Shriek after shriek from Elsie roused Mellen. She was raving in horrible delirium, and when assistance arrived it proved that she had been seized with brain fever, and there was scarcely a hope of her recovery.

Standing there by her bed, this thought must have been a relief to Mellen; but he did not forsake her, his pride was utterly crushed. He longed to cast himself down by her side and die there.

The next morning, when nurses and physicians arrived, Mellen left the house. He was going out on an aimless search for his lost wife—the woman who had given up her last hope for him and his.

He learned at the lodge that the wounded prisoner had been carried to the village by his own command; that he was alive still, but could not last more than another day; that his name was North, and he was well-known among the sporting gentry who came to the shore tavern. All this was told him as news.

Mellen hurried to the city and commenced his task. He sought for Elizabeth in every place where there was a possibility of her having taking refuge, but without avail. He used every means in his power to make some discovery, but they were ineffectual.

When night came he returned home, only to hear Elsie's mad shrieks and laughter echoing through the desolate house, to pass the night with those sounds ringing in his ears, and feel that terrible remorse tugging at his heart.

The next morning he started again on his errand. He was told in the village that the man was dead. The story had gone abroad that he was a daring burglar, and that the officers had surprised him breaking into Mellen's house. He had found no strength to tell his story, so fear of open disgrace perished with him.

In the madness of his grief, Mellen had forgotten that Tom Fuller was his guest. The young man's chamber was in another wing of the building, and he heard nothing of the wild turmoil that distracted the family. Tom was not a very early riser, and when he came down in the morning, sauntering lazily into the breakfast-room, expecting to see Elsie there in her pretty blue morning-dress and flossy curls, he found the room empty, no table spread, and no human being to greet him.

"Well, this is strange," said Tom; "but when Bessie is away things will go to sixes and sevens, I dare be sworn. And Elsie isn't well, poor darling! Hallo! there goes Mellen, riding like a trooper! What on earth does all this mean? I am getting hungry, and lonesome, and——"

Here Tom gave a jerk at the bell, and cast himself into an easy chair.

Dolf presented his woe-begone face at the door.

"What's the matter, Dolf? Isn't it breakfast-time? Where is your master going—and—and—Well, Dolf, can't you tell me why Miss Elsie isn't down?"

"Miss Elsie, oh, sah, she am sick."

"Sick, Dolf! You don't say that?" cried Tom, starting up, with his face all in a chill of anxiety.

"Yes, I mean just dat, and nothing else."

"No, no; not very sick, Dolf," cried Tom, trembling through all his great frame, "only a little nervous, a headache, or something of that sort."

"She's just ravin'—crazy—ask Vic if you don't believe me. The doctors come in before daylight; I went after 'em myself. Robbers broke into de house last night, sah, and frightened our sweet young lady a'most to death."

"Robbers, Dolf!"

"Yes, sah. A gemman, too, as has been a visitor in dis dentical house. Marster catched him in de act ob takin' out de silver, and de gemman—robber, I mean—felt so 'shamed ob himself dat he up and banged a bullet straight frough his own bussom, afore Miss Elsie, too!"

"Poor thing; precious little darling," cried Tom; "Mellen's left her all alone, and Elizabeth away; dear me! Dolf, Dolf, what was that?"

"It's her a screaming."

"What, Elsie, my Elsie?"

"Yes, sah; dat am her."

"Dolf, I say," cried Tom, in breathless anxiety, thrusting a ten dollar gold piece into the negro's hand; "Dolf, would it be very much amiss, you know, if I was to take off my boots and just steal up?"

"Well, I doesn't 'zactly know; de fair sex am so captious 'bout us gemmen; but Vic is up dar, and you can ask her, she knows all 'bout de 'prieties. Smart gal, dat Vic, I tell you; loves Miss Elsie, too, like fifty."

"Does she?" said Tom; "here's another gold piece, give it to her, with my best regards, Dolf."

Dolf pocketed the gold piece, and that was the last time it saw the light for many a day. Tom took off his boots and crept upstairs in his stocking feet, holding his breath as he went. Vic came out of the shaded room, and the young man's grief softened her so much that she allowed him to steal into Elsie's boudoir, where he sat all the morning listening to the poor girl's muttered fancies, after bribing Vic with gold pieces to leave the door open, that he might catch a glimpse now and then of the beloved face, flushed and wild as it was.

Generous, noble-hearted Tom Fuller; he had been really hungry when he came from his own room, but all that was forgotten now, and there he sat fasting till the shadows slanted eastward. Then he saw Mellen riding towards the house at a slow, weary pace, which bespoke great depression.

