(_Helen approaches the window, and puts her arm gently around her sister_.) _Helen_. No more!--It was a sad word you were saying, Annie. _Annie_. How you startled me. Your hands are cold,--cold as icicles, and trembling too. What ails you, Helen? _Helen_. 'Tis nothing.--How often you and I have stood together thus, looking down on that old bridge.--Summer and winter.--Do you remember the cold snowy moonlights of old, when the sound of the distant bell had hope in it? We shall stand together thus, no more. _Annie_. Do not speak so sadly, Helen. I cannot think they will destroy our home in mere wantonness. Was there not some one coming up the path just now? Hark! there is news with that tone. [_Exit_. _Helen_. A little more, an hour perchance, and he will read my letter. Why do I tremble thus? Is it because I have done wrong, that these dark misgivings haunt me? No,--it is not remorse--'tis very like--yet remorse it is not. Danger, there is none. I shall but walk to the wood-side as to-day, that little path to the hut is quickly trod, and he will be waiting there. I shall be safe then, safe as I care to be.--Why do I stand here reasoning thus? Safe? And if I were not, what is it to me now? The dark plan is laid. The fearful acting now is all that's left for me. This must go to the lodge to-night, and ere my mother returns;--to tell them now, would be to make my scheme impossible. (_She begins, with a reluctant air, to fold the dresses, which are lying loosely by her_.) Oh God! whence do these dark and horrible thoughts grow?--Nay, feeling not born of thought. That wedding robe looks like a shroud to me! I cannot. Shadows from things unseen are upon me. The future is a night of tempest, where I hear nothing but the breaking boughs, and the whirl and crash of the mourning blast. Oh God! there is no refuge for the fearful, but in thee.--To thee--no. If there is power in prayer of mine, hath it not already doomed that wicked cause, my fate is linked with now. I cannot pray.--Can I not?--How the pure strength comes welling up from its infinite depths. Hear me--not with lip service, I beseech thee now, but with the earnestness that stays the rushing heart's blood in its way.--Hear me. Let the high cause of right and freedom, whose sad banner, now, on yonder hill, floats in this summer air; whose music on this soft night-breeze is borne--let it prevail--though _I_, with all this sensitive, warm, shrinking life; with all this new-found wealth of love and hope, lie on its iron way. I am safe now.--This life that I feel now, steel cannot reach. (_Annie enters_.)