Year: 1871

sense Of loss and diAhonor, by It's very
indistiuctness, deeper than the most
studied expressions could have DONE
But that which was worse for guardian
and worse for brother was, that the man
who had wrought this wrong was the
students friend, his chief companion at
college, his old school and play fellow at
home.


The poor girl was dead in all her
charm and pride of youth; and the man
| that killed her lived, and was the friend
that he had-set above all other men to
love and honor. That was the bitter
part Of it alI-his friend!


Stunned and made mad, Luke ConnOr
lay back in his chair, the letter crum-
pied savagely in his hand, his physical
| strength gone, his mind alert only in
| its unWhOlesOne fancies. There were
wrongs, he thought which no word nor
| act could ever make right; there were
! wrongs which cried out, with the clear
ness and fnllness of the old Jewish law,
! for the requital Of vengeance. There
should be life for life.


Filled with temptation, the day wore
slowIy on. The blurred sun crept down
behind the gathering clouds, and up out
Of the sea and bay came the storm and
darkness; the logs upon the hearth fell
Z
grazing ashes: wearied and uncanny
shadows stole out from the recesses of
! the room; the frescoed arabesques grew
dim in the waning light; the statues and
! the quaintly-carved old furniture reflect
ed themselves upon the floor and walls
in distorted images, which, by times,
mized themselves curiOusly with the
murderous fancies that filed Luke Con.
nor's mind, strangely distOrting and
warning all the good there was in it,
turning the gentle, loving naturd Of the
man into unclean channels of morbid
bitterness and hatred. He left the infiu-
ences at work upon him, and made no
effort to cast them of, but yielded to
them, Man is not stronger than destiny,


he thonght; why should he struggle ?
He knew the worst that would surely
come-knew thatlife for him had chang
ed, that the promise of all the years
past, all the fruits Of their toll and patti
ent endeavor, were gone forever. In
that hour he sank down, helpless under
the weight of his loss, and putting away
from him all chance of hope or honor,
or mems love or happinese, bartering
them all for his shallow thought of ven
geance, he accepted the future and the
work that he-felt he had been called up
on to do. With no weak regrets, no pity
for the beautiful life to be trampled un-
der foot, he took up the crime and curse
of Cain; and did not murmur nor look
back. His wrong, his morbid frame of
mind, the weird shadows, and his own
sombre fancies, had conspired together,
and told him that he must kill the man
who wrought this evil. That was his
work, and he must aboutit speedily; and
he would.


Yet, until the evening had come, Luke
COnnor had not moved toward the full
filment of his purpose, though he knew
that the man whom he had doomed to
die he could find whenever he sought
him. He still lay back in his chair, be-
fore the dying embers of the fire, the
crumped letter in his hand, quiet as
man dead or sleeping, an awful pallor
on his face, his white throat barred, his
black hair hanging in damp, close curls
about his forehead-a boy in years, with
b stature like Saul, with grand physical
mould and strength of breast limb.


Whom the dusk deepened he took from
the wall curious old Spanish knife, its
long, thin blade tapering to an almost
imperceptible point. There was lat
ent, devilish cruelty in the careful man
ner shown by him, as he ran his finger
along the muFderons toy; but he was ev-
idently satisfied with his scrutiny, for
he placed the knife carefully in his
breast, and went out.


10 be Continued.