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226 “You see, Mr. Bently,” said I, “how very calm I am. I have been astonished so often lately—that is, I have heard so many wonderful things, that if the ground beneath our feet should yawn at this moment, I believe I could preserve the most stoical indifference But have you the paper?” “ I have. Here it is.” I took it, and it was even so. The light flashed on me in an instant. It was just as I expected. Lorraine and Fitzwarren were con federates. The former was in Galveston, the reader will recollect, on the day I witnessed the murder recorded in the first part of this book. He saw me retreat hastily—l had heard of my mother’s illness, and did not wish to be detained as a witness —and he considered this a fine op portunity of wreaking or commencing the ven geance he had threatened against me. He was favorably known there to the princi pal inhabitants, and was believed when he pointed out my flight, denounced me as the criminal, and described my person. Galveston papers hardly ever reached our State, and I saw nothing of the proclamation. No doubt the real criminal was soon discovered and brought to justice, or I would have been hunted up. Fitzwarren, then, had obtained this array of apparently incontrovertible testimony from Lor raine—the par nobile fratrum! This was the “.newspaper notice” about which I had heard him speak to Mr. Bently. “This,” said I, at length, returning the news paper, “is plain enough. Now for the rest.” “ Count, number two, then. Some time ago, in Florida, a man was hung by lynch law. It was about the time —it was between the first and second visits you made to Bentwold. The newspapers were full of dark hints and rumors concerning the matter, but nothing definite was known. It is said you were present, aiding and abutting.” “ The devil incarnate 1” I could not help ex claiming. “ And he was present himself, aiding and abetting to the full extent that I was.” “You admit this, then?” aked Mr. Bently quickly. “ Certainly. I can justify the act, though.— You admit that such proceedings are right un der some circumstances?” “These circumstances must be very aggrava ted, and the law must be inefficient to punish the criminal before I would resort to such means.” “This was the case, precisely. “ But you astonish me when you say Lorraine was with you at the hanging.” “ Lorraine ?” “Yes.” “I said no such thing." “Did you not say your accuser was at the hanging?" “ My accuser ?” The truth is, I was somewhat bewildered. “ Yes, your accuser." “ Isn’t Fitzwarren my accuser ?” “Fitzwarren?" echoed Mr. Bently, for it was his turn to be astonished. “ Fitzwarren! Why, he is gone to Texas as fast as steam can carry him, to obtain proofs of your innocence. He sought me—asked the reason why I had changed my deportment toward you; when I told him, he denounced Lorraine as a villain of the deep est dye —said he would obtain proof that he was unworthy of belief—showed me a newspaper notice of his meanness and chicanery—declared jrou should have justice rendered you—that you should stand before me in your true light. “ All this he did, and left Catoosa for Galves ton in two hours after he had pledged himself to prove your innocence.” “Thank God!" I exclaimed. “Then Fitz warren is not the traitor I deemed him. Noble, self-sacrificing friend 1 How can I ever repay him ? You know not, Mr. Bently,” I continued, “ what a singular confidence he displays in me. He knows nothing of this Galveston business, but believing m 3 innocent, entirely from what he knows of my character now, he pledges himself for me and starts on a long journey to obtain the proof he believes must exist.” “ But what could have induced you to believe that Fitzwarren was your betrayer?" asked Mr. Bently. I related what I had heard pass between Fitz warren and him. "People,” said I, when I had finished my nar ration, “ may differ as to whether my act of list ening was quite honorable. I did not seek an opportunity of eavesdropping. I was convinced that I had been slandered. The man who, I thought, bad cast aspersions on my character, and the man who had heard the slanders, passed close to me. I heard my name mentioned, and thought I would have the opportunity of un masking a traitor. Under the circumstances, I think I was justifiable in hearing all I could.” “ I believe, on the whole, I would have acted just as you did," was Mr. Bently’s reply. I then gave him a detailed account of the hanging, and the circumstances leading to it; only, instead of mentioning Tom Harper’s name, I merely designated him as a “ dear friend.” As witnesses I referred him to Fitzwarren and Au nez, and if these were insufficient, he could go to county and make as many inquiries as he chose. “As to the other