A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky. —Wordsworth.

Suddenly a figure glided forth into the moonlight, which, for one moment, Kate almost fancied was a spirit. It was clothed in white, and bore the semblance of a young girl, not more than ten years old; but so sylph-like were its movements, so noiseless its tread, and so pure and innocent was the expression of the face, that it could not, Kate thought, be there, yet be earthly. This transient illusion, however, was instantly dissipated, by a childish voice calling out to the dog, in low tones, as if fearful of awaking the sleepers.

The bloodhound apparently recognized the accents as those of one who had shown him acts of kindness, for he ceased growling immediately, and going up to the young girl, lifted his head as if to be caressed. The child patted the ferocious animal, whispering soothingly to him, on which he crouched down at her feet, like the lion before Una.

Our heroine fully expected that the alarm given by the dog would have aroused the sleepers; and she even fancied, for an instant, that she heard the refugees stirring. She turned, therefore, eagerly to fly, but at the first step the young girl advanced, laying her hand on Kate’s arm and shaking her head in the negative.

Kate glanced affrightedly over her shoulder, sure that she would behold Arrison; but her excited fancy had run ahead of the reality. She drew a deep sigh of relief, and turning to the young girl, said, breathlessly.

“You will not stop me—you will save me from these dreadful men, by letting me go before they awake.”

The child shook her head again.

“I dare not,” she said, but in a low, sweet voice.

“And why not? Oh! surely they would not harm you.”

“He would kill me,” replied the child, glancing in terror towards the house.

“Who?”

“Uncle.”

“And who is uncle?”

“Don’t you know?”

“What! Arrison?”

“Yes.”

Kate looked at the child earnestly. There seemed to her something strangely familiar, in the large, eloquent eyes of the young creature before her. The whole countenance, indeed, reminded her of some one she had known, but she could not recall whom, though she endeavored, again and again, to remember. The likeness, after all, however, was a confused one, with gleams of that which was familiar mingled with others which were foreign; and these latter it was which appeared to Kate to give such an air of innocence and even holiness to the face. After a moment’s scrutiny, she recalled her perilous condition, and as every instant was precious, endeavored again to persuade the child to allow her departure.

“You must be mistaken,” she said, “your uncle surely would not hurt you.”

“You don’t know him,” answered the child, “Oh! I am sure he would kill me if I let you go,” she continued, clasping her little hands.

“But I must go,” replied Kate, with an endeavor to overawe the child. “You cannot help it.”

The child laid her hand significantly on the bloodhound, which had risen from his reclining posture and now stood at her side, watching alternately her countenance and that of Kate. This gesture he seemed to interpret as it was intended, for he bristled up and uttered a low growl.

Kate shudderingly looked over her shoulder in the direction of the house.

“Don’t—don’t,” she cried, in an eager whisper, imploringly glancing down into the child’s face, and laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

The child looked up, with her sad, earnest eyes, at the same time patting the bloodhound, who became quiet at once.

“Oh! if I could let you go,” she said, and her little face was eloquent in every feature with sincerity. “I haven’t slept a wink all night, thinking of you. That was before I saw you,” she added, naively, “before I knew you were beautiful, or looked so good.”

“Does nobody live here but you?” Kate said, wondering to find the child in such a place. “I mean nobody but you and Arrison.”

“He hasn’t lived here always,” she replied. “He did once, and then went away, and only came back a week ago.”

“But you didn’t live here alone?”

“No, Granny Jones lived with me. But she’s cross too. Oh!” she suddenly added, with passionate earnestness, “if mother hadn’t died.”

Kate was silent. The child was then an orphan. She said kindly, after a moment.

“You remember your mother?”

“Oh! yes. She was so beautiful,” and the tears glistened in the child’s eyes. “Not beautiful like you, not proud looking and grand, but so sweet and pretty. She never scolded me in all her life, never, never.” And the child burst into low, half-stifled sobs, which, in her effort to suppress them, shook her little frame.

Kate was again silent; tears sympathetically dimmed her eyes. The child saw it, and hushing her sobs, said,

“But Granny Jones was sent away, when uncle came back.”

“And when he’s away, you’re alone?” The child nodded.

“All alone, except with Lion,” she said, glancing at the bloodhound. “He’s such a good fellow,” she added, her eyes brightening. “We play together, when we’ve time! Don’t we, Lion?” and she caressed him.

Kate sighed to think of this lovely child, brought up by an outlaw, yet retaining so much of heaven’s purity, living here in the forest with no companion but this ferocious dog. She longed to question the little outcast respecting her mother, about whom there seemed some strange mystery. But she refrained out of respect to the girl, who evidently suffered at allusions to her parent’s name.

“Why won’t you go with me?” said Kate, winningly. “Help me to get away from this place, and I’ll take you home with me, where you shall have everything you like, and be my little sister.”

The child looked up at her, with eyes dilated to their utmost size in wonder, evidently unable to credit what she heard.

“I am rich,” said Kate; “you never need work any more. Look in my face and you’ll see I speak truth.”

The child gave a long, earnest gaze, and answered. “I believe what you say. I know you are good.”

“Then come,” said Kate. But the child drew back.

“No,” she said, “it wouldn’t be right. Mother told me to stay with uncle till I grew to be a woman; that he was a hard man, but my only friend, and I promised I would do it.”

“But your mother did not know that I would make you my sister. If she had known that you could go away to a fine house, have plenty of clothes, have books to read, and have a sister to love you, don’t you think she would have been willing?”

The child looked puzzled. She fixed her large eyes, in doubt and inquiry, on Kate, as if she could interrogate our heroine’s very soul.

“Maybe she would,” she answered frankly, at last. “She was always afraid of uncle, and often cried after he’d been to see us. But I promised her I’d stay with him. Is it right to break promises? Wouldn’t that be to tell a lie?”

Kate felt her eyes shrink before the gaze of the innocent child. She was no adept in casuistry, and if she had been, the inquiry of the little girl, thus put, would have silenced her. Even the strong instinct to escape could not induce her to mislead one so young and pure.

“God help me!” was her answer, wringing her hands. “I must then stay here. Oh! if I were dead.”

The child looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said, pulling her by her sleeve,

“Don’t, don’t. They won’t hurt you—will they? Uncle told me he was going to marry you, and that I must give up my room to you, and go and sleep in the barn, for tonight, anyhow. If you don’t like uncle, you needn’t marry him, need you? I thought people only married when they liked each other.”

“You cannot understand it all, my child,” answered Kate, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “But listen! I don’t want to marry your uncle. I never will marry him. They brought me here by force, or I’d never have come. If you don’t let me go, I’ll not live till night; and you’ll see me dead here, before your eyes.”

The child started back with a sudden shriek, which she stifled as hastily, looking in terror towards the house; and then, taking Kate’s hand, she drew her away within the shadow of the barn. Here, pausing, she said,

“You don’t mean it. They’ll not kill you?”

“As sure as there is a good God above us,” answered Kate, solemnly, “if you don’t let me go, I’ll not be alive to-morrow. There is no help for it. While, if you do let me go,” she continued, eager to take advantage of the favorable chance, “nobody will know you helped me. In fact, you won’t help me; you’ll only keep Lion quiet; and if they were to know you helped me, they couldn’t harm you, innocent child that you are. If your mother was alive, she’d wish you to let me go. You know I wouldn’t tell a lie, darling, or I’d have tried still to get you to go with me, in spite of your promise to your mother. Every minute is precious. It will soon be daybreak. Only keep Lion quiet, leave me to myself, and go back to your bed in the barn.”

“You shall go,” suddenly said the child. “I’ll go inside, and take Lion with me.”

“God bless you!” cried Kate, seizing her in her arms and kissing her again and again. “If I escape, and you ever want a friend, you’ll always have one, if you ask for Miss Aylesford, of Sweetwater.”

“Good-bye,” said the child, timidly returning the kisses. “Take the road in front, and keep straight ahead. Only,” she added, “when you come to the big cedar, past the log bridge, a mile off, you must turn to the right.”

“I will, I will,” breathlessly said Kate, but, in her hurry and excitement, paying less heed to the direction than she ought. “Again God bless you!”

With tears in her eyes she gave the child a last embrace, and first glancing towards the house to see that no one was in motion, ran swiftly across the open space, entered the road, nor slackened her speed until not only the turn concealed her from sight, but a considerable distance intervened between her and the clearing. Then, almost out of breath, she subsided into a quick walk, occasionally stopping to hear if the steps or shouts of pursuers were following in the distance.

As for the child, she remained in the shadow, caressing the dog to keep him quiet, and watching the retreating figure of our heroine, until Kate had wholly disappeared. Then, suddenly bursting into tears, she turned, and entered the dilapidated barn, leading the bloodhound, whom, the instant they were alone together on the hay, she clasped to her arms, in a mute eloquence that said he was now again the only friend she had in the world.