Her physical and intellectual growth were symmetrical. Her mind was quick, penetrative, and in constant exercise. Truthful and upright, her soul shone through her form and features, as a clear flame, placed within a transparent vase, brings out the adornments of flower, leaf, and gem, with which it is enriched.

In a brown stone house, in the city of P., State of ——, there hangs in one of the chambers a picture of Adele, representing her as she was at this period of her life. It is full of beauty and elegance. Sun-painting was an art unknown in the days when it was executed. But the modern photographist could hardly have produced a picture so exquisitely truthful as well as lovely.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE DEER HUNT.

Early in the morning, John Lansdowne, having donned his hunting suit and taken a hasty breakfast, seized his rifle and joined Micah, already waiting for him on the lawn in front of the house.

He was equipped in a tunic-like shirt of dressed buckskin, with leggings and moccasins of the same material, each curiously embroidered and fringed. The suit was a present from his mother,—procured by her from Canada. His head was surmounted by a blue military cap and his belt adorned with powder pouch and hunting-knife. Micah with a heavy blanket coat of a dingy, brown color, leggings of embroidered buckskin, skull cap of gray fox skin, and Indian moccasins; wore at his belt a butcher knife in a scabbard, a tomahawk, otter-skin pouch, containing bullets and other necessaries for such an expedition.

In the dim morning light they walked briskly to a little cove in the river, where Micah's birchen canoe lay, and found it already stored with supplies for the excursion. There were bags of provisions, cooking utensils, a small tent, neatly folded, Micah's old Dutch rifle, fishing tackle, and other articles of minor account.

"Ever traviled much in a canoo?" inquired Micah.

"None at all", replied John.

"Well, then I'll jest mention, yeou needn't jump into it, like a catameount rampagin' arter fodder. Yeou step in kinder keerful and set deown and don't move reound more'n ye ken help. It's a mighty crank little critter, I tell ye. 'Twould be tolable unconvenient to upset and git eour cargo turned into the stream".

"It would indeed!" said John. "I'll obey orders, Mummychog".

John entered the canoe with tact, apparently to Micah's satisfaction and soon they were gliding down the river, now, owing to the long-continued drought, considerably shrunk within its banks.

Just as night gave its parting salute to the advancing day, the voyagers passed into a region densely wooded down to the water's edge. Oaks, elms, and maples, birches of different sorts, willows and cranberry, grew in wild luxuriance along the margin, tinged with the rich hues of autumn. A thousand spicy odors exhaled from the frostbitten plants and shrubs, filling the senses with an intoxicating incense. When the rising sun shot its level rays through the trees, the clear stream quivered with golden arrows.

John viewed the scenes through which they glided with eager eye.

Micah's countenance expressed intense satisfaction. He sat bolt upright in the stern of the canoe, steering with his paddle, his keen bullet eyes dancing from side to side examining every object as they passed along. Both were silent.

At length, Micah exclaimed, "Well, Captin', this is the pootiest way of livin' I know on, any heow. My 'pinion is that human natur was meant to live reound on rivers and in the woods, or vyagin' on lakes, and sech. I never breathe jest nateral and lively, till I git eout o' between heouse walls into the free air".

"'Tis a glorious life, Micah! I agree to it".

"Hark!" said Micah! "Got yer piece ready? Maybe you'll hev' a chance to bring sumthin' deown. I heerd an old squaw holler jest neow".

"I'm ready", said John. "But I didn't hear any sound. What was it like?"

"O! kinder a scoldin' seound. Cawcawee! cawcawee! Don't yer hear the critter reelin' of it off? Ha! 'tis dyin' away, though. We shall hear it agin, by and by".

"An old squaw", said John, as the excitement the prospect of a shot had raised in his mind subsided. "Do you have such game as that, in Miramichi? I've heard of witches flying on broomsticks through the air, but didn't know before that squaws are in the habit of skylarking about in that way".

"Well, ye'll know it by observation, before long", said Micah, with a slight twitch of one eye. "Them's ducks from Canada, a goin' south'ard, as they allers do in the fall o' the year. They keep up that ere scoldin' seound, day and night. Cawcawee! cawcawee! kind of an aggravatin' holler! But I like it, ruther. It allers 'minds me of a bustin' good feller that was deown here from Canada once".

"How remind you of him?" inquired John.

"Well, he cam' deown on bissiniss, but he ran afowl o' me, and we was eout in the woods together, consid'able. He used to set eoutside the camp, bright, starlight nights, and sing songs, and sech. He had a powerful, sweet v'ice, and it allers 'peared to me as ef every kind of a livin' thing hushed up and listened, when he sung o' nights. He could reel off most anything you can think on. There was one kind of a mournful ditty he sung, and once in a while he brung in a chorus,—cawcawee! cawcawee,—jest like what them ducks say, only, the way he made it seound, was soft and meller and doleful-like. I liked to hear him sing that, only he was so solemn arter it, and would set and fetch up great long sythes. And once I asked him what made him so sober and take on so, arter singin' it. He said, Micah, my good lad, when I war a young man, I had a little French wife, that could run like a hind and sing like a wild bird. Well, she died. The very last thing she sung, was, that 'ere song. When I see how he felt, I never asked him another question. He sot and sythed a spell and then got up, took a most oncommon swig of old Jamaky and turned into his blanket".

Just as Micah ended this account, John caught sight of a large bird at a distance directly ahead of them, and his attention became entirely absorbed. It took flight from a partly decayed tree on the northern bank, and commenced wheeling around, above the water. The canoe was rapidly nearing this promising game.

Micah said not a word, but observed, in an apparently careless mood, the movements of his young companion.

Suddenly, the bird poised himself for an instant in the air, then closed his wings and shot downward. A whizzing sound! then a plash, and he disappeared beneath the surface, throwing up the water into sparkling foam-wreaths. He was absent but a moment, and then bore upward into the air a large fish.

John's shot took him on the wing, and he dropped dead, his claws yet grasping the fish, on the water's edge.

"Ruther harnsum than otherwise!" exclaimed Micah. "You've got your dinner, Captin'".

And he put the canoe rapidly towards the river-bank, to pick up the game.

They found it to be a large fish-hawk, with a good-sized salmon in its fierce embrace. It was a noble specimen of the bird, tinted with brown, ashy white, and blue, with eyes of deep orange color.

"Well, that are a prize", said Micah. "Them birds ain't common in these parts, bein' as they mostly live on sea-coasts. But this un was on his way seouth, and his journey has ended quite unexpected".

Saying which, he threw both bird and fish into the canoe, and darted forward on the river again.

"When shall we reach the deer feeding-ground you spoke of, Micah?"

"O! not afore night", said Micah. "And then we mustn't go anyst it till mornin'".

"I suppose you have brought down some scores of deer in your hunting raids, Micah?"

"Why, yes,—takin' it by and large, I've handled over consid'able many of 'em. 'Tis a critter I hate to kill, Captin', though I s'pose it seounds soft to say so. Ef 't wan't for thinkin' they'll git picked off, anyway, I dunno but I should let 'em alone altogether".

"Why do you dislike to kill them?"

"Well, to begin with, they're a harnsum critter. They hev sech graceful ways with 'em, kinder grand ones tew, specially them bucks, with their crests reared up agin the sky, lookin' so bold and free like. And them bright little does,—sometimes they hev sech a skeerd, tender look in their eyes,—and I've seen the tears roll out on 'em, when they lay wounded and disabled like, jest like a human critter. It allers makes me feel kind o' puggetty to see that".

They made a noon halt, in the shadows cast by a clump of silver birches, and did ample justice to the provision supplied from the pantry of the Dubois house.

At four o'clock they proceeded onward towards the deer hunt. John listened with unwearied interest to Micah's stories of peril and hair-breadth 'scapes, by flood, field, and forest, gathering many valuable hints in the science of woodcraft from the practised hunter.

Just at dark, they reached a broad part of the stream, and selected their camping-ground.

The tent was soon pitched, a fire of brushwood kindled and the salmon broiled to a relish that an epicure could not have cavilled at. The table, a flat rock, was also garnished with white French rolls, sliced ham, brown bread, blocks of savory cheese, and tea, smoking hot.

The sylvan scene,—the moon shedding its light around, the low music of the gently rippling waves, the spicy odor of the burning cedar, the snow-white clouds and deep blue of the sky mirrored in the stream, made it a place fit at least for rural divinities. Pan might have looked in,—ah! he is dead,—his ghost then might have looked in upon them from behind some old gnarled tree, with a frown of envy at this intrusion upon his ancient domain.

On the following morning, at the first faint glimmering of light, Micah was alert. He shook our young hero's shoulder and woke him from a pleasant dream.

