"Dear me!" answered Florence, as she stood before the window, blowing her benumbed fingers, "I don't think we shall have any occasion to open our trunks, for there is not a frock in mine I could venture to put on, unless I was willing to be frozen to death within the hour."

"But what are we to do?" said Ellen, approaching the other window and gazing forth on the dark, stormy evening, that was rapidly closing in around them. Nothing could be seen beyond the small circle of the valley in which the house stood, save dense clouds of fog and mist. The rain poured like a second deluge, and terrific winds roared, and shrieked, and bellowed like infuriate spirits of the rushing storm.

"What geese we have made of ourselves, Florence!" resumed Ellen, after she had gazed in silence a few moments on the gloomy prospect presented to her eyes; "jamming into crowded, uncomfortable coaches, and bruising and battering our flesh and bones to jelly, all to reach this wonderful abode of grandeur and sublimity. What 'Alps on Alps' we expected would tower before our astonished visions! But here we are, sunk in a dismal abyss on the extreme northern verge of civilization, and never a mountain to be seen, or anything else save great lowering clouds that threaten to fall and crush us yet deeper into the earth."

"If I could only get to see the mountains, I would not mind all the discomfitures," said Florence, peering into the growing blackness without.

"I tell you there are no mountains," said Ellen, growing impatient in her disappointment.

"O, yes," returned Florence; "I think there must be a few somewhere in the vicinity."

"Then why can't we see them?" demanded Ellen.

"They are hidden by the clouds, I suppose," said Florence. "I am told Mount Washington is veiled in their fleecy mantles for weeks sometimes."

"No doubt it will be thus obscured during our visit," said Ellen, quite petulantly.

A knock on the door here called their attention. Florence opened it, and beheld her father, "Well, girls," said he, rubbing his hands, "what do you think of the White Mountains?"

"When we have seen them we shall be better prepared to give an opinion," said Florence.

"For my part, I don't believe in them at all," said Ellen quickly.

Major Howard laughed heartily at this pertly announced conviction of the non-existence of the wonderful summits they had come to behold, and said he trusted, "when the storm was over, the elephants would show their terrible heads."

"But are not you half frozen?" asked he, his teeth chattering as he spoke; "pray come down in the parlors; you will find them warm and filled with guests."

"We cannot go in our travelling garbs," said Ellen, "and there's no opportunity here, as you see, to open our trunks."

"Never mind your dark dresses," returned he; "you will not find the gossamer fabrics that deck the belles of Saratoga in fashion here. The fair creatures, however much in defiance of their wishes, are obliged to conceal their white arms and shoulders in thick warm coverings."

"We would be very glad to do so," said Florence; "but unfortunately our wardrobes were prepared for a temperate, instead of a frigid zone."

"Well, you will do very well as you are to-night; there are a score of ladies just arrived, all round the parlor fires, in their travel-stained garbs; so come on," said he, "and don't be bashful. You will hear the conversation of those who have passed half the summer in this region, and perhaps Ellen may come to believe in old Mount Washington."

"I shall never believe in it till I have seen it with my own eyes," returned the fair girl, as she and Florence, under the escort of Major Howard, descended the flights of stairs to the parlor.

As they entered, a hum of voices struck their ears from every side. There was a group of ladies and gentlemen round the fire, and several of them vacated their seats for the convenience of the new comers. A large woman with a very red face remained in one corner and a young girl sat by her side.

"Have you just arrived?" asked the former of Florence; who was nearest her.

"Yes, madam," returned Florence, respectfully.

"Well, it is a dismal time for strangers to make their advent, though the largest arrivals most always occur on such nights as this," said the fleshy woman, who had rather a pleasant manner, and would have been very good-looking, Florence thought, but for the rough redness of her complexion.

"Are such storms frequent here?" inquired Ellen, in a dubious tone.

"Not very," answered the portly lady. "I have been here six weeks, and have not witnessed so severe a one hitherto. I think myself rather unfortunate to have been exposed to its severity all day."

Ellen and Florence looked surprised, and the lady continued: "Myself and daughter joined a large party that ascended the mountains yesterday. We had a tedious time. I lost my veil, and my face was frozen by exposure to the biting blasts. The storm came on so furiously we were obliged to send our horses back by the guides and remain all night."

"What!" exclaimed Ellen, "remain all night on the top of a mountain exposed to a storm like this! Why did you not all perish?"

"O, we had shelter, and a good one!" returned the lady.

"Where was it? In caves of rocks, or on cold, wet turfs beneath reeking branches of lofty pines?" asked Ellen.

"Not in caves," answered the lady, "and certainly not on grassy turfs, or beneath trees of any variety; for old Mount Washington's bleak summit cannot boast the one or the other."

"What can it boast, then?" inquired Ellen; "wolves and catamounts, that, together with its shrieking winds, make night hideous?"

"Not wolves, or animals of any species," returned the lady, shaking her head; "but of huge masses of granite boulders, gray and moss-grown, heaped in gigantic piles, that eternally defy the blasts and storms of the fiercest boreal winters."

"O, what a grand thing it must be to stand on its summit!" exclaimed Florence, with glistening eyes.

"It is, indeed," said the lady, "though I have been pelted by the merciless storm all day, which added fresh difficulties to the descent, and still suffer much from my poor, frozen cheeks, I do not for a moment regret my journey. I suppose you young ladies intend to ascend?"

"I do," said Ellen. "If there is anything here worth seeing, I wish to see it, after all the fatigue and trouble of getting here."

"O, well," returned the lady, "I assure you there is enough to see. I have been here, as I have already informed you, six weeks, and some new wonder bursts upon me every day. You are a little disappointed from having been so unfortunate as to arrive on this gloomy evening, when even the nearest views are obscured by clouds. But the guides predict a splendid day to-morrow. I am sure you will be delighted in the morning when you rise and behold the great clouds rolling away their heavy masses and revealing the broad, dark summits of the mountains that hem in this grassy valley. I shall watch to see you dance into the breakfast hall in buoyant spirits."

With a pleasant good-evening the lady retired. Florence and Ellen soon followed. In the upper space they met Major Howard and young Williams, who were hastening to join them in the parlor.

"Well, sis," said Edward, "Major Howard tells me you vote the White Mountains all humbug."

"I think Ellen is growing less sceptical," said Florence, "since she has conversed with a lady who has just descended from their summits."

"O, yes, Nell, there's a Mount Washington, sure as fate," returned Edward, "and we must ascend its craggy steeps to-morrow; so retire, and get a refreshing rest to be ready for the fatiguing excursion in the morning."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

"Come over the mountains to me, love, Over to me—over to me; My spirit is pining for thee, love, Pining for thee—pining for thee!"

SONG.

The sun rose bright above the mountains of the Crawford Notch on the following morning, and illuminated with his brilliant rays all the green valley below. Each member of the large party that proposed to ascend Mount Washington was at an early hour mounted on a strong-built pony, and led by a guide into the bridle-path which commenced in the woods at the base of Mount Clinton. Our little band of travellers were foremost in the file, Florence and Ellen in the greatest glee of laughter and spirits.

The whole ascent of Clinton was through a dense forest, over a rough, uneven path, constructed of small, round timbers, called "corduroys." They were in a rotted, dilapidated condition, and unpleasant as well as dangerous to ride over.

Emerging from the woods that covered Clinton, the surrounding mountains began to appear; and from the grassy plain on the summit of Mount Pleasant, a view was obtained which called forth rapturous shouts from the whole company.

The descent of Pleasant was tedious. All the ladies were obliged to dismount, as the path was very rough, and often almost perpendicular over precipitous rocks, while the frightful chasm that yawned far below caused many of the adventurers to grow giddy and pale with fear.

Ellen, who was rather timid, began to wish she had remained in the valley, and continued to disbelieve in mountains; but Florence was all exhilaration and eagerness to push onward.

Mount Franklin towered next before them. As Florence, who was among the foremost, reached its summit, she turned on her pony, and gazed down on the little cavalcade, winding along up the narrow, precipitous path in single file, with the guides hurrying from one bridle to another, as a more difficult and dangerous place occurred in the rough way. And she thought of Napoleon leading an army over the mighty Alps, and how dauntless and sublime must be the soul of a man who could successfully accomplish an enterprise so fraught with perilous hazard and disheartening fatigue.

As the little company wound their way over the unsheltered brow of Mount Franklin, tremendous blasts swept down from the summits above, and threatened to unseat them in their saddles, or hurl the whole party over the fearful gulfs that yawned on every side. The guides collected the band together and informed them half their journey was completed. Many a face grew blank with dismay at this announcement. The weather wore a less promising aspect than when they set out, and the winds pierced them through and through. Several proposed to turn back. The guides said there was about an even chance for the clouds to blow over or gather into a storm, and the party could settle the point among themselves whether they would turn back or go on.

A gentleman, with features so muffled she could not discover them, rode to the side of Florence, and said, in a voice she could barely distinguish among the clamorous winds that howled over the mountain, "Do you favor the project of returning tamely to the valley and leaving Mount Washington a wonder unrevealed?"

"No!" answered she, from beneath her thick veil; the muscles of her face so stiffened with cold she could hardly move her lips.

"Then ride your pony to the centre of these dissenting groups and propose to move on," said he. "There are none in the party so craven-souled as to shrink from what a lady dares encounter."

Florence paused a moment, and then guided her pony into the midst of the company.

"Do you wish to join those who are going back, Miss?" said a guide, taking hold of her bridle-rein.

"No!" said she in a tone of decision. "I'll lead the way for those who choose to follow to the summit of Mount Washington."

