“—­to search through what sad maze,
    Thenceforth his incommunicable ways
    Follow the feet of death.”

CHAPTER II.

     “—­and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”  James i.
     15.

Blessed are they who have seen Nature in those rare, ineffable moments when she appears to be asleep—­when the stars, large and white, bend stilly over the dreaming earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf or flower.  On such a night James Lorimer sat upon his south verandah smoking; and his niece Lulu, white and motionless as the magnolia flowers above her, mused the hour away beside him.  There were little ebony squads of negroes huddled together around the doors of their quarters, but they also were singularly quiet.  An angel of silence had passed by no one was inclined to disturb the tranquil calm of the dreaming earth.

There is nothing good in this life which Time does not improve.  In ten days the better feelings which had led James Lorimer to seek his son in the path of moral and physical danger had grown as Divine seed does grow.  This very night, in the scented breathless quiet, he was longing for David’s return, and forming plans through which the future might atone for the past.  Gradually the weary negroes went into the cabins, rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound, dreamless sleep which is the compensation of hard labor.  Only Lulu watched and thought with him.

Suddenly she stood up and listened.  There was a footstep in the avenue, and she knew it.  But why did it linger, and what dreary echo of sorrow was there in it?

“That is David’s step, uncle; but what is the matter?  Is he sick?”

Then they both saw the young man coming slowly through the gloom, and the shadow of some calamity came steadily on before him.  Lulu went to the top of the long flight of white steps, and put out her hands to greet him.  He motioned her away with a woeful and positive gesture, and stood with hopeless yet half defiant attitude before his father.

In a moment all the new tenderness was gone.

In a voice stern and scornful he asked, “Well, sir, what is the matter?  What hae ye been doing now?”

“I have shot Whaley!”

The words were rather breathed than spoken, but they were distinctly audible.  The father rose and faced his wretched son.

Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a shocked whisper, “Dead?”

“Dead!”

“But you had a good reason, David; I know you had.  He would have shot you?—­it was in self-defence?—­it was an accident?  Speak, dear!”

“He called me a coward, and—­”

“You shot him!  Then you are a coward, sir!” said Lorimer, sternly; “and having made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a double coward to come here and force upon me the duty of arresting you.  Put down your rifle, sir!”