The parlor was empty when they entered, and Zuleime had an opportunity of settling herself in a large arm-chair, and composing herself, before any one came in. Mr. Clifton, Major Cabell, and several other gentlemen returned from the shooting excursion and entered the parlor together. Mr. Clifton looked surprised and pleased to see Zuleime, “clothed and in her right mind;” and Major Cabell seemed interested and curious. Zuleime arose, and supported herself by resting one hand upon the arm of the chair, while she received the greetings of her father’s guests. And thanks to the shadowing of the black lustrous curls, and the reflection of the crimson dress, none could see the wanness of her face. Mrs. Clifton and Miss Clifton entered soon after, and in the general conversation that ensued, poor Zuleime escaped particular notice. Once Major Cabell contrived, without drawing attention upon himself, to find his way to her side, and enter into conversation with her. And he was surprised, perplexed, nonplussed at the gentleness and almost tenderness of her manner. Before leaving her he asked— “When can I have an interview with you, Zuleime?” “Whenever you please, Cousin Charles,” she answered, gently. At parting, he pressed her hand, and to his surprise, the pressure was softly returned. And he left her, thinking “the sex” more of a riddle than he ever thought it before. The next day, about noon, Major Cabell and Zuleime met in the saloon, and had an interview of nearly an hour’s length. When Zuleime left him and came out, she met her father in the hall. Taking his hands in hers, she looked up in his troubled face and said— “Dear father! you remember many weeks ago, you asked me to fix the day when I should be married to Cousin Charles?” “Never mind, never mind, my dear! That is all over now! You shall not be troubled, my love!” “Dear father, I have just told Cousin Charles that I will give him my hand on Tuesday fortnight,” said Zuleime, and pressing both the old man’s hands to her lips, she turned and left him standing there in speechless astonishment, while she went up stairs—and throwing herself upon her knees by her bed, buried her face in the clothes, and breathed—“It won’t be for long, Frank! Oh! Frank, you _know_ it won’t be for long!” CHAPTER XVIII. THE YOUNG MOURNER. Mine after life? What is mine after life? My day is closed. The gloom of night comes on, A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate.—JOANNA BAILLIE.