Nothing appeared less likely, at this period, than the fulfilment of Lynn's prognostications of his destiny. He collected encouragement and praise at every turn. A Bayard in society—a Raphael at the easel, he bore a distinguished part in the lionization of the day. He sped well, too, in his wooing. A quick fancy and impressible heart could hardly resist the attractions of his person and genius; and the spice of coquetry, generally predominant in Ellen's disposition, lay dormant, as she hearkened to the voice of love. She made but one reservation in pledging him her troth—that their engagement should be secret. He would have had it proclaimed through the land—he so joyed in the bliss he had won; but he bowed to the scarcely uttered wish, respecting the maiden modesty that dictated the request. To Ida and Charley it was divulged. He would not accept a happiness they wore forbidden to share. For a few brief weeks this knew no shade or diminution; but a change came. Ida discovered it; but he was silent, and she would not extort confidence. It was a trial to see his clouded countenance and fitful spirits; yet she knew his peculiarly sensitive organization, and hoped the evil was magnified by its medium. In this hope she finally persuaded him to speak.

They met at a Fancy Fair. Ida was in an embowered recess, Mr. Lacy for a companion, and Charley hanging around to play propriety. Lynn entered alone, and did not attach himself to any person or party. He marched from end to end of the room, with folded arms, and a dogged look, too foreign to him, not to impress one unpleasantly. He perceived Ida after awhile, and acknowledged her presence by touching his hat, with no loss of gloominess. Ida was distrait; even Mr. Lacy failed to charm; and he was aware of it He guessed, too, from the direction of her eyes, the working of her thoughts, and proposed a visit to the refreshment table, which stood in the path of the promenaders. Lynn could not brush by without speaking. The first tone of Ida's voice affected him. The dull black of his eyes became lustrous, and the long lashes fell over them to conceal the momentary weakness. She would not let him go. She asked him questions without number or meaning, not waiting for answers, until she had eaten her ice; when she gave her glass to Mr. Lacy, and with an apology, his eye said was unnecessary, took Lynn's arm. He confessed all, as she had determined he should. It was a common tale; the scrupulousness of a love, made up of delicacy and truth, and the thoughtless trifling of a girl who felt her power;—so she explained it, but the young lover mourned the death of his first-born hope.

"I would as soon speak lightly of my dead sister, as tamper with her affection," said he. "Your excuse that she does these things to try mine—if you are right—proves that she never loved me."

"But why did I say she applied the test? In girlish caprice—foolish enough—but harmless as to intention. Have you forgotten what women are in their 'hour of ease?' if danger or sorrow menaced you, she would stand by you to the last. She loves you, Lynn,—I am assured of this."

"Not so am I. I called there this evening. She had promised to accompany me hither, but she was 'engaged with company!' Those addlepates, Pemberton and Talbot were there, doling out their senseless prattle; and she was gracious to them, repellant to me. If Pemberton were not a puppy, I would not sleep before I crossed swords with him. She waltzed with him last night. I had told her that I would not invite any lady, whom I respected, to engage in that most disgusting of dances. Conceive of my feelings, when, within the hour, I saw her whirling down the hall in his arms! And the coxcomb's insufferable impudence! if he thwarts me again, I will cane him!"

"You will not! Go and see Ellen to-morrow, when there is no one to annoy you, by preventing a private interview. Set before her the unkindness, the want of generosity apparent in her conduct; assert your rights with dignity, and your resolution to uphold them."

"I would not pain her, Ida. She has chosen the easiest method of undeceiving me; better this, than a life-time of misery to both. She said, the other day, to a gentle reproach for an open slight, which would have offended a vainer man, mortally, that she did it to mislead others. 'A young lady,' she remarked, 'sinks into a cypher, if it is suspected that she is betrothed. I have not had my lawful amount of admiration yet.'

"'Ellen!' said I, 'I have loved you as man never loved woman before; have believed you pure and high-minded. If I thought that the despicable coquetry you insinuate, caused you to insist upon the concealment of our engagement, I would trumpet it to the world, and then break it myself!'"

"Lynn, remember where you are! You are too harsh; it was a jest."

"The manner displeased me most, and to-night, when I saw those fops—could I be patient?"

Their conversation and saunter were prolonged.

"Are you going home to-night?" asked Josephine, gaily, hailing them in one of their rounds. "They are extinguishing the lamps."

Ida changed color as she saw that she had Mr. Lacy's arm. Lynn observed it, and waited for her.

"You are fast walkers—go on," said Josephine, at the door. As they passed, Ida had a view of Mr. Lacy's features. They were so pale and rigid, that she started. He answered her look of apprehension with one that froze her blood.

What had she done to draw down that stern, yet sorrowful rebuke?