"Bravo!"—"hurrah!"—"let us on!"—burst from all sides. Three solitary ones, among them Ellen Williams, turned back, and the others formed into file and moved onward. Down Mount Franklin and over the narrow path cut in the cragged side of Monroe, where a single misstep would hurl the horse and rider down a fathomless abyss, into whose depths the eye dares hardly for a moment gaze. Then appeared a crystal lakelet, and a little plain covered with a seedy-looking grass, where the horses rested and refreshed themselves ere the last desperate trial of their strength and endurance; for the weary band of adventurers had reached at last the base of the mighty Washington, whose summit was veiled in heavy clouds. As they loitered in the plain, the muffled gentleman again approached Florence, and inquired if she was unattended.

"No, sir," said she. "My father is among the party, also a friend; but they are not yet come up."

He lingered a moment, and then asked if she would like to dismount.

As the voice met her ear more distinctly, it struck her it had a familiar sound, and a sudden thought flashed across her mind. She thanked him for his politeness, but said she was too cold to move.

Her father and young Williams now appeared. "How do you brave it, Florence?" said Major Howard, drawing in his breath with a shudder.

"Very well, father," answered she.

When the muffled gentleman heard the name Florence pronounced, he started suddenly and darted a swift glance on the speaker. Then turning away, he remounted his steed and rode into the front ranks of the line that was forming. Soon the band commenced their toilsome ascent. The path wound over perpendicularly-piled masses of gigantic granite boulders. Often it seemed the poor tired animals, with their utmost efforts, would never be able to surmount the prodigious rocks that obstructed their way. Cold, blustering clouds of mists drove in the faces of the forlorn little party as they labored up and up the precipitous steeps, till it seemed to many a despairing heart that the summit of that tremendous mountain would never, never be gained. So densely hung the threatening clouds around them, they could not tell their distance from the wished-for goal. At length the guides halloed to the foremost rider to halt; and directly Florence felt herself in the arms of a strong man, who sprang over the craggy rocks with surprising agility, and soon placed her on the door-stone of a small habitation, which was not only "founded on a rock," but surrounded on all sides by huge piles of gray granite boulders.

In a few moments the whole dripping, half-frozen party were landed safely at the "Summit House," on the brow of Mount Washington. Great was their joy to find a comfortable shelter where they might rest and warm their chilled limbs; but great also was their dismay to find a storm upon them, and nothing visible from the miraculous height they had toiled to gain, but the wet rocks lying close beneath the small windows.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

"But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche, the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below."

CHILDE HAROLD.

A calm, beautiful morning succeeded a night of terrors. O, is there in all the world a grander sight than sunrise on Mount Washington?

The first faint rays breaking gradually through clouds of mist, and dimly revealing the outlines of surrounding peaks; then long, bright streams, piercing the gloomy depths of the valleys, chasing gigantic shadows, like spirits of light contending with the legions of darkness; and, at length, the whole immense sea of mountains brought into majestic view, with their unnumbered abysmal valleys covered with forests of every intermingled variety and shade of green.

Florence Howard separated herself from the remaining portion of the party, and stood alone on the topmost summit, leaning on the moss-grown side of a granite boulder, gazing in rapt awe and wonder on the awful sublimity that opened rapidly to her view. Thin, fringy clouds of mist, white and silvery in the growing light, were flying over the dark sides of the mountains, resting a moment in the valleys, and then disappearing, as a dusky form approached the spot where Florence stood.

"We meet again, Miss Howard;" said a voice at her side, low, and deep with emotion.

"And above the clouds, Edgar;" answered she, turning toward him, her face radiant as an angel's in the intensity of the emotions which overawed her soul. "Could we have met so well in any other place as here, with earth and its turmoils all below, and only the free blue dome of heaven above our head?"

"Are you glad to have met me here?" asked he, gazing sadly on her expressive features.

"Can you ask?" said she. "And this is the only spot where I could have rejoiced to meet you now, for here you will be Edgar to me, and may I not be Florence to you?" she added, lifting her clear, liquid eyes with beseeching earnestness to his face.

He could not withstand this gentle appeal, this touching expression. Softly his arm stole round her slender waist. She placed her little hand lightly on his shoulder, and laid her head with confiding tenderness on his bosom.

O, what was Mount Washington in his glory then? What the whole boundless prospect that spread its sublime immensity before them? Their eyes looked only in each other's hearts, and they were warm—O, how warm with love, and hope, and happiness! Mount Washington was cold. They felt a pity for its great, insensate piles of granite, that loomed up there to heaven, cold, bare and stony, void of power to feel and sympathize with human emotions. Wandering to a sheltered nook among the rocks they sat down together.

An hour passed by, during which each member of the little party was intently occupied with his own delighted observations, and then Major Howard recollected the absence of his daughter, who had left his side, saying she wished to contemplate the sublime spectacle apart from the rest of the company. Gazing over the cragged summit, he beheld her approaching with a gentleman at her side.

"Ay, my little truant," said he, advancing to meet her. "So you tired of your solitary contemplation, after all."

"I found this fair lady roaming among the rocks, and ventured to escort her to the party," said the gentleman, bowing politely, as he delivered Florence to the care of her father.

"Thank you, thank you, sir," returned Major Howard, casting a scrutinizing glance toward the young man as he turned away.

"My daughter, what do you think of this scene?" he asked, turning to her.

The glowing happiness, which lighted her features with almost supernatural beauty, astonished him.

"That I have never seen aught so awfully grand and majestic before," returned she, in a tone of wild enthusiasm.

"Does it surpass Niagara?"

"Infinitely," answered she. "Niagara is grand, but it is a single, solitary grandeur. Here, our vision encompasses a boundless expanse of dread, terrific sublimities; a sea of towering Alpine summits on every hand, with fearfully-yawning gulfs and chasms; tremendous precipices, over whose dizzy edges, as we look down, and down, and down into the abysmal depths of bright green valleys, starred over with tiny white cottages, and graced with winding rivers and waving fields of grain, we mark the dark straight lines of unnumbered railways, with their flying trains of cars; countless sheets of water flashing like molten silver; the spires and domes of numerous hamlets, villages, and cities; and, far in the distance, the broad Atlantic's dark blue surface, jotted over with white gleaming sails. O, father, father!" she exclaimed, almost wild with her emotions of awe and admiration, "is there in all the world a spectacle to equal that which feasts our vision now?"

"It is a grand scene," said the father, participating in his daughter's vivid enjoyment. "Look far on those blue summits that bound the prospect to the west and north. Those singularly-formed peaks you notice are called Camel's Rump and Mansfield mountains."

"Would I might forever dwell here!" exclaimed Florence, her eyes roaming in every direction, as though her soul could never drink its fill of the sublimity around.

Perhaps other delights than the scenery would afford rose in bright anticipation, and caused her to utter this strange, wild wish.

"You forget the awful winters, Florence, when you would perish beneath the sky-piled snows," said her father.

"O, I would not mind them!" she answered. "I'd have a little habitation, hidden down among the rocks, where I could sit by a cosey fire and listen to the billowy blasts that swept over my home in the clouds."

"Alone, Florence?" asked her father. "Would you dwell alone in a place so wild with terrors?"

"O, no!" said she quickly. "I would have one companion."

"And who should that be?"

"The one I loved best on earth," replied she, turning her clear eyes on her father's face.

"And that is"——he paused, and added, interrogatively, "Rufus Malcome?"

Florence started. Her features suddenly lost their glowing light, and darkened into a contemptuous frown.

"Don't breathe that name here!" she exclaimed, almost fiercely. "It is not worthy to be spoken in the air of God's own taintless purity."

Her father gazed with astonishment and pity. He had fancied the repugnance and dislike she formerly evinced toward her affianced husband was dissipated or forgotten in the multiplied excitements and varieties of travel; and great was his regret and sorrow to find it still rankling in her bosom. Both stood silent several moments, engaged in their own thoughts and emotions. At length several voices exclaimed gleefully, "The ponies, the ponies are coming!"

Major Howard glanced downwards, and beheld the long line of riderless horses, attended by the guides, slowly wending their way around the shelving, precipitous side of Mount Monroe. The company collected together and agreed to set out and meet them; so, returning to the hotel among the rocks, they partook of a finely-prepared lunch, and, wrapping warmly in shawls and blankets went forth on their hard, laborious way, down the steep path of cragged rocks. Sometimes their feet lighted on a sharp projection, or by a misstep they fell among the stony piles, bruising and wrenching their flesh and bones. But, notwithstanding all the fatigues and hardships of the way, the party were in jubilant spirits. As the prospect narrowed with the descent, they were all taking a last look at the disappearing wonders, and shouting their earnest farewells.

At the "Lake of the Clouds" they halted and drank of its cold, crystal waters. The ponies were feeding on the plain, and the party gladly mounted and commenced their long, toilsome descent.

As the shades of evening were falling, their safe arrival in the valley was hailed by assembled groups on the piazzas of the Crawford House.



CHAPTER XXXV.

"Love thee! words have no meaning to my deep love; It hath purged me from the weakness of my sex, And made me new create in thee. Love thee! I had not lived until I knew thee."

On arriving at the hotel, Florence retired to her room, which she found vacant, and learned Ellen had joined a party on an excursion to Mount Willard, one of the loftiest peaks of the Crawford Notch, to whose summit there is a carriage road.

She drew forth her journal, and, sitting down beside the window, commenced to write.

Nimbly the golden pen sped over the spotless page, leaving a train of sprightly thoughts behind it, while the bright face glowed and sparkled with the buoyant happiness of the soul within.

"I feel like one just dropped from the clouds," she wrote, "and I should be inconsolable at my sudden descent from the august abode of eternal sublimities to the grovelling haunts of care and discontent, but that a sun-soaring spirit companioned and illumined my fall.

"I have stood above the clouds that swept the brows of lofty surrounding mountains, and seen that star of mine rise sweet and clear upon my earnest vision, and felt my long-chilled heart grow warm and glad beneath its beaming rays of light and love. I toiled up the miraculous steeps of hoary-headed, granite-crowned Mount Washington, to realize a double joy. The stern, gloomy grandeur was alone sufficient to awaken my profoundest awe, my strongest admiration; but a warm heart-happiness stole over me, which spread a mantling glory over all the thousand dark-browed mountains that loomed in their awful majesty on every side.

"And ever, till my heart has ceased to beat, though I should roam in foreign lands, along the castled Rhine, or beneath the sunny skies of classic Italy, Mount Washington will be to me the glory of the earth! For, standing on its granite piles, while sunrise pierced the gloomy valleys far below, a love nestled warmly to my bosom, with which I would not part for India's wealth of gems. How rich am I in the knowledge of Edgar's love! My soul is strong and firm as the mountains where my joy was born. Shall I ever tremble or waver again? Am I not mailed in armor to meet unshocked the battling swords and lances of life's armied legions of cares and sorrows? With Edgar's love to nerve my soul, what is there that I cannot endure? Surely, I could survive all things save separation from him; and is not this the one which will be demanded of my strength?

"But I will not mar my happiness by dark forebodings of the future. Let me enjoy the sunshine while it lasts. What shall I say to my father?—what will he say to me when he learns who was the companion of my lonely mountain stroll, and the rider at my bridle-rein during all the long, dangerous descent? I fear he will be angry and hurry me away immediately; and yet, with his discrimination, I think he must discern the vast superiority of Edgar Lindenwood to that low-bred, mean-souled Malcome.

"But it is time this record should end, for twilight approaches, and the shadows of the great mountains darken over the valley."

She closed her journal just as Ellen Williams, returned from her excursion, burst into the room. She flung her arms around Florence, and covered her with frantic kisses.

"O, I am so glad to have you safely back!" she exclaimed; "I feared I should never behold you again. How did you live through a night like last on that dreadful mountain-top?"

"We had a comfortable shelter," said Florence, returning her friend's warm embraces.

"Did you wish you were down here in the valley, when the awful storm overtook you?"

"No, indeed," answered Florence; "my courage rose above all difficulties. O, Ellen! you know not what you lost, when, chilled by the blasts that swept Mount Franklin, you grew discouraged and turned back."

"So Ned tells me," said Ellen; "but I saw sublimity enough from Mount Willard to fill my little soul with rapture, though I had no artist-companion at my side to point out the grandest views to my untaught vision."

Here she fixed an arch glance on Florence, who blushed slightly as she said:

"I do not understand your quizzical looks."

"Probably not," returned Ellen, in a pleasant, bantering tone; "and if I should tell you Mr. Lindenwood, the young artist of whom I spoke to you at Niagara, had made his appearance in these regions, no doubt you would express appropriate surprise at the information. However, your father has been impressed with his appearance, and sought an introduction. I saw them in the parlor but a moment since, engaged in conversation."

"Is it possible?" said Florence, her eyes lighting with pleasure.

"Why, very possible," returned Ellen, "and they seemed mutually pleased with each other. Come, let us make ready and go down. I promised Ned to return in five minutes."

The young ladies descended to the parlor, where Florence beheld her father standing before a table, with Edgar at his side, examining a volume of engravings.

She approached softly, when Major Howard turned, and introduced his companion as "Mr. Lindenwood, a former acquaintance of hers, who was visiting the mountains for the purpose of sketching views, and obtaining geological specimens."

Florence saw at once, by her father's words and manner, that he did not suspect Edgar's identity with the muffled figure which had been her companion on the mountains; and, bowing politely, expressed her "pleasure at again meeting Mr. Lindenwood."

Ellen and her brother joined them, and the evening passed in pleasant rehearsals of the wonders and adventures of their late expedition to the "realms of upper air."

As Major Howard led his daughter to the door of her apartment, he remarked: "That young Lindenwood is a fine fellow. I declare, I never thought that wild hermit's boy would grow into a refined, polished gentleman. You hardly recognized him, did you, Florence?"

"He is very much changed in his appearance," said she, briefly.

"Certainly he is," returned her father; "one seldom meets a handsomer fellow. He tells me there is a great deal of fine scenery through a place called the Franconia Notch. He is going there in a few days to complete some sketches. I think we will join him: now we are here, we may as well see all there is to be seen;—unless you wish to go home," he added, finding his daughter silent in regard to the proposed excursion.

"I wish to go home?" exclaimed she, suddenly; "if you remain here till that time comes, your head will be white as the snows of these northern winters."

Laughing at her enthusiasm for mountains, he kissed her cheek and retired.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

"Most wondrous vision! The broad earth hath not, Through all her bounds, an object like to thee, That travellers e'er recorded. Nor a spot More fit to stir the poet's phantasy; Grey Old Man of the Mountain, awfully There, from thy wreath of clouds thou dost uprear Those features grand,—the same eternally! Lone dweller 'mid the hills! with gaze austere Thou lookest down, methinks, on all below thee here."

At the Flume House, three weeks later, we find our little party of travellers, all in apparently fine spirits and delighted enjoyment of the wild, enchanting scenery of the Franconia Notch.

"Well, Lindenwood, what do you intend to show us next?" asked Major Howard, as the group disposed themselves on the sofas of their own private parlor for an evening of rest and quiet, after a day passed in visits to different objects in the vicinity. "I declare these mountains will exhaust me entirely, and I shall be obliged to go away without beholding one half of their alleged wonders."

Young Williams laughed and said, "You are not half as good a traveller as your daughter, major. Instead of looking worn and fatigued by her repeated rambles, she seems more fresh and blooming than on our first arrival."

"Yes," returned the father, looking affectionately on his daughter, "she thrives wonderfully on mountains. I recollect, when we stood on the freezing summit of Washington, she expressed a wish to burrow among its rocks and pass a life-time there, listening to the winds o' nights, and other like charming diversions."

"I did not think her disposition so solitary," remarked young Williams.

"O, she was not going to dwell alone! She wanted one companion to share her habitation. I don't know who it was,—perhaps you were the doomed one!"

"I dare not presume to think Miss Florence would select me for a doom so blissful," returned he, gallantly. "Her choice would fall on some of my more fortunate neighbors."

"Rather say unfortunate," said Florence, coloring; "for in that light I think most people would regard the prospect of a life passed amid the clouds and storms of Mount Washington."

"Would you thus regard it, Lindenwood?" inquired young Williams, turning his gaze upon Edgar.

"I don't know," returned the latter. "It might prove an agreeable summer-home; but I think I would want to fly away on the approach of winter."

Major Howard drew forth his guide-book and occupied himself turning over the pages a few moments.

"We have achieved the Flume, the Pool, and the Basin to-day," said he at length. "Say, Lindenwood, where shall we go to-morrow? You are the pioneer of the band."

"I have thought, should the day prove fine," answered he, "it would be pleasant to make an excursion to the summit of Mount Lafayette, or the 'Great Haystack' mountain, as it is sometimes called, which lies several miles west from this point."

"More mountains towering before us! When shall we have done with them?" said the major, in a lugubrious tone. "How high is this Haystack you speak of?"

"But seven hundred feet less than Mount Washington," answered Edgar.

"O dear!" groaned the major. "Heaven save me from attempting the ascension! Can we do nothing better than tear our clothes and bruise our shins among brushwood and bridle-paths; clambering up to the sky just to stare about us a few moments, and then tumbling down headlong, as it were, to the valleys again?"

"Well," said Edgar, "if the Great Haystack intimidates you, suppose we ride up through the Notch, and visit the 'Old Man.'"

"What old man?" asked the major.

"The Old Man of the Mountain!"

"I should have no objection to calling on the old fellow," returned Major Howard, "if he did not live on a mountain; but I cannot think of climbing up any more of these prodigious steeps,—even to see a king in his regal palace."

A burst of laughter followed the major's misapprehension of the object which Lindenwood had proposed to visit.

"It is not a man of flesh and blood we are to see, father," said Florence, as soon as she could command her voice sufficiently to speak, "but a granite profile, standing out from a peak of solid rock, exactly resembling the features of a man's face; whence its name, 'Old Man of the Mountain.'"

"Ay, that's all, then!" said the major, referring to his guidebook. "I shall be very glad of the privilege of standing on the ground for once and looking up at an object; for I confess it afflicts my kindly-affectioned nature to be forever looking down upon this goodly earth, as if in disdainful contempt of its manifold beauties. So, to-morrow, ladies and gentlemen," added he, rising, "we are to pay our respects to this 'Old Man.' I hear music below. You young people would like to join the merry groups, I suppose. I'm going down to the office to enjoy a cigar, and then retire, for my old bones are sadly racked with the jaunts of to-day. Good-night to you all." Thus saying, he walked away.

"Would you like to join the dancers, Ellen?" asked Florence, turning to the fair girl who sat in a rocking-chair by the window, gazing out on the moon-lit earth.

"I don't care to join the dance," she returned; "but I would like to go and listen to the music a while."

"Then let us go," said her brother; "that is, if agreeable to Miss Florence and Mr. Lindenwood."

"I shall be happy to accompany you, Miss Howard," said he, offering Florence his arm, which she accepted, and the party descended to the parlors. They were well-lighted, and filled with guests. Edward and Ellen soon became exhilarated by the music, and joined the cotillons. Edgar looked in vain for a vacant sofa, and at length asked Florence if she would not like to walk on the piazzas. She assented, and they went forth. The evening was cool and delightful. A sweet young moon shed her pale light o'er the scene, veiling the roughness of the surrounding country, and heightening its romantic effect.

