“The scenery of James River is quite new to me, Miss Conyers. We came down from Washington by railroad to Richmond, and thence by stagecoach to Bellemont. I look upon this fine river for the first time,” he said, not, as before, fixing his eyes upon her, but letting them rove over the bright waters of the James and the verdant hills beyond. Britomarte only bowed in reply. She would have given another year of her life for the power of controlling the unusual tremor that seized her frame and made it dangerous to trust her voice for a steady answer in words. Justin, still letting his eyes rove over the river, and rest here and there upon particular points of interest in the scenery, spoke of the beautiful effects of the shining light and shade as the clouds floated over the sun’s disk and their shadows passed over the hills. And Britomarte merely answered “yes” or “no,” until, indignant at the influence that was growing upon her, she suddenly erected her haughtly little head with an impatient shake, and said: That she could not appreciate the minutiae of river scenery; that only the ocean in its grandeur and might could awaken her admiration. At this moment Dr. Rosenthal called to his son, and Justin, with a bow, left the side of Britomarte. “Why, Britty, dearest! I always thought you loved river scenery,” said Erminie, when they were left alone together. “So I do, as a general thing, but I don’t care about it to-day,” answered Miss Conyers. “Well, Britty, dear, I never knew you to be capricious before.” “Nature has given me no immunity from the common weaknesses of humankind.” Erminie looked so hurt at the curtness of her friend’s words and manner, that Britomarte suddenly took her hand and tenderly caressed it. Erminie, touched by this new proof of love, was encouraged to press Britomarte to go home with her to the parsonage. Miss Conyers caressed her and thanked her, but reiterated her resolution to go to Witch Elms. “Ah! don’t, ah! don’t—don’t go to that horrid place, dear Britomarte! You don’t know what it is! They say—that the place is haunted.” “Of course, they say every isolated old country house is haunted.” “But—forgive me once again, dear Britomarte—are you expected or desired there?” “I do not know. My old aunt has never written to me. The half-yearly payments for the schooling, for which I am indebted to her, always have been forwarded by her agent in Washington. On each occasion I have written to her a letter of thanks, but I have never received an answer.” Just then a boy rushed up with a letter for Britomarte. She opened it wonderingly, and turned to the signature. Her face was suddenly blanched to the hue of death, and she reeled, as though about to fall. “Britomarte, dear Britomarte, what is it? Any bad news?” anxiously exclaimed Erminie.