The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1867-03-20

colors, with the easel in one corner.
and the piano-forte in another, with
Cyrllla's work-basket on a side-table,
IN company with meerschaum, big
and brown, and tobacco Jar after
the antique. A pleasant picture, and
one which Theodore Ihornhurst,
artist from the top of his head to the
sole of his foot, would not fail to
note when he should come stepping
lelsurely In through one of the three
French windows opening on to the
lawn, which had just been draped,
ready for winter, with curtains of
crimson damask, in place of the
muslin ones which had shaded them
through the summer months.
Cyrilla read on undisturbed for
about half an hour, at the end Of
which time baby began to grow rest
less; so she laid down her book, and
began to rock the cot with a low,
gentle motion, and at the same time
to sing, in minor key, the exquisite
cradle song from "The Princess:''
''Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the Western sea;
Low, low, breathe and blow.
Wind of the Western seal
Singing thus, she lifted the child
tenderly out of its cot, kissed it
fondly, and carried it through the
dresslng-room into the chamber be-
yond, and there laid it snugly in
bed. Presently, she came back, still
humming the music of the song
under her breath, and leaving the
door of the dressing-room half open
behind her, so that she might the
more readily hear her darling, should
ne awake and cry out. Then she
sat down again in her husbands
easy-chair, and went on with her
novel. But the under current of
her thoughts was with her husband;
and presently she glanced up at the
time piece on the mantel-shelf, only
to discover that it had come to a
dead stop some ten minutes pre-
vlously, for want of winding up.
She put down her book, and rose
at once to perform the necessary
duty, for the voice Of the little clock
sounded like that of friend in her
lonely watching. How the words
OF that song haunted her memory.
She was winding up the time piece
slowly and carefully, and humming
the song to herself, and as she did
so-what woman would not have
done the same? she glanced at the
reflection of her own pretty face in
the glass over the chimncv-piece.
She saw her blue-eyed face, with its
setting of yellow hair, and the same
moment she saw something else by
no means pleasant to look upon
something that for one instant caused
every pulse of her being to stand
still in silent horror.
There was some one in the room
beside herself What she saw in
the glass was the reflection Of a
hand Sraspiug the crimson damask
curtains that draped the French will
dow opposite the fireplace. Only
a hand-but whose hand? 1t was
very small and very white. but un
mistakably the hand of a man. and
just as surely not the big brawnv
paw Of Theodore Thornhurst.
Cyrilla's eyes dilated as she gazed; |
the murmur Of the song died off her
lips; her fingers ceased from turning
the key of the clock, she stood like
one changed to stone. She burst
not turn her head to glance at the
dread reality which she knew was
behind her; she kept her gaze fixed
steadily in the glass, Watching with
a sort Of horrible eagerness for some
sign or token of life in those white.
death-like fingers, which looked as
If they belonged to a corpse. Sud
denly, while she was looking like
one fascinated there was 2 elirht
movement of the curtain, the white
fingers relaxed their grasp, opened,
and for an instant were withdrawn.
Next moment they were there again.
grasping the curtain as before; and
as they re-appeared, Cyrilla's heart
thrilled with a fresh terror; she felt
by instinct, and not by the action
OF any more positive sense-that,
from amid the dim folds of the cur
talns, two eyes, unseen by her, were
Watching her every movement.
The dread inspired by this disco
very-for she felt sure that her in
stinct was not playing her false-was
almost more than she could bear.
Her senses seemed as though they
were about to desert her; a dimness
crept over her eyes; a numbness
began to steal through every limb;