"I think you are growing less cheerful every day," said he, gazing tenderly on her downcast features.

"Can you not divine the cause of my depression?" she asked, raising her dark eyes to his face.

"No," said he, smiling on her. "Won't you tell me?"

"Father says we must return home soon," answered she, turning her face away.

"Is that an unpleasant prospect to you?" asked he, seeking to obtain a glance at her averted face.

"Yes," returned she; and he thought a shudder for a moment convulsed the slender form at his side.

They were both silent several moments, and then he remarked, "I intend to visit Wimbledon in a few months; may I not hope to see you should I do so?"

"I presume my father will be happy to receive a visit from you," answered she, in a formal tone.

"But his daughter would rather be excused from my company, I am to understand," said he.

"O, no! not that," returned Florence quickly, turning her face suddenly toward him, when he saw it was bathed in tears and marked with painful emotion.

"What distresses you, Florence?" asked he; gently taking her hand in his. "Will you not tell me?"

"I dare not, Edgar!" answered she, with fast-falling tears. "I have wronged you, and you will not forgive me."

"Then you do not love me!" said he, looking sadly on her countenance.

"O, yes! I love you," she returned, in a tone of pathetic tenderness, "Heaven knows, too wildly well! If that could atone for my fault, I should not fear to give it expression."

"It can!" said he, pressing her hand closely to his heart. "Believe me, Florence, it can atone for everything."

Encouraged by his tone and manner she spoke. "I am engaged"—he dropped the hand and started back—"to Rufus Malcome," she concluded, and then darting quickly into the hall, flew up stairs and locked herself into her own apartment. She paced the floor hurriedly several minutes, and then seized her journal,—always her confidant in moments of affliction.

"I knew it would come to this at last," she wrote. "I have acknowledged my error, and told him of my engagement with Rufus Malcome. It cost me a struggle, but I knew he must learn it from some source e'er long, and better from my lips than those of strangers. He will visit Wimbledon, and then, O horrible thought! I shall be the bride of another; for father tells me Col. Malcome is desirous the marriage should be consummated the approaching winter. I got a long, foolish letter from Rufus yesterday. O dear, how sick and sorry it made me! It is strange mother never writes. Col. Malcome says she is not as well as when we left, and this intelligence disposes father to hasten home. O, my poor bleeding heart! How soon this little day of happiness has past." She closed the book, and threw herself on the bed. After a while she fell asleep, and was roused by Ellen, knocking for admittance.

In the morning she met Edgar in the parlor with her father and young Williams, the three in earnest conversation about their proposed excursion to the Profile Mountain. He made her a distant bow. She returned to her room, and not the most urgent entreaties of her father could induce her to join the party. She pleaded a violent headache, and Ellen announced her resolve to remain with her. She cared nothing about the 'Old Man;' she would stay at home and nurse Florence. So the three gentlemen departed together, and in a few days the Howards had left the mountain region and set out for Wimbledon.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

"Once more the sound Of human voices echoes in our ears; And some commotion dire hath roused The female ranks. Let's pause and learn The drift of all this wordy war of tongues."

Back to the Mumbles, the Wimbles and Pimbles, and their clamorous voices again dinning in our ears. Will we ever be quit of them?

As cold weather approached, and the atmospheric thermometer descended to the freezing point, the philanthropic one mounted suddenly to blood heat.

Mrs. Pimble and Mrs. Lawson assumed their green legs and strode over Wimbledon with pompous, majestic tread. The Woman's Rights Reform shook off its sluggish torpor, and rose a mighty shape of masculine vigor, strength and power. As in atonement for past sloth and inertness, the reformists became more active in their several departments than ever before. Lectures were delivered, clubs formed, and committees appointed to visit the people from house to house, and stir them up by way of remembrance, to engage in the great benevolent enterprises of the day. At length an indignation meeting was announced to be held at the village church in Wimbledon. The house was thronged at an early hour, and great excitement pervaded the assembly, when the chairman and other officers appeared and ascended the platform, which had been erected for their convenience. It must be admitted that Dea. Allen, sitting in the glaring light of the uncurtained windows, contemplated with rather wrathful visage the ample green damask Bloomers, which adorned the lower limbs of the several officiating ladies; but he quite forgot his anger when the president sublimely arose, and, advancing to the front of the stand, said in a loud, commanding tone:

"We will now proceed with the business of this convention. If there is any person in the house that wishes to pray, she, or he, can do so. We hold to liberty and equal rights for all."

She then stood in silence several moments, gazing over the assembly with a self-possessed and confident air. But it appeared no person was moved with a spirit of prayer. So the lady president, after a preparatory hem, proceeded with the duties of her office. She, in a brief speech, explained the reason for holding this meeting, and the object it had in view.

"I have spoken in public before," said she; "often has my voice been raised against tyranny and oppression in all its forms; but never until to-day has it been my happy privilege to address so large an assembly of the inhabitants of my native village on the holy subjects of freedom and philanthropy. It inspires my soul with fresh courage to behold your eager faces, for they seem to say your minds are awakening to the demands of the down-trodden portions of your race. We hold this convention to arouse an interest in the cause of reform, which shall lead to strong and energetic action.

"It is too painfully true that Wimbledon is a sink of immorality, vice and pollution, where moral turpitude stalks with giant strides, and abominable barbarisms are practised under the glaring light of heaven. (Sensation.) The object of this meeting is to crush the oppressor's might, and raise his hapless victims to their proper position in society. I call upon the women of this assembly to rise from the depths of their degradation, rush boldly in the faces of their enslavers, and assert their rights; and, having asserted, maintain them, even at the point of the sword. (Sensation and murmurings.) A series of resolutions will now be presented for the consideration of the convention."

She turned to Mrs. Lawson, who sat majestically in a large arm-chair, her strong arms folded on her broad chest, and whispered a few words in her ear. While she was thus engaged, Mr. Salsify Mumbles rose, and said in a loud tone: "Gentlemen and ladies, I rise for the purpose"—— On hearing the sound of his voice, the lady president rushed to the edge of the platform, and glaring on the upright figure, which shook like an aspen beneath her fiery eyes, exclaimed, in thundering accents, "What are you standing there for, you booby-faced, blubber-chopped baboon in boots?"

"I wish to speak," stammered the terrified man. He could utter no more.

"You speak!" said the lofty president, in a tone of the most supreme contempt,—"sit down."

The poor creature dropped as quick as though he had received a cannon ball in his heart.

Mrs. Pimble retired, and Mrs. Secretary Lawson arose, adjusted her green spectacles, and, taking a roll of papers from the table, advanced to the front of the stand. Elevating her brows, she said:

"I will now read several resolutions which have been handed in since the opening of the meeting.

"First, Resolved, That the enfranchised women of Wimbledon use their combined efforts for the liberation of their suffering sisterhood, who yet groan beneath the despotic cruelties of the oppressor man."

The secretary sat down. The president arose. "Are there any remarks to be made on this resolution?" she said.

None were forthcoming.

"Then I move its adoption."

"I second the motion," squealed a little voice from some remote corner.

The secretary came forward. "All in favor of this resolution will please say, ay."

A score of voices were heard.

"It is unanimously accepted," said she. "I will now proceed to the reading of the second.

"Resolved, That, as a means of humbling and destroying the tyranny which the monster man exercises over the larger portion of the women of Wimbledon, six of the usurpers be converted into lamp-posts, and placed at the corners of the principal streets, with tin lanterns fixed upon their heads, to light the cause of philanthropy in its midnight struggles." (Sensation, and several brawny hands scratching uneasily at the apex of their craniums.)

The secretary sat down; the lady president arose. "This is a very spirited as well as elegant resolve," said she, "and cannot fail of securing universal approbation. Mrs. Secretary, you will please read the remaining portion, and then all can be adopted by one joint action of the house."

"There are but two brief ones to follow," said the secretary, again coming forward.

"First, Resolved, That the tortuous channel of Wimbledon river be made straight, and the tyrant man be compelled to perform the labor with three-inch augers and pap-spoons.

"Secondly, Resolved, That, the steeple of this church, which looms so boldly impious toward the sky, be felled to the ground, and be converted into a liberty-pole, with the cast-off petticoats of the enfranchised women of Wimbledon flaunting proudly from its summit, as an emblem of the downfall of man's bigotry and despotism, and the triumphant elevation of woman to her proper sphere among the rulers of the earth."

Great sensation as the lady secretary pronounced the foregoing resolves, with strong impressiveness of tone and manner. As she retired, Dea. Allen rose. The lady president sprang from her seat.

"Sit down!" shrieked she, bringing her foot to the platform with a violence that caused it to tremble. But the deacon did not drop at this sharp command, as Mr. Mumbles had done.

"I thought you held to liberty and equal rights," said he, with an air of some boldness.

"I do,—and therefore I tell you to sit down."

"I will speak," said he, returning the defiant looks cast upon him by both president and secretary; "for religion and right demand it. If you dare profane with your sacrilegious hands the holy steeple of this house of God, avenging justice will fall with crushing weight upon your guilty heads."

Having delivered himself of this dread prediction, the deacon sat down.

In her loftiest style, Mrs. Pimble moved the adoption of the resolutions, vouchsafing no word of comment on the impertinent interruption. A brawling, discordant shout of "Ay—ay—ay," in every possible variety of tones, from a swarm of boisterous boys and ranting rowdies, was declared a unanimous approval, and in a storm of hisses and hurrahs the indignation meeting triumphantly adjourned.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

"Fare thee well! and if forever, Still forever, fare thee well, Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not; Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not, Hearts can thus be torn away. Still thine own its life retaineth, Still must mine, though bleeding, beat, And the undying thought which paineth, Is, that we no more may meet."

