The pale girl looked steadily and suspiciously at her companion; but one glance dispelled her fears. The face she scrutinized was honest; and without hesitation, she quitted the high road, and seated herself on a fallen tree in the sheltered glade to which Mark Antony had pointed. Well,--she might do so safely. In grain, the fosterer was a gentleman; and, for a queen’s ransom, he would not have abused confidence placed in his honour, or have imagined aught that was evil against a woman whose helplessness called upon him for protection. He flung himself at her feet upon the sward, and opening the widow’s basket, produced a chicken, some oaten cakes, and a _cruiskeeine_ of native whisky. The fowl was speedily dismembered; the contents of the flask diluted with the clear cold water of the rivulet; and, with kindly warmth, her companion urged the wanderer to refresh herself. But, poor girl! her heart was full. She gently put aside the food presented to her; tears fell fast, and hiding her face between her hands, she seemed to give way to some secret sorrow, too deep, too poignant for concealment. The fosterer, but in vain, endeavoured to cheer her sinking spirits. The _cruislteeine_ was laid down untasted; and while with youth’s ardent eloquence, Mark Antony pointed to happiness in the distance, the deep sobs of his companion told that from her bosom that hope which cheers the darkest hour of life, was long departed. “Come, come, Julia,” he said, pressing her hand in his, “why will you be so down-hearted?” The poor girl raised her eyes. She did not reply; but her look betrayed the agony of the heart, and its sad and silent expression had “the calmness of settled despair.” “And have you been very--very unfortunate, Julia?” pursued the fosterer. The wanderer mournfully shook her head. “And left home, and friends, and--” “Father!” exclaimed the girl, wildly, with a maniac’s suddenness. “Were you decoyed away by a villain? “He who wrecked my peace is in the grave. May Heaven pardon him as sincerely as I wish it!” “Probably under the promise of marriage?” said the fosterer, with the hesitation that a man feels who asks a question which possibly may cause pain or give offence. “_The promise!_” exclaimed the girl, while her pale cheeks flushed, and her eye lightened as if repelling a derogatory insinuation. No, no; it was indeed a sad reality, although the act was villanous and putting her hand into her bosom, she drew forth a wedding-ring, secured by a black ribbon. “There is the token that I was a lawful wife; and there, also, a memorial that I was a--” She paused. “What?” exclaimed the fosterer. “A worthless daughter. _Worthless!_ worse far;--a parricide! Yes, yes; I murdered him. My misconduct broke his heart. My ingratitude quenched his broken spirit. I did not drug him to death; but I poisoned his happiness, and sent him to the grave. Am I not, then, a murderess?”