affair," said I, “as soon as I get back home, I shall start for Galveston my self; unless Fitzwarren shall arrive by that time with sufficient proof to establish my innocence. My business, now, is to have a reckoning—and it will be a heavy one—with the man who has slandered me. Can you inform me where Lor raine is at this time ?” “ I cannot.” “ Then I suppose I must wait till I find him.” “ I am now pretty well convinced,” said Mr. Bently, “that the charges brought against you are unfounded, and that—” “ I beg pardon for interrupting you,” said I, “ but since you do not demand proof of my in nocence, you shall have it. All I ask of you, is to wait—do not believe me guilty and do not be lieve me innocent." *• I will believe you innocent,” said Mr. Bent ly, with a sudden impulse. “ I vastly prefer that you will not—that you will treat me as a stranger—a passing acquaint ance, of whose character you know nothing.— However, you can use your own pleasure in the matter.” “ Where will you be one month from now, Mr. Bently?” I continued. “At Bentwold—happy to see you at any time.” “ I wanted to beg leave to call on you and your family with Fitzwarren, and show, how ut terly false are the slanders that have been utter ed against me.” “ I’ll be glad to see you at my house, any way." And the interview was ended. (to be continued.) Can any one tell how it is that a man who is too poor to pay five cents a week for a good weekly paper, is able to spend fifty cents a day for tobacco and cigars, to say nothing of an oc c <?<yional drink ? TMM SOimiU VXK&D UD VX&3BBXSS. [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] TO THE SAVANNAH RIVER. BT BBS. C. I- STATIUS. Winding river, dark Savannah! As I see thee onward flow, Mem'ry, with her fond beguiling, bids me dream of long ago! Happy days of sunny childhood passed we on yon ver dant spot. Where the porple violet mingles with the wild forget me-not There, the winding pathway sought we, as along thy banks we strayed, Gently fanned by balmy zephyrs, with the flashing waves that played; And the tiny streamlet passed we; smoothly do its wa ters glide, Softly stealing, as though fearful, to thy deep and dark some tide! Where thy banks, oh! dark Savannah! fairest, bend with graceful sweep, Where together elm and willow on thy glassy bosom weep, There was heard Oh, faithful memory! Woman's shriek of wild despair; "Twas an anguished mother wailing, fondest hopes that perished there! There thy depths entombed a loved one, when no earthly arm could save, Where yon curling eddy murmurs, Lula found her wa tery grave. Marble tells not the sad story; yet methinks the shad ows’ play. Quivering, writes upon the waters, ‘‘Here sweet Lnla passed away.” There the whip-poor-will at •ven, doth his saddest lay outpour, And the night winds through the cypresschant a requiem evermore! Many a year since then has vanished; long and weary is the way— Yet I view ‘mong days departed, that the saddest, dark est day. Willow, elm, funereal cypress, wave and zephyr, flower and rill, Though I never more may greet you, ye will haunt my mem’ry still! Winding river, dark Savannah! as I see thee onward flow, Mem’ry, with her sod beguiling, bids me dream of long ago! Bosch Island. ; *■*’ 1 i »i 1 [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] ALICE LEE ; OR, THE SACRIFICE OF LOVE. BY BESSIE B. , Have you ever stood on tbo banks of the Po tomac ? Not the Potomac as you see it at Wash ington, or at that Mecca of the American patriot, Mt. Vernon; but the Potomac before its junction with the Shenandoah ? If you have, I need not tell you of the picturesque scenery through which it flows; and if you have not, it will be in vain for pen of mine to attempt an adequate description of its beauties. The gentle undula tions of hill and dale, dotted here and there with the commodious, often elegant dwellings of the planters, surrounded by the white cottages of their servants, here nestling in the bosom of some little valley, there perched upon the green slope of a hill, and peeping out from among em bowering trees; the smiling river, gliding along in tranquil beauty, and the outlines of the Alle ghanies, looking blue and dim in the distance; all conspire to form a scene of loveliness, which the most skillful artist would find himself una ble to transfer to canvass. Sixty years ago, the dwellings in this locality were not as numerous as they now are, and you might often ride many miles without seeing a human habitation. ■ In one of the Eastern coun ties of Virginia, near the junction of the North and South branches of the Potomac, lived at that period two gentlemen, considerably advanced in lile, whom we shall call respectively Col. Lee, and Major Laurens. They had both served un der Washington, in the army of the Revolution, and could both boast that they had shed their bloc lin defence of their country. They had both been deprived by death of their chosen companions, and as their plantations joined, it is no wonder that they were united by the strong est bonds of friendship, or that scarcely a day passed without their meeting, and spending a portion of it in each other’s society. There was this difference, however, that while Major Lauren* was childless, Col. Lee had an in fant daughter, who had come to him with the parting breath of his beloved wife, and to whom he had given her mother’s name—Alice. She was a sweet little creature, with dove-like eyes, and sunny curls, and it was no wonder that her father lavished on her the most unbounded love. When Alice was about five years old, Major Laurens received into his lonely household which, since the death of his wife, had consisted only of himself and servants, the orphan child of his only sister, who had resided in a distant city. George Hastings was only two years older than the little Alice, and it will not be surprising when we remember the friendship of their seni ors, that the children were almost constantly to gether, or that they should become so attached to each other as never to be satisfied when they were apart. Col. Lee and Maj. Laurens were "both well pleased with this intimacy between the children, and often spoke of the probability of its result ing in the ultimate union of their families. “ I shall never attempt to influence Alice in the disposal of her affections,” said Col. bee, “for I believe mischief is sure to grow out of any such interference. It shall be my constant aim, to hold up to her view all that is good and noble in man, and I doubt not her heart, and intellect, will lead her to choose rightly." “ And I shall spare no effort," rejoined the Major, “in trying to make George all that is worthy of a woman’s love, so I think there will be no obstacle in the way of realizing our wishes; but, I perfectly agree with you, that tho children should be left entirely to themselves in this mat ter.” “We must take care, however," said the Colo nel, “not to make the path too smooth. You know the old adage about true love.” “No danger,” replied Maj. Laurens ; “ George will have to be sent to college in a few years, and that separation will add sufficient fuel to the flame. He is progressing finely in his studies, under the preceptor I obtained for trim in the city, the last time I was there." While this conversation, and much more of the same purport, was transpiring between the two gentlemen on Col. Lee’s piazza, George, whose studies for the day were finished, and who bad accompanied his uncle, as usual, to spend the evening at Col. Lee’s, had been joined by Alice, now released for the present from the surveillance of her governess, and the two had wandered off together, hand in hand, and now stood in a little bower formed ofbutternut trees, and wild grape vines, on the bank of the river, watching a boat that was gliding gently along with the current, and seeming to require scarce an effort from its occupant to keep it moving in the right direction. “I wonder,” said Alice, “if our lives will al ways glide along as smoothly as yonder boat; somehow, it seems to me that I shall not always be as happy as I am now.” “What an idea,” exclaimed George, “fora girl of ten years old! What could have set you to dreaming of unhappiness? Why I am two years older than you are, and I have never thought of such a thing, except ” he added after a pause, “ when my dear mother died; then I was ufihappy for a time; but my good uncle here, was so kind, that I soon recovered from that.” “ I don't know why it is,” replied Alice, “ but sometimes I get to looking forward, and wonder ing wliat kind of a woman I shall be when I grow up, and I will sit thinking and thinking, till Miss Alston will notice me, and ask if I am studying a theme for my next composition; or Aunt Becca will come in, and say, ’ why bless my soul I the chile is dreamin with them bright eyes of hern wide open,’ and that will bring mo to myself again.” “Well, I declare,” said George, “I never thought you was such a dreamer before. I try to look into tho future sometimes, and I always imagine mvself some great man, like our own Washington, but never think of anything sad. For my part, I should rather see some sorrow, than to live such a dull, quiet life, as it would be which would bear a resemblance to the progress of that boat. I should rather have some storms, and cataracts, in the way; but come; the boat is going out of sight around yonder bend, and you just sit down in this grape vine swing, and I will set you flying like the sweet little bird that you are, swjft enough to drive away all