Sudden death had entered the home of Louise Edson and made her a widow. Her husband died of cholera, in a distant city, whence he had gone for the purchase of goods, and was brought home a corpse. Louise reeled to earth beneath the sudden and unexpected blow. Her soul was lacerated by constant memory of the wrong she had done him, and it seemed to her aroused and trembling conscience that avenging Heaven had taken to itself the man she had so deeply injured, and left her to grope darkly on in her own wickedness and sin. True she had been cruelly disappointed, and through long years compelled to struggle on in all the bitter loneliness of feelings unreplied to, bound by indissoluble chains to one who had no tastes or sympathies in common with her. Death had freed her now, but, ah! too late. The taint of sin was on her soul. She had forgot her vows at the altar, debased herself and wronged her husband by listening to words of passion from another. O, far less bitter would have been her grief, as she stood weeping over his lifeless form, could she have laid her hand on the cold, damp brow and said, "I have loved thee ever, and through life's cares and perplexities stood closely at thy side to cheer and smooth thy pathway." But this she could not say. She only felt that the soul had gone to God, to learn her falsity and sin, and looked from the skies upon her with grief and avenging anger. Bitterly she thought of the man who had led her from the path of rectitude, and resolved to see him no more. As a self-inflicted penance, she immured herself within the walls of her own mansion, and determined to pass the remainder of her life in solitude. Many of her numerous friends sought admittance to express sympathy and condolence in her affliction, but she refused to see them and resisted all their overtures. Only one person gained entrance to her seclusion. That was Mrs. Stanhope, whose kind heart was deeply pained by the apparently incurable sorrow that had settled on the mind of her young friend, and strove, by every effort in her power, to lighten her woes and lead her to more hopeful views of the future.

"It grieves me," said she, "to see you, in the bloom of youth and health, immure yourself in a living tomb, and refuse the consolations you would receive from intercourse with your species."

"I want no more of the world," answered the sufferer; "it has no pleasure or enjoyment for me."

"But, my dear, you should not allow your feelings to overpower your better judgment," remonstrated Mrs. Stanhope.

"Ah, my feelings!" said Louise, bitterly, with tears rolling over her pale cheeks; "they have been my destruction. Had I always controlled them, I had not been the miserable creature I am to-day."

Mrs. Stanhope hardly understood this passionate outburst, but she still strove to soothe and comfort her afflicted friend.

"Your brow is hot and feverish," said she, rising to depart. "I caution you to calm yourself and take some rest, or severe sickness will prostrate you ere long."

"And why should I fear sickness or death," asked Louise, in a hopeless tone, "when the only calm for me is the calm of the grave, the only rest its dreamless slumbers?"

Mrs. Stanhope gazed on the suffering face with tearful pity, and turned away. On opening the hall door, she encountered Col. Malcome, pacing to and fro on the icy piazza. He started suddenly on beholding her, and asked if she came from Mrs. Edson. Mrs. Stanhope answered affirmatively.

"And how have you left her?" inquired he, with an expression of strong anxiety and emotion on his features.

"She seems deeply afflicted," returned Mrs. Stanhope.

"Does she still persist in refusing to see her friends?" asked he.

"She is thus disposed, I regret to say," was Mrs. Stanhope's reply.

"Would you do me the favor to return, and entreat her to grant me a few moments in her presence?" inquired he, in an earnest tone.

"I will perform your request with pleasure," she said; "but I fear I shall bring you naught but a gloomy refusal." Thus saying, she reentered the apartment of Louise.

"I am come with a petition, Mrs. Edson," she remarked, approaching her side, and laying a hand softly on the bowed head. "Will you grant it your favor?"

"I must hear it first," said Louise.

"Col. Malcome is walking on the piazza; he wishes to see you."

"Go and tell him, in another and a darker world I'll see him; never again in this," answered Louise, starting to her feet, her whole frame trembling with excitement and anger.

Mrs. Stanhope was astonished and alarmed at her appearance, and stood gazing on her in wondering silence. At length she said, "I cannot take a message like that to him; he would think it the wild raving of a lunatic."

"Tell him, then, to go away, and never approach these doors again," said Louise, suddenly bursting into tears. Mrs. Stanhope lingered in surprise at her friend's emotion, and strove to soothe it.

"Go," said Louise; "I command you to go, and send him away. I shall die if I hear another of his footfalls on the piazza."

Alarmed by the dreadful energy of her manner, Mrs. Stanhope hurried away. The colonel came eagerly to her side, as she stepped forth.

"Does she refuse me?" he asked.

"She does," said Mrs. Stanhope.

"And does she give no encouragement that I may gain admittance at some future time?"

"None."

"Then carry this to her," said he, placing a small, folded letter in Mrs. Stanhope's hand, and turning dejectedly away.

Again she entered the mansion. Louise sat with head bowed between her hands, and did not raise her eyes. Mrs. Stanhope laid the missive on the table beside her, and silently left the apartment.

Twilight deepened into evening, and still the suffering woman sat there, in mute, unutterable agony. A servant entering with lights at length aroused her to consciousness, and her eye fell on the folded letter lying on the stand. Hastily tearing away the envelope, she dropped on her knees, and ran over its contents with devouring eagerness, while her features worked with strong, conflicting emotions, and tears rolled continually from her beautiful eyes and blistered the written page. "Why do you drive me from you?" it began. "If, in an unguarded moment, under the intoxicating influences which your bewitching presence, the quiet seclusion of the spot, and romantic hush and stillness of the hour threw around me, all combining to lap my soul in delicious forgetfulness of everything beyond the momentary bliss of having you at my side, I suffered words to escape my lips, which should have remained concealed in my own bosom, you might at least let the deep, overpowering love which forced their utterance, plead as some extenuation for my presumption and error. But it seems you have cast me from you forever—unpitied—unforgiven. O, Louise! I did not think you so implacable. The sin is mine, and I would come on bended knee to implore pardon for the suffering and sorrow my rashness has brought to your innocent heart; but you fly from my approach, and banish me from your presence. No mercy for one, who, though he may have erred, is surely atoning for his errors by anguish as deep, as poignant as your own. Night after night I walk the piazza beneath your windows. I know you hear my step and feel that I am near. But you will not open the casement and let me for a moment behold your features and crave your forgiveness. O, Louise, am I to die without a pitying word or look from you?

"I sit by my Edith's bed-side through long, weary midnight hours, and she wakes from her fitful slumbers and asks for you. 'Why does she never come to see me now? There's no arm raises me so lightly, no hand bathes my brow so gently, as hers. Will you not bring her, father?'

"O, what agony these words inflict! I have to feel my own rashness and folly have deprived my sick child of a tender nurse. Louise, do you not remember one dear, bright morning, long ago, when I was sitting at the piano in that pleasant parlor I'm forbidden to enter now, and you stood beside me in all your bewildering grace and beauty, that I sought from you a promise which was given? Still, still would I conjure you, as Steerforth said to David, think of me at my best. You will need to do it soon; for your contempt and scorn are hurrying me on to deeds of crime and wickedness. O, will you drive me to the wretch's doom, or win me to a life of happiness and virtue? It is yours to decide."

Such were the contents of the letter which remained clenched in the grasp of the agitated woman through the long hours of that woe-fraught night. When the first gray tints of dawn were visible, she started and hid it away in her bosom. Grasping a pen she traced a few lines with trembling hand, and placed them in an envelope directed to Mrs. Stanhope. Then unclosing her wardrobe, she selected a few articles of clothing, made them into a small bundle, and wrapping a heavy shawl round her slender form, and concealing her features in a large black bonnet with a long, thick veil, she opened softly the hall door, and stole forth into the cold, biting air, walking hurriedly over the frosty paths till she had gained the lonesome country road beyond the village.

As Mrs. Stanhope was sitting down to breakfast, a knock called her to the door, where she beheld Mrs. Edson's servant, who presented her with a letter, and said her mistress had gone away very suddenly, and she would like to know if she had left any word as to when she would return.

Mrs. Stanhope broke the seal, and read with surprise and astonishment depicted on her features. The girl stood waiting to learn its contents.

"I think," said Mrs. Stanhope, suddenly recollecting herself, "that your mistress will be absent some time. She informs me she has gone on a visit to the aunt with whom she resided previous to her marriage."

"Where does her aunt live?" asked the girl.

"I do not know," returned Mrs. Stanhope, "but I think at a considerable distance from this place."

The girl retired, and Mrs. Stanhope reentered the breakfast room.

"Who was in the porch?" inquired Miss Pinkerton, as her sister assumed her place by the coffee urn.

"Mrs. Edson's servant," returned she, arranging the cups with an absent air.

"What did she want?" asked Miss Martha, opening her muffin and dropping a piece of golden butter on its smoking surface.

"She brought me a note from her mistress," said Mrs. Stanhope, "who has departed suddenly on a visit to her aunt, and wishes me to superintend the care of her mansion for a time."

"I guess she is coming out of her dumps," said Martha. "I always said there was no danger of her dying of grief for the loss of a husband. She'll come home one of these days a gay widow, and set her cap for Col. Malcome. I always thought she had a liking for him."

Mrs. Stanhope made no reply to this unfeeling speech. After breakfast the colonel chanced in to take the long-forgotten package away, when he learned of Louise's sudden departure, and went home in a state of increased anguish and despair.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

"To the old forest home I hie me again; But I bring not the gladness My spirit knew when I roamed in my childhood Its wide-spreading bounds; For sorrows have pierced me, My soul wears the wounds."

