“‘Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter, The dead uninterred, The bride at the altar.’ “Ladies and gentlemen, our gallant Captain Clifton has literally left his ‘bride at the altar.’ But soldier’s love may not mourn bridegroom’s loss. Nor may we deny ourselves the distinction and joy of your presence for the whole night—nor,” (the old man was unconsciously sliding from his lofty magniloquence down to the plain vernacular,) “nor must I disappoint these young men and maidens of their dance to-night. Ho! music there! Strike up the liveliest quadrille air upon your list. Let them dance to the briskest music while they are fresh. Charley Cabell, my boy, come here and lead out your cousin Carolyn!” Major Cabell advanced, and with much grace and dignity led Miss Clifton to the head of the quadrille, as the music pealed forth. “Young gentlemen, select your partners!” exclaimed the old man, adding example to precept, by choosing the youngest and prettiest girl in the room, and leading her to the place right opposite his nephew and daughter. Soon all the surprise and disappointment were forgotten in enjoyment. The evening was spent in the gayest hilarity—Carolyn Clifton, the forsaken bride, apparently the gayest of the gay. So gay, indeed, was Miss Clifton, that she drew upon herself the severe animadversions of several ladies present, who affirmed that her conduct was heartless in the extreme; to laugh and sing and dance and jest with such thorough abandonment to pleasure, just after the departure of her lover to brave the ghastly horrors of Indian warfare. Much more did they approve of the pensive manners of Zuleime. Poor Zuleime was all unskilled in self-control—her heart was “exceeding sorrowful,” and so she let it appear. The company separated at a very late hour that night, or rather a very early hour of the next morning. Those in the neighborhood departing, those from a distance retiring to the chambers to take some sleep before breakfast, after which they were to set out for their homes. CHAPTER X. THE SISTERS. Sister! since I met thee last, O’er thy brow a change hath past; In the softness of thine eyes, Deep and still a shadow lies; From thy voice there thrills a tone, Never to thy childhood known; Through thy soul a storm hath moved, ——Gentle sister, thou hath loved.