dull fancies.” Alice complied with the request, and was soon sailing to and fro through the air, laughing as heartily as though she was never troubled with gloomy anticipations. The swing was formed of a wild grape vine, which had ascended a large butternut tree <br about thirty feet, and then falling downwards, had struck against another tree, a short distance from it, and twining itself around its branches, had reascended to its very top; over which it spread, and often tempted George, and the little negroes of the .Colonel's plantation, by its rich purple clusters, to climb the tree, at the immi nent risk of a cold bath in the river below. The swing, in its vibrations, passed out sev eral feet over the water, but it was so securely fastened, that no one had ever dreamed of dan ger, and it had been for a long time a favorite resort of Alice, who, like most other children, dearly loved its exhilarating motion. In the present instance, she had given herself up to its fullest enjoyment, and with sparkling eyes, and glowing cheeks, was uttering excla mations of delight, as each vigorous push given by George, sent it apparently farther and farther out over the stream; when suddenly, just as it had reached its greatest altitude over the water, one end of it gave way, and Alice, with a wild shriek, was precipitated into the nver; but still retaining her hold of the vine, was drawn back against the bank, with such force as to render her entirely senseless. She had scarcely touched the water, before George leaped in after her, and being a good swimmer, succeeded in disengaging her hand from the vine, and had borne her to a place where the bank would permit his ascending with his burden, when he was met by some of the servants, who had seen the accident from a neighboring field, and ran t« bis assistance; while a portion of them scampered off to the house, screaming at the top of their voices, “Oh! Lordyl ohl Lordyl Miss Alice’s drowned! Miss Alice’s drowned 1” Col. Lee, as the first alarm reached liis ears, sprang from the piazza, and clearing the yard fence at a bound, ran towards the river with a speed which would have seemed almost incredi ble even in his younger days, followed closely by the Major; and met the servants who had re lieved George Hastings of his dripping burthen, just as they had ascended the bank. As he saw the form of his idolized daughter, lying so pale and motionless in the arms of one of the men, a mist seemed to gather before his eyes, and ex claiming “My Godl is this the end of all my hopes ?” the brave man, and gallant officer, who had so often faced death on the battle field, and bad pressed on against the enemy while his own blood was freely flowing, regardless of his wounds, would have fallen, overcome by this seeming deprivation of all ho loved, had he not been supported by his friend. Quickly rallying, however, he learned from George in a few hurried words the cause of the accident, and that she had not been more than five minutes in the water; and rightly judging that she was only stunned by her fall against the bank, he hastened with her to the house, and had soon the indescribable joy of seeing her re stored to consciousness; but lie severely blamed himself for having allowed the swing to be used so long, without a more frequent examination. It was a long time before Alice could again visit their old haunts with George. Inflamma tion of the brain, produced by thp contusion on her temple, united to the fright she had received, attacked her; and for a long time her life was despaired of. It was touching to witness the anxiety and solicitude of the servants during her illness. Those who are acquainted with the ne gro character, know how intimately entwined with their very existence seems their love of mu sic. The merry songs with which they accom pany their labors, indicate a happy and content ed spirit, which would astonish many of those who so much commiserate tlieir condition; and their labors are never so fatiguing, that they will not, if an opportunity presents, pass half the night in singing and dancing. But while the spirit of little Alice hovered thus on the confines of eternity, all songs were hushed on the plantation of Col. Lee. The ser vants attended as usual to their labors, but they were performed in silence. If, while laboring in the field, one of them, forgetting himself for a moment, would break out in a snatch of song, lie was quickly silenced by the others, exclaim ing, “ Aint you shame to be singin’, when you dun no but poor little Miss Alice is lyin’ dead at the big bouse ?” In the morning they always sent to know how she was before going to the field, and their first inquiry on returning at night was concern ing her. When they were at length told that the