He too had risen, and tried to take her hand.  She stepped back.  He pressed toward her.

“Grace; dear Grace!”

“Stop, Sir, stop!” said his companion, drawing herself up and waving him back; “I can not hear you talk so.  I am engaged.”

Abel turned pale.  Grace Plumer was frightened.  He sprang forward and seized her hand.

“Oh!  Grace, hear me but one word!  You knew that I loved you, and you allowed me to come.  In honor, in truth, before God, you are mine!”

She struggled to release her hand.  As she looked in his face she saw there an expression which assured her that he was capable of saying any thing, of doing any thing; and she trembled to think how much she might be—­how much any woman is—­in the power of a desperate man.

“Indeed, Mr. Newt, you must let me go!”

“Grace, Grace, say that you love me!”

The frightened girl broke away from him, and ran toward the door.  Abel followed her, but the door opened, and Sligo Moultrie entered.

“Oh, Sligo!” cried Grace, as he put his arm around her.

Abel stopped and bowed.

“Pardon me, Miss Plumer.  Certainly Mr. Moultrie will understand the ardor of a passion which in his case has been so fortunate.  I am sorry, Sir,” he said, turning to Sligo, “that my ignorance of your relation to Miss Plumer should have betrayed me.  I congratulate you both from my soul!”

He bowed again, and before they could speak he was gone.  The tone of his voice lingering upon their ears was like a hiss.  It was a most sinister felicitation.

CHAPTER LIV.

CLOUDS AND DARKNESS.

“At least, Miss Amy—­at least, we shall be friends.”

Amy Waring sat in her chamber on the evening of the day that Lawrence Newt had said these words.  Her long rich brown hair clustered upon her shoulders, and the womanly brown eyes were fixed upon a handful of withered flowers.  They were the blossoms she had laid away at various times—­gifts of Lawrence Newt, or consecrated by his touch.

She sat musing for a long time.  The womanly brown eyes were soft with a look of aching regret rather than of sharp disappointment.  Then she rose—­still holding the withered remains—­and paced thoughtfully up and down the room.  The night hours passed, and still she softly paced, or tranquilly seated herself, without the falling of a tear, and only now and then a long deep breath rather than a sigh.

At last she took all the flowers—­dry, yellow, lustreless—­and opened a sheet of white paper.  She laid them in it, and the brown womanly eyes looked at them with yearning fondness.  She sat motionless, as if she could not prevail upon herself to fold the paper.  But at length she sank gradually to her knees—­a sinless Magdalen; her brown hair fell about her bending face, and she said, although her lips did not move, “To each, in his degree, the cup is given.  Oh, Father! strengthen each to drain it and believe!”