Your affectionate father, ALBERT REYNOLDS." Nov. 12th, 1782.

The other epistle was from a lawyer, informing Reynolds of his acquisition to a large amount of property, by a will of his late cousin; and that he, the said lawyer, being executor thereof, required the presence of him, the said Reynolds, or his proxy forthwith.

"I knew it: I felt that all would yet be well: I told you to hope for the best!" cried Ella, as she concluded the letter, her eyes moist with tears, and her face beaming like the sun through a summer shower.

"God bless you, dearest Ella—you did indeed!" exclaimed Reynolds, suddenly, bounding from his seat and clasping her in his arms. "You did indeed tell me to hope—and you told me truly;" and he pressed kiss after kiss, again and again, upon her sweet lips, with all the wild, trembling, rapturous feelings of a lover in his first ecstasy of bliss, when he has surmounted all obstacles, and gained the heart of the being he loves.

"Now, dearest Ella," continued Algernon, when the excitement of the moment had been succeeded by a calmer, though not less blissful mood: "Now, dearest Ella, I am free—my sacred oath binds me no longer—and now can I say, with propriety, that I deeply, solemnly, and devotedly love you, and you alone. I am not rich; but I have enough of this world's goods to live in ease, if not in splendor. Will you share with me, and be partner of my lot, be it for good or ill, through life? My heart you have had long—my hand I now offer you. Say, dearest, will you be mine?"

Ella did not speak—she could not; but she looked up into his face, with a sweet, modest, affectionate smile; and her dark, soft, beautiful eyes, suffused with tears, wherein a soul of love lay mirrored, gave answer, with a heart-felt eloquence surpassing words.

"I understand you, Ella," said Algernon, with emotion. "You are mine—mine forever!" and he strained her trembling form to his heart in silence—a deep, joyful and holy silence—that had in it more of Heaven than earth.

* * * * *

It was a mild, lovely day in the spring of 1783. Earth had donned her green mantle, and decorated it with flowers of every hue and variety. The trees were in leaf and in bloom; among whose soft, waving branches, gay birds from the sunny south sung most sweetly; and nature seemed every where to rejoice. In the court of Bryan's Station was a large concourse of people—many of whom were from a distance—and all assembled there to witness the solemn ceremony which was to unite Algernon Reynolds and Ella Barnwell forever; for who shall say the holy marriage rite is not eternally binding in the great Hereafter. There were congregated both sexes and all ages, from the infant to the hoary headed veteran of eighty winters. There were assembled youth and manhood, whose names have since graced the historic page, and whose deeds have stamped them benefactors of their race and nation. All were in order, and silent, and the scene was most solemnly impressive. On the right and left of the bride and groom and their attendants, stood, promiscuously, the general spectators of both sexes. In front was drawn up the garrison, in three platoons, under arms, in compliment to the noble bravery of our hero at the battle of Blue Licks.

Never did Algernon appear more noble than now—never did Ella look more beautiful; as, pale and trembling, she seemed to cling to his arm for support. The ceremony was at length begun and ended, amid a deep and breathless silence. As the last words, "I pronounce you man and wife," died away upon the air, the first platoon advanced a pace and fired a volley—the second and third followed—and then arose a soft bewitching strain of music; during which the friends of the newly married pair came forward to offer their congratulations, and wishes for their long life and happiness.

Among the party present was Colonel Boone; and approaching Algernon and Ella—who were now seated where the solemn rite had taken place—he took the hand of each, and said, in a voice of some emotion:

"My children—for ye seem to me as such—may you both live long and be happy. You've both o' ye had a deal o' trouble since I first saw ye—and that's but a little while ago—but I hope its now over. Don't think I want to flatter, sir, when I say I think you're a brave and honorable young man, and that you've got a wife every way worthy of ye—and she a husband worthy o' her—and that's saying much. God bless ye both! and ef you ever need a friend, call on Daniel Boone."

With this he shook their hands heartily, and strode away.

The next who advanced to them was Captain Patterson—the officer, it will be remembered, whose life Algernon so generously saved at the risk of his own. After the usual congratulations, he took our hero by the hand, and said, with deep feeling:

"Sir! I feel that to you, for risking your own life to save mine, I owe a debt I can never cancel; and an attempt to express to you in words my sense of obligation for the noble act, would be worse than vain: therefore accept this, as a slight testimonial of the gratitude of one who will ever remember you in his prayers, and wear your image in his heart."

