It was quite early when they arrived at White Cliffs; and the remainder of the party had not yet arrived. Mr. Fairfax joined Mrs. Clifton in the garden, and Archer Clifton sought his lady-love, where he was informed he would find her, namely, in the Summer saloon. He threw down his hat and entered hurriedly, intending to surprise from her a hasty kiss. Carolyn was standing looking out of the window upon the rich sunset scene—the last sun that would set upon her maiden life, perhaps, she thought. On seeing Clifton she moved away, and retreated to the work-table at which she seated herself. Clifton approached, and with an air of gallantry, half serious, half playful, kneeled upon one knee and kissed her hand. She drew it coldly away—but that was the custom of the “proud ladie,” and did not surprise her lover. He arose and drew a chair to her side and seated himself, and began to affect an interest in her little lady-like occupations. Her right hand rested upon a pile of beautifully fine linen cambric handkerchiefs—an item in the imported trousseau. He laid his hand upon hers, and asked her some trivial question about them. Now, Carolyn, after a day’s extreme suffering, had almost gained a victory over her passion. Her haughtiness had almost saved her. Not to one soul in that house—not to Georgia, had she betrayed the least sign of the cruel suspicion that had nearly maddened her brain. Not for all Clifton—not for all the world would she have betrayed her passion to her lover—or condescended to admit that she could be jealous of him; for she felt that once to accuse him would be to impose upon her the necessity of breaking with him. How could she, in honor, marry a man to-morrow whom to-day she had accused of treachery?—besides, she was not sure—could never be sure of his moral dereliction. And while there was a doubt in his favor, she must conquer or conceal all suspicion, or, letting escape, must break with him, even at this last moment—must break with him forever! At least so her high spirit and her pride argued. She could not part with him—pride forbade that also.—What! the marriage of Miss Clifton of Clifton broken off at the last moment, and all about a mountain-girl? Pah! Forbid it, all the shades of all the buried Cliftons! Hearts might break, but haughty heads must not be bowed! Better lost peace than lost place! And then she loved him!—loved him the deeper for suppressing all signs of love!—and she could not bear to lose him! And banish him she must, if she should once betray the jealous passion of her heart. This mighty motive kept down the rising storm. Yet all depended upon her vigilant self-control. Should a look, a word of suspicion, escape her then, she felt the curbed frenzy of her soul would have broken all bounds; even as by the smallest fracture in the dyke, the mighty and irresistible sea is let in upon the land, carrying destruction and death before it! All depended on her silence. So, to