The Hermit of the Cedars sat in his antique room alone, by a peat-wood fire. He appeared wrapt in moody thought and contemplation, though ever and anon, as the wintry blast gave a wilder sweep over the swaying roof above him, he turned and glanced uneasily toward the door, as though he wished and waited the appearance of some form over its threshold. But the hours passed on, and no one came to cheer his loneliness. So, heaping the ashes over the glowing embers, he betook himself to his lowly couch, but his head had hardly touched the pillow when a quick step crackling along the icy path struck his ear. Ere he could reach the door it was pushed open, and a voice called out hastily, "Uncle Ralph!"

"Edgar, my boy!" exclaimed the hermit, groping in the darkness to clasp him in his arms. "Are you returned at last?"

"Yes, dear uncle," answered the young man; "I reached the village by the evening stage, and hurried with all speed to my old forest home."

The hermit lighted a candle and raked open the coals. A bright fire soon burned on the hearth, and by its ruddy blaze the fond uncle marked the changes two years had wrought in the appearance of his nephew. He was taller, and a manly confidence of tone and manner had succeeded the reserve and timidity which characterized his boyhood. The luxuriant masses of soft brown hair were brushed away from the clear, pale brow, and the deep blue eyes glowed in the conscious light of genius and intellectual fervor. The hermit gazed with ardent admiration on the commanding elegance and beauty of the form before him.

"Education and travel have made a wonderful improvement in your appearance, my boy," he remarked at length, his voice trembling with emotion as he spoke. "Still I don't know but I liked you better as the curly-headed boy in morocco cap and little blue frock-coat, that used to come bounding over the forest path, with his satchel in hand; or set here of long winter evenings, reading some treasured volume at my side; or perched within the window nook gazing silently upward at the glistening stars;—for the dreamy boy I could keep near me, but the lofty, ambitious man I cannot hope to prison here in a solitary wilderness,—nor should I indulge in a wish so selfish," he added. "Tell me, Edgar, of your travels, your enjoyments and occupations, since you departed from this lowly roof."

The young man gave a brief rehearsal of the principal events of the past two years. He hesitated somewhat when he came to his meeting and renewal of acquaintance with Florence Howard, recollecting his uncle's former aversion to their intercourse. He might have passed over it in silence, but his delicate sense of honor would not allow him to deceive in the smallest point the heart that loved him so devotedly. The listening man bent earnest, scrutinizing glances on the speaker's face as he proceeded with his tale, and when it was finished, bowed his gray head on his thin hands, as was his wont when engaged in deep thought, and remained silent.

At length a tremendous blast swept through the forest, blew open the door, and scattered the coals from the deep fire-place over the floor of the apartment. The moody man started from his reverie. Edgar secured the door, and, taking a broom composed of small sprigs of hemlock and cedar, brushed the scattered embers into a pile.

"Do you not wish to retire?" asked the hermit, as the young man resumed his seat in the corner.

"As you wish, uncle," returned he; "I do not feel much fatigued."

"Ay, but I think you are so," said the kind-hearted man, regarding attentively his nephew's features. "My joy at beholding you has rendered me forgetful of your physical comforts. Let me get you some refreshment, and then you shall lie down and rest your weary limbs."

The hermit took a small brown earthen jug from a rude shelf over the fire-place, and, pouring a portion of its contents into a bright-faced pewter basin, placed it on a heap of glowing coals. Then going to a cupboard he brought forth a large wooden bowl, filled with a coarse, white substance. When the contents of the basin were warm he placed it on the table, and setting a chair, said, "Come, my boy, and partake of this simple food. 'Tis all I have to offer you; not like the dainty repasts at which you are accustomed to sit in the abodes of wealth and fashion."

Edgar approached and took the proffered seat.

"Ay," said he; "you have served me a dish more grateful to my palate than the most delicately-prepared dainties would prove. This rich, sweet milk is delicious, and who boils your hominy so nicely, uncle?" he continued, conveying several slices of the substance in the wooden bowl to his basin.

"Dilly Danforth, the poor village washerwoman, cooks it, and her boy, Willie, brings it to me," answered the hermit.

"Ay, the lad you mentioned in one of your letters," said Edgar. "Why does he not remain with you altogether? You seemed happy in his companionship, and I hoped he might become to you a second Edgar."

A strange expression passed over the face of the recluse as his nephew, with much earnest truthfulness of manner, gave utterance to these words.

"I did like to have the boy with me," he remarked; "but his mother was lonely without him."

Edgar rose from his simple repast.

"Now you had better retire," said his uncle, tenderly; "though I fear you will rest but ill on my hard couch."

"My slumbers will be sweet as though I reposed on eider down," returned he, "if you will but assure me that my coming or words have not marred your quiet and composure."

"My boy," said the hermit, gazing on him anxiously, "what do you mean? How should the arrival of one I have so longed to behold give aught but joy to my lonely soul?"

"I may have spoken words that grieved you," said the young man, sorrowfully; "but I could not bear to conceal the truth from you, dear uncle;" and his voice trembled as he spoke.

"Edgar," returned the hermit, with emotion, "I am grateful for your confidence, and though I could have wished your heart's affections bestowed on some other woman, I will no longer oppose your inclinations. Marry Florence Howard if you choose."

"Marry her!" exclaimed Edgar, suddenly breaking in upon his uncle's discourse. "She is engaged to another."

"What is his name?" asked the hermit.

"Rufus Malcome," returned the young man.

"What! a brother to the girl I saw with you on the river bank?" inquired the recluse, with a sudden excitement of manner.

"Yes," said Edgar; "the brother of Edith Malcome."

"O, the mysterious workings of fate!" exclaimed the hermit, falling again into a ruminating silence, which Edgar did not deem it wise to disturb.

So they laid down on the lowly couch, and the young man, fatigued with his journeyings, drew the coverings over his head to exclude the shrill shriekings of the sweeping blasts, and soon rested quietly in the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.

Sleep! angel ministrant to the grief-stricken soul. How many that walk this verdant earth would fain lie locked in her slumberous arms forever!



CHAPTER XL.

"No voice hath breathed upon mine ear Thy name since last we met; No sound disturbed the silence drear, Where sleep entombed from year to year, Thy memory, my regret."

In her own elegantly appointed apartment sat Florence Howard, with her journal open upon the table.

"Beneath the old roof-tree of home once more," she wrote, "to find my mother's pale face yet paler than when I left her, and a sudden tremor and nervousness betrayed on the slightest unusual sound, which is exceeding painful to witness.

"Hannah's penchant for me seems to have decreased somewhat, since father waited on Col. Malcome and asked his consent to the delay of my proposed nuptials with Rufus, till some change should occur in mother's health. Dr. Potipher thinks she will hardly survive the trying weather of the approaching spring.

"Poor, dear mother! what shall I do without her? But I may not linger long behind.

"I used to think I was very miserable, when I pined in ignorance of Edgar's love, and grew jealous of his attentions to gentle Edith Malcome; but what were those petty griefs, compared with the agony of having known the sweet possession of his heart, and lost it,—lost it, too, through my own selfish folly and weakness? Truly, there's naught so bitter as self-reproach. Heaven only knows what I have suffered since that dreadful night, when I fled from his angry, reproachful looks, and locked myself in the solitude of my chamber. And that freezing, distant recognition on the following morning! O, what a shuddering horror will ever creep over me with the memory of Franconia Notch! And Mount Washington,—which was for aye to tower above all other scenes of grandeur earth's broadest extent could afford,—a thought of it unnerves my soul with grief. What short-sighted mortals are we!

"I think my father suspects my secret and reproaches himself for giving me so free access to Edgar's company. I would not wonder if the delay he has urged to my marriage were influenced as much by this sad knowledge as my mother's failing health. Col. Malcome gave a reluctant assent, at which I am surprised. When his sweet daughter is sinking slowly into the grave, 'tis strange he can think of any earthly interest.

"I have looked mournfully toward the cedar forest to-night, and thought of the poor lone hermit in his humble hut, and wished, O, how fervently wished! that I, like him, had a habitation afar from the world's hollow throngs, where I could sit and brood in solitude over my broken heart!

"Am I not a living, breathing, suffering example of the truth of Byron's eloquent words?

'The day drags on, though storms keep out the sun, And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.'"

Florence closed her journal, and approached the window.

As she was dropping the curtain to retire, a dark figure moving stealthily under the leafless branches of the lindens, which stood in rows on the least public side of the house, arrested her attention. The remembrance of a similar appearance she had once seen crossed her mind, and no ill having followed that, she dismissed her fears, and ere long sank to rest.

When the village clock pealed forth the hour of midnight, the dark figure she had observed, stood on the terrace below. The hall door swung noiselessly on its hinges, and Hannah Doliver stepped forth. "Here are the matches and kindling-wood," said she in a whisper, approaching the dusky form, and holding a small basket forward.

"Are they all asleep?" asked a hushed voice.

"Yes," answered she.

"See that you give the alarm in season," returned the muffled figure, as he took the basket from the woman's hand, and passed softly down the steps of the piazza.

Silently the destroying fires were lighted. But the midnight incendiary would have proceeded less deliberately with his work of destruction, had he marked the tall, lank figure in a long, dark overcoat, and slouching-brimmed hat, which slowly dogged closely his every footstep. Suddenly a bright flash leaped up from the fragments the wicked man sought to enkindle, and revealed his garb and features. A mingled expression of hatred and revenge glared from the sunken eyes of his follower, who stood in the shadow of a linden near by, as the pale, handsome features and light, curling locks of the incendiary met his gaze.

"Villain!" exclaimed he, springing forward, as the man turned with a hurried step from his work of destruction; "would you burn innocent people in their beds?"

With one fell blow the man dashed the lank form to the earth, and fled down the avenue of cedars, which led to the river, never heeding the startled looks of a thin woman, and tall, graceful youth, against whose sides he brushed in his guilty flight.

