red-handed in a murder!" exclaimed Grayson, seeing Blake endeavoring to pull the knife from the wound. "Don't stab him again. Oh! Harry, Harry, what have you done!"

Blake let loose his hold on the knife, and started up as they advanced. He looked hastily about him; made one or two irresolute steps; but before he could make up his mind whether to fly or not, Walton sprang from his horse, and flung himself upon him. 'Harry Blake, I charge you with murder!"

66

Blake stared at him. "Me with murder? Are you mad? Why, I didn't kill him."

"It won't do, Harry; it won't do," said Walton bitterly, "I saw you with the knife in your grasp-in his bosom -and him dead. Oh! Harry! This is a sad ending of this afternoon's quarrel."

"Will you hear me?" said Blake earnestly," and you, Caleb-you are older than Walton, and less impetuous, listen to me. I came here but a moment before yourself. I heard a person calling for help; and galloping up, found Wickliffe dead, with this knife driven in his heart; and was endeavoring to pull it out when you came up. This is truth, so help me God! Don't you believe me, Caleb ?"

Grayson shook his head, as he replied: "Would that I could, Harry; but as I hope to be saved, I saw you stab him, I did."

Harry clasped his hands together, as he asked, "And do you intend to swear to that? and to charge me with this deed ?"

"There is no help for it as I see," said Grayson. "The man is murdered. If you didn't murder him, who did? Answer me that."

As he spoke, he proceeded to examine the body, to see if it retained any signs of life; but it was rigid and motionless, with its open eyes staring at the sky, and the teeth hard set, as if the spirit had gone, in agony. The knife had been driven so truly, that it must have passed directly through the heart, and the blood which had gushed from the wound, had already saturated the clothes through and through, and formed a small pool in the road.

"Harry Blake," said the old man, as he drew the knife from the wound,

"this is a fearful deed, and the punishment is equally dreadful. You know that I am a magistrate, and must discharge my duty.'

"And will you send me to prison on such a charge as this?" repeated Blake bitterly.

The old man was silent.

"Did you ever know me to lie, Caleb?" said he.

"Never, Harry, never!"

"And do you think I'd lie now?" "I don't know," replied Grayson, "I never before saw you when there was so great a risk hanging over you. Oh! Harry, Harry!" continued he, clasping his hands together and looking at the young man, with an expression in which terror and sorrow were strongly blended,-“I had_rather met any man than you, here. It will make many a sad heart in this neighborhood. Why did you not promise what Adams asked! or, rather, why did you leave us then!"

Blake shook his head, as he answered: "Caleb, what can I say more than I have! If I repeat what I have just told you, you will not believe me. I was coming along this road; heard the screams of this man; galloped to the spot, and found him dead with a knife in his breast. I got off my horse to see what could be done for him, and was drawing out the knife when you came up. Had you been two minutes sooner, and I one minute later, I should have made the same charge against you, which you now make against me."

"But the cry-the words: Mercy, mercy, Harry!' He uttered your name.

"He did indeed," replied Blake, "he did, indeed; I heard it myself. But he did not say Harry Blake. Harry, you know, is not an unusual name."

"It may be-it may be," said Grayson, "but still we must deliver you up; and if you are innocent, God grant that you may prove yourself so; but unless my eyes deceive me, I saw you stab that man."

"If that is your belief, God help me!" said Blake solemnly, "for you must be a witness against me. If I am charged with murder, such a fact sworn to would hang me. have not even looked for another murderer than me. He may be hid some

But you

where about here. Search in the bushes, and you may find him yet. I'll not stir.""

With a strange reliance on the word of the man, whom they would not believe, when he asserted his innocence, they left him, and commenced a search along the road. And there stood the culprit motionless-making no attempt at escape, and watching them with an earnestness, only accounted for by the fact that on their success his life depended. At a short distance from the spot, and in a part of the bank, on the roadside, where Blake said that he had not been, there was a foot-print. It was indistinct, but as far as could be judged, when compared with Blake's foot, it coincided in size and form. A little further on, was another, and also the marks of a struggle in the road. Here, too, were the same foot-prints; and these, too, in dimensions, corresponded with the foot of Blake.