"Neow's the time, Captin'", said Micah, speaking in a cautious undertone, "neow's the time, ef we do it at all, to nab them deer. While your gittin' rigged and takin' a cold bite, I'll tell ye the lay o' things. Ye see, don't ye, that pint o' land ahead on us, a juttin' out into the stream? Well, we've got to put the canoe on the water right away, hustle in the things, and percede just as whist and keerful as we ken, to that pint. Jest beyend that, I expect the animils, when day's fairly up, will come to drink. And there's where we'll get a shot at 'em".

"But what makes you expect they'll come to drink at that particular place, Micah?"

"You see that pooty steep hill, that slopes up jest back o' the pint o' land, don't ye? Well, behind that hill which is steeper 'n it looks to be, there's a largish, level piece of greound that's been burnt over within a few years, and it's grown up to tall grass and got a number o' clumps of young trees on it, and it's 'bout surreounded by a lot o' master rocky hills. That's the feedin' greound. There's a deep gorge cut right inter that hill, back 'o the pint. The gorge has a pooty smooth rocky bed. In the spring o' the year, there's a brook runs through there and pours inter the river jest below. But it's all dry neow, and the deer, as a gen'al thing scramble eout of their feedin' place into this gorge and foller it deown to the river to git their drink. It brings 'em eout jest below the pint. We have got neow to cross over to the pint, huggin' the bank, so the critters shan't see us, and take a shot from there. Git yer piece ready, Captin. Ef there's tew, or more, I'll hev the fust shot and you the second. Don't speak, arter we git on to the pint, the leastest word".

"I understand", said John, as he examined his rifle, to see that all was right.

"Now for it", said Micah, as having finished their arrangements, they entered the canoe.

Silently, they paddled along, sheltered from observation by the little wooded promontory and following as nearly as possible the crankling river as it indented into the land. In a few minutes, they landed and proceeded noiselessly to get a view of the bank below.

After a moment's reconnoitre, John turned his face towards Micah with a look of blank disappointment.

But Micah looked cool and expectant. He merely pointed up the rocky gorge and said under his breath—

"'T aint time to expect 'em yet. The wind, what there is on it, is favorable tew,—it blows right in our faces and can't kerry any smell of us to 'em. Neow hide yourself right away. Keep near me, Captin', so that we ken make motions to each other".

In a few moments they had secured their ambuscade, each lying on the ground at full length, concealed by low, scrubby trees. By a slight turn of the head, each could command a view up the gorge for a considerable distance.

Just as the sun began to show his broad, red disc in the east, new light shot forth from the eyes of the hunters, as they perceived a small herd coming down the rocky pathway. The creatures bounded along with a wild and graceful freedom, until they reached the debouche of the pass into the valley. There they paused,—scanned the scene with eager eyes and snuffed the morning breeze. The wind brought no tale of their enemies, close at hand, and they bounded on fearlessly to the river's brink.

It was apparently a family party, a noble buck leading the group, followed by a doe and two young hinds. They soon had their noses in the stream. The buck took large draughts and then raising his haughty front, tossed his antlers, as if in defiance, in the face of the god of day.

Micah's eye was at his rifle. A crack and a whizz in the air. The noble creature gave one mighty bound and fell dead. The ball had entered his broad forehead and penetrated to the brain.

At the report of the rifle, the doe, who was still drinking, gave a bound in the air, scattering the spray from her dripping mouth, wheeled with the rapidity of lightning, and sprang towards the gorge. But John's instantaneous shot sped through the air and the animal fell dead from her second bound, the ball having entered the heart. In the midst of their triumph, John and Micah watched, with relenting eyes the two hinds, while they took, as on the wings of the wind, their forlorn flight up the fatal pathway.

Having slung their booty on the boughs of a wide-branching tree, and taken some refreshment from the supplies in the canoe, Micah declared himself good for a scramble up the hill to the feeding-ground, a proposition John readily accepted.

Over rock, bush and brier, up hill and down, for five hours, they pursued their way with unmitigated zeal and energy. They scaled the hill, cut by the gorge,—approaching, cautiously, its brow, overlooking the deer haunt. But they could perceive no trace of the herd.

"It's abeout as I expected", said Micah, "them two little hinds we skeered, gin the alarm to the rest on 'em and they've all skulked off to some covit or ruther. S'pose Captin', we jest make a surkit reound through the rest of these hills, maybe we'll light on 'em agin".

"Agreed", responded John.

They skirted the enclosure, but without a chance for another shot. As, about noon, they were rapidly descending the gorge, on their way back to the promontory, the scene of their morning success, Micah proposed that they should have "a nice brile out of that fat buck at the pint, and then put for the settlement".

"Not yet", said John. "Why, we are just getting into this glorious life. What's your hurry, Mummychog?"

"Well, ye see", said Micah, "I can't be gone from hum, no longer neow, any heow. Next week, I'll try it with ye agin, if ye say so".

John acceded reluctantly to the arrangement, though his disappointment was somewhat mitigated by the prospect of another similar excursion.

The meal prepared by Micah, for their closing repast, considering the circumstances, might have been pronounced as achieved in the highest style of art. Under a bright sky, shadowed by soft, quivering birch-trees, scattering broken lights all over their rustic table, never surely was a dinner eaten with greater gusto.

Life in the forest! ended all too soon. But thy memories live. Memories redolent of youth, health, strength, freedom, and beauty, come through the long years, laden with dews, sunshine, and fragrance, and scatter over the time-worn spirit refreshment and delight.

As our voyagers were paddling up stream in the afternoon, in answer to questions put by John to Micah, respecting the Dubois family, he remarked—

"Them Doobyce's came to the kentry, jest ten year before I did. Well, I've heerd say, the Square came fust. He didn't set himself up for anything great at all, but explored reound the region a spell, and was kinder pleasant to most anybody he came across. Somehow, or 'nuther, he had a kind of a kingly turn with him, that seemed jest as nateral as did to breathe, and ye could see that he warn't no ways used to sech a wildcat sort of a place as Miramichi was then".

"I wonder that he remained here", said John.

"Well, the pesky critters reound here ruther took to him, and he bought a great lot o' land and got workmen and built a house, and fetched his wife and baby here. So they've lived here ever since. But they're no more like the rest o' the people in these parts, than I'm like you, and it has allers been a mystery to me why they should stay. But I s'pose they know their own bissiniss best. They're allers givin' to the poor, and they try to make the settlers more decent every way, but 'taint been o' much use".

After a long, meditative pause, Micah said, "Neow Captin', I want yeou to answer me one question, honestly. I aint a goin' to ask any thing sarcy. Did ye ever in yer life see a harnsumer, witchiner critter than Miss Adele is?"

Micah fixed his keen eye triumphantly upon our hero, as if he was aware beforehand that but one response could be made. John surprised by the suddenness of the question, and somewhat confused, for the moment, by a vague consciousness that his companion had found the key to his thoughts, hesitated a little, but soon recovered sufficiently to parry the stroke.

"You don't mean to say, Micah, that there's any person for beauty and bewitchingness to be compared with Mrs. McNab?"

"Whew-ew", uttered Micah, while every line and feature in his countenance expressed ineffable scorn. He gave several extra strokes of the paddle with great energy. Suddenly, his grim features broke into a genial smile.

"Well, Captin'", he said, "ef yeou choose to play 'possum that way, ye ken. But ye needn't expect me to believe in them tricks, cos I'm an old 'un".

John laughed and replied, "Mummychog, Miss Adele Dubois is a perfect beauty. I can't deny it".

"And a parfeck angel tew", said Micah.

"I don't doubt it", said John, energetically. "When shall we reach the settlement, Micah?"

"Abeout three hours arter moonrise".

And just at that time our voyagers touched the spot they had started from the day before, and unloaded their cargo. They were received at the Dubois house with the compliments due to successful hunters.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE PERSECUTION.

On the following afternoon, Mr. Norton preached to a larger and far more attentive audience than usual. The solemn warnings he had uttered and the fearful presentiments of coming evil he had expressed on the last occasion of assembling at the Grove, had been communicated from mouth to mouth. Curiosity, and perhaps some more elevated motive, had drawn a numerous crowd of people together to hear him.

He spoke to them plainly of their sinful conduct, particularizing the vices of intemperance, profanity, gambling, and Sabbath-breaking, to which many of them were addicted. He earnestly besought them to turn from these evil ways and accept pardon for their past transgressions and mercy through Christ. He showed them the consequences of their refusal to listen to the teachings and counsels of the book of God, and, at last, depicted to them, with great vividness, the awful glories and terrors of the day of final account,

"When the Judge shall come in splendor, Strict to mark and just to render".

As his mind dilated with the awful grandeur of the theme, his thoughts kindled to a white heat, and he flung off words that seemed to scorch and burn even the callous souls of those time-hardened transgressors. He poured upon their ears, in tones of trumpet power and fulness, echoed from the hills around, the stern threatenings of injured justice; he besought them, in low, sweet, thrilling accents, to yield themselves heart and life to the Great Judge, who will preside in the day of impartial accounts, and thus avert his wrath and be happy forever.

At the close, he threw himself for a few moments upon the rustic bench appropriated to him, covered his face with his hands and seemed in silent prayer. The people involuntarily bent their heads in sympathy and remained motionless. Then, he rose and gave them the evening benediction.

Mr. Somers, his nephew, and Adele had been sitting under the shade of an odorous balm poplar, on the skirt of the crowd, at first watching its movements, and then drawn away from these observations, by the impressive discourse of Mr. Norton.

"What a clear, melodious voice he has!" said John in an undertone to Adele, as the missionary finished the opening service.

"Wait, until you hear its trumpet tones, Mr. Lansdowne. Those will come, by and by. They are magnificent. Please listen". And Adele placed a finger upon her lips, in token of silence.

John listened, at first, in obedience to her request, but he soon became enchained by the speaker.

After the discourse was concluded, the trio remained sitting as if spellbound, quite unobservant of the crowd, slowly dispersing around them.

"What would that man have been, Ned", at length exclaimed John, "had he received the culture which such munificent gifts demand? Why, he would have been the orator of our nation".

"Ay, John", replied Mr. Somers, "but it is the solemn truth of his theme that gives him half his power".

"It is as if I had heard the Dies irae chanted", said Adele.

As they walked on towards the house in silence, they encountered a company of persons, of which Mr. Dubois and the missionary were the centre. These two were conversing quite composedly, but the surrounding groups seemed to be under some excitement.

At the dispersion of the gathering at the Grove, as Mr. Norton was on his way to the quiet of his own room, Mr. Dubois had presented to him the bearer of a dispatch from Fredericton. The messenger said he had been instructed to announce that the Provincial Court was in session in that city, and that a complaint had been lodged with the grand jury against Mr. Norton, and he was requested to meet the charge immediately.

Mr. Norton was surprised, but said very calmly—

"Can you inform me, sir, what the charge is!"

"It is a charge for having preached in the Province of Brunswick, without a license".

"Can you tell me by whom the charge was brought?"

"By the reverend Francis Dinsmoor, a clergyman of the Established Church, of the parish of ——".

"Yes, sir. I understand. He is your neighbor on the other side of the river, Mr. Dubois. Well, sir", continued Mr. Norton, "I suppose you have just arrived and stand in need of refreshment. I will confer with you, by and by".

The messenger retraced his steps towards the house.

In the mean time, a few rough-looking men had overheard the conversation, taken in its import, and now came about Mr. Dubois and Mr. Norton, making inquiries.

Tom Hunkins, more noted for profanity, hard drinking, and gambling, than any man in the settlement, and whom Mr. Norton at the risk of making him a violent enemy, had on one occasion severely reprehended for the pernicious influence he exerted in the community,—here interposed a word of counsel. He was just speaking, when Adele, Mr. Somers, and John, joined the group.

"Neow ef I may be so bold", said Tom, "I wouldn't go anyst the cussed court. It's nothin' at all, but the meanness and envy o' that rowdy priest over the river there. He's jest mad, cos the people come over here to git fodder instid o' goin' to his empty corncrib. They like to hear yer talk better than they do him, and that's the hull on it. I'd let the condemed critter and court whizz, both on 'em. I would't go aynst 'em".

"But Mr. Hunkins", said Mr. Norton, "I must attend to this matter. I am exposed to a fine of fifty pounds and six months' imprisonment, for breaking a law enacted by the Assembly of His Majesty's Province".

"I'll tell ye what ye can do, parson. I'll take and put ye right through to Chartham this very night, and ye ken take a schooner that I know is going to sail to-morrow for Eastport. That 'ill land ye safe in the State of Maine, where ye ken stay till the Court is over, and the fox has gone back to his hole, and then we'll give ye a lift back agin and ye ken go on with yer preachin'".

"I thank you for your kind feeling towards me, Mr. Hunkins, but I must go to Fredericton. The case is just this. I knew, before I came to Miramichi, that the government was not particularly favorable to dissenting ministers, and also that the Assembly had passed this law. But I had heard of the condition of this people and felt constrained to come here, by my desire to serve Christ, my Master and my King. By so doing, I took all the risks in the case. Now, if I, for conscience's sake, have violated an unjust law, I am willing to pay the penalty. I have not wittingly done harm to any of His Majesty's subjects, or endeavored to draw them away from their loyalty. I will therefore go with the messenger to Fredericton and meet this charge. I am not afraid of what evil-minded men can do unto me".

"That is right, Mr. Norton", exclaimed Adele, who had been listening attentively to his words. "Will you not go with him, father?"

After a moment's meditation, Mr. Dubois replied, "If it is Mr. Norton's wish. I have a friend who is a member of the Assembly. A favorable statement of the case from him, would doubtless have much weight with the jury".

"Thank you, sir, thank you. Such an arrangement would doubtless be of great service to me. I should be exceedingly grateful for it".

Micah, who had been hitherto a quiet listener to the colloquy, now gave a short, violent cough, and said, "Captin', it's kinder queer I should happen to hev an arrand reound to Fredericton to-morrow. But I've jest thought that as long as I'm a goin' to be in the place, I might as well step in afore the jury and say what I know abeout the case".

"Thank you, Micah. I believe you have been present whenever I have discoursed to our friends, and know precisely what I have said to them".

"Well, I guess I dew, pooty nigh".

The affair being thus arranged, the party separated.

Mr. Norton informed the messenger of his intention, early in the morning, to depart with him for Fredericton.

He then retired to his room, spent an hour in reflecting upon the course he had adopted, examined faithfully the motives that influenced him, and finally came to the conclusion that he was in the right path. He firmly believed God had sent him to Miramichi to preach the gospel, and resolved that he would not be driven from thence by any power of men or evil spirits. He then committed himself to the care of the Almighty Being, and slept securely under the wing of his love.

In the mean time, there was a high breeze of excitement blowing through the settlement, the people taking up the matter and making common cause with Mr. Norton. He seemed to have fairly won their good will, although he had not yet induced them, except in a few instances, to reform their habits of life. They ventilated their indignation against the unfortunate clergyman of the parish of ——, in no measured terms.

There was, however, one exception to the kind feeling manifested by the settlers, towards the missionary at this time, in the person of Mrs. McNab. She informed Mrs. Campbell, as they were discussing the matter before retiring for the night, that it was just what she had expected.

"Na gude comes o' sech hurry-flurry kind o' doctrenes as that man preaches. I dinna believe pussons can be carried into the kingdom o' heaven on a wharlwind, as he'd have us to think".

"Well", said Mrs. Campbell, who had been much impressed with Mr. Norton's teachings, "I don't think there's much likelihood of many folks round here bein kerried that way, or any other, into the kingdom. And I shall always bless that man for his kindness to the children when they were so sick, and for the consoling way in which he talked to me at that time".

"His doctrenes are every way delytarious, and you'll find that's the end on't", said Mrs. McNab.

To this dogmatic remark Mrs. Campbell made no reply.

Sitting in the Madonna room, that evening, John remarked to Mr. Somers, "I have a growing admiration for your missionary. Did you notice what he said, in reply to the man who counselled him to fly into Maine and so evade the charge brought against him? Small things sometimes suggest great ones. I was reminded of what Luther said, when cited before the diet of Worms, and when his friends advised him not to go. 'I am lawfully called to appear in that city, and thither I will go, in the name of the Lord, though as many devils as tiles upon the houses were assembled against me.'"

"Ay, John. There are materials in the character of that man for the making of another Luther. Truth, courage, power,—he has them all".



CHAPTER XIX.

THE LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR.

The next morning at an early hour, Mr. Dubois and Mr. Norton, accompanied by the bearer of the despatch, started for Fredericton. They were joined by Micah, whose alleged urgent business in that city proved to be nothing more nor less than to lend his aid towards getting the missionary out of what he called "a bad fix!"

Proceeding up the Miramichi River a short distance, they came to the portage, where travelling through the wilderness twenty miles to the Nashwauk, they passed down that stream to its junction with the St. John's River, opposite Fredericton.

After throwing off the dust of travel and resting somewhat from their fatigue, the two gentlemen first named, went to call on Col. Allen, the friend of whom Mr. Dubois had spoken, who was a resident of the Capital.

He was a man of wealth and consideration in the province. Having listened attentively to the statement made by Mr. Dubois respecting the arrest of Mr. Norton, he promised to do all in his power to secure for him a fair trial.

Although a high churchman in principle and feeling, he was yet candid and upright in his judgments, and happened, moreover, to be well acquainted with the character of the clergyman of the parish of ——, who had brought the charge against Mr. Norton. He made a few inquiries respecting the evidence the missionary could produce of good character in his native State.

"It will be well", he remarked, "to call on his Excellency, the Governor, and put him in possession of these facts. It is possible the case may take some shape in which his action may be called for. It will do no harm for him to have a knowledge of the circumstances from yourselves, gentlemen. Will you accompany me to the Government House?"

The Government House, a large building of stone, is situated near the northern entrance to the city. With its extensive wings, beautiful grounds and military appointments, it presents an imposing appearance. In the rear of the mansion, a fine park slopes down to the bank of the river, of which it commands frequent and enchanting views.

The three gentlemen alighted at the entrance to the grounds, opening from the broad street, and after passing the sentry were conducted by a page to the Governor's office. His Excellency shortly appeared and gave them a courteous welcome. In brief terms Col. Allen presented to him the case.

The Governor remarked in reply, that the law prohibiting persons from publicly preaching, or teaching, without a license, had been passed many years ago, in consequence of disturbances made by a set of fanatics, who promulgated among the lower classes certain extravagant dogmas by which they were led on even to commit murder; thinking they were doing God service. The purpose of the law, he said, having been thus generally understood, few, if any clergymen, belonging either to the Established Church or to Dissenting congregations, had applied for a license, and this was the first complaint to his knowledge, that had been entered, alleging a violation of the law. He said, also, that from the statement Col. Allen had made, he apprehended no danger to Mr. Norton, as he thought the charge brought against him could not be maintained.

"I advise you, sir", said he, turning to the missionary, "to go to the Secretary's office and take the oath of allegiance to the government. Mr. Dubois states you are exerting a good influence at Miramichi. I will see that you receive no further annoyance".

"I thank your Honor", Mr. Norton replied, "for your kind assurances, and I declare to you, sir, that I have the most friendly feelings towards His Majesty's subjects and government, as I have given some proof in coming to labor at Miramichi. But, sir, I cannot conscientiously take an oath of allegiance to your government, when my love and duty are pledged to another. I earnestly hope that the present amicable relations may ever continue to exist between the two powers, but, sir, should any conflict arise between them, the impropriety of my having taken such an oath would become too evident".

"You are right. You are right, my good sir", replied the Governor. "I promise you that as long as you continue your work in the rational mode you have already pursued, making no effort to excite treasonable feelings towards His Majesty's government, you shall not be interfered with".

His Excellency then made numerous inquiries of Mr. Dubois and Mr. Norton, respecting the condition of society, business, means of education and religious worship in the Miramichi country. He already knew Mr. Dubois by reputation, and was gratified to have this opportunity of meeting him. He inquired of the missionary how he happened to light upon New Brunswick as the scene of his religious labors, and listened to Mr. Norton's account of his "call" to Miramichi with unaffected interest.

The next day the case was brought before the Jury. The charge having been read, Mr. Dubois appeared in behalf of the missionary, testifying to his good character and to the nature of his spiritual teachings. He also presented to the Jury three commissions from the Governor of the State of ——, which Mr. Norton had in his possession, one of them being a commission as Chaplain of the Regiment to which he belonged. Inquiry being made whether Mr. Norton's preaching was calculated to disaffect subjects towards the government, no evidence was found to that effect. On the contrary, witnesses were brought to prove the reverse.

Mr. Mummychog, aware before he left Miramichi, that a number of his compeers in that region, who had been in the habit of coming to the Grove to hear Mr. Norton discourse, were just now at Fredericton, on lumbering business, had been beating up these as recruits for the occasion, and now brought forward quite an overpowering weight of evidence in favor of the defendant. These men testified that he had preached to them the importance of fulfilling their duties as citizens, telling them, that unless they were good subjects to the civil government, they could not be good subjects in Christ's kingdom. They testified, also, that they had frequently heard him pray in public, for the health, happiness, and prosperity of His Majesty, and for blessings on the Lord Lieutenant-Governor.

After a few minutes of conversation, the Jury dismissed the charge.

The party retired, much gratified at the favorable conclusion of what might, under other circumstances, have proved to the missionary an annoying affair. Mr. Norton warmly expressed his gratitude to Mr. Dubois, as having been the main instrument, in securing this result. He also cordially thanked Micah and his friends, for their prompt efforts in his behalf.

"Twant much of a chore, any heow", said Micah. "I never could stan' by and see any critter put upon by another he'd done no harm to, and I never will".

As they returned to the hotel, Mr. Dubois remarked that this journey to the Capital, after all, might not be without good results.

"You made", he said to Mr. Norton, "an extremely favorable impression on the minds of several gentlemen, who wield power in the province, and should you be subjected to future persecutions, you will probably be able to secure their protection".

"Possibly—possibly. I am grateful, if I have in any way secured the good will of those gentlemen. I was particularly impressed by their dignity, affability, and readiness to oblige yourself. But, my dear sir, it is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in princes".



CHAPTER XX.

MR. LANSDOWNE SUBMITS TO THE INEVITABLE.

In the meanwhile, a change had come upon John Lansdowne. Only a few weeks ago, he was a careless youth, of keen and vigorous intellectual powers, satiated with books and tired of college walls, with the boy spirit in the ascendant within him. His eye was wide open and observant, and his ringing laugh was so merry, that it brought an involuntary smile upon any one who might chance to hear its rich peals. His talk was rapid, gay, and brilliant, with but the slightest dash of sentiment, and his manner frank and fearless.

But now his bearing had become quiet and dignified; his conversation was more thoughtful and deep-flowing, less dashing and free; he spoke in a lower key; his laugh was less loud but far sweeter and more thrilling; his eyes had grown larger, darker, deeper, and sometimes they were shadowed with a soft and tender mist, not wont to overspread them before. The angel of Love had touched him, and opened a new and living spring in his heart. Boiling and bubbling in its hidden recess, an ethereal vapor mounted up and mantled those blazing orbs in a dim and dreamy veil. A charmed wand had touched every sense, every power of his being, and held him fast in a rapturous thrall, from which he did not wish to be released. Under the spell of this enchantment, the careless boy had passed into the reflective man.

Stories are told of knights errant, in the times of Merlin and the good King Arthur, who, while ranging the world in quest of adventures, were bewitched by lovely wood fairies or were lulled into delicious slumber by some syren's song, or were shut up in pleasant durance in enchanted castles. Accounts of similar character are found, even in the pages of grave chroniclers of modern date, to say nothing of what books of fiction tell, and what we observe with our own eyes, in the actual world. The truth is, Love smites his victims, just when and where he finds them. Mr. Lansdowne's case then, is not an unprecedented one. The keen Damascus blade, used to pierce our hero and bring him to the pitiful condition of the conquered, had been placed in the hand of Adele. Whether Love intended to employ that young lady in healing the cruel wound she had made, remains to be seen.

At the beginning of their acquaintance, they had found a common ground of interest in the love of music.

They both sang well. Adele played the piano and John discoursed on the flute. From these employments, they passed to books. They rummaged Mr. Dubois's library and read together, selected passages from favorite authors. Occasionally, John gave her little episodes of his past life, his childish, his school, and college days. In return, Adele told him of her term at Halifax in the convent; of the routine of life and study there; of her friendships, and very privately, of the disgust she took, while there, to what she called the superstitions, the mummeries and idolatry of the Catholic church.

When Mr. Somers had acquired strength enough for exercise on horseback, Mrs. Dubois, Adele, and John were accustomed to accompany him. Daily, about an hour after breakfast, the little party might have been seen fitting off for a canter through the forest. In the evening, the group was joined by Mr. Dubois and the missionary. The atmosphere being exceedingly dry, both by day and night, they often sat and talked by moonlight, on a balcony, built over the large, porch-like entrance to the main door of the house.

Thus John and Adele daily grew into a more familiar acquaintance.

During the absence of Mr. Dubois at Fredericton, Mr. Somers announced to John that he felt himself strong enough to undertake the ride through the wilderness, and proposed that, as soon as their host returned, they should start on their journey home.

With increasing strength, Mr. Somers had become impatient to return to the duties he had so summarily forsaken.

He wished to test, in active life, his power to maintain the new principles he had espoused and to ascertain if the nobler and holier hopes that now animated him, would give him peace, strength, and buoyancy, amid the temptations and trials of the future.

John, for several days, had been living in a delicious reverie, and was quite startled by the proposition. Though aware how anxiously his parents were awaiting his return, and that there was no reasonable excuse for farther delay, he inwardly repudiated the thought of departure. He even indicated a wish to delay the journey beyond the time Mr. Somers had designated. A piercing look of inquiry from that gentleman recalled him to his senses, and after a moment of hesitation, he assented to the arrangement. But the beautiful dream was broken. He was thrown at once into a tumult of emotion. Unwilling to expose his agitation to the observation of others, he went directly to his room and locked himself in.