physician had pronounced her out of danger, their extravagant demonstrations of joy were such, that the Colonel was compelled to restrain them, for fear that they would do serious injury to the little invalid. So easy is it for the young, as well as the old, to surround themselves with an atmosphere of affection, if they will only culti vate a spirit of gentleness in their hearts. During her convalescence, the servants vied with George in searching for the sweetest flow ers, and the most delicious fruits; and when she was able to appear once more among them, they almost deafened her with their shouts of joy. CHAPTER n. We will pass over the events of the next five years, and again step into the little rustic bower, from which we saw our heroine so summarily transferred to what might have proved a watery grave. The grape vine swing has disappeared, but in its place we find many improvements. The mountain laurel now aspires to reach the lower branches of those grand old butternuts, and mingle its glossy, evergreen leaves, with the perennial ones above it. The sweet-brier is twining its branches with “ the laughing vine,” and diffusing its delicate fragrance on the air. Comfortable seats have been erected in this charming retreat, and occupying one of them, we again find George Hastings, and Alice Lee; the one a fine looking, manly youth, with dark brown eyes and hair; and the other a young maiden of fifteen, with the same soft, dove-like eyes, which she had always possessed, and shin ing ringlets which exactly harmonized with them in color. She was not beautiful, in the common accep tation of the term, but if you understand what artists mean by the word spirituelle, you can place her at once before the mind's eye. Alice’s hand was clasped in that of her companion, and both had been gazing for some time on the stream before them, in silence. At length George broke it by saying, “ Do you remember Alice, the time when you fell in the river?” “ Yes,” she replied, “it was five years ago to-day, and I was just thinking that that was the first eventful incident in my life’s drama; and that your departure to-morrow might prove the commencement of the second act.” “ How so ?” he queried. “ Oh, I don’t know,” she said, half laughing, “but you know I am such a dreamer, and,” she added sadly, the smile fading from her counte nance, “I shall miss you so much. “ I know you will miss me,” returned George. “ for have we not been as brother and sister to each other ? but then, I shall write to you often, and you will answer my letters sometimes, won’t you ? And when vacation comes, we shall have such pleasant times talking over what has hap pened to each while wo were apart. It seems to me that we shall only enjoy each other’s so ciety the more for having been separated.” Alice made no answer. She was thinking how lonely she should be without him. George too, was silent for some time : then starting up, he said, “ I must go now, Alice, for I have several things yet to do before I shall be ready to take the stage to-morrow morning. Good byand throwing his arm around her, and kissing her as he had been wont to do in their childish days, he hurried away. Alice sat long after he was gone, and the tears would frequently fill her eyes, but she resolutely forced them back. She was again looking anx iously down the vista of future years, and won dering if George would ever stand by her side, and give her a more endearing name than that of sister; but a dark shadow would often come between her and the object on which she had placed her heart’s best affections. As she reentered the house, her father met her and, closely scanning her countenance, said, “ Why, Alice, I don’t see any traces of tears. I expected those bright eyes would be red with weeping.” “Fy! father,” she replied, looking up into his face with her usual frank smile, “ surely you did not think me so foolish ?” “ I believe the little miser has kept her heart whole as yet," mentally ejaculated the Colonel, as she passed on into the house, “ but time will tell.” Ah, Colonel 1 You are better skilled in inter preting the movements of an enemy on the bat tle field, than you are in reading the secrets of a human heart. There was one in the family who understood these things better. Miss Alston, who had held for seven years the post of governess to Alice, had learned by her own experience to read the hearts of others. Bred in aflluence, she had given her heart to one who, when misfortune came upon her family, basely deserted her for a wealthier bride; but rising, phoenix-like, puri fied by the furnace of affliction, she had gone forth into‘the world, determined to make what had been bestowed upon her as accomplish ments, the means of her support. In the family of Col. Lee