As he concluded, Captain Patterson placed in the hands of Algernon a sealed packet, and moved away.[25]

"Well, its all over," said Mrs. Younker, coming up in turn to wish the young couple joy. "I al'ays 'spected as how it 'ud come to this here. Goodness, gracious, marsy on me alive! what a flustration they has made about ye, sure enough, for sartin—han't they? I never seed the like on't afore in all my born days. Why, it's like you war governor's folks, sure enough. And my own Ella, too; and the stranger as com'd to my house all bleeding to death like! My! my!—what strange doings Providence does! Well, its to be hoped you'll al'ays git bread enough to keep from starving, and that you won't fight nor quarrel more nor is necessitous—as the Reverend Preacher Allprayer said, when he married me and Ben together. Ah!—poor Ben!—poor Ben!—I'm a lone widder now. Well, the Lord's will be done!" And the good dame moved sadly away, to make room for others, and console herself by recounting her afflictions to some patient listener, together with the virtues of her deceased and living friends.

"I don't 'spect it's o' much account my telling you I wish ye joy," said Isaac, "when every body's doing the same thing; but it comes from the heart, and I can't help it. Well, you'll be happy, I know; for thar's nothing like married life; and I speak from experience. I'm sorry you've got to leave us so soon; but you won't git far from me; for I've got you both here;" and placing his hand upon his heart, he bowed, smiled, and passed on.

As soon as the congratulations were over, Algernon and Ella were escorted into the cottage occupied by Mrs. Younker; where a sumptuous dinner was already prepared for them, their relatives, and a few select friends, among whom was Colonel Boone and Captain Patterson. For the remainder, long tables were ranged around the common, where the greatest conviviality prevailed; and toasts were drank, and songs were sung, and all were merry. After dinner there were music and dancing on the common and in the cabins: and the coming night shut in a scene of festivity, such as was but seldom witnessed even in those early times; and which was remembered and spoken of long, long years after, when many of those who were then actors in the scene had sunk beneath the clods of the valley.

Years have rolled away to the dark and unapproachable past since the transpiring of the events which we have chronicled, and vast mutations have marked the steps of all conquering time. Our beloved country, which then weak and oppressed was struggling for her independence against the most powerful nation on the globe, has since nobly won a name and place among the mighty ones of earth, and planted her stars and stripes from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and built cities and towns amid dark and mighty forests, where then roved in freedom the wild, untutored aborigines of America.

Kentucky, too, has since become a rich, populous, and powerful state; and her noble sons, by their courage and generosity, have well maintained that name and fame which was won for them by their fathers, and which shall go down to future ages all green and unfading. Bryan's Station—the theatre of many a scene of gay frolic and sanguinary strife—of festivity and mourning—has long since sunk to ruin and dust; and on its site now stands the private dwelling of a gentleman of fortune. But where are they who once inhabited it? Those hoary headed veterans—those middle aged men—or those fiery and impetuous youths ever ready for either love or war? Where are they now? Gone! Passed away like moving shadows that leave no trace behind. Gone out, one by one, as lights in the late deserted hall of revelry, or stars at the dawn of day. But very few—and these mere striplings then—now remain to tell the tale; of whom it may with truth be said, "The places which know them now shall soon know them no more forever."

Reader, a word or two more and we have done; and in your hands we leave the decision, as to whether our task has been faithfully fulfilled or not.

Shortly after their marriage, Algernon and Ella bade farewell to their friends in the west, and returned to the east, where a long and happy career awaited them; and where they lived to recount to their children and grand-children, the thrilling narratives of their captivity, and their wild and romantic adventures while pioneers on the borders of Kentucky.

Isaac returned to the farm of his father—rebuilt the cottage destroyed by the Indians—and there, with his dear Peggy, lived happily to a green old age, beloved and respected by all who knew him; and there his posterity still continue to multiply the name of Younker. With him the good dame, his mother, sojourned for several years, as industrious and talkative as ever; and at last passed quietly from among the living, even while in the act of making a sublime quotation on the subject of dying from her favorite, the immortal Preacher Allprayer.

Boone continued a resident of Kentucky, until he fancied it too populous for his comfort; when he removed with his family to Missouri; where he spent much of his time in fishing and hunting, and where he finally died at an advanced age. From thence his remains were conveyed to Frankfort, the capital of Kentucky, where they now repose; and where a rough slab, with a few half intelligible characters thereon, points out to the curious stranger the last earthly resting place of the noblest, the most daring, and famous hunter and pioneer the world has ever produced.

The fate of little Rosetta Millbanks, the captive, is unknown.

Girty, notwithstanding his outrageous crimes against humanity, continued to live among the Indians for a great number of years, the inveterate and barbarous foe of his race. In the celebrated battle of the Thames, a desperate white man led on a band of savages, who fought with great fury, but were at length overpowered and their leader cut to pieces by Colonel Johnson's mounted men. The mangled corse of this leader was afterwards recognized as the notorious and once dreaded Simon Girty.

[Footnote 25: This was found to contain a deed of two hundred acres of the best land in Kentucky. A historical fact.]



THE END