Six days of this expectancy I endured--six days of alternate hope and doubt--the latter at times so distressing, that even in the excitement of the chase I could not procure distraction for my thoughts! More than once my comrade and I had almost ceased to hope; and half resolved to launch ourselves on the great prairie ocean--trusting to chance to guide us to the haven of our hopes. On the sixth day we had determined upon it; and only awaited the mail, that should arrive on the morning of the seventh. The seventh proved the day of joy. Our doubts were dispelled. The cloud that hung over our course was cleared away, by the arrival of the expected epistle! My fingers trembled as I took the precious billet from the hands of the postmaster. He must have observed my emotion-- though I did not open the letter in his presence. The superscription was enough to tell me from whom it came. I had studied the fac-simile of that pretty cipher, till it was well impressed upon my memory; and could therefore recognise it at a glance. I did not even break open the envelope till we were upon the road. The post-mark, "_Van Buren, Arkansas_," sufficiently indicated the direction we were to take; and not, till we had cleared the skirts of Swampville, and were _en route_ for Memphis, did I enter on the pleasure of perusal. The address was simply as before: "To Edward Warfield;" and so to the apostrophic commencement: "Stranger!" I could have wished for some less distant word--some familiar phrase of endearment, but I was contented--for I knew that Lilian's too recent love had lacked the opportunity of learning its language. Before it had time to achieve the employment of those sweet forms of speech, its course had been rudely interrupted. Thus ran the letter: