"Bless you, Guly--there! don't shed any more tears--we shall henceforth, I am sure, be very happy together."

"Then, what prompted you to speak so strangely and forebodingly?"

"I could not define the feeling, if I should try. It was nothing more than a flitting shadow, cast from my restless spirit upon my heart.

Come, let's go in."

CHAPTER XIII.

"Our early days! how often back We turn on life's bewildering track, To where, o'er hill and valley, plays The sunlight of our early days!"

D. W. Gallagher.

They went in through the alley-way, and gained their bedroom by the steep back-staircase. Guly, who was fatigued by his day's labor and evening walk, immediately prepared for bed, and sought his pillow eagerly. But Arthur, after rising from their devotion, walked toward one of the windows, and stood for a long time gazing out upon the neighboring wall of brick, as if he found there deep food for reflection. Guly lay looking at him, wondering what he could be thinking of, and even while he wondered his eyes gradually closed, and he fell fast asleep.

As Arthur heard his soft but regular breathing, and felt assured his brother slumbered, he threw off his coat, and seated himself on the bedside, gazing fixedly down upon the innocent and happy brow before him. There was a thoughtful softness upon the watcher's face, that came not often there; and ever and anon he raised his hands, and pressed them tightly upon his eyes, as if to keep back some emotion which would fain force itself thence.

"What can have put these thoughts in my mind to-night?" he murmured, impatiently, rising and walking the floor with bowed head and folded arms. "I could almost believe the wine I drank was drugged with memories of the past, and dark forebodings for the future. What form is this that rises constantly before me, with haggard face and burning eyes, pointing its skinny finger backward, ever backward, like an index turning ever to the days gone by? It haunts me like a ghost; and turn I here or there, 'tis always crouching close before me, pointing that skinny finger backward. Heavens! what does it mean?"

With a sharp shudder, Arthur again sought his brother's side, and sat down upon the bed.

"If I should ever--if I should ever--_ever_ fall so low, _I_! Oh, impossible! What a horrible picture! Yet, surrounded, as I am, by danger and temptation--the beautiful habiliments in which vice here presents itself--the constant laceration of my haughty pride--would it be, after all, so impossible? Oh, my poor heart, be strong. Still that white figure pointing backward. Can this be the foreshadowing of my own fate?

Oh, never, never! the wine I have taken has heated my brain. Guly! Guly!

wake up! I cannot bear to be here by myself!"

And, with a moan of anguish, Arthur buried his face in the pillow.

Guly started up quickly, and looked wildly around, like one suddenly aroused from a nightmare; then his eye fell upon the prostrate figure beside him.

"Dear Arthur, tell me what ails you to-night; you seem strangely at variance with yourself. Tell me what troubles you, my brother."

"A ghost in my heart, Guly. I can't tell what brought it there--I feel it, I see it constantly--a pale, haggard figure, pointing with its bony finger backward."

"You have been asleep, and dreaming, Arthur; undress and come by me here, and we will talk of something else."

"No, no, Guly, not asleep, but wide, wide awake--in my heart, in my soul, everywhere!" exclaimed Arthur, flinging his clothes hastily off, and creeping to his brother's side, as if flying from some horrid phantom.

Guly threw an arm about him, and with the other hand stroked the dark locks soothingly back from the excited brow.

"There, Arthur! brother! hush! don't sigh and shudder so, don't; it's all fancy, all mere idle fancy. Do you remember, Arthur, how, on such a night as this, the moon used to shine down upon the tall trees and green lawn at home? And when all those merry friends used to visit us, how their figures would flit in and out so brightly through the long green avenues, and the shadows falling at their sides--do you not remember, Arthur?"

"The shadows falling at their side? Yes, Guly, I remember."

"And how, when on such bright nights we sailed upon the Hudson, the diamond foam broke away from the prow of our little boat, like a peal of jewelled laughter, if such a thing could be? When we get the old home back, Arthur, we will find that old boat out, and have it, too--eh, brother?"

"Dear Guly, yes."

"Everything will be so like its old self, we shall almost think all our troubles and separation one long dream. When that time comes we can have no more of earthly happiness to ask for--our old home and our old joys."

"And our old friends, Guly, gliding through the green avenues, with their shadows under their feet. Our old friends, with their old shadows--"

Arthur was asleep; soothed to slumber by the gentle words and fond tones breathed upon his ear, and he lay quietly, with his face calm, and his cheek upon his hand.

Dreams came to him in the hours of that long night, and he was happy.

Time and distance were annihilated, and he was back upon the shores of old Hudson, sporting with its waves, and gliding on its waters. There was the old boat, with the sparkling foam parting from the rushing prow, and the music of the dipping oars was falling gently on his ear.

Again he was on the green lawn, and the moon was looking down upon the tall trees, and the soft green grass which lay before the broad door of the olden home. There were the gayly-robed figures, flitting in and out along the shaded avenues, their shadows falling by them always, and he was in their midst--a child, merry-hearted, but fretted and proud--toyed with by this one, caressed by that, and the favorite of all, commanding but to be obeyed, frowning but to be more attended, angered but to be coaxed to good-nature, first in his parents' hearts, and high in the proffered love of every guest, reigning, like a boy-king, over all he surveyed.