she had found a quiet home, where she was treated as an equal and not as a subor dinate. She had labored in the moral and men tal training of Alice as one who felt that she must one day give account of the manner in which she had discharged her duties. She loved the sweet girl almost with a moth er’s love, and she had studied closely for her sake, the character of George, till she had be come satisfied that they were suited to each other. She had hoped that a mutual engage ment would take place before he left to enter college, for, young as he was, she knew that he had a high sense of honor, which would never allow him to swerve from a promise once made. She felt certain, too, that he would never have any real cause to regret it. With the state of Alice’s heart she was as well acquainted as was the maiden herself—perhaps better, for though Alice had never spoken on the subject, she knew that the wealth of her affections was giv en to George, and she knew that for her to love once, would be to love forever. It was with deep regret, therefore, that she saw by Alice’s countenance the true state of af fairs, for though she exhibited in her face no more sadness than one would naturally expect her to show at parting with her childhood’s com panion, still there was not that gleam in her soft eyes, which Miss Alston knew would be there, if she was looking forward to a certain realization of her hopes in the future. She wisely forbore, however, speaking on the subject of George’s departure, and strove to di rect the current of her pupil’s thoughts into other channels. * ——— CHAPTER 111. “We have some new neighbors, I under stand,” said Miss Alston, at the breakfast table the next morning after George’s departure. “Yes,” replied the Colonel, “ the old planta tion adjoining Maj. Laurens’ has found an oc cupant. The house and out-buildings have been repaired, and the whole place seems to be under going a thorough renovation." “Do you know aught of the character of its inhabitants?” asked Miss Alston. “Nothing,” returned Col. Lee, “except that the gentleman is a nephew of my old friend, Judge Hartley, and if he is any like his uncle, he will be a desirable acquaintance. He has a daughter, I believe, just grown up, and as they have been here over a week and are probably domiciled by this time, if you and Alice will ac company me, I will order the carriage and we will give them a call.” “Oh 1 do, father,” exclaimed Alice, “ that will be so delightful to have a companion of my own ago; you know I never have had.” “ Have you forgotten George so soon?” said her father, with a look that brought a crimson flush to the brow and cheeks of the young girl. “ I suppose, however, you meant one of your own sex.” “ But do you not jump too hastily at conclu sions, in supposing that this young lady will be a suitable companion before you have seen her?” asked Miss Alston. “ Alice is like most young people of her age, I believe,” said the Colonel; “they speak first’ and think afterwards. But I hope her own good sense, and your teachings, will keep her from acting imprudently.” “I shall certainly cultivate no friendships which you and Miss Alston do not approve,” said Alice, as the family rose from the table: and retiring to her room, she began preparing for the morning call. t They found Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, the new neighbors above referred to, very polite, agree able people. The daughter was a young lady of showy accomplishments, and Alice, although really her superior in all the essentials of a good education, felt herself completely thrown in the shade, "by her apparent proficiency in those or namental branches which too often constitute the sum total of the education received at fash ionable boarding schools. Miss Morrison had also a brother, a young man of very elegant manners, who strove to make himself particularly agreeable to Alice; but whether it was the hints thrown out by her father and Miss Alston, at the breakfast table, or an instinctive perception of their characters, she felt that they could never become intimate friends. Mrs. Morrison complained much of the loneli ness they should experience, after having always been accustomed to city life; and Miss Morri son descanted upon the total absence of balls, parties, Ac; and was quite sure that she should die of ennui, if it were not for the pleasure she hoped to enjoy in the society of her “ dear Miss Lee;” while young Mr. Morrison was sure that he should be delighted with the opportunities afforded for hunting and fishing: and thought the beautiful scenery would render equestrian excursions perfectly charming. “Was Miss Lee fond of riding on horseback ?” he asked. On being answered in the affirma tive, hq expressed the hope that he