CHAPTER I.

       IT was past sunset, and the dusk was beginning to creep over the brown hills of Southern Virginia. My steed, which had been making good progress since the early dawn, began to fag and grow restless; and I, too, in spite of the strange mission that had heretofore filled my thoughts, almost imprecated the fate which had sent me wandering in this bleak region. In vain, with straining eyes, I scanned the Western horizon. I knew I must be near my destination, and yet I saw no glimpse of the gabled house which had been pointed out to me as my mysterious goal. Only bare hills stretched away, out of sight.

       "I believe the ghost has cheated me," I muttered, impatiently, drawing up my horse, and once more scanning the landscape. "Let me see again what these words mean," and I drew from my pocket-book a note written in a cramped and ancient hand.

       "Arthur Dunallen," thus it read, "seven years ago, come Christmas Eve, your kinsman, your father's elder brother, fell by the hand of Rupert Ware. To-night you are of age, and his blood calls to you from the ground. Seek, among the most western summits of the Alleghanies in —– county, for a large gabled house, of grey stone, half in ruins. You will know it, for it bears the name of Ware Grange. There you shall see and speak with

DUNALLEN'S WRAITH."       

       This singular communication, as startling as it was quaint, had been deposited on my dressing-table, three days previous, by an unseen hand. No one had seen the messenger come or go; no one had heard a footstep, but when I rose from my couch on the morning of my birthday, the note, smoothly folded and legibly directed, was the first thing upon which my eyes fell.

       Though scarcely more than a child at the time of my kinsman's disappearance, the circumstances were still fresh in my memory. He was a wealthy landholder, of Scotch descent, owning large estates in the richest section of Virginia. Report said that in his youth he had been a wild rover — that he had done deep wrongs —– but of this I know little. I remembered him as a grave, middle-aged man, of thoughtful, even melancholy countenance. He suddenly disposed of all his estates, and, having converted his wealth into money, went into the mountains to visit an old friend, previous to embarking on a long European tour. He never reached that friend's house. I remember well the bewildered anxiety, followed by dread and despair, with which my father waited for news of him, but there came neither tidings nor return. A long and faithful search was equally fruitless, and at last he was given up for lost. His wealth had disappeared with him, all except a valuable diamond, a token of some early passion, which he had left in his brother's care. Two years later my father died, leaving me the last of the Dunallens, and the diamond was my sole inheritance.

       My early lessons of self-dependence had imbued me with a courageous and adventurous disposition. It was, therefore, without hesitation, though with extreme wonder and some unpleasant forebodings, that I accepted this mission. I was not superstitious; I had no faith in the ghostly mien of the epistle, but there was a mystery in it which puzzled me, and which I was impatient to solve. I resolved to devote the Christmas holidays to this enterprise, and answer in person the strange summons. Whatever was my uncle's fate, I felt sure it would now be made clear to me, and, abandoning my studies, I set out on horseback for the mountains.

       "Cheer up, my good Selim!" I cried, stroking the neck of my steed, when again I had folded the note and concealed it in my portmanteau. "Cheer up! or the night will overtake us in this dismal region, and I, too, may share the fate of the elder Dunallen."

       I put spurs to my horse, and soon we had left another weary mile behind; but now, crowning a distant hill, I saw, by the last rays of daylight, a large stone house in the vicinity of a rude little hamlet. At the same moment I overtook a countrywoman, with a basket of wares, resting by the roadside, and I paused to question her.

       "What do you call yonder house, friend?" I asked, pointing to the gray roof in the distance.

       The woman gazed at me curiously before she answered, and I perceived a restless, uncertain glitter in her large black eyes.

       "It was Ware Grange," was her reply — "and years ago we had right merry Christmas feasts there, but for seven years it has had no master and the gate has been shut to strangers."

       A thrill shot through me as I listened to these words. It was the same name which my unseen guide had told, and for the same length of time it had been desolate. All my previous doubts vanished. I knew now that a revelation was to be made to me, and I was eager to stand face to face with the mystery.

       "There is a decent inn at the village," added my informer, thinking that my silence proceeded from disappointment at not being accommodated at the Grange. "We call it the Red Thistle, and it's kept by honest Sandy Fitzroy."

       I threw her a piece of silver for her information, and would have ridden away, but, springing from the ground, she suddenly caught my hand and held it fiercely, while an expression of intense emotion was visible on her face.

       "The diamond! the diamond!" she cried, her eyes flashing with passionate excitement. "Let me see it! Let me see it! Hold it near to me!"

