“It is false—my father died years
ago!” I cried in very agony. “This is
not from my father.”

“It is from your father.” answered
my mother, “and, unless I send him the
clothes which he asks for, you will see
him in less than three weeks in his convict
rags.”

“Oh! mother, are you human? A
mother to taunt her own daughter with
her father's shame—”

My temples throbbed madly, and my
sight failed. All that mortal can endure
and be conscious. I had endured. I sank
on the floor, and had not my mother
caught me in her arms. I would have
wounded my forehead against the marble
table.

All night long, half waking, half de
lirions, I tossed on my silken couch,
mingling the name of my convict father
and of Ernest in my broken exclamations.
Once I was conscious for a moment,
and looked around with clear
eyes. My mother was watching over
me. Her face was bathed in tears. She
was human after all. That moment
past, the delirium returned, and I struggled
with horrible dreams until morning.

When I awoke next morning, my mind
was clear again, and, even as I unclosed
my eyes, and saw the sunlight shining
gaily through the curtains, a fixed purpose
took possession of my soul. It
was yet early morning. There was no
one save myself in the chamber. Perchance,
worn out by watching, my mother
had retired to rest. I quietly arose
and dressed myself—not in the splendid
attire furnished by my mother, but in
my plain white dress, bonnet and shawl
which I had brought with me from my
cottage home.

“It is early. No one is stirring in the
mansion. I can pass from the hall door
unobserved. Then it is only sixteen
miles to home—only sixteen miles—I
can walk it.”

And, at the very thought of meeting
“father” and Ernest again, my heart
leaped in my bosom. Determined to
escape from the mansion at all hazards,
I drew my veil over my face, my shawl
across my shoulders, and hurried to the
door. I opened it, my foot was on the
threshold—when I found myself confronted
by the portly form of Mrs. Jenkins.
“Pardon me, Miss,” she said, placing
herself directly before me—“Your
mother gave me directions to call her as
soon as you awoke.”

“But I wish to take a short walk and
breathe a little of the morning air,” I
answered, and attempted to pass her.

“The morning air is not good for
young ladies,” said another voice, and
my mother's face appeared over the
housekeeper's shoulder. “After a while
we will take a ride, my dear. For the
present, you will please retire to your
room.”

Startled at the sound of my mother's
voice, I involuntarily stepped back—the
door was closed, and I heard the key
turn in the lock.

I was a prisoner in my own room.
There I remained all day long my

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

meals were served by the housekeeper
and my maid Caroline. My mother did
not appear. How I passed that day, a
prisoner in my luxurious chamber, cannot
be described. I sat for hours, with
my head resting on my hands, and my
eyes to the floor. What plans of escape,
mingled with forebodings of the future,
crossed my brain! At length I took
pen and paper, and wrote a brief note to
Ernest, informing him of my danger, and
begging him, as he loved me, to hasten
at once to town and to the mansion.
This note I folded, sealed and directed,
properly.

“Caroline,” said I to my maid, who
was a pleasant-faced young woman of
about twenty, with dark hair and eyes,
“I would like this letter to be placed in
the post-office at once. Will you take
charge of it for me?”

“I'll give it to Jones,” she responded;
“he's going down to the post-office right
away.”

“But, Caroline,” I regarded her with
a meaning look, “I do not wish any one
to know that I sent this letter to the
post-office. Will you keep it a secret?”

“Not a livin' mortal shall know it—
not a livin' mortal”—and taking the letter
she left the room. After a few minutes
she returned with a smiling face,
“Jones has got it and he's gone!”

I could scarce repress a wild ejaculation
of joy. Ernest will receive it to-night—
he will be here to-morrow—I
will be saved!”

The day wore on and my mother
did not appear. Toward evening Caroline
came into my room, bearing a new
dress upon her arm—a dress of white
satin, richly embroidered and adorned
with the costliest lace.

“O, Miss, aint it beautiful!” cried
Caroline, displaying the dress before
me. “And the bonnet and veil to match
it will be here to night, an' your new
di'merdo. It is really fit for a queen.”

It was, indeed, a magnificent dress.

“Who is it for?” I asked.

“Now come, aint that good! `Who
is it for?' And you lookin' so innocent
as you ask it; as if you did not know
all the while that it is your bridal dress,
and that you are to be married airly in
the mornin', after which you will set off
on your bridal touer.”

“Caroline, where did you learn this?”
I asked, my heart dying within me.

“Why, how can you keep such things
secret from the servants? Aint your
mother been gettin' ready for it all day,
and aint the servants been flyin' here
and there, like mad, and Mr. Wareham's
been so busy all day, and lookin' so
pleased? Laus, Miss, how can you expect
to keep such things from the servants?”

I heard this intelligence conveyed in
the garrulous manner of my maid, as a
condemned person might hear the reading
of his death-warrant. I saw that
nothing could shake my mother in her
purpose. She was resolved to accomplish
the marriage at all hazards. In
the morning I was to be married, transferred
body and soul to the possession
of a man whom I hated in my very
heart.

But I resolved that he should not
possess me living. He might marry
me, but he should only place the bridal
ring upon the hand of a corpse.

The resolution came in a moment.
How to accomplish it was my next
thought.

Approaching Caroline in a guarded
manner, I spoke of my nervousness and
loss of sleep, and of a phial of morphine
which my mother kept by her for a nervous
affection.

“Could you obtain it for me, Caroline?
and without mother seeing you, for she
does not like me to accustom myself to
the use of morphine. I am sadly in want
of sleep, but I am so nervous that I cannot
close my eyes. Get it for me,” (I
put my arms about her neck,) “that's a
dear, good girl!”

“Laus, miss! how kin one resist your
purty eyes! It is in the casket on the
bureau, is it? Just wait a moment.”
She left the room and presently returned.
She held the phial in her hand.

I took it eagerly, pretended to place
it in the drawer of a cabinet which stood
near the bed, but, in reality, hid it in my
bosom.

“Now, mother, you may force on the
marriage,” I mentally ejaculated; “but
your daughter has the threads of her
own destiny in her hand.”

How had I accustomed myself to the
idea of suicide? It came upon me not
slowly, but like a flash of lightning. It

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was in opposition to all the lessons I had
learned from the good clergyman. “But,”
the voice of the tempter, seemed whispering
in my ear, “while suicide is a
crime, it becomes a virtue when it is committed
to avoid a greater crime.” It is
wrong to kill my body, but infinitely
worse to kill both body and soul in the
prostitution of an unholy marriage.

As evening drew on I was left alone.
I bathed myself, arranged my hair, and
then attired myself in my white night
robe. And then—as the last glimpse
of day came faintly through the window
curtains—I sank on my knees by the
bed, and prayed. O how in one vivid
picture the holy memories of the past
came upon me in that awful moment!

“Ernest, I will meet you in the better
world!”

I drank the contents of the phial and
rose to my feet. At the same instant
the door opened and my mother appeared,
holding a lighted candle in her hand.
She saw me in my white dress—was
struck perchance by the wildness of my
gaze—and then her eye rested upon the
extended hand which held the phial.

“Well, Frank, how do you like your
marriage dress?” she began, but stopped,
and changed color as she saw the phial.

“O mother,” I cried, “with my last
breath I forgive you, and pray God that
you may be able to forgive yourself.”

I saw her horror-stricken look, and I
fell insensible at her feet.