keep her lover from noticing her mood,—or fatally inquiring its cause—and to give him employment, she pushed the pile of handkerchiefs towards him, saying calmly— “Mark them for me.” Clifton smilingly took them, found the little vial of indelible ink, and went to work—himself well pleased to have some service to perform for his liege lady, that would, without disrespect to _her_, deliver _him_ from the duty of keeping up a running conversation, for which he felt indisposed. She need not have feared that Archer Clifton would observe her mood. He himself was too abstracted, too thoughtful, to be critical or inquisitive. He was deeply troubled by the recollection of the conversations of the afternoon, affecting Kate Kavanagh. Instead of benefiting, had he really wronged that excellent girl?—darkened the very morning of her just opening life with the clouds of suspicion? And was even his mother’s protection insufficient to shield her innocence from such attacks of slander? Yes!—for the _fact_ of his mother’s protection was not even acknowledged. Slander shuts its eyes to truth, while it opens its lips to falsehood. Should he send her back to the mountain, and expose her to all the evils of that life? No, no!—his whole heart protested against that course. Yet what to do to save her? He could not decide then. He could not even get his own consent to consult his mother. What! wound _her_ ear with the repetition of such a story? Never! His usual promptitude of decision and action forsook him quite. A cry was in his heart, and he could only repeat to himself her _name_ in deep sorrow,—“Oh, Kate! Kate! Kate Kavanagh!” until her very name “_Kate Kavanagh_,” became the refrain of a plaintive _silent_ melody! Meantime he pursued his occupation quite mechanically, marking and laying down, one by one, the handkerchiefs, until the whole dozen was complete. Carolyn Clifton watched his complete and mournful abstraction with increasing suspicion. When all the handkerchiefs were marked, he took the parcel, and shaking off sad thought, smilingly laid them before his lady’s eyes, gayly entreating her to examine his work, and reward him with a kindly word if it should please her. Miss Clifton took up the parcel, her eyes fell upon the topmost handkerchief, and she started violently. She swiftly turned it over and looked at the second, and the blood rushed to her brow! At the third, and it receded again, leaving her pale as death! She hurriedly went through the dozen, then springing to her feet, she hurled the parcel to the floor, and setting her heel upon it, lifted her proud form to its loftiest height, and stood, her chest expanded, her head thrown back, her cheek kindling, her eyes blazing,—full! full!—yet proudly suppressing all utterance of passion! Captain Clifton started to his feet, exclaiming— “Carolyn, my dear cousin!” But spurning the parcel beneath her heel, she turned imperiously away, and walked up the room. He followed her, repeating—