and around the nooks of the grand old trees. Far different is the scene on this drear winter morning. The trees are leafless; they raise their skeleton arms against the cold bleak sky. The rocks, no longer clad in vines and flowers, are grim and bare, with crowns of snow upon their summits. The glade itself, no longer clad with velvet-like sward, is faded and brown. The rising sun trembles through the leafless trees, invests the rocks with a faint glow of rosy light, and falls along the brown surface of the glade, investing it for a moment with a cheerful gleam. And in the light of the rising sun, in sight of river, city, and distant bay, two men stand ready for the work of death. The ground is measured; the seconds stand apart; before the fatal word is given, the combatants survey each other. Eugene, with bared head, stands on the north, his slender form enveloped in a closely buttoned frock-coat. He is lividly pale, but the hand which grasps the pistol does not tremble. Notwithstanding the bitter cold, there is moisture on his forehead; the fire which burns in his eyes, tells you that his emotion is anything but fear. One glance toward the city,--one thought perhaps of other days,--and he is ready. Opposite, in the south, his hat drawn over his flaxen curls, his tall form enveloped in a close fitting frock-coat, Beverly with an uncertain eye and trembling hand, is nerving himself for the fatal moment. He is afraid. As he catches a glimpse of the face of Eugene, his heart dies within him. All color has forsook his usually florid face. "Gentlemen, you will fire when I give the word,--" cries Major Barton from the background of withered shrubbery. "Are you ready?" But at this moment the voice of Beverly is heard--"Eugene! Eugene!" he cries, and starts forward, rapidly diminishing the ten paces, which lie between them--"Eugene! Eugene! my friend--can I make no apology, no reparation--" Both Robert and the Major, saw Eugene's face, as he turned toward the seducer. The sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud, shone out again, and shone full upon the face of Eugene. The look which stamped every line of that bronzed visage, was never forgotten by those who beheld it. O, the withering scorn of the lip, the concentrated hatred of the dark eyes, the utter loathing which impressed every lineament! "_Friend_!" he echoed, as for a moment he looked Beverly in the face--and then turning to Barton, he said quietly: "Major take your man away. If he is a coward as well as a scoundrel, let us know it." The look appalled Beverly; he receded step by step, unable to take his eyes from Eugene's face;-- "Be a man, curse you," whispered Barton who had glided to his side--"D'ye hear?" and he clutched him by the arm, with a grasp, that made Beverly writhe with pain--"Take your place, and fire as I give the word."