two hours longer the sisters sat together in Annabel’s bedchamber, and wept in one another’s arms, and comforted each other’s sorrows, and little dreamed that they should meet no more for years—perchance forever! The morning broke like that which had preceded it, serene and bright, and lovely—the great sun rushed up the blue vault in triumphant splendor, all nature laughed out his glory—but at a later hour, far later than usual, no smoke was seen curling from the chimneys of the hall, no sign of man or beast was visible about its precincts. The passionate scenes—the wild excitement of the preceding day, had brought about, as usual, a dull reaction; and sleep sat heavy on the eyelids, on the souls of the inmates. The first who woke up was Annabel—Annabel, the bereaved, the almost widowed bride. Dressing herself in haste, she sought, as usual, her mother’s chamber, found her—oh happy! how happy in her benighted state, since she knew not, nor understood at all, the sorrows of those whom she once had loved so tenderly—found her in deep calm slumber—kissed her brow silently, and breathed a fond prayer over her, then hurried thence to Marian’s chamber—the door stood open; it was vacant! Down the stairs to the garden—the door that led to that sweet spot was barred and bolted—the front door stood upon the latch, and by that Annabel passed out into the fresh young morning—how fair, how peaceable, how calm was all around her—how utterly unlike the strife, the toils, the cares, the sorrows, the hot hatreds of the animated world—how utterly unlike the anxious pains which were then gnawing at that fair creature’s heartstrings! She stood awhile, and gazed around and listened; but no sound met her ears, except the oft-heard music of the wind and water—except the well-known points of that familiar scene—she walked—she ran—a fresh fear struck her, a fear of she knew not what—she flew to the garden—“Marian! Marian!”—but no Marian came! no voice made answer to her shrill outcries—back! back! she hurried to the house, but in her way she crossed the road conducting to the stables—there were fresh horse tracks—several fresh horse tracks—one which looked like the print of Marian’s palfrey—without a moment’s hesitation she rushed into the stable court, no groom was there, nor stable boy, nor helper—and yet the door stood open, and a loud tremulous neighing, Annabel knew it instantly to be the call of her own jennet, was wakening unanswered echoes. She stood a moment like a statue before she could command herself to cross the threshold—she crossed, and the stall where Marian’s palfrey should have stood next her own, was vacant. The chargers of De Vaux were gone; the horses of his followers—she shrieked aloud—she shrieked till every pinnacle and turret of the old hall, till every dell and headland of the hills, sent back a yelling echo. It scarcely seemed a moment before the court yard, which, a moment since so