Her pillow was damp that night.

Mr. Thornton had obtained a signal victory in his first important cause. Already, his legal acumen and oratorical powers marked him in the public eye for usefulness and fame; and on the evening after the delivery of the verdict, he called together a band of select spirits to rejoice with him. The banquet was well ordered; comprising the rarities of the season, and a variety of wines, varied by the introduction of agreeable non-intoxicants, coffee, tea, iced sherbet, etc. These unwonted accompaniments of a bachelor supper were looked upon with an evil eye by some of the guests. They were jealous of innovations which might end in puritanical abstinence; and their fears were further excited that three of their small number preferred the less stimulating beverages. That Mr. Lacy's example should be copied by Mr. Compton, a fellow-student, was not surprising, as they were intimate, and known as members of the same church; but at Charles Dana's rejection of the social glass, there was a hum of exclamations and inquiries, which was calmed by his imperturbability, and the polite tact of the host. Morton could not unriddle the conduct of his friend, for he knew that his most trivial action was not meaningless. "Not a convert, Charley?" he said, when the rest were in full cry after some inspiring subject.

"Unfortunately, no. It is from a motive of expediency that I abstain to-night."

They sat together, and as he spoke, Mr. Lacy chanced to remark Lynn, who was opposite. He drank deeply, but his potations had not had time to ignite the fire that burned in his eyes and checks. His talk was a volcanic eloquence, reckless as to course and consequence; and his laugh had the peal of a maniac's yell. In real alarm, Morton turned to his neighbor. Charley was on the alert; not outwardly—he might have been more grave and taciturn than common, but there were no evidences of anxiety. Morton divined his feelings, by a glance he saw exchanged between him and his heated friend; a look of warning and appeal on one side,—of anguish, scornful in its bitterness, on the other,—and the torrent rolled on as before.

During the giving of toasts, Mr. Lacy and Charley fell into a quiet chat, only pausing to lift their glasses in courtesy to the authors, ignorant, most of the time, of the sentiment proposed. Lynn was more sedate; from delirium he was relapsing into a comatose state, when he was brought to his feet by a toast to his art, coupled with a neatly turned compliment to himself, from Mr. Thornton. His unpremeditated reply was beautiful and touching. He was under the very spur of genius; rich metaphors, apt classical allusions, and delicate pathos poured from his lips, as thoughts from his brain; his rapt hearers scarcely conscious that he employed the machinery of words. The applause that succeeded the last musical echo was deafening. For a moment, the wild glare that had distressed Morton, disappeared, and with a happy, grateful smile, he bowed his thanks for this spontaneous tribute of approbation and regard.

"Egad!" said Pemberton, "you have mistaken your calling, Holmes—you had better burn up your canvass, and take to stump-speaking, you'd make more money by it."

Angry frowns and rebuking eyes were directed to the drunken speaker.

"If stumps and blockheads claim kindred, I shall not need to go far to exercise my vocation," said Lynn, hotly.

"Ha! ha!" laughed the other, with a violent affectation of derision.

"Don't be frightened, gentlemen! Mr. Holmes and myself have wrestled upon another battle-field, and I can afford to forgive him, from the soreness of his defeat. Your friend and instructress, that loud-tongued virago, Ida Ross, could not have uttered—"

Like a wounded panther, Lynn cleared the table at a bound, and grasped his throat. A general rush was made to the spot, and they were parted before either sustained serious injury. Pemberton had drawn a dirk at the attack, but it was wrested from him by Mr. Lacy. Reconciliation was impossible in the excited state of the combatants. Charley prudently withdrew his friend, relying upon time and reflection to prepare the mind of each for overtures and concessions. Lynn did not speak until they reached his room; then, extricating his arm from Charley's hold, he demanded in a high tone, what had been his object in terminating the conflict. "If not finished there, you know it must be somewhere."

"I do not see the necessity," was the reply. "It is a drunken broil, of which you will be ashamed to-morrow. No man in his senses would have noticed him as you did. He shall have a cow-hiding for his last speech; I would not disgrace a more honorable weapon by using it against him. I am mortified, Lynn—I hoped you were learning to control those childish fits of passion."

"Am I to be crossed and bullied forever by a meddling fool? Is it not enough that he has helped to wreck my peace, but he must taunt me with it?" cried Lynn passionately. "He ought not to live, and I do not care to!"

"You certainly are not fit to die." said Charley composedly, "or you would not rave so like a madman. Be sane for five minutes; by what means has your happiness been put in his power?"