Tom arose and went downstairs, urged to meet his friend by the kindest heart that ever beat in a human bosom.

"She's better, I am quite sure; she slept two or three minutes; so don't look so downhearted," he cried, seizing Mellen's hand as he dismounted. "But where's Elizabeth? I thought you had gone after her."

"Elizabeth, my wife," answered Mellen, lifting his haggard eyes to Tom's face. "She is gone—lost—dead. My friend, my friend, I have murdered your cousin, murdered my own wife."

"Murdered her; now I like that," said Fuller; "but where is she? not gone off in a tiff. Bessie wasn't the girl to do that any way; but as for murder, oh nonsense!"

"Fuller, you are her only relative, and have a right to know. Come out into the grounds, the air of the house would stifle me."

They sat down together on a garden chair within sight of the old cypress.

"I have been a proud man, Fuller, sensitive beyond everything to the honor of my family, but never knowingly have I allowed this feeling to stand between my soul and justice. Your cousin has been terribly wronged since she came under my roof. It is now too late for reparation, but to you, her only relative, the truth must be known. I will not even ask you to keep the facts secret. I have no right."

"Look here, old fellow," said Tom, wringing Mellen's slender hand in his; "if this is a lover's quarrel between you and Elizabeth, don't say another word. Lord bless you! I can persuade her into anything, she knows me of old. Besides, I am glad there is something that I can do to make you both good-natured just now, for as like as not, I shall be asking a tremendous favor of you before long, and this will pave the way; tell me where your wife is, I'll take care of the rest."

"Tom, I believe—I fear that she is dead."

The solemnity with which this was spoken, appalled Tom.

"Dead!" he repeated, and the ruddy color faded from his face. "Dead—you can't mean it."

"Listen patiently to me if you can," said Mellen, sadly. "This must be told, but the effort is terrible."

Tom folded his arms and bent his now grave face to listen. Then Mellen told him all; the anguish, the deception, the anxiety which these pages have recorded so imperfectly. There was but little exhibition of excitement, Mellen told these things in a dull, dreary voice that bespoke utter hopelessness. He was so lost in his own misery that the signs of anguish in Tom's face never disturbed his narrative.

When he had done Tom Fuller arose, and stood before him, white as death, but with a noble look in his eyes.

"Mellon, give me your hand, for you and I are just the two most wretched dogs in America at this minute. I loved her, Mellen, O God help me! I love her as you did the other one. Great heavens, what can we do?"

"Nothing," answered Mellen; "I did not think another pang could be added, and my soul recoils from this. Could she prove so base to you also?"

"Base; look here, Mellen, you don't take this in the true light. It was all my fault. I forced myself upon her; I—I——"

The poor fellow broke down, a convulsion of grief swept his face, and he walked away.

Directly he came back, holding out his hand.

"Come, now let us search for Elizabeth," he said.

"It is useless; I have searched."

"But come with me—it was not in town you should have looked; Elizabeth would not go there."

Mellen arose and walked towards the bay. In passing a clump of rosebushes Tom stopped to extricate a fragment of silk from the thorns.

"What dress did she wear that night?" he inquired, examining the shred in his hand.

"I remember well, it was purple," answered Mellen, without lifting his weary eyes from the ground.

"Come this way, for she has been here," said Tom. "This path leads to the fishpond."

They walked on, Tom searching vigilantly all the thickets he passed, and Mellen looking around him in terror lest the dead body of his wife should appear and crush his last hope for ever.

"She has been this way," said Tom, when they reached the pond. "See, that tuft of cat-tails has been broken. No, no, don't be afraid to look; see yonder where the bushes are swept down; she went away towards the shore."

Mellen groaned aloud. This was his most terrible fear. They walked on, taking a path that curved round the bay, and leaving the shore tavern on the right, went down to the beach. It was now sunset, and a golden glow lay upon the waters till they broke along the beach like great waves of pearls and opals drifting over the Sound together, and melting in the sand. Near the two men was a winrow of black seaweed, on which great drops of spray were quivering. Something in the appearance of this dark mass arrested Tom's attention. He went up to the pile of weeds and kicked them apart; a dark sodden substance, compact and heavy, lay underneath. He took it in his hands, gave the weeds that clung to it a shake, and held it up. Mellen came forward, his white lips parted, his breath rising with pain. He reached forth his hand, but uttered no word.

It was the ample shawl that Elizabeth had worn that night.