These were not idle words, and the belief then expressed became with Hugh Worthington a fixed principle, which his skeptical uncle tried in vain to eradicate. “There was a Heaven, and she was there,” comprised nearly the whole of Hugh’s religious creed, if we except a vague, misty hope, that he, too, would some day find her, how or by what means he never seriously inquired; only this he knew, it would be through her influence, which even now followed him every where, producing its good effects. It had checked him many and many a time when his fierce temper was in the ascendant, forcing back the harsh words he would otherwise have spoken, and making him as gentle as a child; and when the temptations to which young men of his age are exposed were spread out alluringly before him, a single thought of her was sufficient to lead him from the forbidden ground. Every incident connected with his brief acquaintance with Golden Hair seemed to be recalled to his mind this wintry night, and so absorbed was he in his reverie that until twice repeated he did not hear his mother’s anxious inquiry, “What is that noise? It sounds like some one in distress.” Hugh started at last, and after listening for a moment he, too, caught the sound which had alarmed his mother, and made ’Lina stop her reading. A moaning cry, as if for help, mingled with an infant’s wail, now here, now there it seemed to be, just as the fierce north wind shifted its course and drove first at the window of the sitting-room, and then at the ponderous doors of the gloomy hall. “It is some one in the storm,” Hugh said, going to the window and peering out into the darkness. “Lyd’s child, most likely. Negro young ones are always squalling, and I heard her tell Aunt Chloe at supper time that Tommie had the colic,” ’Lina remarked, opening again the book she was reading, and with a slight shiver drawing nearer to the fire. “Where are you going, my son?” asked Mrs. Worthington, as Hugh arose to leave the room. “Going to Lyd’s cabin, for if Tommie is sick enough to make his screams heard above the storm, she may need some help,” was Hugh’s reply, and a moment after he was ploughing his way through the drifts which lay between the house and the negro quarters. “How kind and thoughtful he is,” the mother said, more to herself than to her daughter, who nevertheless quickly rejoined, “Yes, kind to niggers, and horses, and dogs, I’ll admit, but let me, or any other white woman come before him as an object of pity, and the tables are turned at once. I wonder what does make him hate women so.” “I don’t believe he does,” Mrs. Worthington replied. “His uncle, you know, was very unfortunate in his marriage, and had a way of judging all our sex by his wife. Living with him as long as Hugh did, it’s natural he should imbibe a few of his ideas.”