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The weather, which had been mild and clear
since the storm, now changed with the suddenness
of the American climate. Towards evening
the cold blasts poured down from the mountains,
and flurries of snow plainly indicated that the
month of November had arrived—a season whose
temperature varies from the heats of summer to
the cold of winter. Frances had stood at the
window of her own apartment, watching the slow
progress of the funeral procession, with a melancholy
that was too deep to be excited by the spectacle.
There was something in the sad office
which engaged the attention of her father and
brother, that was in unison with the feelings of
the maid. As she gazed around, she saw the
trees bending to the force of the whirlwinds, that
swept through the valley with an impetuosity that
shook even the buildings of lesser importance;
and the forest, that had so lately glittered in the
sun with its variegated hues, was fast losing its
loveliness, as the leaves were torn from the
branches, and were driving irregularly before the
eddies of the blast. A few of the southern dragoons,
who were patroling the passes which led to
the encampment of the corps, could be distinguished
at a distance on the heights, bending to
their pommels, as they faced the keen air which had
so lately traversed the great fresh water lakes.

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and drawing their watch coats around them in
tighter folds.

The maid witnessed the disappearance of the
wooden tenement of the deceased, as it was slowly
lowered from the light of day, and the sight
still added to the chilling dreariness of the view.
Captain Singleton was sleeping under the careful
watchfulness of his own man, while his sister had
been persuaded to take possession of her room,
for the purpose of obtaining the repose, of which
her last night's journeying had robbed her. The
apartment of Miss Singleton communicated with
the room occupied by the sisters, through a private
door, as well as through the ordinary passage
of the house; this door was partly open, and
Frances moved towards it with the benevolent
intention of ascertaining the situation of her
guest, when the surprised girl saw her, whom
she had thought to be sleeping, not only awake,
but employed in a manner that banished all probability
of present repose. The black tresses,
that during the dinner had been drawn in close
folds over the crown of the head, were now loosened,
and fell in profusion over her shoulders and
bosom, imparting a slight degree of wildness to
her expressive countenance. The chilling white
of her complexion was strongly contrasted with
the brilliant glances of eyes of the deepest black,
that were fixed in rooted attention on a picture
she held in her hand. Frances hardly breathed,
as she was enabled, by a movement of Isabella, to
see that it was the figure of a man in the well
known dress of the southern horse; but she gasped
for breath, and instinctively laid her hand
on her heart to quell its throbbings, as she
thought she recognised the lineaments that were
so deeply seated in her own imagination. Frances
felt she was improperly prying into the

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sacred privacy of another, but her emotious were
too powerful to permit her to speak, and she
drew back to a chair, whence she still retained
a view of the stranger, from whose countenance
she felt it to be impossible to withdraw her eyes.
Isabella was too much engrossed by her own feelings
to discover the trembling figure of the maid
who witnessed her actions, and she pressed the
inanimate image to her lips, with an enthusiasm
that denoted the most intense passion. The expression
of the countenance of the fair stranger
was so changeable, and the transitions were so
rapid, that Frances had scarcely time to distinguish
the character of the emotion, before it was
succeeded by another equally powerful, and
equally attractive. Admiration and sorrow were,
however, the preponderating passions; the latter
was indicated by large drops that fell from her
eyes on the picture, and which followed each
other over her cheek at such intervals, as seemed
to pronounce the grief too heavy to admit of
the ordinary bursts of sorrow. Every movement
of Isabella was marked by an enthusiasm
that was peculiar to her nature, and every passion
in its turn triumphed in her breast with an
undisputed sway. The fury of the wind, as it
whistled around the angles of the building, was
in consonance with those feelings, and she rose
and moved to a window of her apartment. Her
figure was now hid from the view of Frances, who
was about to rise and approach her guest, when
tones of a thrilling melody chained her in breathless
silence to the spot. The notes were wild,
and the voice not powerful, but the execution exceeded
any thing the maid had ever heard, and
she stood, endeavouring to stifle the sounds of her
own gentle breathing, until the song following
was concluded:

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Cold blow the blasts o'er the tops of the mountain,
And bare is the oak on the hill,
Slowly the vapours exhale from the fountain,
And bright gleams the ice-bordered rill;
All nature is seeking its annual rest,
But the slumbers of peace have deserted my breast.
Long has the storm pour'd its weight on my nation,
And long have her brave stood the shock;
Long has our chieftain ennobled his station,
A bulwark on liberty's rock—
Unlicens'd ambition relaxes its toil,
Yet blighted affection represses my smile.
Abroad the wild fury of winter is low'ring,
And leafless, and drear is the tree,
But the vertical sun of the south appears pouring
Its fierce, killing heats upon me—
Without all the season's chill symptoms begin,
But the fire of passion is raging within.

Frances abandoned her whole soul to the suppressed
melody of the music, though the language
of the song expressed a meaning, which
united with certain events of that and the preceding
day, left a sensation of uneasiness in the
bosom of the warm-hearted girl, to which she had
hitherto been a stranger. Isabella moved from
the window as her last tones melted on the ear
of her admiring listener, and, for the first time,
her eye rested on the face of the pallid maiden.
A glow of fire lighted the countenances of both at
the same instant, and the blue eye of Frances met
the brilliant black one of her guest for a single
moment, and both fell in abashed confusion on
the carpet; they advanced, however, until they
met, and had taken each other's hand, before either
ventured again to look her companion in the
face.