Well, well," said Blake; "everything goes sadly against me. must do your duty. I am your pri

soner.

"But," said he, seeing them moving "what do to where the horses were, you intend to do with that?" And he pointed to the dead body.

"Catch me a-touching it!" said "Caleb choose to pull the Walton. knife out of him. I wouldn't ha' done it. It's the crowner's business, that is. We'll send him here. Come, Harry. It isn't our fault-but you must come, you know.'

further remark, Blake, without mounted his horse; and waiting until they were also on theirs, they rode off in company, taking the direction to the residence of the nearest magistrate, where, in due form, Harry Blake was delivered over to the mercy of the law, and arrangements were made for the removal of the body of Wickliffe.

most branches, which towered so high aloft, that its voice, as it poured forth its song, seemed carolling midway between earth and sky. A sequestered lane, crowded with trees, that drooped almost to a mounted horseman's head, led from the house to the highway, a rural, snug, which was at least half a mile distant. Altogether, it was dreamy old house; and in it was one of the snuggest rooms, fitted up with little knick-knacks rare in those days

with snowy windows and bed curtains, and a bed as white and snowy as the curtains, fit only to be occupied, as it was, by the most beautiful little fairy of a girl that one's eyes had ever rested on,-and that was Mary Lincoln.

At about eight o'clock, on the morn

ing of the day succeeding that in which occurred the incidents narrated in the last chapter, and in the small room just mentioned, sat a very beautiful girl, with glossy golden hair, engaged in sewing; though it must be confessed that her eye was more often wandering through the window, and along that deep vista-like lane, down which her window looked, than fixed upon her I work; for it was nearly the hour at which Harry Blake usually contrived, on some pretext or other, to find his way to the house, to see how she was, and ask a few questions, and make a few remarks, the nature of which was best known to herself. That day, however, he was behind his time; but still she felt sure he would come. He had said nothing about it; but she expected him as much as if he had; and was endeavoring to select one out of halfa-dozen slightly coquettish ways of receiving him, which just then presented themselves to her mind. At first she thought that she would keep him waiting for her-a very little time -just enough to make him more glad to see her, when she came; but then, she should be as much a sufferer as he; for, impatient as he might be below, she would be equally so above; so she abandoned that. Then she thought of taking her sewing in the wide hall, and of stationing herself on one of the old settees which garnished its sides, and that she would be there very leisurely at work, and, of course, would not see him until he came up and spoke to her; or, perhaps, might accidentally go out just as he was coming in. That, too, she abandoned; and then she fancied that she would stroll out and meet him in the lane; and, it must be confessed, that she inclined more towards this plan than either of the others; for she had accidentally met him in this way before; and on these occasions Harry always tied his horse to a tree, and walked with her to the house; and although the distance was short, they sometimes consumed a great deal of time in going it, and he had an opportunity of saying much which not unfrequently he was unable to say at the house; for her father was almost as fond of Harry as his daughter, and had so much to tell him about his crops, and about this thing and that, and so much to ask him, that he sometimes infringed upon time which Mary

thought belonged exclusively to her; and although she endeavored to bear it cheerfully, yet at times she could not help thinking how snug and happy and comfortable the old gentleman would look if he were only snoring away in the easy arm-chair which stood in the chimney corner, although it was but eight o'clock in the morning.