After sitting half an hour with his face buried in his hands, the chaos of his soul formed itself into definite shape. His first clear thought was this,—"Without Adele, my life will be a blank. She is absolutely necessary to my existence. I must win her". A very decided conclusion certainly, for a young gentleman to reach, who when he arrived at this house, but a few weeks before, seemed to be enjoying a liberal share of hope and happiness. The question arose, Does she care for me? Does she regard me with any special interest beyond the kindness and courtesy she accords to all her father's guests? On this point, he could not satisfy himself. He was torn by a conflict of doubt, hope, and fear. He thought her not averse to him. She conversed, sang, and rode with him as if it were agreeable to her. Indeed she seemed to enjoy his society. But she was equally pleased to converse and ride with Mr. Somers and good Mr. Norton. He was unable to determine the sentiments she really cherished and remained tossed to and fro in painful suspense and agitation.

A couple of hours passed and found him in the same state. Mr. Somers came and tapped upon his door. Unwilling to awaken a suspicion of any unusual discomposure, John opened it and let him in.

"Hope I don't intrude", said Mr. Somers, "but I want you to look at the horse Mummychog has brought for me".

"Ah! yes", said John, and seizing his hat, he accompanied his friend to the stables.

Their observations over, they returned to the house.

"You have had a fit of solitude, quite unusual, my boy", said Mr. Somers, planting his hand on John's shoulder.

"Yes, quite. For a novelty, I have been collecting my thoughts". John meant to speak in a gay, indifferent tone, and thought he had done so, but this was a mistake.

Besides he had in fact a decidedly conscious look.

"If you have any momentous affair on hand, I advise you to wait, until you reach home before you decide upon it, my boy", said Mr. Somers, with a light laugh, but a strong emphasis upon the word, home.

And he passed up-stairs, leaving John, standing bewildered in the hall-door.

"Ah! Ned has discovered it all", said he to himself. But he was too much occupied with other thoughts to be annoyed by it now.

Mr. Somers's last remark had turned the course of his meditations somewhat. He began to question what opinion his parents might have in regard to the sentiments he entertained towards Adele, and the plan he had formed of endeavoring to secure her love. He knew, they considered him as yet hardly out of boyhood. He had indeed, until within a few weeks, looked upon himself in that light.

Not yet freed from college halls,—would they not think him foolish and precipitate? Would they approve his choice?

But these queries and others of like character he disposed of summarily and decisively. He felt that, no matter how recently he had passed the limits of boyhood and become a man, it was no boy's passion that now swayed his whole being, it seemed to him that, should he make the effort, he could not expel it from his soul. But he did not wish to make the effort. Adele was worthy the love of any man.

It had been his fortune to find a jewel, when he least expected it. Why should he not avail himself of the golden opportunity and secure the treasure? Would his parents approve his choice? Certainly, Adele was "beautiful as the Houries and wise as Zobeide". Considerations of policy and expediency, which sometimes appear on the mental horizon of older people, were quite unknown to our young hero.

So he returned to the only aspect of the case that gave him real disquiet. He had fears respecting Adele's sentiments towards himself, and doubts of his ability to inspire in her a love equal to his own. But he must be left for the present to adjust himself to his new situation as best he can.



CHAPTER XXI.

TROUBLED HEARTS.

On the afternoon of the day following, Adele was sitting alone in the parlor. She held a book in her hand, but evidently it did not much interest her, as her eyes wandered continually from its pages and rested, abstractedly, upon any object they happened to meet.

She felt lonely, and wondered why Mr. Lansdowne did not, as usual at that hour, come to the parlor. She thought how vacant and sad her life would be, after he and Mr. Somers had departed from Miramichi. She queried whether she should ever meet them again; whether, indeed, either of them, after a short time, would ever think of the acquaintances they had formed here, except when recalled by some accident of memory, or association. She feared they might wholly forget all these scenes, fraught with so much interest and pleasure to her, and that fear took possession of her heart and made her almost miserable. She strove to turn her mind upon her favorite project of returning with her parents, to France. But, notwithstanding her efforts, her thoughts lingered around the departing gentlemen, and the close of her acquaintance with them.

Suddenly she heard Mr. Lansdowne's step approaching the room. Conscious that her heart was at this moment in her eyes, she hastily threw the book upon the table. Taking her embroidery, she bent her attention closely upon it, thus veiling the tell-tale orbs, with their long dark lashes.

She looked up a moment, as he entered, to give him a nod of recognition. A flash of lightning will reveal at once the whole paraphernalia of a room, even to its remotest corners; or disclose the scenery of an entire landscape, in its minutest details, each previously wrapt by the darkness in perfect mystery; so, one single glance of the eye may unveil and discover a profound secret, that has hitherto never been indicated, by either word or motion. By that quick glance, Adele saw Mr. Lansdowne's face, very pale with the struggle he had just gone through, and a strange light glowing from his eyes, that caused her to withdraw her own immediately.

Her heart beat rapidly,—she was conscious that a tide of crimson was creeping up to her cheek, and felt herself tremulous in every limb, as Mr. Lansdowne approached and drew a seat near her. But pride came to her aid. One strong effort of the will, and the young creature, novice as she was in the arts of society, succeeded in partially covering the flutter and agitation of spirit caused by the sudden discovery of her lover's secret.

"When do you expect your father's return, Miss Adele?" inquired Mr. Lansdowne.

"In a day or two", was the reply.

"Do you know that my uncle and I will be obliged to leave our newly-found friends here, soon after your father gets home?"

"I know", replied Adele, with apparent calmness, "that Mr. Somers's health has greatly improved and I supposed you would probably go away soon".

"Pardon me, Miss Adele", said John, in a voice that betrayed his emotion, "but shall you miss us at all? Shall you regret our absence?"

Again Adele's heart bounded quickly. She felt irritated and ashamed of its tumult.

By another strong effort, she answered simply, "Certainly, Mr. Lansdowne, we shall all miss you. You have greatly enlivened our narrow family circle. We shall be very sorry to lose you".

How indifferent she is, thought John. She does not dream of my love.

"Miss Adele", he exclaimed passionately, "it will be the greatest calamity of my life to leave you".

For a moment, the young girl was silent. His voice both thrilled and fascinated her. Partly proud, partly shy, like the bird who shuns the snare set for it, only fluttering its wings over the spot for an instant, and then flying to a greater distance, Adele bestirred her powers and resolved not to suffer herself to be drawn into the meshes. She felt a new, strange influence creeping over her, to which she was half afraid, half too haughty to yield without a struggle.

"Mr. Lansdowne, I am happy yo learn you place some value on our friendship, as we do on yours. But surely, your own home, such as you have described it to me, must be the most attractive spot on earth to you".

"Is it possible", said Mr. Lansdowne vehemently, taking her hand and holding it fast in his, "that you cannot understand me,—that you do not know that I love you infinitely more than father, or mother, or any human creature?"

Surprised at the abruptness of this outburst, bewildered and distressed by her own conflicting emotions, Adele knew not what to say, and wished only to fly away into solitude that she might collect her scattered powers.

"Mr. Lansdowne, I am not prepared for this. Let me go. I must leave you", she exclaimed.

Suddenly drawing her hand from his, she fled to her own room, locked the door and burst into a passionate flood of tears. Poor child! Her lover with his unpractised hand, had opened a new chapter in her life, too precipitately. She was not prepared for its revelations, and the shock had shaken her a little too rudely.

John remained sitting, white and dumb, as if a thunderbolt had fallen upon him.

"Gone! gone!" he exclaimed at length, "she does not love me! And, fool that I was, I have frightened her from me forever!"

He bowed his head upon the table and uttered a groan of despair.

Mr. Lansdowne returned to the solitude of his own room, sufficiently miserable. He feared he had offended Adele past healing. Looking over the events of the week, he thought he could perceive that she had been teased by his attentions, and that she wished to indicate this by the coolness of her manner and words to him, during their recent interview. And he had recklessly, though unwittingly, put the climax to her annoyance by this abrupt disclosure of his love. He berated himself unmercifully for his folly. For a full hour, he believed that his blundering impetuosity had cost him the loss of Adele forever.

But it is hard for hope to forsake the young. It can never wholly leave any soul, except by a slow process of bitter disappointment. John saw that he had made a mistake. The strength and tumult of his passion for Adele had led him thoughtlessly into what probably appeared to her, an attempt to storm the citadel of her heart, and in her pride, she had repulsed him.

He bethought him that there were gentler modes of reaching that seat of life and love. He became a tactician. He resolved he would, by his future conduct, perhaps by some chance word, indicate to Adele that he understood her repulse and did not intend to repeat his offence. He would not hereafter seek her presence unduly, but when they were thrown together, would show himself merely gentle and brotherly. And then,—he would trust to time, to circumstances, to his lucky star, to bring her to his side.

In the mean time, after her tears had subsided, Adele found, somewhat to her surprise, that this sudden disturbance of her usual equilibrium came from the very deep interest she felt for Mr. Lansdowne. And, moreover, she was annoyed to find it so, and did not at all like to own it to herself. Naturally proud, self-relying, and in the habit of choosing her own path, she had an instinctive feeling that this new passion might lay upon her a certain thralldom, not congenial to her haughty spirit. This consciousness made her distant and reserved, when she again met Mr. Lansdowne at the tea-table.

