But now the blood which had crimsoned her cheek flowed back tumultuously to her heart, as she heard a voice she could not mistake, humming very softly the notes of a sad and touching air, which she and Lewie had often sung together.  This plaintive singer could be no other than her brother.  But why here, at night, and in this clandestine manner, evidently trying to win her attention, without arousing that of others?  The house seemed quiet:  and Agnes, throwing a shawl about her, quickly descended the stairs, and, quietly opening a side door, crossed the lawn, and in another moment stood beside her brother, under the shade of the tall old elms.

“Lewie! is it indeed you?”

He made no answer, he said not one word, but, drawing Agnes to a seat under one of the trees, he seated himself beside her, and laying his head upon her shoulder, he was quiet for a few moments; and then Agnes felt his frame tremble with sudden emotion, and heard a deep sob.

“Lewie! my brother! do speak to me!  What is it?  Do not keep me in suspense!  What dreadful thing has happened?”

“Agnes,” said he, with a sudden and forced calmness, the words coming slowly from between his white, stiffened lips—­“Agnes, it is—­murder!”

Agnes did not scream—­she did not faint—­forgetfulness for a moment would have been a relief.  In a flash she had comprehended it all.

“Lewie,” said she, “is there blood upon this hand?”

“Agnes, it is true; your brother is a murderer!  No less a murderer, because the blow was struck in the heat of sudden passion, and when the brain was inflamed with wine; and no less a murderer, because it was repented of the moment given, and before the fatal consequences were suspected.  My sister, I am a fugitive and a wanderer, hunted by the officers of justice, and doomed to the prison or the gallows.”

It seemed to Agnes like a fearful dream!  It was too dreadful to be true!  The thought crossed her mind, perhaps it is a dream; she had had dreams as vivid, and had awakened with such a blessed feeling of relief.  But no! she clasped Lewie’s cold hand in hers, and felt assured it was all reality.  For a few moments she could only bury her face in her hands, and rock to and fro and groan.  She was aroused from this state of agonized feeling by Lewie, who said: 

“And now, what shall I do, Agnes?  I have come all this way on foot, and at night, to see you once more, and to ask you what I should do?  Oh that I had been more willing to follow your gentle guidance before, sweet sister!—­but I have followed nothing but the dictates of my own ungoverned passions.  Shall I try to escape, or shall I give myself up for trial?  On my word, Agnes, I am not a murderer by intention.  I was excited; something was said which tried my quick temper; I answered with a burst of sudden passion; more taunting words followed; and, quicker than the lightning’s flash, I had