Tom Barksdale and Mabel were pacing the portico from end to end, chatting with the cheerful familiarity of old friends. Catching some of thin energetic sentence, Mabel looked over her shoulder. “Who of us is fated to be pitied, did you say, Rosa dear?” “Never yourself!” was the curt reply. “Rest content with that assurance.” Her restless fingers began to gather the red leaves that already variegated the foliage of the creeper shading the porch. Strangely indisposed to answer her animadversions upon the world's judgment of her sex, or to acknowledge the implied compliment to his betrothed, Frederic watched the lithe, dark hands, as they overflowed with the vermilion trophies of autumn. The September sunshine sifted through the vines in patches upon the floor; the low laughter and blended voices of the four talkers; the echo of Tom's manly tread, and Mabel's lighter footfall, were all jocund music, befitting the brightness of the day and world. What was the spell by which this pettish girl who stood by him, her luminous eyes fixed in sardonic melancholy upon the promenaders, while she rubbed the dying leaves into atoms between her palms--had stamped scenes and sounds with immortality, yet thrilled him with the indefinite sense of unreality and dread one feels in scanning the lineaments of the beloved dead? Had her nervous folly infected him? What absurd phantasy was hers, and what his concern in her whims? A stifled cry from Mabel aroused him to active attention. A gentlemen had stepped from the house upon the piazza, and after bending to kiss her, was shaking hands with her companions. “The Grand Mogul!” muttered Rosa, with a comic grimace, and not offering to stir in the direction of the stranger. In another moment Mabel had led him up to her lover, and introduced, in her pretty, ladylike way, and bravely enough, considering her blushes, “Mr. Chilton” to “my brother, Mr. Winston Aylett.” CHAPTER II. -- AN EXCHANGE OF CONFIDENCES. “And so you know nothing of this gentleman beyond what he has told you of his character and antecedents?” Aunt Rachel had knocked at the door of her nephew's study after dinner, on the day of his return, and asked for an interview. “Although I know you must be very busy with your accounts, and so forth, having been away from the plantation for so long,” she said, deprecatingly, yet accepting the invitation to enter. Mr. Aylett's eye left hers as he replied that he was quite at liberty to listen to whatever she had to say, but his manner was entirely his own--polished and cool.