"Who could that flying figure have been?" asked the lad of the woman, when the man had rushed past.

"I don't know, indeed, Willie," answered she, "unless it was your friend, the hermit, gone wild. You say he has been more gloomy than usual for several days."

"O, no!" returned the youth; "it was not the hermit. I distinguished this man's features very plainly as he passed, and it was no one I ever saw before. He had no covering on his head, and his hair was light and curly. His face seemed glowing with rage and anger."

"It must have been some lunatic escaped from the asylum," said the woman.

"Well, I think you are right, mother," answered the boy. "I hope he has not harmed the poor hermit, whom I left sitting on a stone among the cedars, near Major Howard's mansion. He came thus far with me to-night, as it was so late, and the way long and gloomy."

"Ah! he was very kind," remarked the woman. "I began to fear you were not coming for me, Willie, and thought I should have to remain at Mr. Pimble's all night, or go home alone. Is the hermit's nephew still with him?"

"No, he went away this morning, and the poor old man is very lonely and sad. He said he wished I could be with him all the time."

"Strange being!" said the woman. "Why does he not leave the forest, and dwell among his fellow-men?"

"I think it is because he experienced some disappointment in his youth," answered the lad, "and has come to distrust all his species."

"It may be so," returned the woman. "I have heard of such instances. He is very kind to you, my boy, and but for his little bundles of sticks, I think we must have perished during your long illness through that piercing cold winter. Strange are the realities of life; stranger than fiction! When the rich Mr. Pimble drove me from his threshold, the poor hermit of the forest braved the bleak storms, and laid the charitable piles on my poverty-stricken threshold."

The mother and son had now reached their humble abode.

"Willie," said she, "I wish you would run down by the river and gather up the few pieces of linen I washed and spread out there yesterday. The wind is rising fast, and they will blow away before morning."

The boy hastened to perform her request, and in a few moments came rushing into the house, and exclaimed:

"Mother! mother! Major Howard's house is all on fire! I am going up there," and, flinging the pieces he held in his arms on the table, he flew off toward the burning mansion.

Mrs. Danforth followed him to the door and discovered his words were but too true. Long tongues of flame darted upward to the sky, and ran fiercely over the walls and terraces of the mansion. The church bell was pealing madly to rouse the slumbering people to the rescue; but the fire gained so rapidly in the sweeping wind, all efforts to quench it could not prove otherwise than futile. To save the lives of the inmates would be the utmost which could be done, and even this seemed a perilous undertaking.

Willie Danforth was rushing up the avenue of cedars, when, just as he was entering the grounds of the burning mansion, he stumbled over some large object which obstructed the path. It moved beneath, and, by the glare of the flames, he discovered the body of his friend, the hermit, lying at full length upon the frozen ground. The prostrate man opened his eyes and recognized Willie.

"O, my good boy, I am sadly hurt!" said he, feebly. "Will you help me to rise and get away from this place?"

Willie, who forgot everything, even the burning mansion before him, in care and pity for his friend, raised him to his feet, and half supporting the tall, thin form in his young, strong arms, drew him down the long avenue and along the river bank to his mother's dwelling.

And that night the insensible form of the Hermit of the Cedars lay stretched upon the low couch of Dilly Danforth's humble abode.



CHAPTER XLI.

"There are so many signs of wickedness Around me, that my soul is pressed with fear. O, that the power divine would kindly aid Me in my need, and save me from the wiles And artful plottings of this wicked man! For though he speaks so soft, and smiles so fair, I've seen at times a strange look in his eye Which doth convince me that his soul is black within."

Col. Malcome flung wide the doors of his elegant mansion to receive the suffering family who, in the space of a few short hours, had lost their all of earthly wealth by the subtle element of fire. The invalided Mrs. Howard was borne on a litter to an apartment so warm and complete in its arrangements, as to almost wear the appearance of having been fitted up expressly to receive her in her forlorn and unsheltered condition. Large, richly-furnished rooms, all glowing bright in their luxurious comforts, were also in readiness for Florence and her father. The latter was nearly overwhelmed with grief and dismay at his sudden and irremediable loss. Col. Malcome strove by every means in his power to assuage and lighten his sorrows.

"My house is your home as long as you choose to make it so, Major Howard," said he one morning after the afflicted family had been several weeks partakers of his generous hospitality.

"I cannot consent to burden you with my family any longer than while I can find some place to which I can remove them," answered he. "And then I must engage in some kind of business to provide for their support. This unfortunate accident has given my wife so dreadful a shock, I fear she will not long survive it."

A significant smile appeared for a moment on Col. Malcome's features at these latter words, but he concealed it from the distressed man, and replied, "It grieves me to hear you talk thus. Why should you regard your family as burdensome guests beneath my roof, when we are soon to be linked in the ties of relationship by the union of our children?"

"True!" returned Major Howard. "Such a union has been proposed, but——"

"But what?" asked Col. M.

"You may not look as favorably on its consummation now as formerly."

"Judge not so meanly of me, my friend!" said he, warmly. "Your daughter's rich soul and personal charms are all the wealth I desire in the lady who shall become the wife of my son."

Major Howard was silent.

"I do not wish to hasten this marriage," resumed the colonel, "because you expressed a desire, several months ago, that it should be delayed till a change occurred in your wife's situation (a strange emphasis on the word wife); but were it consummated, your family could occupy one-half of my mansion with no expense to me till Rufus should rebuild the one you have recently lost by fire."

Major Howard's face suddenly brightened. The colonel saw he had made a hit, and followed up his advantage so adroitly that e'er the twain parted, the father had consented that the marriage between his daughter and the colonel's son should take place within four weeks. He sought his daughter and communicated the intelligence. Florence received it in silence. She felt they were without a home in the wide world, and at the mercy of the man under whose roof they were sheltered. A strange horror was seizing upon her soul and bowing her spirits to the earth. There were many looks and glances around her she could not understand; but they seemed possessed of some dark and hidden meaning. Hannah Doliver's glee knew no bounds. She followed Rufus from morning till night, and appeared uneasy if he was a moment beyond her sight. The young man returned her fondness with hatred and contempt. Edith, with her pale, wan face and sunken eyes, looked the mere shadow of her former self. During her long illness, her beautiful head had been shorn of its ripply wealth of auburn curls, and, as she lay languidly on the soft cushions of her luxuriant couch, few would have recognized in that wasted form the once radiant Edith Malcome. She had a feverishness and uncertainty of temper common to long-confined invalids. Florence could find little companionship in her society; besides, she was too weak to endure the excitement of laughter and conversation.

Rufus sought his affianced bride at every opportunity; and the only place where she could rest secure from his interruptions was the apartment of her mother, where he never ventured to intrude, being possessed of a strange fear and dread of sick people. He never visited Edith, unless compelled to do so by his father.

Florence was one day sitting in the deep recess of one of the drawing-room windows, with the massy folds of purple damask drooped before her, occupied in the perusal of a book of poems, when a succession of low, murmuring sounds near by, disturbed her, and listening a moment she heard Col. Malcome say, in a smothered tone, "There's no fear of detection; all moves on bravely, and we shall have a blooming young bride here in a few weeks."

Then there was a low, chuckling laugh, which Florence recognized as Hannah Doliver's. After a while the woman spoke in a stifled voice, "Don't you want to see her?" she said. "I should think you would." There was a slight malice in her tone, which appeared to irritate him somewhat.

"I can wait very well till the ceremony is performed," he answered at length. "Of course, she will appear at the marriage of her daughter." A strange emphasis on the last word.

"But come," he added directly, "we must not linger here. Some of the family may observe us."

Thus speaking, they passed out of the apartment, relieving Florence of the fear with which she had been shaking during their whole conversation lest they should discover her retreat in the window.

When they were gone, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed in a low, but fervent tone, "Will no arm save me from the power into which I have fallen?"

For several days she sought an opportunity to speak privately with her father, but his attention was so incessantly occupied by Col. Malcome, that none presented.

When at last she gained his ear, he laughed her suspicions to scorn, and bade her never come to him with such an idle tale again.

The good-natured major was infatuated by, what he termed, the munificent magnanimity of Col. Malcome, and, moreover, had been nurtured in luxurious tastes, and the prospect of reinstating himself in an elegant home by so easy a process as the marriage of his daughter, was too desirable to be allowed to vanish lightly away.



CHAPTER XLII.

"And they dare blame her! they whose every thought Look, utterance, act, hath more of evil in 't Than e'er she dreamed of or could understand, And she must blush before them, with a heart Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!"

In a neat, but scantily furnished apartment of a small, white cottage sat Louise Edson beside the low window which looked forth on a great frowning building with grated bars and ponderous iron doors.

"Is this a prison across the yard, aunt?" she asked of a tall, solemn woman, in a black head-dress, who had just entered the room, and stood laying some fresh fuel on the fire.

"It is the county jail," replied she.

"How it makes me shudder to look at it!" said Louise, turning from the window, and assuming a chair near her aunt, who was taking a quantity of sewing from a work-basket.

"It reminds me of a lady who was my near neighbor in Wimbledon, and who has been my sole companion for several months, to see you constantly occupied with your needle," remarked Louise, looking on her aunt as she assorted her cotton and arranged her work.

"What is the lady's name, of whom you speak?" inquired the woman.

"Mrs. Stanhope," answered Louise; "she is a kind soul. It pains me to think I shall never see her again."

"Do you not intend to return to your late home?" inquired the aunt, somewhat surprised at the words of her niece.

"Never!" returned Louise, with strong emphasis, "I could not endure it."

"Pshaw! you will get over this weakness in a little while," said her aunt. "You have half-conquered it by coming away, and you will complete the victory by returning."