Lynn was a humored, wayward child, and this cold severity did more to quiet him than an hour's rhetorical pleading. Charley listened with knitting brows, to a rehearsal of his story to Ida, and an account of that day's interview with Ellen. She was dressed for a ride with Mr. Pemberton, and exasperated by this new example of her disrespect to him in encouraging a man he despised—Lynn had spoke hastily—angrily. She retorted with equal warmth, and after a turbulent scene they parted. Pemberton arrived as he was leaving, and his malicious twinkle told that he comprehended and enjoyed the state of affairs. Like Ida, Charley had never heartily approved of this match; but his indignation towards Ellen was none the less on this account. He saw, in her behaviour, the most culpable flirting, and he said so to Lynn. He shook his head sadly.

"Convince me of that and you destroy my faith in woman. No! I believe she once fancied she loved me; but I have become obnoxious to her. It is my fate. The last dream of hope is over—I have nothing to live for now."

He covered his face with his hands. Charley remained with him all night, an uninvited visitor. His host neglected him entirely, never speaking, and seemingly unmindful of his presence. Whenever Charley awoke, he heard him pacing the floor, or saw the outline of his figure, dark and still, at the window, gazing into the black night.

"You will not do anything in the settlement of this nonsensical matter until you confer with me?" requested Charley, on saying "Good bye."

"I shall not move in the affair," was the laconic rejoinder.

"You will acquaint me with Pemberton's proposals?"

"If I think proper—yes—you shall know in good time."

Charley was going out, and did not catch the exact import of these words. He proceeded with the business of the day, comparatively at ease. Knowing Pemberton to be an arrant coward at heart, bully as he was, he did not fear a renewal of the subject from him.

Ida was alone that evening. Mr. Read was in the country; and Josephine, having waited until visiting hours were over, went off to bed. Ida liked to sit up late, but she usually preferred the snug comfort of her room to the parlors. To-night she lingered over a book, reading and musing, with a tincture of gloom in her thought-pictures. She was pondering upon the instability of earthly plans and hopes. "How true that the brightest light produces the deepest shadows!" The words arose unexpectedly to her lips. In the loosely-linked chain of reverie, she did not know that they had their origin in the memory of a slighter circumstance than a word—in a look.

Rachel was coming to see after her, and hearing a ring as she tripped by the front door, opened it. A man handed her a package saying, briefly, "For Miss Ross," and instantly vanished. Ida saw Lynn's hand in the superscription of the bulky parcel, and broke the seal. Two letters were within it; one directed to Ellen Morris; the other,—enclosing a miniature—to herself.

"My best, truest friend!" she read, "I cannot trust myself to speak the farewell my heart indites to one who has been a loving and faithful sister to me. It would unman me, and I have occasion for all my manliness at this juncture. I have no regret in the prospect of leaving a world where my horoscope was cast in clouds and storm;—I cannot undergo the pangs of seeing your grief. Destiny will be accomplished, Ida, however insignificant the instrument with which it works. Charley will inform you of the baseness of that which has severed the one shining thread of my existence. Heaven grant you may never know the hatefulness of life, when that for which you thought, toiled, lived, is torn from you! I have struck the reptile who trailed over my Eden-flowers, and reared his head insultingly amid the ruin he helped to effect, and in his unspent malice he would sting me to death. The sting of death is gone! there will be unintentional mercy in the stroke that releases me. I have been mad—I am calmer now. If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil; I shall not attempt his life—I will not imbrue my hands in the blood of the murdered.

"You will give the enclosed to my poor Ellen—'my Ellen!' she has forbidden me to call her by that name. It may be, she will pity, when no more, the wretch she could not love when living.

"My sister and friend! what can I say to you? Forgive my ingratitude in being willing to die before I have made some feeble return for your goodness! Will you wear or keep this image of him, by whom you were never forgotten—not in the death-agony? I have written to Charley, but he will not receive the letter until all is over. I was unwilling to risk this—its contents are too sacred. You are dreaming in your innocent slumbers, of years of peace and joy—I shall not close my eyes but in the sleep that knows no awakening to care and woe. 'The blessing of him who is ready to perish' be upon you!

"Lynn."

Ida's impulse was to scream for help; but ere her palsied tongue did her bidding, the futility of all attempts to save him stared upon her; the hour—nearly midnight; the illness of their man-servant; Mr. Read's absence; her ignorance of Lynn's locality or plans beyond his suicidal intention—towered, frowning spectres, mountain-high, each with its sepulchral "Impossible!" Some women would have swooned—some sunk down to weep in impotent despair;—the shock over, her energetic spirit rallied to meet the emergency. He should be saved! at the peril of her life, if need be—what were personal convenience and safety?