She threw aside her work, and was rising for the purpose of adopting this last plan, when she heard the dashing of hoofs in the lane. "It's too late," thought she, "but I'll keep him waiting," and down she sat, out of sight of the window, so that she could not see the new comer, for she did not wish Harry should know that she had been watching for him. The noise of the hoofs increased; and the horseman dashed at full gallop to the door. This was not like Harry. He generally came fast enough along the road, but he did not gallop to the door like a madman. It was not respectful, and she would tell him so; still, he might be in a hurry. It argued a strong desire to see her, and that was some palliation. There was evidently a stir below, in front of the house, and she even heard his name mentioned. What could be going on there? She was dying to know. There was no way of learning, unless she went to the window, so as to look over the projecting eaves of the house; and then she could be seen. No, no; she would not do that. Still the stir increased, and she caught the sound of voices in earnest conversation; but Harry's voice was not among them. She could hold out no longer. She drew a chair near the window. and stood on it, at some distance from the glass; but still the envious eaves projected so as to shut out all view of what was going on below. It was too bad!--but see she must. She then went close to the window. But even there, nothing was visible; for the speakers were close under the house, and not even the smallest tipend of the coat skirt of one of them was visible. Poor Mary! she stood on tiptoe, and even on the chair, but still those unlucky eaves thrust themselves between her and the object of her wishes. She went back to her chair, and sat herself down, wondering why they built such ungainly old eaves and

cornices, which were fit only to annoy people, [and wondering why no one came to tell her that Harry was there and wanted her. He was uncommonly patient that day-provokingly so. Five -ten-fifteen minutes elapsed. There was something like a tear in her eye; for she certainly was very ill used. She threw her work from her, and determined to go down to him, but to make him pay up for his backwardness. Opening the door, she went to the head of the stairs, and assuming as careless an air as if there were no Harry Blake in the world, was going down them, when the voice of her father, who was standing below, arrested her. "Don't come down here, Mary," said he.

There was something in the tone of his voice, and in his manner, and even in this injunction, that caused Mary to stop, as if she did not understand him. "Go to your own room, my child: we are very busy here."

Mary half turned to go, for she saw that he was much agitated; but as she did so, the name of Harry escaped her lips.

"He is not here," said her father. "Has anything happened to him?" asked she, in a faint voice.

66

Yes, yes," replied the old man. "He's in trouble; but he is well. Go to your room, and I will be with you in a few moments."

Mary got to her room, she scarcely knew how, and threw herself on her bed, drowned in tears. "He's wellthank God for that," sobbed she. "I am sure I'm very grateful that he's not ill-very grateful-poor Harry -in trouble, too, and I, like a good-fornothing minx as I was, have been thinking all the morning of nothing but teasing him. He was too good for me. They all told me so-so patient, so kind, so good-humored-and I-I'll never forgive myself I never will never!" She buried her face in her pillow, and sobbed there, until the door opened, and she felt her father's arm around her.

He raised her, folded her tenderly to his bosom, and placed her in a chair. "Courage, Mary, courage, my little girl," said he, in a tone which certainly was not a model of what he recommended. "Show yourself to be a wo

man."

66

Yes, yes, father, I will, I will,"

said she, and by way of verifying her words, she threw her arms about his neck, and wept more bitterly than before.

"Come, come, my dear little girl," said he, in a tremulous voice; "sit down, and hear what I have to tell you."

As he spoke, he again placed her in the chair, and took her hand.

"If you are not able to listen to me now, I will defer what I have to say to another time," said he.

He probably could not have hit upon a better method of recalling his daughter, who had no small spice of curiosity in her nature, and who just then recollected that she knew nothing definite of the evil which threatened Harry Blake.

"I can hear it now, father," said she eagerly. "Tell me at once, what has happened to him, and where he is."

"He has been arrested, and is in prison," said the old man, watching her pale face, as she sat with her eyes fastened on his, and the tears still on her cheeks.

"Is that all?" said she in a half whisper. "Tell me all-why is he there?"

"He has been arrested on a very serious charge," said the old man slowly, and by his manner endeavoring to prepare her for the communication he had

to make.

"Will it affect his life ?" demanded she, at once catching at the heaviest punishment of the law. "Will it affect his life? Tell me that." "If it is proved, it will," replied the old man.

"What is it? what is it?" said the girl, rising and grasping his arm. “Father, tell me, I charge you, and on your word, tell me truly."

