The old gentleman kissed, and coaxed, and almost wept; a manner of attack so hard to be resisted, that had Zuleime been really free, she would have sacrificed her own and Frank’s hopes, and yielded. But Zuleime was not free, and therefore was as firmly proof against persuasion, as she would have been against force. Two powerful motives operated in preventing her from confessing her marriage—first her promise to keep it secret, and then the fear of precipitating some violent scene between her father and cousin, or some fatal catastrophe to the household. To end the conflict, and to gain time to consult Frank, by writing, was what she most wished now. Finally, she promised to give Major Cabell his answer in a week, and to marry him—_if she should ever marry anybody_. With this promise, Major Cabell seemed satisfied—and with his mother and sisters took leave of Clifton. And Zuleime retired to her own room, full of self-reproach for her own deception. CHAPTER XII. SUSPENSE. Uncertainty! Fell demon of our fears! The human soul That can sustain _despair_—endures not _thee_.—ANON. A weary week passed away. Zuleime had written to Frank, and Carolyn, we already know, had despatched a letter to Archer. But the week had passed away, and no answer to either had come from Winchester. Had the sisters confided in each other, such mutual confidence might have soothed the soul-sickening anxiety of _one_ at least. Carolyn would have known that some accident _must_ have prevented Frank Fairfax from receiving or answering the momentous letter of his youthful wife, and she would have felt that the same cause had probably operated in the case of Archer Clifton. But the sisters did not entrust their secrets to each other. Zuleime was withheld by her sacred promise. Carolyn by her pride. But the wife bore the pain of suspense far better than the maiden. The wife had perfect faith in her young husband, and knew that some adverse chance had hindered his getting or replying to her letter. The maiden knew that she had unjustly banished her lover. And she had no faith in the love that endureth all things. Carolyn had never suspected the depth of that calm, secure, habitual affection—which had from childhood grown—until now. While life and love and hope had flowed smoothly on, her emotions were serene and moderate. But now that the quiet stream had been stemmed by rocks and breakers, it was lashed into fury and roared in whirlpools. The calm sentiment rose to turbulent, maddening passion. Her days were restless, her nights sleepless, until, as the week wore away, her nerves were wrought to such severity of tension, that you might know that at the end of uncertainty, whether that were joy or sorrow, they must alike suddenly give way. Towards the last of the week, she had privately besought her father to ride to Winchester, and see the