246 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
surely happen if Millard Reeve's signal strike Margue¬ 
rite's window now. I reach the hedge. The wet thorny 
branches strike my face. I push them aside and listen. 
For a moment the wild throbbing of my own heart fills 
my ears: then a splash of oars. A wave runs across my 
feet. By a continuous flash of lightning, I see a man 
spring from a skiff, and recognize him—then utter 
darkness. 
“ Who is there ?” My voice is loud and harsh. There 
is no answer except the roar of the elements and the 
rattle of the chain as the skiff is made fast. 
"Who is there?" I call again. "Is it Millard 
Reeve?” 
It seems a long time before a man's voice replies from 
the impenetrable blackness beyond the hedge. 
“ Yes 1” it says. 
‘•I am Miss Lawrence,” I begin, making an effort for 
calmness. "Miss Easten's cousin. Her father is with 
her, and knows of your plan. - ' 
This much is said with tolerable composure : then I 
fly into hysterical, womanish rage with this invisible 
presence which terrifies me so. and say many foolish, 
threatening things. The man does not stir, while I rage 
like a feeble old fiend. I am sure he does not stir, for 
my senses are so abnormally sharpened. I must hear the 
lightest leaf floating downward from the hedge to the 
water. When I stop, for sheer lack of words and breath, 
he is still silent and motionless, as if tmdecided. Then 
the chain rattles—a splash of oars— he is gone ! 
Slowly I creep back to the house. A few idlers in the 
hall look wonderingly at the wet, forlorn figure which 
passes them so shrinkingly on the stairs. I lie down 
upon my bed. Spent, exhausted, I doze a little, per¬ 
haps,when I am startled by the opening of Marguerite's 
door. My own door is open, and the room in darkness. 
It is Mrs. Easten who comes from Marguerite's room. 
I can hear her clump! clump! all down the stairs, 
and clump! clump ! up again, with a firm, manly step 
beside hers. 
Starting up, expecting I know not what, I see Judge 
Granger go with her into Marguerites room. What 
passes therein only those four ever know 1 
After a long time they come out, but a rush of blind¬ 
ing tears hides from me the face under the bridal veil. 
I hear the soft, silken rustle of Marguerite’s gown on 
the stair, and can tell by the hush which follows that 
they have entered the parlor . . . then the measured 
cadence of the marriage service . . . too distant to 
distinguish the words, which memory mechanically sup¬ 
plies . . . “love, honor, and obey . . . keep to 
him only so long as you both shall live.” ... I turn 
my tear-wet face to the wall, and laugh ! 
A clock somewhere strikes nine. Nine ! It seems an 
eternity since, all unsuspicious, I went into the opposite 
room 1 
The gay murmur of voices begins again, and I hear 
Madame coming. I know her pattering little feet. She 
peeps into the darkened room, but I lie quite still, and 
she patters away. 
At last the guests depart. The storm is over, the 
rain has ceased, and the wind comes only in sobbing 
gusts. 
“Good night, Marguerite, my pearl!” Mrs. Easten’s 
smooth, sweet tones float up to me, and I suddenly re¬ 
collect that it has been decided that Marguerite shall go 
at once to her husband’s home. I do not hear the reply. 
I never see Marguerite again ! 
Presently Madame conies, lamp in hand. 
“ I am glad to find you. I liaf been most unhappy 
about you ! What eez eel, mat d la tete ?” compassion¬ 
ately. 
“No!” I say, sullenly, face to the wall. 
The quick-witted little Parisiennc’s eyes run over my 
wet garments, and the muddy, ruined, black silk ; but 
she says nothing, and sets about disrobing in discreet 
silence. 
There is an amazed, dismayed pause in the disrobing 
when I suddenly ask if she would be willing to return 
to Tennessee to-morrow morning. But she consents. 
Madame is never difficult. 
The feverish, sleepless night passes, and the dreaded 
morning has come which is to bring me face to face 
with Cousin David. When I have delayed as long as 
possible, I go down stairs, and find, with infinite relief, 
that he is not there. Mrs. Easten explains, with grace¬ 
ful ease, that he has been called away upon business. 
There is no more uneasy consciousness or embarrassment 
in her prominent eyes, than in a couple of poached eggs. 
But beyond a few slight generalities she makes no 
objection to our immediate departure, and when the 
skiff comes to take us to the packet, she accompanies us 
to the hedge. 
I look back. She stands bowing, smiling, waving 
adieu, and about her are Lilies yellow and white.— 
The Continent. 
A RIDE THROUGH AN AUSTRALIAN FOREST. 
It is perhaps safe to say that no part of Australia is at 
first sight so thoroughly un-Australian as the eastern 
and north-eastern portion of Gippsland. Here the bar¬ 
ren sandy plains and “eternal Gumtrees ” of the sur¬ 
rounding districts are no longer the chief, if not the 
only objects in view; and, instead of one monotonous 
monotone of color, the traveler is refreshed by myriads 
of gorgeous blossoms and flowers, rare plants, and trees 
of great beauty, and a correspondingly marvelous di¬ 
versity of life. From luxuriant valleys long ranges 
covered with Sassafras and Peppermint swell like green 
waves in every direction, and beyond their rounded 
summits the lofty heights of a continuous mountain 
chain rise abruptly into the dark blue of Australian 
skies. Some of these mountains are very striking in 
their bold outlines and in their massive and peculiar 
sculpture, several peaks reaching an altitude consider¬ 
ably beyond the highest British summit. (Snow lies on 
many of them for nine months in the year.) The creeks 
and rapid streamlets flowing down these mountain 
gorges and winding through the ranges are, moreover, 
clear as the trout streams of Scotland, and altogether 
