“I am so glad—­so glad you are going with us!” said little Louey La Vigne, pressing my hand, as she sat before me in the carriage by Aunt Felicite, her nurse—­Colonel La Vigne and three of his daughters having been consigned to another hack—­Louey and her sable attendant, stately with her large gold ear-hoops, and brilliant cotton handkerchief, being inseparable accompaniments of his wife.

“I have banished Mr. La Vigne, I fear,” I said, in a broken voice; “it would have been best for me, perhaps, to have gone with the young ladies.  Let me begin at once.”

“No, it is much best as it is,” she answered, affectionately; “think of yourself just now, and take no charge until we all get home.  You are our guest until then, remember.  I know it is a sad trial to go with strangers, but you will find us friends, I hope;” and she clasped my hand in hers, and so held it until we reached the wharf.

Tears rained down my face, beneath the friendly shelter of my veil, but Madame La Vigne, with the tact of good-breeding, affected not to remark them.  Once little Louey, a child of eight years old, the youngest and prettiest of all, leaned forward, as if to soothe or question me, but she was plucked quickly back into her place by the decorous Aunt Felicite, who had not lived so long with quality without acquiring some delicacy of behavior, at least, even if it struck no deeper root.

I had commanded myself, before the carriage stopped beside the panting steamboat, and soon we were gliding along the placid river toward the point whence the railroad was to carry us on to our goal.  At New York, we found ourselves hurried for time to reach the packet Magnolia, and went directly from the depot to the quay, for embarkation.

By the pilot, who left us at the Narrows, I sent back a few lines to Mabel, also enjoining him, with the gift of a piece of gold, to mail my letters on the following day, and receiving his promise to do so.

In this brief communication, I promised my dear child that we should meet at my majority, and enjoined her to patience.  “You will hear from me again before long,” I said, in conclusion; “and I will try and arrange some plan of correspondence.  Bad people have obliged me to this step.  Do not forget me, my darling, nor my lessons and counsel, and believe ever in the honor and devotion of your sister. Pray for me, Mabel!  MIRIAM.”

My letter to Evelyn Erie, without date, written on the ship, and sent back by the pilot to be mailed also at New York, revealed my acquaintance with a portion of her duplicity, and Mr. Bainrothe’s dark design.

I promised her my forgiveness on two conditions alone:  one was, that she should not seek to trace me, since all effort to regain me would be fruitless; another, that she would be kind to Mabel, and my father’s ancient servants until my return, and, of these last, especially Morton.

I uttered no threats nor reproaches—­asked no favors, beyond those which I had a right to demand at her hands as my father’s ward—­long supported by him, and even cherished with paternal tenderness—­and the guardian of his child.  I knew that the use of my house and furniture would amply compensate her for all Mabel’s expenses, among the principal of which would be that liberal education which I demanded for her, as her right.