“Well, Arthur,” said Harold Hare, entering the room of the former at his hotel, on the following evening, “I have come to bid you good bye. I start for home to-morrow morning,” he added, in reply to Arthur’s questioning glance. “I am to have a company of Providence boys in my old friend Colonel R ’s regiment. And after a little brisk recruiting, ho! for Washington and the wars!”

“You have determined for the war, then?”

“Of course. And you?”

“I shall go to my Vermont farm, and live quietly among my books and pastures.”

“A dull life, Arthur, when every wind that blows will bring to your ears the swell of martial music and the din of arms.”

“If I were in love with the pomp of war, which, thank heaven, I am not, Harold, I would rather dwell in a hermit’s cave, than follow the fife and drum over the bodies of my Southern countrymen.”

“Those Southern countrymen, that you seem to love better than the country they would ruin, would have little remorse in marching over your body, even among the ashes of your farm-house. Doubtless you would stand at your threshold, and welcome their butchery, should their ruffian legions ravage our land as far as your Green Mountains.”

“I do not think they will invade one foot of Northern soil, unless compelled by strict military necessity. However, should the State to which I owe allegiance be attacked by foreign or domestic foe, I will stand among its defenders. But, dear Harold, let us not argue this sad subject, which it is grief enough but to contemplate. Tell me of your plans, and how I shall communicate with you, while you are absent. My distress about this unhappy war will be keener, when I feel that my dear friend may be its victim.”

Harold pressed his hand affectionately, and the two friends spoke of the misty future, till Harold arose to depart. They had not mentioned Oriana’s name, though she was in their thoughts, and each, as he bade farewell, knew that some part of the other’s sadness was for her sake.

Arthur accompanied Harold a short distance up Broadway, and returning, found at the office of the hotel, a letter, without post-mark, to his address. He stepped into the reading-room to peruse it. It was from Beverly, and ran thus:

“RICHMOND, May , 1861.

“DEAR ARTHUR: The departure of a friend gives me an opportunity to write you about a matter that I beg you will attend to, for my sake, thoroughly. I learned this morning, upon receipt of a letter from Mr. Pursely, that Miranda Ayleff, of whom we spoke together, and to whom I presume you have already delivered my communication, is receiving the visits of one Philip Searle, to whom, some two years since, she was much attached. Entre nous, Arthur, I can tell you, the man is a scoundrel of the deepest dye. Not only a drunkard and a gambler, but dishonest, and unfit for any decent girl’s society. He is guilty of forgery against me, and, against my conscience, I hushed the matter only out of consideration for her feelings. I would still have concealed the matter from her, had this resumption of their intimacy not occurred. But her welfare must cancel all scruples of that character; and I therefore entreat you to see her at once, and unmask the man fully and unequivocally. If necessary you may show my letter for that purpose. I would go on to New York myself immediately, were I not employed upon a State mission of exceeding delicacy and importance; but I have full confidence in your good judgment. Spare no arguments to induce her to return immediately to Richmond.

“Oriana has not been well; I know not what ails her, but, though she makes no complaint, the girl seems really ill. She knows not of my writing, for I would not pain her about Miranda, of whom she is very fond. But I can venture, without consulting her, to send you her good wishes. Let me hear from you in full about what I have written. Your friend.

“BEVERLY WEEMS.”

“P.S. Knowing that you must yet be weak with your late illness, I would have troubled Harold, rather than you, about this matter, but I am ignorant of his present whereabouts, while I know that you contemplated remaining a week or so in New York. Write me about the ugly bite in the shoulder, from which I trust you are well recovered. B.W.”

Arthur looked up from the letter, and beheld Philip Searle seated at the opposite side of the table. He had entered while Arthur’s attention was absorbed in reading, and having glanced at the address of the envelope which lay upon the table, he recognized the hand of Beverly. This prompted him to pause, and taking up one of the newspapers which were strewn about the table, he sat down, and while he appeared to read, glanced furtively at his vis-a-vis over the paper’s edge. When his presence was noticed, he bowed, and Arthur, with a slight and stern inclination of the head, fixed his calm eye upon him with a searching severity that brought a flush of anger to Philip’s brow.

“That is Weems’ hand,” he muttered, inwardly, “and by that fellow’s look, I fancy that no less a person than myself is the subject of his epistle.”

Arthur had walked away, but, in his surprise at the unexpected presence of Searle, he had allowed the letter to remain upon the table. No sooner had he passed out of the room, than Philip quietly but rapidly stretched his hand beneath the pile of scattered journals, and drew it toward him. It required but an instant for his quick eye to catch the substance. His face grew livid, and his teeth grated harshly with suppressed rage.

“We shall have a game of plot and counterplot before this ends, my man,” he muttered.

There were pen and paper on the table, and he wrote a few lines hastily, placed them in the envelope, and put Beverly’s letter in his pocket. He had hardly finished when Arthur reentered the room, advanced rapidly to the table, and, with a look of relief, took up the envelope and its contents, and again left the room. Philip’s lip curled beneath the black moustache with a smile of triumphant malice.

“Keep it safe in your pocket for a few hours, my gamecock, and my heiress to a beggar-girl, I’ll have stone walls between you and me.”