Maria grasps the old man’s hand.  He starts and wakes, as if unconscious of his situation, then fixes his eyes upon her with a steady, vacant gaze.  Then, with childlike fervor, he presses her hand to his lips, and kisses it.  “It was a pleasant dream—­ah! yes, I was dreaming all things went so well!” Again a change comes over his countenance, and he glances round the room, with a wild and confused look.  “Am I yet in prison?-well, it was only a dream.  If death were like dreaming, I would crave it to take me to its peace, that my mind might no longer be harassed with the troubles of this life.  Ah! there, there!”—­(the old man starts suddenly, as if a thought has flashed upon him)—­” there is the letter, and from poor Tom, too!  I only broke the envelope.  I have not opened it.”

“It is safe, father; I have it,” resumes Maria, holding it before him, unopened, as the words tremble upon her lips.  One moment she fears it may convey bad news, and in the next she is overjoyed with the hope that it brings tidings of the safety and return of him for whose welfare she breathed many a prayer.  Pale and agitated, she hesitates a moment, then proceeds to open it.

“Father, father! heaven has shielded me-heaven has shielded me!  Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, yes!  He is safe! he is safe!” And she breaks out into one wild exclamation of joy, presses the letter to her lips, and kisses it, and moistens it with her tears.  “It was all a plot-a dark plot set for my ruin!” she mutters, and sinks back, overcome with her emotions.  The old man fondles her to his bosom, his white beard flowing over her suffused cheeks, and his tears mingling with hers.  And here she remains, until the anguish of her joy runs out, and her mind resumes its wonted calm.

Having broken the spell, she reads the letter to the enraptured old man.  Tom has arrived in New York; explains the cause of his long absence; speaks of several letters he has transmitted by post, (which she never received;) and his readiness to proceed to Charleston, by steamer, in a few days.  His letter is warm with love and constancy; he recurs to old associations; he recounts his remembrance of the many kindnesses he received at the hands of her father, when homeless; of the care, to which he owes his reform, bestowed upon him by herself, and his burning anxiety to clasp her to his bosom.

A second thought flashes upon her fevered brain.  Am I not the subject of slander!  Am I not contaminated by associations?  Has not society sought to clothe me with shame?  Truth bends before falsehood, and virtue withers under the rust of slandering tongues.  Again a storm rises up before her, and she feels the poisoned arrow piercing deep into her heart.  Am I not living under the very roof that will confirm the slanders of mine enemies? she asks herself.  And the answer rings back in confirmation upon her too sensitive ears, and fastens itself in her feelings like a reptile with deadly fangs.  No; she is