Charley—the sagacious, collected friend—what mortal could do, he would—she must see him. Rachel had not spoken, terrified by her mistress' expression and manner. It was a relief to aid her in any way; she brought, without a second's parley, the cloak and hood Ida ordered, and equipped herself to attend her. "Take the key," said Ida, as they went out of the door; and they sped on their way. The night was dark, and for whole squares not a light was visible. Half of the distance to Mr. Dana's was traversed without encountering a single being, when they approached a lighted doorway, in which two gentlemen were standing. Fearing to attract their attention by her hurried gait, Ida slackened her pace, and pulled her hood over her face. She heard one say—"If the spasms do not return he may not want watchers to-morrow night;" and a feeling of security stole upon her. The friends of the suffering would not molest her, whose mission was one of mercy. A few squares further on, they were met by a watchman. Rachel made out his badge of office through the obscurity, and pressed to her mistress' side. The man stopped. His keen eye discerned her color.

"Your pass!" said he, confronting Rachel.

"Her mistress is with her," answered Ida, emboldened by the exigency.

He bowed respectfully, and pursued his beat. Ida's heart throbbed loudly, but she stifled her fears by a reconsideration of Lynn's extremity of danger,—"it was no time for nervous failings." Rachel did not possess such a tonic, and had seen every shadow, heard every rustle of the breeze.

Before their adventure with the dreaded "guard," she had known that one of the gentlemen above-mentioned had taken the same route with themselves; keeping, however, upon the other side of the street; and after Ida's ready response removed her apprehension of "the cage" and Mayor's court, she saw him still upon her track—worse! crossing towards them. Overcome with terror, she clutched her mistress' arm, and by a frantic gesture, directed her to the object of alarm. He was within six feet of them; and startled by his proximity, and the fright of her attendant, she stood still. A minute of breathless suspense, and the stranger was at her side.

"Miss Ross," he said, in a low but confident tone. "This is a strange hour for a lady to be in the street with such attendance!"

His stern, cold address could not repress her thrilling pleasure.

"Oh, Mr. Lacy!" she exclaimed, clinging to his arm, and giving way, for the first time, to tears. "Life and death depend upon my action—the life of one very dear to us both—you would not reproach me if you knew—"

"Ida! dear Ida!" said he, mindful only of her sorrow. "Can there be reason for this excessive grief? Your fears have misled you. Of whom do you speak?"

She could not speak quite yet, but her sobs were subsiding under his soothing.

"Will you not trust yourself and our friend to me, Ida?"

She looked up. "Yes," she said, simply.

He put her hand within his arm. "First, tell me where you are going."

"To Mr. Dana's."

"For what purpose?"

"I have something to tell Charley."

"I will be the bearer of your message. Let me see you home;—you shall give it to me on the way."

She obeyed submissively as a child.

"Now!" said he, as they turned back.

"I had a note from Lynn to-night. It is worded so ambiguously,—contains so many allusions I do not understand, that I can glean but this—he has quarrelled, and been challenged;—they fight to-morrow, where or when I do not know, nor the name of his opponent. It is all a horrible mystery."

It was more clear to him. He related the incident of the altercation at supper, suppressing Pemberton's use of her name.

"Oh! can it be! he will not stoop so low! And he will die! he declares his solemn determination not to resist the attack. His life is thrown away!"

"Not if man can prevent it—I promise you this much. When did you get this letter?"

"Not an hour since."

"Why did you not send to Charley or me?"

"Mr. Read is away, and John sick."

"What is the tone of the note? revengeful?"

"Oh, no! he says expressly—'If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil.' He writes, weary of life, and relieved at the thought of getting rid of it."

"'Getting rid' of the life God has bestowed!" repeated he, indignantly. "Forgive me, Ida! yet you cannot tolerate this sentiment! Does he believe in an hereafter? Does he allude to it?"

"No—but he does believe—I have thought, sometimes, with more than the intellect. Do not judge him hardly;—he has suffered much of late; more from morbid sensibility than actual troubles, but he imagined his woes too heavy to be borne. He is not fit to cope with sorrow."

"None of us are, 'till we have been taught the uses of affliction. This recklessness is, you think, more an impulse than a purpose?"

"I am sure of it."

"He will be more manageable then," he replied encouragingly.

The wind blew roughly, and he folded her cloak around her.

"I recognised you by this, and your walk, and fearing lest you might encounter rudeness in your nocturnal ramble, kept you in sight. I heard your voice at the watchman's challenge, and concluded to declare myself your protector. I have been sitting with a sick friend."

Ida did not know herself when they stopped at the door—her uneasiness all gone, and with it the unnatural strength that impelled her venturesome step—he had assumed the burden; and he was so strong and sanguine, it did not oppress him. With the mild authority which had checked her tears and reversed her design, he bade her "dismiss anxiety, and rest quietly until morning, when he would send her glad tidings." And with the same childlike docility she repaired to her chamber, and betook herself to slumber.