In fact, the manner of each towards the other had wholly changed.

John was calm, respectful, gentle, but made no effort to draw Adele's attention. After tea he asked Mrs. Dubois to play backgammon with him.

Adele worked on her embroidery, and Mr. Somers sat beside her, sketching on paper with his pencil, various bits of ruin and scenery in Europe, mixed up with all sorts of grotesque shapes and monsters. Mr. Lansdowne appeared, all the evening, so composed, so natural, and simply brotherly, that when Adele went to her room for the night, the interview of the afternoon seemed almost like a dream. She thought that the peculiar reception she had given to his avowal, might have quite disenchanted her lover. And the thought disturbed her. After much questioning and surmising, she went to sleep.

The next day and the next, Mr. Lansdowne's manner towards Adele continued the same. She supposed he might renew the subject of their last conversation, but he did not, although several opportunities presented, when he might have done so. Occasionally, she strove to read his emotions by observing his countenance, but his eyes were averted to other objects. He no longer glanced towards her. "Ah! well", said Adele to herself, "his affection for me could not be so easily repulsed, were it so very profound. I will care nothing for him". And yet, somehow, her footstep lagged wearily and her eye occasionally gathered mists on its brightness.

It was now the eve of the fifth of October. An unnatural heat prevailed, consequent on the long drought, the horizon was skirted with a smoky haze and the atmosphere was exceedingly oppressive. Mrs. Dubois, who was suffering from a severe headache, sat in the parlor, half buried in the cushions of an easy-chair. Adele stood beside her, bathing her head with perfumed water, while Mr. Somers, prostrated by the weather, lay, apparently asleep, upon a sofa.

"That will do, Adele", said Mrs. Dubois, making a slight motion towards her daughter. "That will do, ma chere, my head is cooler now. Go out and watch for your father. He will surely be here to-night".

Adele stepped softly out, through the window upon the balcony.

A few minutes after, Mr. Lansdowne came to the parlor door, looked in, inquired for Mrs. Dubois's headache, gazed for a moment, at the serene face of the sleeper on the sofa, and then, perceiving Adele sitting outside, impelled by an irresistible impulse, went out and joined her.

She was leaning her head upon her hand, with her arm supported by a low, rude balustrade, that ran round the edge of the balcony, and was looking earnestly up the road, to catch the first glimpse of her father. Her countenance had a subdued, sad expression. She was indeed very unhappy. The distance and reserve that had grown up so suddenly between herself and Mr. Lansdowne had become painful to her. She would have rejoiced to return once more to their former habits of frank and vivacious conversation. But she waited for him to renew the familiarity of the past.

She turned her head towards him as he approached, and without raising her eyes, said, "Good evening, Mr. Lansdowne". He bowed, sat down, and they remained several minutes in silence.

"I suppose", said John, at length, making a desperate effort to preserve a composure of manner, entirely at variance with the tumultuous throbbings of his heart, "you are confident of your father's return to-night?"

"O, yes. I look for him every moment. I am quite anxious to hear the result of the expedition".

"I am, also. I hope no harm will come to our good friend, Mr. Norton. Do you know whether he intends to spend the winter here, Miss Adele?"

"I think he will return to his family. But we shall endeavor to retain him, until we go ourselves".

"You go, Miss Adele", exclaimed John, unable to conceal his eager interest, "do you leave here?"

"We go to France next month".

"To France!" repeated the young man.

"My father and mother are going to visit their early home. I shall accompany them". John, aroused by information containing so much of importance in regard to Adele's future, could not restrain himself from prolonging the conversation. Adele was willing to answer his inquiries, and in a few minutes they were talking almost as freely and frankly as in the days before Mr. Lansdowne's unfortunately rash avowal of his passion.

Suddenly a thick cloud of dust appeared in the road, and Mr. Dubois, Mr. Norton, and Micah, were soon distinguished turning the heads of their horses towards the house.

Adele uttered an exclamation of joy, and bounded from her seat. As Mr. Lansdowne made way for her to reach the window, she glanced for a moment at his face, and there beheld again the strange light glowing in his eyes. It communicated a great hope to her heart.

She hastened past him to greet her father.



CHAPTER XXII.

A MEMORABLE EVENT.

The morning of the sixth of October dawned. The heat of the weather had increased and become wellnigh intolerable. At breakfast, Mr. Dubois and Mr. Norton gave accounts of fires they had seen in various parts of the country, some of them not far off, and owing to the prevalence of the forest and the extreme dryness of the trees and shrubs, expressed fears of great devastation.

They united in thinking it would be dangerous for the two gentlemen to undertake their journey home, until a copious rain should have fallen.

During the forenoon, the crackling of the fires and the sound of falling-trees in the distant forest could be distinctly heard, announcing that the terrible element was at work.

Mr. Dubois, accompanied by Mr. Norton and John, ascended the most prominent hills in the neighborhood to watch the direction in which the clouds of smoke appeared. These observations only confirmed their fears. They warned the people around of the danger, but these paid little heed. In the afternoon, the missionary crossed, from the Dubois house, on the northern side of the river, to the southern bank, and explored the country to a considerable distance around.

In the evening, when the family met in the Madonna room, cheerfulness had forsaken the party. The languor produced by the heat and the heavily-laden atmosphere, solicitude felt for the dwellers in the forest, through which the fire was now sweeping, a hoarse rumbling noise like distant thunder, occasionally booming on their ears, and gloomy forebodings of impending calamity, all weighed upon the dispirited group.

Mr. Norton said it was his firm conviction that God was about to display His power in a signal manner to this people in order to arouse them to a sense of their guilt.

Before separating for the night, he requested permission to offer up a prayer to heaven. The whole circle knelt, while he implored the Great Ruler of all, to take them as a family under his protecting love, whether life or death awaited them, and that He would, if consistent with His great and wise plans, avert His wrath from the people.

The night was a dismal, and for the most of the family, a sleepless one. The morning rose once more, but it brought no cheering sound of blessed rain-drops. The air was still hot and stifling.

About noon, the missionary came in from a round of observation he had been making, and urged Mr. Dubois to take his family immediately to the south bank of the river. The fires were advancing towards them from the north, and would inevitably be upon them soon. He had not been able to discover any appearance of fire upon the southern side of the river. It was true the approaching flames might be driven across, but the stream being for some distance quite wide, this might not take place. In any event, the southern side was the safest, at the present moment. He had faith in the instinct of animals, and for several hours past he had seen cattle and geese leaving their usual places of resort and swimming to the opposite shore.

Mr. Dubois, also convinced that there was no other feasible method of escape, hastened to make arrangements for immediate departure.

A mist, tinged with deep purple, now poured in from the wilderness and overspread the horizon. A dark cloud wrapped the land in a dismal gloom. The heat grew nearly insupportable. Rapid explosions, loud and startling noises, filled the air, and the forest thrilled and shook with the raging flames. Soon a fiery belt encircled them on the east, north, and west, and advancing rapidly, threatened to cover the whole area. The river was the only object which, by any possibility, could stay its course.

Then followed a scene of wildest confusion. The people, aroused at last to their danger, rushed terrified to the river, unmoored their boats and fled across. Hosts of women, whose husbands were absent in the forest, came with their children, imploring to be taken to the other side. The remainder of the day was occupied in this work, and at the close of it, most of those living in the Dubois settlement had been safely landed on the southern shore; and there they stood huddled together in horror-stricken groups, on the highest points they could reach, watching the terrible, yet majestic scene.

Mr. Somers had been occupied in this way all the afternoon and was greatly exhausted. As the darkness of night shut down upon the scene, he landed a party of women and children, who rushed up, precipitately, to join those who had crossed before. He had handed the last passenger over the edge of the boat, when a sudden faintness, produced by the excessive heat and fatigue, overpowered him. He tottered backward and fell, striking his head violently upon some object in the bottom of the boat. It was a deathblow.

There he lay, with face upturned towards the lurid glare that lit up the darkness. The boat nestled about in the little cove, rocked upon the waves, presenting the pale countenance, now half in shadow, now wholly concealed by the overhanging shrubs, and now in full relief, but always with a sweet, radiant, immovable calm upon the features, in strange contrast to the elemental roar and tumult around him.

In the mean time, the fires drew nearer and nearer the northern bank of the river. A strong breeze sprang up and immense columns of smoke mounted to the sky. Then came showers of ashes, cinders and burning brands. At last, a tornado, terrible in fury, arose to mingle its horrors with the fire. Thunderbolt on thunderbolt, crash on crash rent the air. At intervals of momentary lull in the storm, the roar of the flames was heard. Rapidly advancing, they shot fiery tongues into every beast lair of the forest, into every serpent-haunted crevice of the rock, sending forth their denizens bellowing and writhing with anguish and death; onward still they rushed licking up with hissing sound every rivulet and shallow pond, twisting and coiling round the glorious pines, that had battled the winds and tempests hundreds of years, but now to be snapped and demolished by this new enemy.

With breathless interest, the inhabitants of the settlement watched the progress of the flames. The hamlet where they lived was situated on a wide point of land, around which the Miramichi made an unusually bold sweep. Micah's Grove partly skirted it on the north.

From the Grove to the river, the forest-trees had been cleared, leaving the open space dotted with the houses of the settlers. The fire pressed steadily on toward the Grove. The destruction of that forest fane, consecrated so recently to the worship of God, and the burning of their homes and earthly goods seemed inevitable. The people, with pale, excited faces, awaited this heart-rending spectacle.

Just at this moment, the tornado, coming from the North, with terrific fury, drawing flames, trees, and every movable object in its wake, whirling forward with gigantic power, suddenly turned in its path, veered towards the east, swept past the Grove and past the settlement, leaving them wholly untouched, and took its destructive course onward to the ocean. The people were dumb with amazement. Ruin had seemed so sure that they scarcely trusted the evidence of their senses.

They dared not even think they had been saved from so much misery. For a time, not a word was uttered, not a muscle moved.

Mr. Mummychog was the first to-recover his voice.

"'Tis a maracle! and nuthin' else", he exclaimed, "and we've jest got to thank Captin' Norton for it. He's been a prayin' ut we might be past by, all 'long and 'tis likely the Lord has heerd him. 'Tain't on eour own acceounts, my worthy feller-sinners, that we've been spared. Mind ye remember that".

The people in their joy gathered around the missionary, and united with Micah, in acknowledging their belief, that his prayers had averted from them this great calamity. For a moment, their attention was distracted from the still raging horrors of the scene by the sense of relief from threatened danger.

It was during this brief lull of intense anxiety and expectation, that our friends first became aware of the absence of Mr. Somers. They had supposed, of course, that he was standing somewhere among the groups of people, his attention riveted, like their own, upon the scene before them. Adele first woke to the consciousness that he was not with them.

She turned her head and explored with earnest gaze the people around. She could see distinctly by the intense red light, nearly every countenance there, but did not recognize that of Mr. Somers. A painful anxiety immediately seized her, which she strove in vain to conceal. She approached near where Mr. Lansdowne stood, by the side of her mother, gazing after the fire, placed her hand lightly on his arm, and asked, "Can you tell me where Mr. Somers is to be found?"

"Mr. Somers! yes,—Ned. Where is he?" he exclaimed, turning, half bewildered by her question, and looking in her face.

In an instant, the solicitude her features expressed, passed into his own, the same sudden presentiment of evil possessed him.

Drawing Adele's arm hurriedly into his, he said, "please go with me to seek him".

Hastening along, they went from one to another, making inquiries. It appeared that Mr. Somers had not been seen for several hours.

Immediately, the whole company took the alarm and the search for him commenced.

John and Adele, after fruitless efforts among the houses, at length took their way to the river bank. As they were hastening forward, a woman standing upon a rock overhanging the path they pursued, told them that Mr. Somers brought herself and children over in the boat, just at dark,—that she had not seen him since, and she remembered now, that she did not see him come up from the river after he landed them.

"Lead us to the spot where you left the boat", said Adele. "Go on as quickly as you can".

The woman descended from her perch upon the rock and plunged before them into the path.

"I remember now", she said with sudden compunctions, at her own selfish indifference, "that the gentleman looked pale and seemed to be dreadful tired like".

Neither John nor Adele made reply, and the woman hurried on. In a few minutes, a sudden turn in the path brought them to the little cove where the boat still lay.

The woman first caught sight of the wan face in the bottom of the boat, and uttered a scream of horror. The lips of the others were frozen into silence by the dread spectacle.

Scarcely a moment seemed to have passed, before John rushed down into the water, reached the boat, raised thence the lifeless form, bore it to the shore and laid the dripping head into the arms of Adele, who seated herself on the grass to receive it.

"Go quickly", she said to the woman, "go for Dr. Wright. I saw him only a moment ago. Find him and bring him here".

John threw himself upon his knees and began chafing Mr. Somers's hands. "He is dead! he is dead!" he whispered, in a voice, hoarse and unnatural with fear and anxiety.

"Let us hope not", said Adele in a tone of tenderness. "Perhaps it is only a swoon. We will convey him to some shelter and restore him". And she wrung the rain from his curls of long brown hair.

John's finger was upon Mr. Somers's wrist. "It will break my mother's heart", he said, in the same hoarse whisper. At that moment, Dr. Wright's voice was heard. He placed himself, without a word, upon the grass, looked at the pale face, unfastened the dripping garments, thrust his hand in beneath them, and laid it upon the young man's heart.

"He is dead!" said Dr. Wright. "Friends, get a bit of canvas and a blanket and take him to some house, till day breaks".

John, stupefied with horror and grief, still knelt by Mr. Somers, chafing his hands and wringing the water from his wet garments. At length, Mr. Dubois gently roused him from his task, telling him they would now remove their friend to a house, where he might be properly cared for.

"Let me lift him", said Micah to the young man. But John shook his head and stooping, raised Mr. Somers and laid him on the canvas as gently as if he were a sleeping infant.

Mr. Dubois, the missionary, John, and Micah conveyed the precious charge. The Doctor, with Mrs. Dubois and Adele followed in melancholy silence. The crowd came behind. The terrific events of the night had made the people quiet, thoughtful, and sympathetic.

Once, after the prolonged, clinging gaze of each upon the face of the sleeper, the eyes of the missionary and John met.

"My dear young man", said Mr. Norton, in a low, emphatic voice, "God has taken him in mercy. The dear friend whom we loved, is himself satisfied, I doubt not. May the Eternal Father grant us all at the end of our course here a like blessed deliverance. Amen".

John looked in the good man's face, as if he but half understood his words, and fixed his eyes again upon Mr. Somers.

At length, the party reached a house near the river bank, where they deposited the dead.

Mrs. McNab, who had followed close on their footsteps, when they reached the door, drew Adele aside and said,

"Naw, Miss Ady, I want the preevaleege o' trying to resoositate that puir gentelman. It wad be like rasin' the dead, but there'll be nae harm in tryin', to be sure".

"He is dead. The doctor says so, Aunt Patty". And Adele turned away quickly.

But Mrs. McNab caught her shawl and held it.

"Naw, Miss Ady, dinna turn awa' fram a puir body, that was overtook ance or twice with the whiskey, when a was tired and worrit for want o' sleep. I wad nae ha' hurt a hair o' the gentelman's head. An' I wad like the preevaleege o' wrappin' some blankets round him an' puttin' some bottles o' hot water to his feet".

Adele, who had listened more patiently than she was wont, now turned and glancing at Aunt Patty, saw that she really looked humble and wishful, and two great tears were in her eyes.

"Well, I will see", said she, struck with this new phase of Mrs. McNab's countenance. She went into the apartment, where they had just laid Mr. Somers upon a bed.

In a few minutes, she returned.

"The doctor says it will be of no use, Aunt Patty. But Mr. Lansdowne would like to make an attempt to restore him. So come, mamma and I will help you".

Notwithstanding Mrs. McNab's subdued state of mind and her genuine, unselfish wish to do all in her power to bring consciousness to the stricken form, she could not avoid, as she made one application after another, making also a few indicative observations to Mrs. Dubois.

"Did ye hear what the preacher said to the young mon as we cam' alang? He's a mighty quick way o' desmeesin a' bonnie creetur like this out o' the warld and sayin' he's satisfied aboot it".

"That was not what the missionary said, Mrs. McNab", replied Mrs. Dubois. "He said that Mr. Somers is happy now. He is in Paradise, and we must not wish him back. He is satisfied to be with Jesus and the angels and his own mother. That is what he meant. And does he not look satisfied? See his blissful countenance!"

Mrs. Dubois leaned over him a moment, and thinking of his sister, Mrs. Lansdowne, parted his hair with her pale, slender fingers and imprinted a kiss on his forehead.

All efforts to restore warmth, or life to that marble form were in vain, and at length they covered his face gently, until the day-dawn.

John sat by the bedside, his head buried in his hands, until morning. He thought over all his past companionship with this youthful Uncle Ned, of his pleasantness, wit and fascination, of his generous spirit, of his love for his mother and himself, and wondered at the awful strangeness that had thus fallen, in a moment, between them. Then the thought of his mother's bitter grief swept over him like a flood and nearly unmanned him. Like the drowning man, his brain was stimulated to an unwonted activity. He lived over again his whole life, in a few minutes of time. This dread Power, who had never crossed his path before, shocked him inexpressibly. Who of the young, unstricken by sorrow, ever associates death with himself or with those he loves, till the Arch Reaper comes some day and cuts down and garners his precious treasure?

John had heard of death, but he had heard of it just as he had heard of the poisonous Upas-tree, growing on some distant ocean island, or of an evil star, under whose baleful influence he might never fall.