"I tell you no," said Louise, somewhat angered by her aunt's persistence. "I have already written to Mr. Richard Giblet, one of the former firm of Edson & Co., to settle my affairs in Wimbledon, dispose of my late residence, and remit the proceeds to me in drafts."

The aunt looked astonished at this piece of intelligence, and said, "You have been rash and premature, my child, and I fear will regret your hasty proceedings."

"If you knew how much it relieved me to get out of that place, aunt, you would not fear I should ever wish to return. I was so near my enslaver there, and my heart said all the time, 'O, I must see him!' while conscience whispered sternly, 'You dare not do it.' There was a constant war 'twixt love and reason, which threatened the extermination of the latter."

"I am glad you have been ruled by your better judgment," said her aunt; "passion always leads us astray when we listen to its voice."

"That is very true," answered Louise; "but O that I had known it only by precept, and not by experience!"

"Experience is called the best teacher," remarked the aunt.

"It is the most bitter one," returned Louise. "How I wish you had been with me through the few brief years of my married life! With your kind care and admonitions I think I would never have strayed darkly into sin and error."

"We all err sometimes in our lives," said her aunt; "and I cannot discover as you have wandered so far from the paths of rectitude that your return to them should seem a thing impossible."

"But did I not tell you how I deceived my husband?" asked Louise, looking wofully in the face of her aunt.

"Yes," returned she, calmly. "Did he never deceive you?"

Louise paused a few moments, and answered, "I was deceived when I married him, but it was by my own blindness. However, the deception did not last long," she added, with a spice of her old spirit.

"And when it passed away," said her aunt.

"Don't recall those terrible hours to my mind," interrupted Louise, quickly, "lest I should forget the double share of respect I owe the dead in that I failed to give them their due on earth."

"I would not have the dead wronged," returned her aunt; "but I would have the living righted. You used to be free and unrestrained in your intercourse with me in the glad days of childhood and youth. I often feared some envious sorrow would overtake you to chill and despoil that buoyant exuberance of life and gayety. You were too wildly rich in heart and soul. You wasted more love on a pet rabbit than would eke out the whole passion life of a score of poorer natures. O, Louise, I trembled when you stood before the altar and took the vows of faithfulness to Mr. Leroy Edson. I knew you fancied that you loved him, and thought in the wild potency of your passion to bear him skyward on your soaring pinions; but, ah! I saw how sadly his clogging weight would drag you to the earth."

She paused, and Louise was silent, but her face showed traces of tears.

"Do not think me severe," resumed her aunt; "I am only just. Now tell me with your old-time confidence, why did you love another man while your husband lived?"

"It was because,"—— Louise hesitated, and then added, "because I was wicked."

"And for what other reason?" pursued her aunt.

"And because I was tired," Louise went on in a dreamy tone, as if thinking aloud to herself, "and because I was hungry."

"Your expressions begin to assume the old, quaint, humorous form," said the aunt smiling. "I suppose you mean your soul was tired for want of something on which to rest, and hungry for want of its proper nourishment."

"That's what I mean, aunt; but then I do not seek excuse for the crime of stealing to appease the cravings of my hunger."

"A famishing man has never yet been hung for stealing to sustain life."

"You draw a strong comparison, aunt," said Louise, laughing in spite of herself.

"To meet a strong case," returned she. "It is a duty I owe you to use my best efforts to destroy this morbid melancholy which is preying on your spirits. I know nothing of the man you have loved. He may or may not be worthy of your affections. It is not his cause I plead. But I would divest you of the false glasses through which your sensitive brain, wrought on by high excitement, and shocked by a sudden calamity, has come to regard the events of your past life, and let you behold them again with your own natural sight. If I can effect this, I confidently trust to your good reasoning powers to set all right again."

Louise remained silent after her aunt ceased speaking, but her countenance evinced far more energy and hopefulness than at the commencement of the conversation. At length she rose and said, "Well, aunt, I think I have as much logic as my weak brain can digest in one night, so I'll retire to my bed-room, if you please."

In a few weeks, young Mrs. Edson, under the tuition of her strong-minded, sensible aunt, regained a share of her former vivacity, and declared she would be quite herself again were it not for that great black jail in the adjoining yard, which frowned on her every morning and loomed dismally in her dreams.



CHAPTER XLIII.

"Ah, why Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, As not betraying their full import, yet Disclose too much! Disclose too much!—of what? What is there to disclose? A heart so ill at ease."

The preparations for the nuptials of Florence Howard with Rufus Malcome were rapidly progressing.

The services of Dilly Danforth were put in active requisition. Day after day her tall, thin form was seen moving to and fro the great mansion, washing windows, polishing grates, and brightening the silver knobs and plates of the mahogany doors. Col. Malcome, in his delight at the approaching marriage of his son, resolved to give a large fete on the occasion, and no pains were spared to render it the most costly and sumptuous affair ever presented to the gaze of the people of Wimbledon. The greatest expense was lavished upon the wedding-banquet, and the young bride's trousseau might have vied in magnificence and profusion with that of a royal princess.

All this display and grandeur was revolting to Florence. It humbled and mortified her proud, independent nature to owe the expensive decoration of her approaching bridal to the generosity of the man she was about to marry.

Col. Malcome appeared in the most fitful spirits as the preparations advanced toward their completion. He paced the piazzas for hours together, with hurried, excited steps, pausing often and muttering indistinctly to himself.

Sometimes he stood before a window in a dejected attitude, and gazed mournfully over the intervening gardens and cottages toward the elegant and stately mansion lately occupied by the Edsons, which stood on a small elevation just across the river, in the midst of beautiful grounds. Then, as he turned suddenly away, his countenance would change from its expression of gloomy regret to one of fierceness and angry revenge.

At length the night, whose morrow was to witness the long-expected ceremony, drew on. Great torrents of rain were flooding the streets and dashing dismally against the casements of the mansion which was, ere long, to blaze in the light of the festive scene.

Still, Col. Malcome, unheeding the storm, walked the wet marbles of the piazzas, with arms folded over his chest and head bowed, in a state of absent, moody absorption. At length the hall-door opened, and Rufus advanced to his father's side.

"What do you want with me?" said the colonel, turning quickly toward him.

"Not much," returned the son. "I heard you walking here, and thought I would join you, as there was no one in the house to keep me company."

"Where is Major Howard?"

"With his wife," answered Rufus.

"And Hannah?" continued the colonel.

"Don't mention that detestable creature!" said the young man angrily. "I can't abide her. So she is out of my sight, I care not where she is."

"Why do you hate the woman so?" asked Col. M. "She seems very fond of you."

"Yes! I cannot move but what she follows me. It is strange Major Howard retains such a bold, impudent slut in his service."

The colonel coughed slightly and remained silent.

At length Rufus spoke again hesitatingly, "Father!" said he.

"Well!" returned Col. M., in a tone which indicated for him to proceed.

"I don't want to marry Florence Howard," said the young man, with a great gulp, as though it cost him a mighty effort to pronounce the words.

"Why not?" asked the father, apparently unheeding his son's emotion. "Don't you love the girl?"

"Love her!" repeated Rufus. "I don't know whether I do or not; but I am afraid of her."

"Afraid of a little, puny girl!" exclaimed Col. Malcome, in a towering rage, "I did not think you such a pitiful craven."

The young man seemed angered by his father's words, but made no retort.

"Why are you afraid of her?" inquired the colonel after a while.

"Because she looks so proud and stern upon me, and treats me with such scorn and contempt."

"O, never mind that!" said his father. "When she is once your wife trust me to lower her loftiness, and make her as meek and humble as you could wish. Let us go in now. How wildly this storm is driving! I hope it may clear before the hour for the marriage arrives." Thus speaking, the father and son entered the hall and sought their respective apartments.

While this scene was passing on the piazza, Florence sat in her room with her journal open on the table before her.

"The last evening of my free, unfettered existence has drawn on," she wrote. "How wildly shrieks the wind, driving great torrents of rain against my curtained casements! It is fit a night like this should usher in my day of doom. Father seems delighted with the approaching festival, and mother has lost the dread she formerly evinced, which I now think was occasioned by the fear of losing me from her side. Hannah is almost wild with glee. She follows the steps of Rufus closely as his shadow. He hates her, and in this one point our feelings sympathize, but in no other. It is impossible to describe the loathing and abhorrence with which I regard the man who in a few more hours will be my husband. O, heavens! will no power save me from a fate so dreadful as a lifetime passed with him? Alas, no! Our beautiful home is gone, and we are poor, and had been shelterless but for these walls, which opened their doors to take us in. And can I make so poor a return for this friendly generosity, or so ungratefully scorn and reject the means presented to reinstate my father in wealth and magnificence, as to refuse to perform the act which will repay the kindness and restore to him the elegant home whose loss he so deeply deplores? O, no! I must not be so selfish and ungrateful. Still, it seems a great sacrifice even to insure a father's ease and happiness. I have an increasing dread and horror of this Col. Malcome, which I cannot overcome, despite all his apparent generosity and sympathy in our misfortune, and lavish display of profusion and splendor with which he surrounds this approaching bridal. It seems to me all this munificence goes to serve some fell purpose of his own. His strange power over my easy-natured father excites dark apprehensions in my bosom. But why torture myself with imagined ills, when the dread realities are sufficient to unnerve my soul! Now, amid this piteous wailing of storm and wind, I write the last words on these dear old leaves as Florence Howard, and betake me to my pillow,—but O, not to sleep! The bride of to-morrow will make a sorry figure in her silks and jewels."



CHAPTER XLIV.

"As Heaven is my spirit's trust, So may its gracious power Be near to aid and strengthen me When comes the trial hour."

The hour drew on; the guests assembled, and the minister waited the entrance of the bridal party to perform the solemn ceremony.