Oriana Weems, the subject of our sketch, was an orphan.  Her father, a wealthy Virginian, died while his daughter was yet an infant, and her mother, who had been almost constantly an invalid, did not long survive.  Oriana and her brother, Beverly, her senior by two years, had thus been left at an early age in the charge of their mother’s sister, a maiden lady of excellent heart and quiet disposition, who certainly had most conscientiously fulfilled the sacred trust.  Oriana had returned but a twelvemonth before from a northern seminary, where she had gathered up more accomplishments than she would ever be likely to make use of in the old homestead; while Beverly, having graduated at Yale the preceding month, had written to his sister that she might expect him that very day, in company with his classmate and friend, Arthur Wayne.

She stood, therefore, at the wicket, gazing down the road, in expectation of catching the first glimpse of her brother and his friend, for whom horses had been sent to Richmond, to await their arrival at the depot.  So much was she absorbed in revery, that she failed to observe a solitary horseman who approached from the opposite direction.  He plodded leisurely along until within a few feet of the wicket, when he quietly drew rein and gazed for a moment in silence upon the unconscious girl.  He was a tall, gaunt man, with stooping shoulders, angular features, lank, black hair and a sinister expression, in which cunning and malice combined.  He finally urged his horse a step nearer, and as softly as his rough voice would admit, he bade:  “Good evening, Miss Oriana.”

She started, and turned with a suddenness that caused the animal he rode to swerve.  Recovering her composure as suddenly, she slightly inclined her head and turning from him, proceeded toward the house.

“Stay, Miss Oriana, if you please.”

She paused and glanced somewhat haughtily over her shoulder.

“May I speak a word with you?”

“My aunt, sir, is within; if you have business, I will inform her of your presence.”

“My business is with you, Miss Weems,” and, dismounting, he passed through the gate and stepped quickly to her side.

“Why do you avoid me?”

Her dark eye flashed in the twilight, and she drew her slight form up till it seemed to gain a foot in height.

“We do not seek to enlarge our social circle, Mr. Rawbon.  You will excuse me if I leave you abruptly, but the night dew begins to fall.”

She moved on, but he followed and placed his hand gently on her arm.  She shook it off with more of fierceness than dignity, and the man’s eyes fairly sought the ground beneath the glance she gave him.

“You know that I love you,” he said, in a hoarse murmur, “and that’s the reason you treat me like a dog.”

She turned her back upon him, and walked, as if she heard him not, along the garden path.  His brow darkened, and quickening his pace, he stepped rudely before her and blocked the way.