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2 she smiled into her own eyes shining upon her from the glass, dilated with anticipations of tri umph. Thie expression of her face changed as she continued: ‘Allan is wonderfully good, won derfully guileless; he can be firm, too, even im perious, I expect. He would not choose me to ! apologise to any man!' She repeated that, dwelling on the word choose. ■ ‘1 hate myself for making him suffer, yet I take delight in it, too. If he were not so good, I shouljj he more likely to love him, I think. He is too good for me!’ Then, in strong contrast to her cousin’s frank, fair face, she saw the dark iuscrntible counte nance of Mr. Smith. ( 'lure had strange dreams that night. CHAPTER VI. Clare's first thought on waking was of what she had to do that day, and of how she should do it; whether lightly and jestingly, or in away that should make a serious seene. ‘After all, it is not much use deciding before hand,’ she said to herself, as she went down stairs; recognising by these words that it was not her mood, but Mr. Smith’s, that would give its tone to the interview. Mr. Smith was always up and out early. She put on her garden hat and'gloves, and with basket and scissors went down the ter race-steps and passed the lawn to the sheltered rosery. Bbe filled her basket; strowling slowly back, through a circuitous well-screened path, she, as she had anticipated, met Mr. Smith coming from the direction of the river. He was passing her with a bow, when she stopped him. ‘Are you implacable, Mr. Smith—nnforgivingly resentful ? Will you leave us to-day ?’ she asked with a winning smile. ‘I should have done so yeeterdsy, but that I hesitated to give Allan that pain.’ ‘And yon will go to-day?’ ‘Most certainly. Having ascertained this hare you any further commands ?’ ‘I commandyoa to remain,’ Clare said, laughing, but not, for all that, at ease. Mr. Smith raised his brows, and gave no other sign. ■Shall 1 teach you the proper answer to make to a lady’s commands ? ‘To hear is to obey.’ ’ ‘I render no obedience where I owe no allegi ance.’ ‘Seriously, Mr. Smith,’ Clare began. ‘1 am and have been quite serions, Miss Water meyr.’ •Well, lam now quite serious. Will you recon sider your determination ? I promised my cousin thatl would ask you notio go/ Will you, for htf sake, cousent to remain?’ •We—Allan and I—hardly need a mediator, You have now in compliance with your promise, asked me not to go. 1 will not disappoint yoq by complying with your request. We understand each other, 1 think, and things, of course, remain as they were.’ ‘I ask you, then, as a personal favor, to aban don yonr intention of leaving us so suddenly.’ The ice so far broken, swayed by the impulse of the moment, she went on to say a good deal more than she bad intended, or than was fitting. » ‘You made me angry. It seems just now as if everybody combined to insult ur.d vex and per plex me. If yon knew all—all I have to bear, all. I expect to have to bear—l think you would not be quite so harsh. 1 have no one to advise me, there is no one to trust to. 1 have, I dare say, seemed cold and proud, unkind to Allan—inso lent, as you rightly called me. Rut if you knew how miserable I am, how much 1 need help. You will say, ‘there is Allan;’ but he is the last person to whom 1 can go for help. Rut why should I speak of this to you, who choose to consider ms as an enemy ? Have I humbled myself euough, Mr. Smith ? Will you stay with us for the pres ent?’ ‘lf Miss Watermeyr herself desires and requests In her own name that I should continue to be her guest, this altera the whole position of afiairs. I will gladly remain here longer.’ He had watched her very keenly while she spoke. Though he had seen her color change and her eyes moisten, he did not believe in her. ‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘And if we are to be enemies, may I not know why we are to lie so? Why may we not be friends?' ‘I have your cousin’s happiness more at heart than anything else in the and you <.t ike him miserable. You received him on hi- arrival in away that at once made me yonr enemy, be cause it made me feel that you were his. Since then have I not seen you torment him daily j How, then, with* such hostile aims—l wishing his happiness, you causing his misery—how can we be otherwise than hostile powers?’ ‘Do you think I suffer nothing ?—that all the torment and misery are his? If you would but judge me a little less harshly. Will you try ?’ Clare spoke with something of passion in her appeal, offering her hand as she did .so. Mr. Smith took the hand in his; it was not gloved—the sunshine glistened on its snow. •If yon would but make Allan happy,' he said; ‘wi 1 you try!’ Clare blushed angrily. Again she felt herself |l mocked . but she felt more than that—something .. m . . - the s outhern field and fireside. she did not understand ; tears of pain and morti cation rnshed to her eyes. ‘I cannot, savage and cynic as I am, accept yonr apologies and make none. Yon had provo cation—there! I cannot make pretty speeches. Consider all I should say mid thus ’ He kissed her hand; he raised it to his lips with an air of careless condescension, as a prinoe might a pretty peasant-maiden's bat the kiss coaid hardly pass for one of careless condescen sion, or of cold ceremony. A thrill of trinmph pissed through Clare’e heart; hot when Mr. Smith’s face was raised again, those lips had snch a qneer smile upon them, that ahe knew not what to think, ao she smiled coldly, saying, as she with drew her hand: ■An interesting scene, which a spectator would hardly interpret aright; ao wa will end, if yon please.’ These words, and the manner of them, neutralised any softening inflaence of what had gone before. ‘You mean that yon withdraw the white flag of truce?’ Mr. Smith said. ‘Look upon this in that light,’ she said, and offered him a white rose from her basket, bnt as he accepted it hesaid, ‘Yon have to teach me in another way than this, whether it is war or peace between ns.’ They walked towards the house together, si lently. Again poor Clare was baffled and per plexed. She felt that she had been played upon, whereas she had meant to be the player, not the instrument. When at breakfast something was said about Mr. Smith’s plans, he answered briefly, 'The event to which I alluded as most improba ble has taken place; therefore, for the present, I am quite at the service of the fair company here assembled. Miss Watermeyr could not yen per suade Mrs. Andrews to trust herself to onr tender mercies on the river ? We should be proud to show onr skill to yon ladles.’ 'Are yon going on the river, then, Clare ?’ Mrs. Andrews asked. ‘lf you will come too, auntie,’ Clare answered promptly, though she had not been asked before? though she did not much like the water, and had no inclination to go on it that morning. She wished for an iaterval of peace, and felt that her refusal would be regarded as a declaration of wav. ‘Auntie was always rather fond of the water,’ Allan Baid, and the matter was settled, to the astonishment of two of the party at least,—Allan and Clare. , . ' The exenrtton proved a sudftbe. elate was gentle, Allan in brilliant spirits; ftfr. Smit’- bitter, of course, bnt not at the expense of any member of the party, which made all the difference to his companions. Mr. Smith added a postcript to his letter : ‘I was right; my superb young hostess has begged me to remain her gnest; has asked my pardon tor the words which gave me offence. Oh, I shall be able to tame this lioness, and lead her to her master’s feet. Tamed, or untamed, she is obliged to belong to him, so I do a good work if I can break her in for the qniet uses of domestic life. I should be quite confldentof quick success only that I fancy the beantifni creature is treach erous as well as strong. I have a dim suspicion that she is playing a game with me, or trying to do so. 1 distrust her sudden gentleness, and shall keep well upon my guard.’ ' CHAPTER Vli. It was Indeed playing with edged tools, the game in which Clare and Mr. Smith engaged. Maturally the two antagonists occnpied them selves much one with the other ; a mutual study of character and a mutual observance of conduct were, of course, needful. Opportunities for this were not wanting; their intercourse was constant if it was not intimate. Clare rode, walked, or went on the river with the two friends daily now. This charge made him very happy; from it he drew all manner of good omens, as also from the fact that Clare - id not, as she had done at first, avoid being alone with him. At snch times she encour aged him to talk about his friend, and perhaps forgot to bqar in mind that from Allan she was sure to hear of nothing that did not tell favorably of her adversary. Mr. Smith was more on his guard; he let Allan talk of Clare, but he made ample aUowance for the blind partiality of a lover. Among the cottagers round he tried to hear of her pride and tyranny, bnt withont much success, he hearij her spoken of not certainly with the in timacy of love, but with gratitude rnd admiration. ‘Of coarse they feel bonnd to praise her,’ he inwardly commented. ‘After all, if she could be brought to love Allan as Allan loves her, then I say, Allan might do worse; bnt if she marries him, as she will do,be canse she is driven to it, because there is no alter native which her pride could tolerate—in this case Allan will miter not porgatory, but hell itself, when he enters the estate of holy matrimony : and it were better for him to hang a millstone round his neck than snch a wife. What is aU this 'to me ? Nothing, only Allan is the one being in the world whom I love, and I cannot have him $ nude miserable. In one way or another I can prevent this marriage, if needful.’ So Hr. Smith settled matters in his own mind; having done so, he did not perhaps reconsider either his resolutions or their motives ; he strove with might and main to gain influence over Clare. Here covertly and subtlety than at first, and al ways on his guard before Allan, he contrived to harass and weary her, putting a sting into his words, or his manner constantly, yet so conning a sting and so cunningly concealed, that often when she afterwards picked his words apart and analysed his manner, she would wholly fail to discover what it was that had wounded her— where was what had wounded her. Nevertheless wounded she was often, stung to the very quick, sometimes irritated, bewildered, yet she believed still believed that she was playing a part, striving for the difficult and only possible revenge. And of course the more difficult the battle, the more she set her heart and soul on victory. She looked back to her former monotonous life with distaste ! just now she was interested, excited ; there was always something to look forward to ; she could •hardly tell whether there was more pain or pleas ure in the excitement, but she would not, if she could, have changed it for the life that had prece ded it For the presedt she avoided looking to any future beyond that of the next encounter with Mr. Smith, the next day, or the next; how things were to end between Allan and herself she would not consider, much less decide. Even on wet days, or daring the hours that were too hot to be passed outdoors, she seldom sought her own occupations now ; she played chess with Allan, Hr. Smith looking on, loosing no opportu nity for a bitter witticism or pungent joke at her expense, if it could be indulged in in away that should not attract Allan’s notice; sometimesshe accompanied Mr. Smith on the piano when he sang. He had, as Allan had assured her, a won derfully rich and mollow voice—so much so, that it seemed as if all the sweetness that should have mellowed his nature had been concentrated in this organ. When she did this, she was generally subjected to some implied reproach for want of taste or accuracy. Though she possessed, and knew that she possessed, both, Mr. Smith could make her feel like a blundering school girl in fear of a strict master. Sometimes Aiian and Mr. Smith read aloud by turns, while Mrs. Andrews knitted and Clare idled over a piece of embroidery in which she had lost all pleasure since Hr. Smith had condemned both its design and execution, but which she would not abandon. t>ue morning whpn they wejmso occupied, Mr. Stanner, who did not often IWYa member of the party, came into the room, the county paper in his hsnd, evidently under some excitement. ‘Old fools are certainly worse fools than young fools,’ he said- ‘There is that old fool. Lord ’ mentioning a neighboring nobleman, ‘has married a ballet girl, a pretty child of nineteen, he being eighty, if a day. Did yon ever hear of anything more scandalous, more disgraceful?’ ‘ Than her conduct ? The little mercenary wretch! No, certainly!’ answered Mr. Smith, promptly, before any one else conld speak. Mr. Smith was peculiarly ont of humor to-day; per haps he had some secret cause for exasperation. ‘Thau his conduct, sir, I mean,’ Mr. Stanner re plied, almost fiercely. ‘Bringing disgrace, dis tress, contention into a noble family i' ‘Rathe* selfish conduct, certainly, at his age; he might have got through his few remaining years without a new toy ; bnt othefs have done likewise, others will do likewise ; no use to make a noise abont it. The girl was what the world calls virtuous, of course, or he would not have needed to marry her. But it is, I hold, the girl whose conduct is really to be condemned —selling her youth and beauty to an old ’ ‘Perhaps, poor thing, she had great tempta tions,’ said Mrs. Andrews ; ‘to lift her family ont of poverty, ennoble herself, anil —’ Clare had not dared to speak. ‘Ennoble herself!' scoffed Ur. Smith; then seeing that gentle little Mrs. Andrews, to whom he was always comparatively gentle, looked frightened at his vehemence, and remembering that she was not his adversary, he said, ‘Forgive my sgvageness, bat I think that any worn an who gives herself away for anything bat mere and &boßolute love, under any circumstances, degrades herself beyond hope of redemption—becomes about the meanest and most pitifttl thing on God’s earth.’ Clare’s face blanched ; the color fled even from her lips. Allan sprang np and was about to speak when Mr. Stanner interposed. ‘Gently, gently, Ur. Smith; your language is rather too forcible for a gentleman to use in the presence of ladies.’ ‘Perhaps, then, sir, lam ‘no gentleman.’ ’ Mr. Smith’s smile, as he added, ‘lndeed, l often think that, with all my brain culture, 1 remain as moch a boor at heart as my father before me,’ reassur ed Mr. Stanner, who, at his first words, had a sudden and dreadful vision, in which figured seconds, and duelling pistols, and his own corpse lying in a certain little glade of the near forest, where, if tradition spoke true, other such sights had been seen before. ‘When Lady , the ci-devant* ballet-girl is a widow, it will be shown thstmsny gentle men are not of Mr. Smith's way of thinking; she will hare many suitors,’ Mr. Stanner remarked. ‘Kean curs, whom it would give me the greatest satisfaction to horsewhip. By the bye, Allan, in an article in that magazine you have in y our hand. I saw on astounding statement. Hire it me a mo ment, that I may read the passage. Here it is: ‘lt might be rash to marry a woman for her beauty and accomplishments, if she and her in* tended husband were both entirely without means; bat a man would indeed be a wretched cur who preferred an ugly and Tulgar woman with £30,- 000, to an accomplished and beautiful woman who had but .ft,ooo, (so for so good, but observe this same clause ; evidently the writer felt alarm ed at his own rash position, at his enthusiastic unworldliness,) supposing his own prospects to be reasonably good. Ido think this the very sublime of pathos.* ’ It certainly seems so much so that 1 should charitably suppose some misprint or misconeep- . tion of the writer’s meaning,’ said Allan. ‘The thing implied, of conrae, being that a man whose prospects are not ‘reasonably good’ is not to be condemned as a ‘wretched cur’ if he takes the ugly and vulgar possessor of £30,000 instead of the beaatifhl and accomplished, but poverty-stricken woman who only has Of course, if a man worships Mammon and worldly, if the writer reaegnizea these as the true gods who are to be served, there is nothing so monstrous in this ’ ‘Any woman, I am sure, would agree with us, that such a man, whether his prospects are ‘rea. sonably good’ or not, is a cur.’ No doubt any woman would theoretically ’agree with me that woman who gives herself away for anything but love, as necessarily degrades herself as a woman, be she who or what she may, who gives herself away for love—let the man be who or what he may, prince or ploughman—ennobles herself.' ‘Dear me, dear me,’ Ur. Stanner exclaimed, ‘your views are very extraordinary, Ur. Smith; rather dangerous, too. Would you have a peer ess marry a peasant? Do you hold that she would ennoble herself by so doing V Ur. Stan ner smiled blandly, thinking those questions very neatly put, and quite unanswerable. ‘lf the peeress loved the peasant, certainly, yes. Wjiy not ? What is a peeress but a woman, a peasant but a man ? and is not any man in some way superior to any woman? So laay, that if the peeress could love the peasant purely and truly, she would be ennobled by so loving. Love ia only sud only glory. An unloving woman ia in incomplete, most poor and quite unbarmonized Creature—miserable in all senses.’ Mr. Smith’s eyes were on Clare’s fade as he finished—she felt them burning there; hers had keen cast down; she had shrunk from speaking, feeling most unsafe even when silent, and as if a word might draw down upon her some intolerable avalanche. When he ended, she felt compelled her eyes to his ; he was startled at their expression. A new somewhat—a want, a despair —had wakened within her. It was dumb and blind. She was nnconscious of it as yet; but it lent a new meaning to her face—gave it some thing of pathos he had not seen in. it before. Nobody answered Hr. Smith; Ur. Stanner con tented himself with a shrug and a look across at Hrs. Andrews, meant to express his fear that the poor fellow was not quite sane. [TO BE CONTINUED IN OCR NEXT.] (Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.) TO . When morn’s bright beams shall tinge the sky, Bathing earth and heaven in light, And the rising day-god mounts high, To chase away the gloom of night; Fragrant breath of dewy flowers O’er fields are roaming light and free, Bringing with it from the bowers More fair and sweeter thoughts of thee. When evening clouds the brow of day, And deep’ning gloom seeks to enfold The sinking sun, whose mellow rays Bind fading earth in bine and gold; The flickering, glimmering glow Still lingers o’er the land and sea, My thonghts, like golden sunbeams, flow, And rest on sky and land and thee. When night’s shades o’er us shall creep, And bright stars peep from out their bed; throngs are wrapt in sleep— -1 Ancrtven nature’s self seems dead; And as the beaming starq.above Seem trembling in heaven’s bine sea, I turn to one bright star of love, With sweeter, brighter thosghts of thee. Pbank. Angusia, Ga., April 16, 1864. As riches and favor forsake a man we discover him to be a fool, bat nobody can find it ont in his prosperity.