Then his dream for a moment grew clouded, and a tiny form, with snowy robes and gentle blue eyes, rose up before him, and took his place upon his mother's bosom, and he knew he had a brother. The form expanded, and grew in height, and the hair hung in golden ringlets down to shadow the beautiful eyes. And a tiny hand sought his, and tottering steps fell lightly at his side. Still the form grew, till in his dream it seemed to rise above him--not _grown_ above him; but the feet stood upon a silver cloud, which kept rising higher and higher, till the tiny hand he clasped in his was drawn perforce from his grasp, and still standing on the silver cloud, the light form, the golden hair, and blue eyes, passed from his sight; and looking up, he learned to believe it was an angel, not a brother, which had been sent to him. And while he looked yearningly after it, a mother's hand fell upon his shoulder, and her sweet voice trembled as she pointed upward, and bade him follow. Then he showed her his empty hand, from which the tiny hand had been drawn, and stepping quickly backward, he plunged headlong over an unseen precipice, and fell, fell far down, where all was darkness; but finding no bottom, and shuddering with the thought that so he must go dizzily rushing through that blackened space to all eternity! But, looking up, a glorious light broke through the surrounding gloom, and the light form, with the golden hair, was coming down--down with a smile of thrilling happiness, and outstretched arms to save him. It reached him, it clasped him to its warm bosom, and he felt a quick heart throbbing there, and knew again it was his brother, with the sunny curls and radiant smile, who had saved him from that bottomless pit, and mounted, holding him upon his heart, to purer and to brighter realms.

Thus the spirits of his earlier days thronged his fancy, as he slumbered there; but the pale ghost in his heart, pointing with its skinny finger backward, came not to him as he lay there dreaming, with his cheek upon his hand.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring; As fair in form, as warm yet pure of heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond hope's imagining."

Byron.

A month went by, and Arthur during that time never once went out without his brother, never tasted a drop of wine, nor met those companions whom he had begun to deem so social-hearted, and so necessary to his happiness. He seemed to shrink fearfully from the thought of coming in contact with them, and invariably after business hours sought his brother's side, passing his leisure in whatever mode Guly chanced to propose.

His proud will was kept in constant curb, and when he received the stern rebuke of his employer, or the taunt and sneer of those who would have led him their way, he answered nothing, but turned away with swelling heart and silent lips.

Guly noticed that nightly, as they prayed, Arthur's voice grew more earnest, and his manner more humble and contrite; and he began to censure himself for the unjust fears he had entertained on his brother's account, while his heart rose in thankful praises to Him "who doeth all things well," for the happy change.

None knew, save Arthur himself, the cause of it. Since the night when the "ghost," as he called it, first entered his heart, and since the dream of home hovered over his pillow, he had felt as if it might be possibly a visionary counterpart of one of those events which "cast their shadows before," and he had striven right manfully against every impulse which might in any way tend to make himself the fulfiller of it.

Often, when the stern reproof, or the sly sneer, had awakened his resentment and called the flush of anger to his cheek, a glimpse into his throbbing heart placed the seal of silence on his lips; for, with a shudder, he beheld the haggard figure, with its burning eyes, pointing ever its skinny finger backward.

It was something which he could not understand, yet which exerted over him an all-powerful influence. He often thought upon it, trying to devise what it could mean, and what could have brought it there within his heart; and the only answer his reflections ever gave him, was that the fore-shadow had risen to warn him from the awful gulf.

Wilkins had of late kept a quiet but steady eye upon the movements and character of the brothers, and, in spite of the usual coldness and indifference of his great heart, he had begun to feel a deep interest in them, and everything pertaining to them. Guly especially, he had learned to feel towards even as a younger brother. Still, with that unaccountable feeling, which sometimes forbids a generous sentiment to betray itself to another, he veiled his earnest friendship under a guise of mere clerkly companionship, rarely giving way to those bursts of tender feeling, which rendered him, in Guly's young eyes, an absolute enigma.

One day, as Arthur was about leaving the store for dinner, Wilkins called him back, and gave him some money to deposit in the bank, which he had to pass on his way to the restaurant.

"We are so busy to-day," remarked the head-clerk, as he gave it to him, "it is just now impossible for me to leave before the bank closes, and you can do this as well as myself."

Arthur bowed, and viewed the bills with a glow of proud pleasure in his breast, at the trust reposed in him, and started away. Guly left his place an instant, and stepped quickly to the door, prompted by a feeling for which he could not account, to look after him; and stood gazing upon his brother's receding figure until lost to sight in the stream of busy life, which flowed through the narrow street.

As he resumed his station, a light and exquisitely beautiful female form glided in at the door, and stopped at Guly's counter. As he bent forward to inquire her wishes, she threw aside the veil, which concealed her features, and revealed to the boy's bewildered gaze the most dazzling, beautiful face he had ever beheld.

She was quite young; apparently had just entered upon her fifteenth year, an age which in the North would be considered only as the dividing step between childhood and girlhood, but which in the South, where woman is much more rapidly developed, is probably the most charming season of female beauty, when the half-burst blossom retains all the purity, freshness, and fragrance of the tender bud. She was slight and delicate in figure, yet beautifully rounded and proportioned; bearing, in every movement, that charming child-like grace, which is so frequently lost when the child merges into the woman. Her complexion was that of a brunette--but beautifully clear; and her cheeks, with their rich color, might well bear that exquisite comparison of somebody's--a rose-leaf laid on ivory. Her hair was of a rich chestnut brown, and having been cut off during severe illness, was now left to its own free grace, and hung in short close curls about her full pure brow.