By this time the stars had come out and were looking quietly down upon us.

The waters of the mill-dam chanted mournfully, and in my disordered imagination, fantastic images danced before the entrance of the old mine.

Half-crying with fear, I again laid my hand on Emma's head.

Her hair was wet with the heavy night dews, and my eyes were wet with something else, as I said, "Oh, Emma, speak to me, for I am afraid and want to go home." This roused her, and lifting up her head I caught a glimpse of a face of so startling whiteness that, throwing my arms around her neck, I cried, "Oh, Emma, dear Emma, don't look so.

I love you a great deal better than I do Carrie Howard, and so I am sure does Mr.Evelyn." I don't know how I chanced to think of Mr.Evelyn, but he recurred to me naturally enough.