Her father put his arms around her, and strained her to his bosom, and looked in her face without speaking, until she repeated her question. Then he said, in a scarcely audible voice,

"He stands accused of murder.' "Murder!" ejaculated she faintly, whilst her hands fell to her side. Charged with murder! Why, Harry Blake would not harm a worm."

She extricated herself from him, made something like a step, and had not her father caught her, would have fallen. She had fainted.

The old man hugged her to his bo

som again and again, kissed her lips and cheeks, and called her by name.

"I knew it would kill her! I said it would kill her! My own dear, darling little girl. Mary, Mary, speak to your old father! She's dead! She's dead!"

Fortunately the noise made by Mr. Lincoln reached some of the females of the house, who better understood the mode of administering to her illness. But it was not until he saw her eyes open, and the faint color once more in her cheek, that Mr. Lincoln could be induced to quit the room.

When she recovered, Mary was wilful, for once in her life. In spite of all that they could say, she insisted that her father should have the horses harnessed to the waggon, and drive her to the prison where Harry was. They argued and entreated; they spoke of her ill health, of the danger to herself; but it was idle. She said that they were all against Harry; that he was innocent; that he declared himself so; that she believed him, and that go she would, if she went on her bare feet, that he might see that she at least was still true to him.

At last they yielded to her importunity, and she took her seat at her father's side. How unlike the lighthearted girl she had been but a few hours before. During the whole drive she spoke not a word, but appeared so calm, and comparatively so cheerful, that her father kept equally silent, until they stopped in front of the gloomy old building in which the prisoner was confined.

As she entered his room, and caught sight of him, she sprang forward, and clasping her arms about his neck, wept like a child; and he, throwing his powerful arms about her, and clasping her to his bosom, kissed her cheeks and lips in a strange passion of joy and grief.

"I am come, Harry, I am come," said she at last. I have not deserted you."

"Dearest Mary, you, at least, believe me innocent ?" said he, in a low earnest voice, holding her off from him, so that he could look in her face; but without relaxing his hold on her waist.

'Yes, yes, I do, I do! I never doubted it for a moment. But O! Harry, this is very dreadful—very dreadful. What

will become of your peer little Mary, if any harm should befall you? But we won't talk of that," said she quickly, for she observed that her words sent a sort of spasmodic shivering over him. "We won't talk of it, nor think of it. I'll come to see you every day, Harry, and will spend all the time I can with you, and we'll be quite merry and cheerful here; and I can fix up your room, and do many little things to make everything neat and comfortable here; and I'll tell youthe news, and will read and sing to you-Harry," said she, placing her hands on his shoulders, and looking up. in his face, "I'll sing the song you asked for yesterday, when I was vexed, and refused. I'll sing it for you now, dear Harry-I will-I'll never refuse it again. Shall I sing it, Harry? Shall I, dear Harry ?" A painful sickly smile flickered across her face; a single feeble word, the first of the song, like the faint warbling of a dying bird, escaped her lips, and she sank senseless on his breast.

"Take her away! Take her away!" exclaimed Blake franticly, holding her out in his arms towards her father. "Unless you would drive me mad, take her away!"

The old man seemed stupefied, but he mechanically reached out his arms toward her; but Blake again caught her to his bosom, and kissed her neck, face, hands, and even the long tresses that fell across his face; and then reaching to her father, said, "There, go, go; don't stop another instant."

Mr. Lincoln took the frail form of his child in his arms, and moved to the door.

"One word, Mr. Lincoln," said Harry; "one word before we part. Whatever the result of this accusation may be, even though it end in my— death-I am innocent. The time will come when I am proved so: and O! I beseech, if I lose my life, that you will protect my memory with Mary."

The next instant he was alone; and throwing himself upon a chair, he sat, with his face buried between his hands, until aroused by the entrance of the lawyer who had been retained by his friends; and who now came to consult with him as to the steps requisite for the management of his defence.