would often have the pleasure of attending her and his sis ter, in their rides over those beautiful hills; and thought they could easily dispense with city amusements, when there were so many sources of pleasure open to them; in short, he seemed quite as much disposed to be pleased with every thing, as his mother and sister were to com plain. Alice thought him a very fascinating young man, but when she noticed the snake-like glit ter of his cold grey eye, and the sarcastic smile that played about his mouth, she could not help contrasting his countenance with the frank, open one of George Hastings; and the comparison thus instituted was by no means favorable to her new acquaintance. The elder Mr. Morrison had invited Col. Lee to look at some of the improvements he was making, in the grounds connected with the man sion, and the call in consequence having been considerably prolonged, immediately after his return to the house, himself and family took their leave. The next day the Morrisons called on them in return, and soon the two families were on terms of apparent intimacy. I say apparent , for the feeling of distrust, which had taken possession of Alice on their first acquaintance, never entirely left her; and though she always received Miss Morrison with cordiality and seemed to take pleasure in her society, she never admitted her to her confi dence. Toward her brother she was still more re served ; and though always treating him with the most scrupulous politeness, she never suf fered the least approach to familiarity, a state of affairs which he did not at all relish; for he had decided, that as the only daughter and heir ess of the wealthy Col. Lee, she would make quite a desirable wife for himself; and as he was already twenty-three, he thought the sooner he could make an impression on her heart, the better. chapter iv. We must again pass over quite an interval of time. George Hastings’ collegiate course is drawing toward its close. He has spent all his vacations with his uncle, and has kept up a fre quent correspondence with Alice; but his man ner has always been that of an affectionato brother. Still, his approbation has been her guiding star. It was her determination to make herself every way worthy of him, and her letters have sometimes showed him glimpses of a depth and cultivation of mind that astonished him. During the short periods he has spent at homo, Miss Morrison lias made his acquaintance, and exerted herself to the utmost to dazzle him with her accomplishments; but never has suc ceeded in winning any attentions, further than politeness required. She begins to think that Alice stands in her way, and as her brother also considers George a rival of his, he has be come particulajly anxious to effect an engage ment with our heroine, before Hastings’ return; for, notwithstanding the dignified bearing sho has always maintained towards him, his vanity is such, that he entertains but little doubt of his ultimate success. About this time a circum stance occurred which slightly dampened his hopes. Alice, who was particularly fond of riding on horseback, frequently accompanied young Morn son and his sister, in their excursions over the country. One morning, they had called for her as usual, when she learned that an accident had happened to her favorite pony Snow-flake, which rendered it impossible for her to ride it. Her father had purchased a short time previous, a fine looking horse, with whose disposition and habits ho was as yet almost entirely unacquaint ed. Being a fearless equestrian, she entreated him to let her ride this newly acquired animal. After a little hesitation, he consented, and with many injunctions from the Colonel to Morrison, to take good care of her, they rode off. Her new steed arched his neck, and carried himself proudly, as though conscious of the priceless burden ho bore; and the young man thought he had never seen her look half so lovely. With sparkling eyes, and cheeks glowing with the healthful excitement, her closely fitting riding dress showing her slight form to the best advan tage, she cantered slowly along by his side, laughing and chatting, until they had nearly reached the brow of a gently sloping hill, cov ered with fields in a high state of cultivation. On the top, were a few acres of level ground; but the opposite side of the hill was rocky, and pre cipitous ; and just as the road reached the edge of the precipice, it made a sudden turn, ran along its brink for a short distance, and descended the hill in a direction nearly at a right angle with that by which it ascended it. On both sides of the road, before reaching the precipice, was a high stone wall, and this continued, after the road turned, on one side, leaving scarcely room for two carriages to pass