The young live as if this life were immortal. So much the more bitter their experience, when they wake up from the delusion.

The others of the party were gathered in an adjoining room, gazing silently at the scene without. It was fearful, yet sublime. The whole northern side of the Miramichi river, for over one hundred miles, had become involved in one mighty sheet of flame, which was sweeping on in swift destruction to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The river boiled with the fierce heat and tossed its foaming waters, filled with its now lifeless inhabitants, to the shore. The fire was fed by six thousand square miles of primeval forest,—a dense growth of resinous trees,—by houses and barns filled with crops, and by thriving towns upon the river's bank.

Above all, the people could not put aside the horrible truth, that hundreds of men, women, and children,—their friends and their acquaintances,—were perishing by the all-consuming element. They could not exclude from fancy, the agonized and dying shrieks of those dear to them, and the demoniac light shone on countenances, expressing emotions of pity, grief, horror, and despair.

While the missionary sat there waiting for the day, he recalled with startling distinctness the wild dream he dreamed, on that first night he spent at the Dubois House. Of course, his belief in foregleams of future events was confirmed by the scenes transpiring around him.

Mrs. Dubois sat near him, her countenance expressing profound grief.

"The dear young man!" she said. "How sad and awful thus to die!"

"My dear madam", said Mr. Norton, "let us not mourn as those who have no hope. Our beloved friend, brilliant and susceptible, aspiring and tender, was illy fitted for the rude struggle of life. It is true he might have fought his way through, girt with the armor of Christian faith and prayer, as many others, like him, have done. But the fight would have been a hard one. So he has been kindly taken home. Sad and awful thus to die? Say rather, infinitely blest the God-protected soul, thus snatched away from this terrific uproar of natural elements into the sphere of majestic harmonies, of stupendous yet peaceful powers".

At daybreak the little community took to their boats, crossed the river and re-entered once more the dwellings they had but a few hours before left, never expecting to return to them again. Some went home and gathered their families in unbroken numbers around them. Others, whose husbands and sons had been absent in the forest at the time of the breaking out of the fire, over whose fate remained a terrible uncertainty, gathered in silence around lonely hearths. The terrors of the past night were, to such, supplemented by days and even weeks of heartbreaking anxiety and suspense, closed at last by the knowledge of certain bereavement.

All had been deeply impressed with the horror of the scene, and sobered into thoughtfulness. A few felt truly grateful to the Most High for their wonderful preservation.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SEPARATION.

With the morning light and the return to the settlement, Mr. Lansdowne awoke to a consciousness of the duty immediately before him, that of making arrangements for the safe conveyance home of the precious form now consigned to his care.

His friends at the Dubois house manifested the deepest sympathy in his affliction, and aided him in every possible way. In making his journey he concluded to take a boat conveyance to Chatham, and a trading vessel thence to his native city.

The missionary, who since the early spring had been laboring up and down the rivers St. John and Miramichi, now concluded to return to his family for the coming winter. Such had been his intention and his promise to Mrs. Norton, when he left home. He was induced to go at this particular time partly by the hope of rendering some service to Mr. Lansdowne during his journey, and partly in order to see Mrs. Lansdowne and impart to her the particulars of her brother's residence and illness at Miramichi. A scheme of mercy on the part of the good man.

On the return of Mr. Dubois to his house, he found a package of letters, which, in the confusion and anxiety of the previous day, had remained unopened. There was one from the Count de Rossillon, announcing the death of the Countess. He wrote as if deeply depressed in mind, speaking of the infirmities of age weighing heavily upon him, and of his loneliness, and imploring Mr. Dubois to come, make his abode at the chateau and take charge of the estate, which, at his death, he added, would pass into the possession of Mrs. Dubois and Adele.

Mrs. Dubois's heart beat with delight and her eyes swam with tears of pleasure, at the prospect of once more returning to her beloved Picardy. Yet her joy was severely chastened by the loss of the Countess, whom she had fondly loved.

Adele felt a satisfaction in the anticipation of being restored to the dignities of Rossillon, which she was too proud to manifest.

Mr. Dubois alone hesitated in entertaining the idea of a return. His innate love of independence, together with a remembrance of the early antipathy the Count had shown to the marriage with his niece, made the thought repellant to him. A calmer consideration, however, changed his view of the case. He recollected that the Count had at last consented to his union with Mrs. Dubois, and reflected that the infirmities and loneliness of the Count laid on them obligations they should not neglect. He found, also, that his own love of home and country, now that it could at last with propriety be gratified, welled up and overflowed like a newly sprung fountain.

The tornado had spent itself, the fire had rushed on to the ocean, the atmosphere had became comparatively clear and the weather cool and bracing.

On the evening before the departure of Mr. Norton and Mr. Lansdowne, the family met, as on many previous occasions, in the Madonna room. In itself, the apartment was as cheerful and attractive as ever, but each one present felt a sense of vacancy, a shrinking of the heart. The sunny changeful glow of one bright face was no longer there, and the shadows of approaching separation cast a gloom over the scene.

These people, so strangely thrown together in this wild, obscure region of Miramichi, drawn hither by such differing objects of pursuit, bound by such various ties in life, occupying such divergent positions in the social scale, had grown by contact and sympathy into a warm friendship toward each other. Their daily intercourse was now to be broken up, the moment of adieu drew nigh, and the prospect of future meeting was, to say the least, precarious. Was it strange that some sharp pangs of regret filled their hearts?

Mr. Lansdowne, who had up to this time been wholly occupied with his preparations for departure, was sitting, in an attitude betokening weariness and despondency, leaning his arms upon a table, shading his face with his hand. A few days of grief and anxiety had greatly changed him. He looked pale and languid, but Adele thought, as she occasionally glanced at him from the sofa opposite, that she had never seen his countenance so clothed with spiritual beauty.

Mr. Dubois, who had not yet spoken to his friends of his intention to remove to France, now broke the heavy silence, by announcing his purpose to leave, in the course of a week, and return with his family to Picardy.

Mr. Lansdowne started suddenly and uttered a slight exclamation. Adele looked at him involuntarily. He was gazing at her intently. The strange light again glowed in his eyes. Her own fell slowly. She could not keep her lids lifted beneath his gaze.

After the plans of Mr. Dubois had been discussed, mutual inquiries and communications respecting future prospects were made, until the evening hours were gone.

"If my life is spared, I shall come here and spend another season, as I have spent the one just closing", said Mr. Norton.

Thus they parted for the night.

In the morning there was time for nothing, but a few hasty words.

Adele's face was very pale. Mr. Lansdowne, looking as if he had not slept for many hours, took her hand, bent over it silently for a moment, then walked slowly to the boat without turning his head.

During days and weeks of tranquil pleasure in each other's companionship, these two young beings had unconsciously become lovers. No sooner had they awakened to a knowledge of this fact, than a great danger and an unlooked for sorrow, while deepening the current of their existence, had also deepened their affection. Was that formal, restrained adieu to be the end of all this?



CHAPTER XXIV.

CHATEAU DE ROSSILLON.

In the year 1828, three years after the occurrences related in the last chapter, Adele Dubois, grown into a superb beauty, stood near the Aphrodite fountain, in front of the chateau de Rossillon, feeding from her hand a beautiful white fawn. It was a warm, sunny afternoon in June. Majestic trees shaded the green lawn, and the dark brown hue of the old chateau formed a fitting background for the charming tableau. Adele was enveloped in a cloud of white gauzy drapery, a black velvet girdle encircling her waist, fastened by a clasp of gold and pearls. Her hair was laid in smooth bands over her brow, then drawn into one mass of heavy braids upon the back of the head, and secured by a golden arrow shot through it.

One who by chance had seen Adele in the wilds of Miramichi, at the age of sixteen, would at once recognize the lady feeding the fawn as the same. At a second glance, the hair would be seen to have grown a shade darker and a gleam more shining, the large sloe-colored eyes more thoughtful and dreamy, the complexion of a more transparent whiteness, and the figure to have ripened into a fuller and richer symmetry.

Nothing could surpass the exquisite moulding and fairness of the arm extended alternately to feed and caress the pet animal before her. No wonder the little creature looked up at her with its soft, almost human eyes, and gazed in her face, as if half bewildered by her beauty.

With a proud and stately grace, she moved over the sward, up the marble steps and passed through the great saloon of the chateau. Was there not a slight air of indifference and ennui in her face and movements? Possibly. It has been noticed that people who are loved, petted, and admired, who have plenty of gold and jewels, who sit at feasts made for princes, and have the grand shine of splendor always gleaming round them, are more likely to carry that weary aspect, than others. Queens even do not look pleased and happy more than half the time. The fact was, that Adele of Miramichi, having spent much time in Paris, during the last three years, where she had been greatly admired, now that the novelty was over, had become tired of playing a part in the pageantry of courtly life and longed for something more substantial.