When Laurie Meredith was well enough to go away again, the summer was more than half gone, and he felt that he owed a debt of gratitude to Jewel Fielding for her hospitality and friendliness that he knew not how to pay, since she refused money, and there was nothing else that he could give.

The situation was most embarrassing, for in spite of his sorrow, sickness, and preoccupation, he could not help seeing that Jewel took more than a friendly interest in himself.

It was this that decided him to go away at once, that he might give no encouragement to her fancy. He said to himself that his heart was dead, that he could never reciprocate her love, so he would go away, and she was so young and gay she would soon forget him.

"If there is anything I can do for you at any time, Jewel, remember that I desire you to command my services," he said to her, when he broke to her, as gently as he could, the news that he was going away the next day.

She had borne it more calmly than he had expected. The bright cheeks grew pale, and the lashes drooped to hide the sadness in the dark eyes, but she said, eagerly:

"There is something you can do for me—now. I have a favor to ask of you."

"You have only to name it," he replied, gallantly; and she began to tell him that she was tired of her life in this quiet seaport town of Virginia.

She was rich, and she longed to live in the city and mix with its gayeties, that she might forget the sorrows she had borne here.

"You live in Boston; you have a mother and sister," she said. "Would it be wrong for me to come to Boston to live? Would it be too much to ask your family to present me in society?"

He was surprised and secretly annoyed. He saw her drift in a moment. She did not mean to lose sight of him. Her love was stronger than he had thought.

He did not answer her for a moment, from sheer surprise, and she continued:

"I have a most excellent lady for a companion, as you know. I should like to buy a handsome house in your city, and set up housekeeping with Mrs. Wellings as my chaperon and companion. There would be nothing imprudent in that, I suppose?"

He was obliged to own that, as far as he knew, such a proceeding would be quite proper.

"Then it is settled!" she cried, joyfully. "Now, will you be so kind, when you get home, as to see a real estate man and buy a handsome house for me? I shall like it all the better if it is near your home, for I know I shall be fond of your mother and sisters—that is, if they are all like you."

He could not help coloring at the frankly spoken words, and he cried out, hastily:

"But, my dear Miss Fielding, I fear I should not be able to please you in the selection of a house. It would be much better for your guardian to attend to that matter."

"He is an old stupid; I would not trust him in the selection of such a house as I want," she replied, vivaciously; and, after thinking a moment, he said:

"Then you should select it yourself. What would you say to coming to Boston this autumn as the guest of my mother?"

"I should be charmed!" Jewel declared, graciously.

"Then my mother shall send you an invitation, and then you can select a house yourself," he said, adding, with a slight smile: "I predict that you will be a belle when you enter society."

"What! a little country girl like me?" cried Jewel, with sparkling eyes; and he saw that she was delighted at the compliment, and told himself that this was the very best thing he could have thought of—inviting her to his home. In society she would see so many handsome men she would get over her penchant for him.

"And I am going abroad again, anyway. I could not bear a quiet life now. I must seek oblivion in strange scenes and a new life," he thought, sighing, as he left her and went out into the grounds, where everything reminded him so vividly of his little, lost love.

Alas! she was gone now from those scenes that her fairy form had brightened, and the low murmur of the sea, as it rolled with a sullen murmur in to the shore, tortured him with the thought that it held her in its cruel embrace.

"Who would have dreamed," he thought, "last summer, that such a tragedy would have overtaken this little family? The mother insane, one daughter dead, the other restless and unhappy because of an unhappy love! Poor Jewel! she is indeed bereaved!" he thought, as he walked down a graveled path toward the rear of the house, to get away from the sorrowful sound of the ever-restless sea.

And as his walk took him quite near the servants' quarters, he suddenly came face to face with old Maria's relict, Sam, whom he had never seen since that night last summer when he had sent him to carry that letter to Flower.

At first the mulatto looked sheepish and inclined to retreat; but, seeing Laurie's hand go into his pocket, he turned back, and was presented with a bright silver dollar, for which he returned profuse thanks.

"Ah, Sam, no more letters to carry now. She is dead, poor Flower!" sighed the young man, sorrowfully, and the mulatto gave him a strange glance, and replied, resentfully:

"Yes, she's dead, and it's your fault, too, Mr. Meredith! What made you sneak off and leave poor Maria's nuss child to bear her shame and disgrace by herself?"

"Shame and disgrace!" the young man repeated, bewilderedly, and Sam looked around, and seeing no one near, whispered:

"Guess no one hain't told you about my dream, has they, now?"

"No," Laurie answered, wondering if Sam were drunk or crazy, yet submitting to be drawn aside into a convenient arbor, where the story of Sam's return with his bride that fateful night was quickly told.

Laurie Meredith's pale face grew whiter and more haggard still, and Sam, seeing it, added, quickly: "But 'twan't nuthin' but a dream, sir, or a warnin' o' her death, for she were dead and drowndid then, pore gal!"

"But, Sam, there could have been nothing like that—a child, I mean—Flower would have written to me!" he exclaimed, incoherently.

"Lor' bless you, Mr. Meredith, there was a child comin'—hain't Miss Jewel told you?" cried Sam, and a terrible groan answered him:

"My wife, my little wife, oh, why did you not tell me!" and then he rushed wildly to Jewel, demanding to know why she had kept this from him.

"My sister's disgrace—oh, how could I tell you, who loved her, of that dark stain?" she began; but he interrupted, wildly:

"There was no stain, no disgrace; she was my wife by a secret marriage, and she promised to go away with me but she was afraid of her mother, and stayed. Jewel, this story must be published to the world, that no stain may rest on her memory," he declared, passionately to the cruel girl who had brought about all this misery.