Then the little maiden ran up the marble steps in front of the house, and there she paused, unwilling to enter the warm rooms. The company on the lawn had wandered off into the grove, and she stood there watching their departed footsteps. Her eyes wandered over the scene, and at last were fixed by a figure on the gravel walk approaching from the gate towards the house. The figure hurried nervously forward, sprang up the steps, and stood before her taking breath. He was a youth of perhaps seventeen, with a broad fair forehead and golden hair. He caught her hand and inquired anxiously, “Are _you_ Miss Churchill?” “No, indeed, thank Heaven, I am not Miss Churchill,” replied the maiden, wondering. “Where is Miss Churchill—where is she? I must see her immediately.” “Miss Churchill is no more; Mrs. Withers is in the drawing-room.” “Good God! I am too late; it is all over then!” “_Quite_; you should have come sooner; the bride-cake is even eaten up.” “Young lady—what is your name?” “Blanche Rogers.” “Miss Rogers, you can procure me an interview with—with the bride.” “I will take you in and present you with great pleasure, if,” laughed the young lady, “you will favor me with your credentials.” “Miss Rogers, my name is Raymond—no, I cannot tell you now; will you be kind enough to go to Mrs. Withers, and tell her that one wishes to see her for a moment at the door.” The maiden looked at him keenly, and saying to herself, “Such a boy can have no evil design,” replied, hesitatingly, “Yes,” and turned slowly to do his bidding, looking back, once or twice, suspiciously. She found Sophie alone with Mrs. Green. Mr. Withers was in conversation with the bishop in a distant part of the room. “My dear Sophie,” said she, “there is a young man out in the piazza that asks to see you.” “A young man?” “Well, yes; that is to say, a very young man—a boy.” Sophie arose and passed into the piazza, and, except her cold pale face, like a radiant visitant from the skies she looked, as her dazzling raiment of white and silver flashed in the moonbeams. At the further end of the piazza, the moonlight fell upon a slight boyish figure clad in deep mourning, and leaning upon the balustrade. Sophie approached him; he raised his head and stepped forward; she met his eyes and started, suppressed a scream, and trembling violently, leaned against the parapet, as she recognised the slender form and wan face, the intense gaze, the ultra-marine blue eyes, and the floating golden locks of the wanderer, and— “Have you, indeed, unhappy one, risen from the grave to reproach, to warn me?” involuntarily escaped her lips. “Be calm, Miss Churchill; I do not know what you mean by your question, since I have never been dead, and do not remember even to have seen, far less reproached or warned you.” “Who are you, then; I—I do not know whether I am sane or not. I am afraid my brain is reeling; who are you?”