South as now their own, proceeded in the work of confiscation and massacre with pitiless severity. In that terrible crisis many a family was deprived of its head either by exile or by execution. Yet larger numbers were shorn of their property and reduced to comparative indigence. In a word, terror reigned paramount.

But the common events of life still went on. The transactions of business, the struggle for wealth, the toils of the husbandman, births, deaths, marriages, cares, hopes, fears—all followed each other down the deep current of existence, almost wholly unaffected by the storm of war which agitated the surface. It is an error to suppose that great convulsions disturb the whole order of society. Men will still hate, though the entire nation be turned into a camp; will still strive for the dross of earth; will still, if young and generous, risk their heart’s happiness in love.

It was toward the close of a winter evening that a youth of noble mien and handsome face stood at the foot of one of those long avenues of trees, which, in South Carolina, lead up from the road to the mansions of the wealthier proprietors. For nearly half an hour he had been there, as if awaiting the approach of some one from the house: now looking anxiously up the long avenue, now restlessly walking to and fro. During that interval but one person had passed along the highway, and the notice of this one the youth had skillfully avoided by concealing himself behind some dwarf trees within the plantation-fence. This act, as well as his whole demeanor, proved that he was awaiting some secret interview.

At last, just when the dusk began to deepen into night, the flutter of a white dress was seen coming down the avenue. A minute more, and a beautiful girl of eighteen summers appeared on the scene.

“Albert,” said the new comer, as the youth, seizing her hand, passionately kissed it, “I have not a second to stay. It was with difficulty I could leave the house unseen, and my absence has doubtless been noticed before this; what we have to say, therefore, must be said at once; why have you sought this interview?”

“I have sought it, Ellen,” he replied, still holding her hand, “because, despairing of gaining your consent, I have volunteered in Capt. Washington’s cavalry corps, and to-morrow set forth. Perhaps you will never see me more. I could not leave the neighborhood without seeing you once more, and bidding you an eternal farewell; and, as your father’s orders had banished me from the house, there was no method of giving you my adieux except by soliciting an interview.”

The tears had started to the eyes of his listener, but she turned away her head to conceal them; and for some time neither spoke.

“Ellen, dear Ellen,” said the young soldier, earnestly, “will you not now, in this solemn moment, say you love me? I once hoped you did, but since your father has forbidden me the house, you have been less kind; and I fear that I have lost your heart—that you, too, have ceased to care for me, now that I am beggared—”

His hearer suddenly turned her face full upon him, with a look of tearful reproach that cut short his words.

“Bless you, Ellen, for that look,” he said. “Though my father’s estate is confiscated, and he and I both indigent, it is not on that account that you have seemed so cold to me lately. Say then, dearest, only say that I have been mistaken in thinking you at all altered.”

Another look, equally eloquent, answered him; but still his hearer did not speak.

“Oh! Ellen,” he continued, “when I am far away fighting my country’s battles, what bliss it would be to know that you sometimes think of me; and that if I should fall, you would shed a tear for me.”

His listener, at these words, wept freely, and when her agitation had somewhat passed, spoke.

“Albert,” she said, “you have conquered. Know then that I do love you.” At these words the impetuous young man clasped her in his arms, but she disengaged herself, saying, “But, while my father opposes your suit, I can never be yours. The consciousness of his disapproval has made me affect a coldness to you which my heart belied, in the hope that you would think of some one more worthy of you—but—but,” she hesitated, then quickly added, “in a word, if it will comfort you, when away, to know that I think of you, and pray for you, go forth happy—the misery is for us who stay behind, and who are hourly anxious for the fate of the absent.”

The tears fell fast as she spoke, and, concluding, she suffered her head to be drawn to her lover’s shoulder, while a deep and holy silence succeeded, as these two young and already unhappy beings held each other in a first embrace.

It was only for a moment, however, that Ellen yielded to weakness. Raising her head and brushing the tears from her eyes, she said, while crimson blushes overspread her face,

“And now farewell—perhaps all this is wrong—but I could not see you leave me in anger.”

“God bless you for those kind words,” said Albert. “But, Ellen, before you go, one more request. That miniature that hangs around your neck—is it too much to ask for it?”

She hesitated: then, as steps were heard in the road, suddenly gave it to him. He drew a heavy signet-ring from his finger, and said, tendering it in exchange,

“Take this, and let us be true to each other—so help us God!”

And with this parting adjuration, he sprang over the fence to conceal himself behind the brushwood, while Ellen, hastening up the avenue, was soon lost to sight in the obscurity of the hour.

The wind sighed mournfully through the pine woods as this betrothal was consummated, and the dark, starless sky overhead looked down with its weird and melancholy face.

——