“Your child gone? when, where?” cried Ross, fearfully excited. “Surely you have not sent the infant from its mother so abruptly—and—and without consulting—I mean without informing your best friend.” “That carriage—you heard it—bore away Zulima’s child!” said the unhappy father, mournfully. “But where has it gone? With whom is it placed?” “It is placed with one whom I have long known, the noble and childless wife of an old and dear friend. Myra will be to them as an own child, till I claim her again.” “And may I not know the people, and the place?” inquired the false friend. “The child of my benefactor is dear to me as my own.” “I have pledged myself to secrecy in this. It was the desire of my friend,” repeated Mr. Clark; “but for that you should know every thing. All this concealment will soon be over; a few weeks and this man must be sentenced. Then wife and child shall take possession of their home before the world. In this you can help me. I can not well appear in person to press forward this man’s conviction, but you, my friend, will use every effort to relieve me from this painful position. My poor wife scarcely suffers more than I do!” “I will do every thing that you desire. Indeed, the commonest gratitude should insure that,” said Ross, pressing his patron’s hand, but with restless and nervous haste in his manner. “Shall I set out for the city at once?” “No, no; seek your wife first; tell her to comfort my poor Zulima. I can not see her now; without wishing to reproach me, she could not help it. I tell you, Ross, I would rather encounter a squadron of armed men, than the look of those soft eyes, as they followed her child this morning, when I took it from her. It was the glance of a wounded fawn, as we have often seen it, turned upon the hunter.” “I will see my wife at once,” replied Ross, unable with all his duplicity to conquer the disappointment that was consuming him; “then I will depart for the city, and make a strong effort to bring De Grainges to his trial.” “It is strange,” said Mr. Clark; “but some influence that I can not fathom seems to keep back this man’s sentence. The court, as if it were trifling with his case only to perpetuate my troubles, keeps putting off his sentence from day to day with cruel pertinacity. But now I am resolved that it shall be more prompt; this hidden influence must and shall be revealed.” Ross listened to the first portion of this speech with a cold and crafty smile playing and deepening about his mouth, but at the close this smile died away, and with it every vestige of color—his eyes wandered rapidly from object to object, avoiding the face of his benefactor, and when Mr. Clark would have spoken again, he forgot all the habitual deference of his manner and interrupted him.