"Yes, siree--drowndid herself on account of trubble an' sickness. What made it all de worse was dat she was de beautifulest gal in de country, and had a twin sister ekally beautiful, and dat pore thing is 'most crazy 'bout it all," explained Poky, while Sam eagerly demanded names. "Sho! I has such a pore mem'ry fer names," Poky began, reflectively; then she stuttered: "Ju--Ju--Jule--" "Jewel and Flower!" shouted Sam, and her eyes beamed with delight. "Dat's dem! and 'twas de las' one--dat Flower--dat got up outen her sick-bed and runned away las' night, and Jule she said shorely she done drowndid herself, 'cause how she done said she would do it de first chance, and she was so weak she couldn't a' walked no furder than down to de sea-shore." "Golly! I mus' go up to de big house and hear 'bout it," Sam exclaimed, darting toward the gate, while Poky called after him, jibingly: "Sam, don't go and tell anybody 'bout yer foolish dreams las' night." CHAPTER XX. In the golden days of June, more than three months after the occurrences of our last chapter, Laurie Meredith returned to the scene of his love affair, and made his way to the large stone house where the Fieldings had lived last summer. He had not had a letter from Flower for the last two months, and this had brought him to seek her earlier than he otherwise would have done, for while he had received her letters he had known that she was well and contented, but her silence filled him with such fear and discontent that he left Germany, determined to have it out with the Fieldings and take his bride away. No rumor of the changes that had taken place since his departure had reached him. He knew not that Mrs. Fielding was the inmate of a lunatic asylum, and Flower reported dead. His heart was full of eager joy as he ran up the steps of the old stone house, expecting in a very short time to clasp Flower to his yearning heart, and tell her that she must leave her mother and sister and come with him now, for he could never be parted from her again. The parlor window was open, and the notes of the piano, accompanied by a sweet voice, became audible as he stepped upon the porch. He stopped a minute to hear, thinking that the musical voice belonged to Flower. Then he shivered. The voice and the words were so sad that they struck a chill to his heart. It was only an old song, heard many a time before, but its plaintive sadness had never struck him as forcibly as now, when it came sighing through the lace curtains, and mingling with the summer breezes: "Weary of living, so weary, Longing to lie down and die, To find for the sad heart and dreary The end of the pilgrimage nigh; Weary, so weary of wishing For a form that has gone from my sight, For a voice that is hushed to me ever, For eyes that to me were so bright!