A retrospect of several hours is necessary here. You will remember that during the drive home from Hardbargain, Mrs. Georgia Clifton had watched Zuleime with much interest and curiosity, and with more perspicuity. When the unfortunate girl had sprung from the carriage, and fled up the steps into the house, Mrs. Clifton had followed her. Instead of going up into her chamber, she had passed directly through the hall, and gone out at the back door—Georgia having kept near her. There was the kitchen garden at the back of the house, and then the vineyard, and then the orchard—through all these she successively passed, with the same wild, hurried gait, and entered the forest beyond, and descended into the deep glen, through which the mountain-stream roared. It was very difficult to follow the reckless steps of the fugitive down this rough declivity, and while cautiously descending, with the aid of projecting fragments of rock and smaller branches of trees and bushes, Georgia lost sight of the girl. When she reached the bottom of the gorge, through which the torrent raged and raved, Zuleime was no where to be seen. The night was very dark, and though a few large, brilliant stars were to be seen directly over head, yet low from the horizon, heavy, black masses of clouds were slowly rolling up. And the wind moaned and died away at intervals—prophetic of the winter’s storm. The single, large stars overhead were reflected in the stream—not clearly and calmly, but plunging and leaping with the wild water. The banks each side lay shrouded in gloom and mystery, rocks and trees indistinctly blended together in dark and sombre hues. The everlasting mountains stood around, vast, vague, and awful. The seven white peaks gleamed up in the back ground, like the ghostly genii of the scene. A shiver of superstitious fear shook the frame of Georgia, and she had turned to retrace her steps home, when a sound between a moan and a suffocating sob arrested her purpose. She crept towards the spot whence the sound proceeded, and there, half hidden in the deep gloom of overhanging willows, she dimly discerned the figure of the unhappy girl, bending over the stream, and gazing intently upon the water, where the reflection of the stars leaped and plunged with the waves. As if communing with herself, she murmured—“There is peace there! There is peace there!” Then her form bent lower, her gaze grew more earnest and intense, as though body, soul and spirit were irresistibly fascinated, drawn down by the glamour of the water! And—“There is peace, deep peace there,” she muttered! How stormy must have been the soul that saw deep peace in the raging torrent! Her eyes shone in the dusk with a bright, phosphoric light, and still pouring their splendor upon the dark, wild water, she murmured—“Peace! deep peace.” Suddenly up flew her arms, and she sprang forward. The ready hand of Georgia caught her shoulder and pulled her back, exclaiming— “Mad girl! What are you about to do?”