Chapter 21 BY A ROUTE OBSCURE AND LONELY,

HAUNTED BY ILL ANGELS ONLY.-E. A. Poe.

Eleanor is taking her siesta, wrapt in dreams of Carol and love. No thought of evil disturbs her rest, for to-day the clouds seem to have blown over. Carol has been tender and adoring as of old, he speaks no more of the dreaded up-rooting, but is peaceful and content. Yet while she lies in fancy-land-asleep