OFF INTO DARKNESS.

That night a train going southward bore Church and Constance away from the city. Hudson went with them to the depot, haggard and miserable in spite of the sudden freedom that had fallen upon him; Constance seemed to have grown hard and stern since the ceremony of that morning. She neither shed a tear, or uttered a moan; but this cold steadiness chilled him to the heart; it was so unlike anything he had seen in the girl before.

"Father, you will write to me?"

"Yes, daughter—and you?"

"Sometimes; but I shall come back soon!"

"Has he promised that?"

"_I_ have."

There was a sneer on that beautiful lip. Truly, this man Church would not find the young girl he had tempted and distorted a facile tool, even in his adroit hands.

"Ah! here you are, large as life; saw your face at the carriage·window; knew the trunk, too; cut after it with all my might; hadn't been gone an hour before the post-man brought this."

Rhoda Weeks was all in a glow from hard running; the matches were tumbled about in her basket; her bonnet had blown back, and every article of dress around her seemed in commotion. She thrust a letter in Constance's hand, who put it mechanically into her pocket. Nothing seemed to have the power of arousing that poor bride from the iron stillness that had fallen upon her. In a moment she seemed to have forgotten Rhoda's presence, though the girl was looking wistfully into her face, expecting some thanks for the exertion she had made.

"Well, if you won't speak to me, I'll go," she said, at last, choking down a sob of disappointment.

Then Constance aroused herself and tried to smile.

"You here, little Rhoda? Come to bid us good-by—that is kind. I—I am so glad to see you again. How long it is since morning—don't you think so, little Rhoda? Don't look so miserable, child—even days like this have an end; the sun is setting now. Oh! how I wish it would never rise again!"

"Why, Constance, how you look. What's the matter?"

"Do I? Oh, nothing! Kiss me, little Rhoda, we have been good friends."

"Except a little spat now and then," said Rhoda, who was naturally a truthful creature.

"Oh! that is nothing, child, we are friends for all of that. You see I have so few friends—no one but you in the wide world."

Rhoda felt tears stealing into her eyes, and kneeling on the floor, began to assort her matches, hoping thus to conceal that she was crying. Lifting her head, she saw Mr. Church coming toward them, and starting up, prepared to be off.

"Oh, mercy! if there an't old Church, with his gray mustacher and shiny boots. Good-by! Good-by!"

Away the little creature darted, jerking her bonnet forward as she went. Constance looked after her with a wild, yearning wish to break away and follow her back to the old home, which seemed to her a paradise from which she was shut out forever.

"Come, darling, the ferry-boat is here."

With a start and a pang, which brought back all the present, she rejected the man's arm, but walked on board the boat.

Hudson followed her in mournful silence; all the joy of his freedom was broken up by the certainty that, to save him, that poor girl was enslaved, and probably separated from him forevermore.

They stood upon the platform together. Church was in high spirits; the indomitable vanity of the man sustained him, as a consciousness of right would have given hope to a better person. He could not doubt that a few months of devotion and profuse liberality in all the sources of enjoyment at his command, would entice this beautiful young creature into his life so completely, that she would be as much his slave as the man had been who watched them with such despairing eyes. As for any lasting fancy for the young man, from whom he had so adroitly separated his bride, he smiled at the idea. Where was the youth or comeliness which could match his plotting brain and indomitable will? The girl was his, married solemnly by all the ties that can bind a woman at the altar—the rest was in his own power. What woman ever had, or could resist him? Not the half-formed, impulsive young creature, whom he had seized so ruthlessly and swept into his own life that morning.

The bell rang, the soft puffs of the engine grew louder and stronger, the train began to vibrate. Hudson took Constance in his arms, and would have blessed her, but the words died in his throat. She was cold as marble, but shook in every fibre, as marble never can.

"Come," said Church, gently, "the train will be moving."

Constance turned upon him quickly, her face white, her lips quivering; some bitter word trembled there, but it found no utterance. She stepped into the car, and he followed her, waving his hand lightly to the poor father.

The train moved, leaving Hudson on the platform, gazing wildly after it. He longed to see that face once more looking back upon him; but it did not appear, nor the hand waving a last adieu, which might have softened the keen sense of desolation and self reproach that fell upon him. All was blank along that long line of windows. Then came a confused rattle of wheels, puffs of curling smoke followed the sweep of the train, which spread out into a broad curtain of vapory gray, and disappeared in a sombre mist, which seemed to wrap itself and settle all around him, filling the atmosphere with gloom.