       Wondering not a little at this strange manifestation, I held the hand on which the ring was placed, toward her. Her breath came quick — she touched it with her fingers.

       "I had one once," she said, speaking slowly and with strong agitation, "and while I kept it, I was happy. But I let it leave me, and with it I lost my peace, my heart, my soul. All lost — lost!"

       She dropped my hand as abruptly as she had taken it, and sinking down by the roadside she burst into tears. Pitying the poor lunatic, for such I felt she must be, I would have stayed longer and attempted to soothe her wild grief, but she saw my intention, and catching up her basket, hurried out of sight. I rode thoughtfully on toward the Grange.

       I found the inn with no difficulty, a low eaved building with a red thistle painted over the doorway, and having seen to the accommodation of Selim, I entered and sat down by the fire which blazed in the great open chimney. A group of farmers were lounging about the room, and a red cheeked lassie was weaving Christmas wreaths to decorate the dingy little windows. Honest Sandy, in great commotion at having a strange gentleman in his house, flurried about and urged his hospitalities upon me. I was in too much agitation of mind to feel the least craving for food, though I had ridden so far; but I swallowed a glass of wine and threw myself on a long settle to rest, before proceeding to the Grange and to my promised meeting with the Wraith.

       For a while so absorbed was I, and lost in vague surmises, that I paid no heed to the buzz of conversation which the countrymen kept up. But by-and-by, a few words startled my ear, and arrested my attention. I listened.

       "There never was a kinder man. Was a poor body in distress, he was glad and ready to give him a lift. But he had a curious look with his eyes. I could not be easy when he looked at me."

       "No one knew that he ever had an enemy," chimed in my host. "I believe he went suddenly mad and drowned himself."

       "He died no natural death," said the first speaker. "Who ever heard of one dying in his bed and then haunting his house ever after?"

       "There is a ghost, then!" I cried, growing excited as the conversation proceeded. The peasants, eyeing me curiously, responded,

       "Yes, sir. Many a man of us has crossed the hill at midnight and seen the spectre marching up and down the garden walk."

       "Describe him, I pray of you."

       "A tall, gaunt man in sheeted white," said Sandy, while a shiver crept over the whole company. "He walks in long strides up and down the garden. Did you ever hear of him, stranger?"

       I did not want any of these people to know my errand, so I shook my head, and leaving the room, stood a moment in the open door. The stars blinked brightly overhead. It was a clear night and I was not afraid nor superstitious.

       "Why not go at once and solve this doubt?" I asked myself. "Delay will but torment and harass my already excited mind. The ghost sent for me and desires to see me. I am come at his bidding; and the sooner we meet, the better."

       No sooner thought than done. With swift steps I crossed the fields that lay between the inn and the Grange. I thought of my lost kinsman and remembered his kindness to me in my childhood. It had been told me that I was to be his heir. What if some rich inheritance was even now to be bestowed on me!

       The stones of the old court-yard gave a melancholy and lonesome ring as I crossed them, and the solitary fir tree by the gate swung its boughs to mournful music. It seemed a sad, weird place, a fit haunt for unquiet spirits.

       All these outward tokens only increased my anxiety to go onward. I gave a loud knock at the door. Some moments elapsed, and then it creaked on its hinges, and a withered old man, holding a lamp above his head, peered out upon me.

       I expected to have some difficulty in effecting an entrance, but the old servant, scanning my appearance, merely said,

       "Are you Mr. Dunallen?"

       I was expected then, in this strange place! Replying wonderingly in the affirmative, the door was swung open and I was led across a wide hall to a door in the farther end. This too was opened. I looked in, as the servant drew back, and for a moment paused in dumb astonishment.

---

CHAPTER II.

       THE room was richly, even gorgeously furnished. Curtains of crimson fell in heavy folds over the windows, pictures in massive frames adorned the walls, lounges and couches of velvet were placed here and there, inviting to luxurious ease.

       A large astral lamp burned on a centre-table, and in its light stood a beautiful girl of seventeen or eighteen, richly attired and waiting to receive me.

       "Mr. Dunallen?" she inquired, hesitating a moment as I approached her.

       I bowed in silence — it seemed to me I was in an enchanted palace.

       "I am Geneva Ware," she said, simply, and showed me a seat. "Reuben," she added, addressing the servant who stood without, "bring refreshments for Mr. Dunallen; he has traveled a long distance and must be weary."

       "I wish for nothing," I exclaimed — "indeed I will taste nothing. I stopped a half hour at the inn."

       Her large gray eyes rested inquiringly on me a moment. "At the inn!" she repeated slowly. "You should have come directly here. Reuben, send immediately for this gentleman's horse and baggage."

       I would have prevented him, but her quiet, authoritative manner checked me.

       "Since she will have it so, I will stay," I said to myself, "and if this is the ghost, it is well worth journeying to see."

       As the servant retired she turned toward me again.

       "Do not ask me how I knew that you were coming here," she said, while her eyes fell under my gaze. "You are to stay with us a few days until a certain object of importance is accomplished. In the meanwhile —–"

       "I will respect the mystery of your house," I interrupted. "Do not fear that I shall trouble you with idle questions. I acknowledge that I do not understand the object of my journey hither, nor the strange rumors that I have heard. Yet I came by request and will remain cheerfully."

       She thanked me, more by the expressive glance of her eyes, than by the movement of her lips, and taking some unfinished embroidery, she sat down near the fire. The fire-light, steady and bright, fell on her figure; and I looked at her, with a certain admiration, mingled with awe. Her features were softly moulded, bands of brown hair were folded over a Grecian forehead, her lips were mildly beautiful, and it was only when she lifted her eyes, that I became conscious of a quiet strength and dignity of mien, unusual in one so young. There was nothing of the coyness of girlhood about her, neither was there too much assurance, but a maturity of face and bearing, which betokened a life of thought, perhaps of trial.

       A few moments she sewed rapidly on her embroidery, but gradually she allowed her work to cease, and a troubled expression came over her face.

       "You spoke of rumors," she said, suddenly lifting her eyes. "It cannot be that tales of our unfortunate house have reached the great city, the world in which you live."

       "No," I replied; "until three days since I was not aware of the existence of such a family; nor had I ever heard the name of Rupert Ware; nor do I yet know who he is, or how connected with yourself."

       "He was my father," she said.

       "Was?" I repeated. "Then he is not now living?"

       She hesitated a moment, and looked pained.

       "When I was a child," she said, "there was not a happier house for leagues about than this. My father and I lived together, and were sufficient society for each other; for my mother had died before my recollection — yet, even in the midst of his lavish kindness and affection, I perceived, as I grew older, that he bore a secret trouble. It grew upon him until it took possession of all his faculties. Suddenly he disappeared. I do not say he died. No one knew of his death, but he vanished from human knowledge. It is all like a terrible dream to me."

       "This is a singular story," I said, when she concluded, "and it renews in my memory the stories that the villagers told in yonder inn. Was it all their fancy that the unquiet master of the Grange still walks in his accustomed haunts?"

       Her eyes, which were bent upon me when I commenced my question, evaded my eyes as I concluded.

       "That I cannot answer you," she said. "If it is so, you will surely behold him. But this is a dark theme, and suggests thoughts too melancholy."

       Reaching forward, she took a guitar from its nook in the corner.

       "Perhaps you are no lover of music," she said; "or it may be you have sisters who sing far better than I."

       "I am, like yourself, alone," said I — "the last of my family; and," I added, "I passionately love music."

       Her fingers wandered carelessly over the strings, and she seemed seeking in her mind for a theme of song. Her face was pale, but her eyes shone with a deep, intense light. As I sat there, in that strange dwelling, beholding her so beautiful, yet so mysterious, she seemed to me a sibyl, and not a mere mortal maiden. While I still watched her, half bewildered by my fancies, her fingers swept the strings to more regular measure. Notwithstanding she had desired to change the gloomy theme, the shadow was not yet lifted from her mind. In a clear, but peculiarly mournful voice, she improvised these verses:

"Haunted house, or haunted heart! Which conceals the deeper smart? Here are chill and joyless rooms, Flitting shadowy, hovering glooms, Many a fearful voice and face; Oh! thou dread and dreary place, Haunted house, I fly from thee. Yet the world could ne'er impart Peace to me, whose haunted heart Whispered of a promise spoken, Of a trust which had been broken. No new faith could give me cheer, No new promise could be dear; Haunted house, I cling to thee."

       As she finished singing she laid aside her guitar, and, rising, lighted a candle, which she gave to me without speaking. Her lips quivered with suppressed emotion, and her face wore an aspect of patience, long wearied, yet still unbroken. She had seemed a sibyl before; she seemed a martyr now. A martyr to some fierce duty which imprisoned her in this enchanted house, away from the bright world for which her beauty was made.

       I took the light, and, with a sober good night, followed the servant, who now appeared, to my sleeping-room. When he had left me, I threw myself on a seat, heedless of all about me. The song rung in my ears, so wildly mournful and foreboding.

       But presently, by an effort, I shook off the spell, and looked about me. The room was an old-fashioned bed-room, on the ground floor, furnished with a high, curtained bed, an ancient bureau, and high-backed chairs. A fire crackled in the fire-place, and relieved the otherwise gloomy chamber. Thoroughly wearied, I quickly threw aside my clothing, and lay down to rest.

       I knew not how long I slept, but suddenly, out of a deep sleep, I awoke, perfectly conscious, and, rising in bed, looked about me. The fire had long since gone out on the hearth, and the moon, unclouded, shone through the curtainless window. I felt a sense of oppression, of unaccountable restlessness; it seemed to me utterly impossible to sleep longer in that room. Chilly as the December night was, I longed for a breath of its bracing air, and I dressed myself slowly, standing by the hearth. The words "Haunted house, I fly from thee," kept returning and seemed dwelling on my fancy; and I know not to what state of morbid uneasiness my mind would have progressed, had not a sudden sound, a real excitement, at once dispelled my vapors, and roused me to the full possession of every faculty.

       The sound was a footstep, slow, distinct, regular, like the precise and even tread of a night sentinel. By this time I was fully dressed, and I stepped quickly to the window.

       Good heaven! was that the spirit, the unquiet spectre of the Grange?

       A tall figure, not in "sheeted white," as the frightened villagers had told, but enveloped from head to foot in a cloak of sombre gray, was walking slowly to and fro, not a dozen rods from my window. For some moments I stood perfectly motionless, while the blood ran chill in my veins, until I was convinced that I was not deceived, that something, whether flesh or spirit, was really walking before my eyes; and then, remembering my mysterious summons, I threw up the sash lightly, and leaped to the ground.

       As I sprang, the spectre paused and stood perfectly silent, with its face toward me. It was so far off, however, and the moonlight was so indistinct, that I could not see the features, only a pale countenance, dim and shadowy. I started toward it, but; at my approach, the figure lifted one arm and waved me back. At the same time the hand, extended, let fall a slip of white paper, which fell fluttering to the ground, and, still keeping its face toward me, still waving me back, the spectre receded, until it was lost in the thick shadows of the grove.

       For a moment I hesitated whether I should not track the ghost to his hiding-place, but I forbore, and satisfied myself with approaching the spot where he had stood, and seeking for the paper. I found it without trouble, a narrow slip of letter paper, clinging to the frosty ground. With this grasped closely in my hand, I returned, easily re-entered my window, shut it down, and, by the aid of a solitary coal which still gleamed among the ashes, I relit the wax candle which had lighted me to bed.

       The paper contained these words, written in the same hand, the same style as my former note.

       "Seven years ago, come Christmas Eve, Hugh Dunallen perished, but the hand that slew him forbore to touch his wealth. Vengeance, not avarice, aimed the sure blow. For you, his guiltless heir, it has been safely stored.

       "On Christmas Eve, at your peril sooner, follow the river path until you reach three oaks, growing together, near a sudden bend of the stream. There seek and find your inheritance."

       I slept no more that night, but paced the room in a tumult of doubts. Was there indeed a murderer concealed within these precincts? and was it for me to seek and to prove the dark crime? Geneva's face, so pure and perfect in its sad loveliness, came before me, and I shrank from the thought of being an avenger, when she, the innocent, must suffer with the evil doer. I resolved to be silent, and to wait until the appointed hour, before concluding my plan of action.

---

CHAPTER III.

       THE sun rose as brightly, and smiled as serenely, the following morning, into the windows of Ware Grange, as if no dark gloom had ever overshadowed it, no secret horror clung about its walls. Not yet recovered from the bewildering vision of the night, I felt eager to see Geneva's face again, to learn if she were indeed more than another and fairer spectre of this house of shadows.

       I descended to the room in which she had received me the previous evening, but she was not there. Her guitar, however, was in the spot where she had left it, her sewing lay on the centre-table, and various little tokens of her handiwork gave an added charm to the costly apartment.

       In a few moments she appeared and cordially bade me good morning; but, while speaking with me, I perceived that her keen eyes were reading my countenance with a secret anxiety. I endeavored, by the cheerfulness of my manner, to conceal any traces there might be of my night's broken slumbers. Apparently I succeeded; for she resumed the quiet and easy manner which seemed habitual to her, and, after a few moments of light conversation, she led me to the breakfast-table.

       She had looked beautiful and sibyl-like on the previous evening; but this morning, as she presided at the table, she wore a sweet and womanly aspect, even more alluring. She was attired as gracefully as, though more simply than, the night before; and her face, in place of that pallor which alone had marred its beauty, wore a delicate blush that seemed called forth by the novelty of her position as hostess.

       While we were lingering at the table, a sudden, confused murmur arose, outside of the apartment, and, in a moment, the door was flung open, and the woman whom I had met on the roadside entered, with her basket of wares hung about her waist. Geneva turned her head as the door opened, but when the wistful face of the stranger met her gaze, she grew instantly pale, and, rising, looked with mingled sternness and terror on the intruder.

       The woman's countenance was even more pale and haggard than when I had seen her first, and her fierce, passionate eyes wandered restlessly about, as if seeking something they never could find. She had torn some red berries from the wintry boughs on her way, and had woven for her head a fanciful wreath. As she met Geneva's eye, she smiled vacantly, and pointed to the garland.

       "It is almost Christmas time," she said, "and I am beginning to gather my holly and cedar. You know we shall want to deck all these windows with wreaths, and light candles in every room. You may festoon your gay parlor just as you please; but I am come to deck the north chamber — the gloomy north chamber."

       Geneva, pale and trembling, could not speak, but motioned with her hand for her to go away. It was very evident that the woman was insane, but this excess of terror, in one so self-reliant as Geneva, startled me.

       "My good woman," said I, rising and approaching her, "I think Miss Ware does not care to purchase of you this morning; you will be more likely to succeed at the village."

       Her eyes lighted up wildly while I spoke, and throwing aside her basket, she caught my hand. I did not like her grasp, and withdrew it quickly.

       "Oh! it is you I am seeking!" she cried. "You have got the diamond the precious diamond. Give me that and I will go; I will never trouble you again."

       "Send her away," said Geneva; "she has been here before, and I dread her."

       "No, no. Do not send me!" cried the lunatic. "I did not come for your sake, proud girl; I do not know you; it is him I seek."

       "Give it to me! It is my own," she said, imploringly, and, with an expression of keen pain upon her face. "It is my diamond. Should I not know it anywhere? and to think it should come to me here! It is my own; my heart would not ache so, if it were not my own."

       I did not know what to say. Her distress moved me, and at the same time Geneva's look of terror made me again approach her and endeavor to persuade her away. She paid no attention whatever to my words, but with her eyes bent on the ring she went on half in soliloquy.

       "I was so glad, so happy, when he gave it to me first; he told me then it had a charm, and I did not know what he meant. But when I lost it, then I knew, for all my joy went from me — a demon came to me. But I will take it again and go to him. I will hold it to my lips before his eyes and he will forgive me, and my heart will never ache again, and my brain will never burn. I shall rest — I shall rest."

       "I cannot wait," she added, in a sharp, angry tone. "Why do you stand there wondering at me? Give me my ring or I will snatch it from your hand."

       I repelled her touch and bade her to be silent.

       "Let us have no more of this folly," I said. "Go quietly away, or I shall be forced to send you."

       Her face changed almost instantly, and she looked so perfectly sane, so grieved at my harshness, that I drew back involuntarily.

       "Do not send me away," she repeated. "Do you not know me? I am Margaret — Margaret," dwelling softly on the name as if it pleased her ear. "He gave me the ring, up in the north chamber, and I, poor, false Margaret, I gave it to you."

       "Miss Ware," said I, "it is useless to attempt to reason with this poor woman, for my unlucky diamond has quite bewildered what little sense she had before. Let me lead you to another room, for this excitement is making you ill; and then I will return and show this stranger the path to the village."

       Geneva, still agitated, moved to obey my request, but the same instant, the woman, who had watched us keenly, took up her basket and left the room. Geneva hastened to the window, and in a few moments saw her gliding away, down the field path. Relieved of her anxiety, she turned toward me smiling.

       "You must be surprised to see me so moved at the sight of a harmless unfortunate," she said, "but I have a peculiar dread of her. By fair means or foul she has obtained a knowledge of our family secrets, which I fear she will use to the ruin of this poor house. Now and then she wanders this way, and I am in constant anxiety until she leaves the neighborhood."

       "Something more than simple misfortune has rendered her what she is," I replied. "She meant more than we knew when she called herself false Margaret. But I cannot account for her eagerness to possess this ring."

       "The diamond has had a peculiar charm in all eyes," said she, thoughtfully. "Have you not read stories of its supernatural powers? Perhaps the sight of it recalls some superstition of her youth."

       We returned to the drawing-room as she spoke, and while Geneva seated herself with her needle-work, I took a book which lay open on the table and read to her. No allusion was made to the incident of the past night, but casting from us all sad and foreboding thoughts, with books, with music, and with conversation the day passed away. That golden day in my memory! It was the sunrise of love — the dawn of a new existence. I forgot the dark mysteries which hung about my companion. I saw only her entrancing beauty, heard only from her lips the echoes of a heart warm, generous and true, a mind noble and exalted. A thrilling ambition took possession of me. I would, when this fateful Christmas was over, go away and plunging into the labor of life, win fame and glory, and then, when success had crowned me, I would return and win her. How could I ever dream away another hour of life! All my past years looked empty and worthless. How little had satisfied my ambition; how little had filled my heart! Fired by this new passion, all life looked larger and nobler to me, and my pulses already throbbed with the sense of strength and of victory.

       But the day, bright and enchanting as it was, must have an end. It was already late when I took my lighted candle to retire, yet even then I lingered.

       "Give me one more song," I said, "one of more cheerful mood than that of last evening. It rang in my ears all night and gave me strange dreams."

       A warm blush overspread her face, but she took the instrument and preluded a few moments in silence. Then she sung, but sweet as her accents were, their undertone of sadness was still the same.

"Joyful morn or peaceful eve, One alone the fates decree, Each must have a time to grieve, And a joy for each must be. Blessed he whose early tears Sanctify more blissful years. Youth's sweet flowers may all too soon Wear the impress of decay And the glory of the noon Die in wrathful clouds away. Morning hours are swiftly past, Give me only peace at last!"

       "And now good night," said she, with a smile, "and may no evil vision disturb your rest."

       I did not sleep at once and so deeply as on the previous night, for now that I was alone and away from the fascination of Geneva's presence, my mind was more disturbed by thoughts of what had occurred within the last two days. I half expected to be roused again at dead of night to meet the apparition of the gray cloak. With this expectation, I watched rather than slept, yet so far was I overcome by the unusual excitement, that I lost my consciousness now and then, but was awakened every hour by the regular striking of the great clock in the hall. At midnight I rose and looked out of the window, but all was still, and the placid moonlight rested on the desolate ground. Concluding that the spectre had finally vanished, I returned to my couch and fell into a profound slumber.

       I dreamed that it was Christmas Eve, and I was alone, seeking for my treasure, beneath the three tall oaks by the river side. I had cut deeply into the brown turf, and my spade was beginning to strike against something which gave a metallic ring, when a rustle in the bushes caught my ear and almost before I could turn toward it, a serpent sprung from the thicket and stung me on the hand.

       With an exclamation of pain I awoke, but was it all a dream? My hand still smarted with the recent pain; I sat up on the bedside and looked about me. The window was wide open, and a piercing wind blew in, scattering my clothing from the chair on which I had thrown it. Again the smarting of my finger drew my attention to it, but — mystery upon mystery — a drop of blood covered a little scratch upon my joint, and the ring, the diamond was gone!

---

CHAPTER IV.

       EARLY as it was when I sought the drawing-room the following morning, Geneva was there before me, gayly decorating the walls and windows with Christmas garlands. In a few words I told her of the night's disaster. She looked pale and terrified, while her wreaths dropped, unnoticed, to the floor. Deep as was my chagrin at the loss of my diamond, the sight of her sympathy warmed my whole heart with a delicious joy.

       "It is — it must be Margaret," she said. "No one else could have dreamed of such an act. There is not a servant in the house whom you might not trust with all your possessions."

       "I do not doubt that it is the crazy woman," I returned, "but now is it possible for me to find her? Where are her haunts?"

       "I do not know; but the whole neighborhood shall be searched at once. Reuben shall go in one direction —–"

       "And I in another. I would not willingly lose so valuable a gem, especially when it is all that remains of my family's wealth. I must seek for it thoroughly."

       "And I — what can I do?" she said, eagerly. "Can I be of no service?"

       I assured her that she could not, and, with as little delay as possible, the two servants and myself hurried away. It was a rough region among these hills, but the old servants were familiar with every covert and glen for miles. With the aid of our horses we searched every recess of the forest, and every nook of the hills, where it was possible that such a wild wanderer would attempt to hide herself. Hour after hour went by, and my anxiety began to merge itself in wonder. We inquired at every dwelling, both in the little village and along the unfrequented roads, but no one had seen her, and at nightfall, weary and disappointed, we turned homeward. The diamond, I felt assured, was irrevocably lost.

       My spirits sank as I approached the house. What was it but a haunt of insane spirits, where only one sweet human heart throbbed in loneliness and sorrow!

       Geneva did not come to welcome me as I returned, but looking troubled and harassed, she talked earnestly apart with the elder servant. He, too, seemed startled, and, almost without heeding me, they disappeared, hurrying into the house. "What new witchcraft is being wrought out?" I asked myself, easily vexed in my state of weariness and disappointment.

       In half an hour I was called to the supper-table, but Geneva was not there, and the meal was lonely and tasteless. But remembering the tour which still lay before me, for it was Christmas Eve, I endeavored to swallow something to sustain my well tried strength. Strange and unaccountable as the whole plan seemed to me, I was resolved to obey all the directions of the note, and to see if indeed Hugh Dunallen's treasure was buried in the earth, where he had fallen. If I should find such to be the case, then all doubts of his death by foul means would cease; a real meaning would, by necessity, be attached to the ghostly confession, and vague suspicions would give way to the stern and active search of justice.

       I had already, tired of waiting for Geneva's reappearance, supplied myself with a lantern, and started to leave the house for my walk to the river, when, as I stood in the door, her dress rustled on the staircase.

       "Do not go!" she said, speaking tremulously and with difficulty. "It is too late for our purpose to be thus fulfilled. Come with me."

       I obeyed, laying aside quickly my night lantern, and my out-door gear. She reascended the staircase, and I wonderingly followed her. She led the way to a chamber on the north end of the house, somewhat removed from the other apartments by a long passage which seemed to separate it from the main building. At the door she paused, and looked pleadingly at me.

       "Whatever you see," she said, "remember that the wrongs of others brought about this ruin, and forgive — for my sake."

       I raised her hand to my lips in silence, for her imploring words went to my heart. She opened the door, and I followed her into the chamber.

       A bare floor, a hard field bed, scanty furniture, and darkened windows, in strange contrast to the luxuriousness of the lower apartments, met my gaze, and on the bed, with the large, gray cloak thrown carelessly over him, lay a man, whose pallid cheek and glassy eye betokened that death was at hand. He was not an aged man, but some dark and terrible sorrow had made his hair gray. I knew him at a glance as the spectre of the garden.

       Geneva went toward him and sat down on the couch by his side. "He is come, father," she whispered, and then her white fingers strayed among his gray locks, and her eyes rested wistfully on his changing countenance.

       Rupert Ware, it could be no other, fixed his hollow, gray eyes on me, and beckoned me to a seat at his side. I obeyed, and then with a long, searching gaze he scanned my face.

       "Thank God!" he uttered, at last, "there is no look of your kinsman in your face. You are yet unscathed by crime — but he —–

       "Let me tell you my story, for you are his nephew, and have a right to know the cause of our deadly enmity," he said, directly.

       I expressed my anxiety to know all, to have this mystery cleared up, yet warned him not to exert his strength beyond its limits.

       "This Grange, now so neglected," he said, "was once a noble country seat, handed down from father to son, ever since the first Rupert Ware, a solitary, misanthropic man, chose this mountain glen for his homestead. Here, in my youth, I brought my bride, and one more fair never gladdened a bridegroom's heart. I did not shut her up in this lonesome retreat, for having wealth and leisure we traveled from city to city, yearly, sharing in all the gayeties of the world. She was everywhere courted and flattered by the proudest in the land, and I was not afraid. I did not dream of danger. Geneva!"

       "Father!"

       "Give me wine; I must have strength."

       He drank one or two draughts from the cup which she presented, and then with a firmer voice proceeded.

       "At a Northern city, on the summer after Geneva was born, we met Dunallen. He was a man of the world, a professed admirer of beauty, and he paid unlimited homage to my wife. I began to see a change in her; she was weary of my society and went more than ever into gay assemblies. Inwardly chiding myself for my suspicion, I yet deemed it wise to return. But I was too late; her heart was already poisoned. We were followed on our journey by Dunallen, but, bold as he was, he dared not come to my house. She seemed happy again, and I thought her safe, but he, serpent like, was lurking in the neighborhood and watching for her whenever she went abroad. At last, one night, I came home to a hearth desolate and disgraced; she had fled with her betrayer."

       Again he tasted the wine, but his face was ghastly, his utterance impeded.

       "I did not follow them, but I clasped my child to my arms and vowed that sooner or later he should atone to me. I would not seek him then, in the first exultation of his success — my vengeance could wait — wait until he was weary of his ill got treasure — until, perhaps, he regretted and repented his evil folly — until death by my hand would seem most bitter, most terrible.

       "Years passed, and I lived only for my child. My heart grew to her as the one thing left of my happiness; and well has she repaid me.

       "But I knew the hour would come, and seven years ago this night, it was at hand.

       "Long since he had cast off his miserable victim, and she had gone, I knew not whither, to hide her woe and remorse. He too had changed and had settled into a grave and sober man — it made my revenge the sweeter.

       "Deeming from my long silence that I had forgotten or forgiven my wrongs, he had the boldness to come again on a tour of some kind, among these hills. I watched for him. As he passed by my gates at nightfall, journeying on horseback, I rode out and took my place at his side. There was no salutation, no need of any words between us, but his face blanched. His steel was as sharp as mine, and we fought hand to hand, but the God of vengeance was on my side and he fell, and where he fell I buried him.

       "Nothing now remained but for me to change to gold all the wealth which he carried with him, and to bury that also out of sight, and then I vowed to look no more on human faces. I told my child the fearful tale, and bade her be faithful to me; and then I buried myself and my ruin in this gloomy chamber, never breathing the outer air except in the dead solitude of night. I had yet one interest on earth beside that of my child; I had no desire to rob Dunallen's heir of his just inheritance. For the purpose of restoring your own to you, I ascertained, by means of my faithful Reuben, the time when you would be of age, and on that day I sent my summons to you. It was my plan to fly hence with Geneva, while you were searching in the forest. But it was not so to be. The fearful malady which has consumed my vitals for years past, has been aggravated by the excitement of your coming, and my hours are numbered.

       "Geneva has kept my secret — she has been true to me. In one thing only I deceived her — I told her that her mother was dead."

       Here Geneva started, and looked with wild amazement in her father's face.

       "Not dead!" she uttered. "My mother living?"

       "She lives — less wretched than I, for fate has been merciful, and darkened her memory of the past. Margaret! Margaret!"

       As he spoke this name in a changed and hollow voice, he raised himself on his elbow, and looked wildly toward the door. Our eyes followed his startled gaze, and I sprung to my feet as I beheld the crazy Margaret.

       "Woman, this is the chamber of death!" I cried. "Why are you here?"

       She looked toward me, and smiled, and I perceived that her eyes no longer shone with the wild light of insanity; they were mild and tearful. She glided toward the bed, and, sinking down at the sick man's side, she held up to his eyes the diamond ring.

       "Rupert," she whispered, "I have found it again — the diamond you gave me on my wedding day. I gave it to him who broke my heart, but God has sent it back to me. Put it upon my finger once more and I shall be forgiven."

       His eyes grew fixed and glassy; at the sight of his countenance her anguish became intense.

       "Forgive — forgive me!" she cried. "One word, Rupert, before you die."

       He reached out his hand, and, taking the ring from her, looked long and sorrowfully in her face, and put it upon her finger.

       "Geneva," he said, "forgive your mother!"

       The next instant, and before Geneva could reply, his eyes closed — he was dead.

       Geneva flung herself upon her father's breast, and gave way to her long restrained tears; but Margaret Ware rose and turned to me.

       "May I keep it?" she said. "It was Rupert's gift, and to see it, to hold it even now, has scattered the darkness from my brain. Tell me I may keep it, and I will go in peace."

       I should have deemed it sacrilege to take it from her now, and so I told her. She thanked me, and, turning to the bed, pressed a kiss on Geneva's tearful face. Geneva returned the caress, but again shrinking from her, she hid her face on the cold bosom of her dead father. I approached the orphaned girl, and taking her hand tried to lead her away. I called her by tender names, I told her she was not alone, that I was with her, I would be true to her forever.

       When at length, soothed and calmed, I led her out of the chamber, her mother was not to be found. She had gone as silently as she had come, and we never saw her more.

       I stayed a month longer at the Grange, and as Geneva's betrothed, settled all the neglected affairs of the estate. In the meantime I found the treasure in the exact spot to which I had been directed, and took possession of it, as the rightful heir. This done, I bade farewell to Ware Grange — nor did I go alone. I could not leave Geneva there amid all the gloomy and fearful memories of that haunted house. She went with me as my bride.

       We searched vainly for the unfortunate woman whose sin had wrought such direful ruin, but she wandered about no more, and the place of her retreat was securely hidden. Two years after our marriage, a little sealed package was brought to me, one evening, directed to Arthur and Geneva Dunallen. I opened it, and gazing curiously into the little ebony casket, we beheld the diamond ring. There was no word, nor message accompanying it, but we knew that Margaret Ware was at rest.

(THE END)