“This sudden change in the weather, and perhaps
the situation of my brother, have united to
make me melancholy, Miss Wharton,” said

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Isabella in a low tone, and in a voice that trembled
as she spoke.

“Tis thought you have little to apprehend
for your brother,” said Frances, in the same embarrassed
manner; “had you seen him when he
was brought in by Major Dunwoodie”—

Frances paused with a feeling of conscious
shame, for which she could not account herself,
and in raising her eyes, she saw Isabella studying
her countenance, with an earnestness that again
drove the blood tumultuously to her temples.

“You were speaking of Major Dunwoodie,”
said Isabella faintly.

“He was with Captain Singleton.”

“Do you know Dunwoodie—have you seen
him often?” continued Isabella, in a voice that
startled her companion. Once more Frances ventured
to look her guest in the face, and again she
met the piercing eyes bent on her as if to search
her inmost heart. “Speak, Miss Wharton, is
Major Dunwoodie known to you?”

“He is my relative,” said Frances, appalled at
the manner of the other.

“A relative!” echoed Miss Singleton; “in
what degree—speak, Miss Wharton, I conjure you
to speak.”

“Our parents were cousins,” replied Frances,
in still greater confusion at the vehemence of Isabella.

“And he is to be your husband,” cried the
stranger impetuously.

Frances felt her pride awakened by this direct
attack upon the delicacy of her feelings, and
she raised her eyes from the floor to her interrogator
a little proudly, when the pale cheek and
quivering lip of Isabella removed her resentment
in a moment.

“It is true—my conjecture is true—speak to

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me, Miss Wharton—I conjure you, in mercy to
my feelings, to tell me—do you love Dunwoodie?”
There was a plaintive earnestness in the
voice of Miss Singleton, that disarmed Frances of
all resentment, and the only answer she could
make was hiding her burning face between her
hands, as she sunk back in a chair to conceal her
confusion.

Isabella paced the floor in silence for several
minutes, until she had succeeded in conquering
the violence of her feelings, when she approached
the place where Frances yet sat, endeavouring to
exclude the eyes of her companion from reading
the shame expressed in her countenance, and
taking the hand of the maid, she spoke with an
evident effort at composure.

“Pardon me, Miss Wharton, if my ungovernable
feelings have led me into impropriety—the
powerful motive—the cruel reason”—she hesitated;
Frances now raised her face, and the eyes of
the maids once more met—they fell in each other's
arms, and laid their burning cheeks together—the
embrace was long—was ardent and sincere—but
neither spoke—and on separating, Frances retired
to her own room without farther explanation.

While this extraordinary scene was acting in
the room of Miss Singleton, matters of great importance
were agitated in the drawing-room. The
disposition of the fragments of such a dinner as
the one we have recorded, was a task that required
no little exertion and calculation. Notwithstanding
several of the small game had nestled
in the pocket of Capt. Lawton's man, and even the
assistant of Dr. Sitgreaves had calculated the uncertainty
of his remaining long in such good quarters,
still there was more left unconsumed than the
prudent spinster knew how to dispose of to advantage.
Cæsar and his mistress had, therefore, a long

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and confidential communication on this important
business, and the consequence was that Colonel
Wellmere was left to the hospitality of Sarah
Wharton. All the ordinary topics of conversation
were exhausted, when the colonel, with a little of
the uneasiness that is in some degree inseparable
from conscious error, touched lightly on the
transactions of the preceding day.

“We little thought, Miss Wharton, when I first
saw this Mr. Dunwoodie in your house in Queenstreet,
that he was to be the renowned warrior he
has proved himself,” said Wellmere, endeavouring
to smile contemptuously.

“Renowned, when we consider the enemy he
overcame,” said Sarah with consideration for her
companion's feelings. “'I' was most unfortunate
indeed in every respect that you met with the accident,
or doubtless the arms of our Prince would
have triumphed in their usual manner.”

“And yet the pleasure of such society as this
accident has introduced me to, would more than
repay the pain of a mortified spirit and wounded
body,” added the colonel in a manner of peculiar
softness.

“I hope the latter is but trifling,” said Sarah,
stooping to hide her blushes under the pretext of
biting a thread from the work on her knee.

“Trifling, indeed, to the former,” returned the
colonel in the same manner. “Ah! Miss Wharton,
it is in such moments we feel the full value of
friendship and sympathy.”

Those who have never tried it, cannot easily
imagine, what a rapid progress a warm hearted female
can make in love, in the short space of half
an hour, particularly where there is a predisposition
to the distemper. Sarah found the conversation,
when it began to touch on friendship and
sympathy, too interesting to venture her voice

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with a reply. She however turned her eyes on
the colonel, and saw him gazing at her fine face
with an admiration that was quite as manifest,
and much more soothing, than any words could
make it.

Their tete-a-tete was uninterrupted for an hour,
and although nothing that would be called decided
by an experienced matron was said by the gentleman,
he uttered a thousand things that delighted
his companion for the moment, who retired to her
rest with a lighter heart than she had felt since the
arrest of her brother by the Americans.

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