“I know’s dat, old Boss,” returned Rachel, with a knowing wink.

After the collation, the party divided into different sections.  Some enjoyed the dance, others strolled through the pine-grove, whispering tales of love.  Anglers repaired to the deep pond in quest of trout, but more likely to find water-snakes and snapping turtles.  Far in the distance, on the right, moving like fairy gondolas through the cypress-covered lagoon, little barks skim the dark surface.  They move like spectres, carrying their fair freight, fanned by the gentle breeze pregnant with the magnolia’ sweet perfume.  The fair ones in those tiny barks are fishing; they move from tree to tree trailing their lines to tempt the finny tribe here, and there breaking the surface with their gambols.

Lorenzo, as we have before informed the reader, exhibited signs of melancholy during the day.  So evident were they that Franconia’s sympathies became enlisted in his behalf, and even carried so far, that Maxwell mistook her manner for indifference toward himself.  And, as if to confirm his apprehensions, no sooner had the collation ended than she took Lorenzo’s arm and retired to the remains of an old mill, a few rods above the landing.  It was a quiet, sequestered spot-just such an one as would inspire the emotions of a sensitive heart, recall the associations of childhood, and give life to our pent-up enthusiasm.  There they seated themselves, the one waiting for the other to speak.

“Tell me, Lorenzo,” said Franconia, laying her hand on his arm, and watching with nervous anxiety each change of his countenance, “why are you not joyous? you are gloomy to-day.  I speak as a sister-you are nervous, faltering with trouble-”

“Trouble!” he interrupted, raising his eyes, and accompanying an affected indifference with a sigh.  It is something he hesitates to disclose.  He has erred! his heart speaks, it is high-handed crime!  He looks upon her affectionately, a forced smile spreads itself over his face.  How forcibly it tells its tale.  “Speak out,” she continues, tremulously:  “I am a sister; a sister cannot betray a brother’s secrets.”  She removes her hand and lays it gently upon his shoulder.

Looking imploringly in her face for a few minutes, he replies as if it were an effort of great magnitude.  “Something you must not know-nor must the world!  Many things are buried in the secrets of time that would make great commotion if the world knew them.  It were well they passed unknown, for the world is like a great stream with a surface of busy life moving on its way above a troubled current, lashing and foaming beneath, but only breaking here and there as if to mark the smothered conflict.  And yet with me it is nothing, a moment of disappointment creeping into my contemplations, transplanting them with melancholy-”

“Something more!” interrupted Franconia, “something more; it is a step beyond melancholy, more than disappointment.  Uncle feels it sensibly-it pains him, it wears upon him.  I have seen it foremost in his thoughts.”  Her anxiety increases, her soft meaning eyes look upon him imploringly, she fondles him with a sister’s tenderness, the tears trickling down her cheeks as she beholds him downcast and in sorrow.  His reluctance to disclose the secret becomes more painful to her.