The Missing Bride. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

would be in little personal danger from the soldiers.

      So argued Commodore Waugh as he took leave of them and gave orders for the carriage to move on up the main branch of the road leading north toward Prince George's and Montgomery.

      But so argued not the poor old negroes, as they followed Edith up the west branch of the road that led to Charles County.

      This pleasant road ran along the side of a purling brook under the shadow of the great trees that skirted the forest, and Edith ambled leisurely along, low humming to herself some pretty song or listening to the merry carols of the birds or noticing the speckled fish that gamboled through the dark, glimmering stream or reverting to the subject of her last reading.

      But beneath all this childish play of fancy, one grave, sorrowful thought lay heavy upon Edith's tender heart. It was the thought of poor old Luckenough "deserted at its utmost need" to the ravages of the foe. Then came the question if it were not possible, in case of the house being attacked, to save it—even for her to save it. While these things were brewing in Edith's mind, she rode slowly and more slowly, until at length her pony stopped. Then she noticed for the first time the heavy, downcast looks of her attendants.

      "What is the matter?" she asked.

      "Oh! Miss Edith, don't ask me, honey—don't! Ain't we-dem got to go back to de house and stay dar by our two selves arter we see you safe?" said Jenny, crying.

      "No! what? you two alone!" exclaimed Edith, looking from one to the other.

      "Yes, Miss Edith, 'deed we has, chile—but you needn't look so 'stonish and 'mazed. You can't help of it, chile. An' if de British do come dar and burn de house and heave we-dem into de fire jes' out of wanton, it'll only be two poor, ole, unvaluable niggers burned up. Ole marse know dat well enough—dat's de reason he resks we."

      "But for what purpose have you to return?" asked Edith, wondering.

      "Oh! to feed de cattle and de poultry? and take care o' de things dat's lef behine," sobbed Jenny, now completely broken down by her terrors. "I know—I jis does—how dem white niggers o' Co'bu'ns 'ill set de house o' fire, an' heave we-dem two poor old innocen's into de flames out'n pure debblish wanton!"

      Edith passed her slender fingers through her curls, stringing them out as was her way when absent in thought. She was turning the whole matter over in her mind. She might possibly save the mansion, though these two old people were not likely to be able to do so—on the contrary, their ludicrous terrors would tend to stimulate the wanton cruelty of the marauders to destroy them with the house. Edith suddenly took her resolution, and turned her horse's head, directing her attendants to follow.

      "But where are you going to go, Miss Edith?" asked her groom, Oliver, now speaking for the first time.

      "Back to Luckenough."

      "What for, Miss Edith, for goodness sake?"

      "Back to Luckenough to guard the dear old house, and take care of you two."

      "But oh, Miss Edy! Miss Edy! for Marster in heaven's sake what'll come o' you?"

      "What the Master in heaven wills!"

      "Lord, Lord, Miss Edy! ole marse 'ill kill we-dem. What 'ill old marse say? What 'ill everybody say to a young gal a-doin' of anything like dat dar? Oh, dear! dear! what will everybody say?"

      "They will say," said Edith, "if I meet the enemy and save the house—they will say that Edith Lance is a heroine, and her name will be probably preserved in the memory of the neighborhood. But if I fail and lose my life, they will say that Edith was a cracked-brained girl who deserved her fate, and that they had always predicted she would come to a bad end."

      "Better go on to Hay Hill, Miss Edy! 'Deed, 'fore marster, better go to

       Hay Hill."

      "No," said the young girl, "my resolution is taken—we will return to

       Luckenough."

      The arguments of the old negroes waxed fainter and fewer. They felt a vague but potent confidence in Edith and her abilities, and a sense of protection in her presence, from which they were loth to part.

      The sun was high when they entered the forest shades again.

      "See," said Edith to her companions, "everything is so fresh and beautiful and joyous here! I cannot even imagine danger."

      Edith on reaching Luckenough retired to bed, and addressed herself to sleep. It was in vain—her nerves were fearfully excited. In vain she tried to combat her terrors—they completely overmastered her. She was violently shocked out of a fitful doze.

      Old Jenny stood over her, lifting her up, shaking her, and shouting in her ears:

      "Miss Edith! Miss Edith! They are here! They are here! We shall be murdered in our beds!"

      In the room stood old Oliver, gray with terror, while all the dogs on the premises were barking madly, and a noisy party at the front was trying to force an entrance.

      Violent knocking and shaking at the outer door and the sound of voices.

      "Open! open! let us in! for God's sake, let us in!"

      "Those are fugitives—not foes—listen—they plead—they do not threaten—go and unbar the door, Oliver," said Edith.

      Reluctantly and cautiously the old man obeyed.

      "Light another candle, Jenny—that is dying in its socket—it will be out in a minute."

      Trembling all over, Jenny essayed to do as she was bid, but only succeeded in putting out the expiring light. The sound of the unbarring of the door had deprived her of the last remnant of self-control. Edith struck a light, while the sound of footsteps and voices in the hall warned her that several persons had entered.

      "It's Nell, and Liddy, and Sol, from Hay Hill! Oh, Miss Edy! Thorg and his men are up dar a 'stroyin' everything! Oh, Miss Edy! an' us thought it was so safe an' out'n de way up dar! Oh, what a 'scape! what a 'scape we-dem has had!"

CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

      THE ATTACK.

      That summer day was so holy in its beauty, so bright, so clear, so cool; that rural scene was so soothing in its influences, so calm, so fresh, so harmonious; it was almost impossible to associate with that lovely day and scene thoughts of wrong and violence and cruelty. So felt Edith as she sometimes lifted her eyes from her work to the beauty and glory of nature around her. And if now her heart ached it was more with grief for Fanny's fate than dread of her own. There comes, borne upon the breeze that lifts her dark tresses, and fans her pearly cheeks, the music of many rural voices—of rippling streams and rustling leaves and twittering birds and humming bees.

      But mingled with these, at length, there comes to her attentive ear a sound, or the suspicion of a sound, of distant horse hoofs falling upon the forest leaves—it draws nearer—it becomes distinct—she knows it now—it is—it is a troop of British soldiers approaching the house!

      They rode in a totally undisciplined and disorderly manner; reeling in their saddles, drunken with debauchery, red-hot, reeking from some scene of fire and blood!

      And in no condition to be operated upon by Edith's beautiful and holy influences.

      They galloped into the yard—they galloped up to the house—their leader threw himself heavily from his horse and advanced to the door.

      It was the terrible and remorseless Thorg! No one could doubt the identity for a single instant. The low, square-built, thick-set body, the huge head, the bull neck, heavy jowl, coarse, sensual lips, bloodshot eyes, and fiery visage surrounded with coarse red hair—the whole brutalized, demonized aspect could belong to no monster in the universe but that cross