Neither the Hawkins children nor the world that knew them ever supposed that one of the girls was of alien blood and parentage:  Such difference as existed between Laura and Emily is not uncommon in a family.  The girls had grown up as sisters, and they were both too young at the time of the fearful accident on the Mississippi to know that it was that which had thrown their lives together.

And yet any one who had known the secret of Laura’s birth and had seen her during these passing years, say at the happy age of twelve or thirteen, would have fancied that he knew the reason why she was more winsome than her school companion.

Philosophers dispute whether it is the promise of what she will be in the careless school-girl, that makes her attractive, the undeveloped maidenhood, or the mere natural, careless sweetness of childhood.  If Laura at twelve was beginning to be a beauty, the thought of it had never entered her head.  No, indeed.  Her mind wad filled with more important thoughts.  To her simple school-girl dress she was beginning to add those mysterious little adornments of ribbon-knots and ear-rings, which were the subject of earnest consultations with her grown friends.

When she tripped down the street on a summer’s day with her dainty hands propped into the ribbon-broidered pockets of her apron, and elbows consequently more or less akimbo with her wide Leghorn hat flapping down and hiding her face one moment and blowing straight up against her fore head the next and making its revealment of fresh young beauty; with all her pretty girlish airs and graces in full play, and that sweet ignorance of care and that atmosphere of innocence and purity all about her that belong to her gracious time of life, indeed she was a vision to warm the coldest heart and bless and cheer the saddest.

Willful, generous, forgiving, imperious, affectionate, improvident, bewitching, in short—­was Laura at this period.  Could she have remained there, this history would not need to be written.  But Laura had grown to be almost a woman in these few years, to the end of which we have now come—­years which had seen Judge Hawkins pass through so many trials.

When the judge’s first bankruptcy came upon him, a homely human angel intruded upon him with an offer of $1,500 for the Tennessee Land.  Mrs. Hawkins said take it.  It was a grievous temptation, but the judge withstood it.  He said the land was for the children—­he could not rob them of their future millions for so paltry a sum.  When the second blight fell upon him, another angel appeared and offered $3,000 for the land.  He was in such deep distress that he allowed his wife to persuade him to let the papers be drawn; but when his children came into his presence in their poor apparel, he felt like a traitor and refused to sign.

But now he was down again, and deeper in the mire than ever.  He paced the floor all day, he scarcely slept at night.  He blushed even to acknowledge it to himself, but treason was in his mind—­he was meditating, at last, the sale of the land.  Mrs. Hawkins stepped into the room.  He had not spoken a word, but he felt as guilty as if she had caught him in some shameful act.  She said: