The storm drove wildly without the mansion, in strange contrast with the glowing warmth and luxuriance of the apartments within.

Col. Malcome sat on a velvet sofa, in graceful attire, supporting the wasted form of his daughter; who, thin, pale, and white as the garb she wore, leaned her head, all shorn of its beautiful curls, heavily against his shoulder. It was a sad sight to behold that feeble, emaciated figure rising from a bed of disease and pain, to mingle among the festive groups which filled those splendid drawing-rooms.

Suddenly there was a stir in the hall, and the bridal group entered. Florence, with the tips of her gloved fingers just touching the arm of the man who was in a few moments to become her husband, moved gracefully to the seat assigned her. She was magnificently arrayed in rose-colored satin, with an over-skirt of elegantly-wrought Parisian lace, and a spray of pearls and diamonds flashed their brilliant rays through the luxuriant dark curls that clustered round her pale, sweet brow, and fell in rich profusion over her white, uncovered shoulders.

Rufus was arrayed in a glossy garb of the finest black broadcloth, with a spotless vest of pearl-tinted satin, and immaculate white kids. His dark visage, small, peering black eyes, and low-bred, clownish aspect, contrasted strangely with the brilliant creature at his side.

The maids and groomsmen were in splendid attire, and looked proud and delighted with the notice their position attracted from the assembled groups.

Then came Major Howard, with a beaming countenance; his invalid lady, who had summoned all her strength and fortitude to be present on the occasion, leaning on his arm.

Col. Malcome rose politely and gave her a seat on the sofa beside his daughter, assuming himself a chair on the opposite side of the room.

Hannah Doliver, in a very elaborate dress of gay plaided silk, her jet black hair twisted into wiry ringlets, sat before her mistress, holding a fan and silver vial, to serve the invalid's need, should the unusual excitement produce a sudden nervous attack.

A significant glance was exchanged between Major Howard and Col. Malcome, when the latter arose, and, bowing to the clergyman who was to officiate on the occasion, said: "All is in readiness to proceed with the ceremony."

The man of God came slowly forward, with a grave and solemn aspect. As he was about to request the bridal group to rise, a stamping of heavy feet on the piazza outside the windows arrested his words; and directly the hall door was flung open with furious vehemence, and a party, consisting of four tall, brawny men, in dripping hats and overcoats, rushed into the apartment, leaving the door wide open behind them, with the storm rushing in upon the assembly in its wildest fury.

Col. Malcome sprang to his feet, his face glowing with anger at this most untimely and insulting intrusion.

"Arrest that man!" exclaimed the foremost of the strangers, pointing his arm toward the form of the colonel, who stood glowering upon the speaker with wrathful aspect.

"For what?" said Major Howard, leaping from his seat, as two strong men rushed forward to execute the command.

"For destroying your buildings by fire, on the night of the twelfth of January last," said the man who had ordered the arrest, whom the major now recognized as the sheriff of the county.

"Prove your words! prove your words!" exclaimed Col. Malcome, darting back from the grasp of the men who approached to imprison him.

"I am prepared to do so," returned the sheriff, motioning a tall, lank form, in a long overcoat and broad-brimmed hat, which stood near the door, to advance.

"You were in the grounds adjoining Major Howard's mansion on the night of the twelfth of January last," said he, addressing the singular-looking man, whose features were so entirely hidden by his collar and hat-brim, as to be indiscernible.

The figure bowed low in token of assent.

"What did you see there?"

The Hermit of the Cedars hesitated a moment, as if to collect his thoughts, while the gaze of every person in the room was riveted upon him, and a breathless silence reigned as he commenced to speak in a low, measured tone of assurance and courage.

"I saw a man in dark clothes standing on the piazza of the doomed mansion. A figure in female garb appeared from within, and, after a brief, whispered conversation, left a small basket in his hand, and retired whence she had come. Then the man, after glancing cautiously around him, descended the steps and proceeded to light the fires. In three different places the devouring element was kindled, and, as he stooped to blow the light fragments with his breath, the flames suddenly leaped forth and revealed in startling distinctness the face and features of the incendiary. His hat had fallen to the ground and left his head exposed, which was covered with a profusion of light, auburn hair, clustering in short, thick curls around a high, pale forehead."

Major Howard sprang from his seat.

"Sir!" said he, darting an enraged glance on the strange man, "are you a fool? Do you not see the hair of the man you would accuse is black as midnight, while you affirm that of the one who fired my mansion to have been of a flaxen hue?"

The hermit seemed not in the least disconcerted by this speech. Raising the long cane on which his arms had been resting, he lifted the black cloud of curls from the head of Col. Malcome and dashed it upon the floor.

"Herbert Mervale!" shrieked the invalided Mrs. Howard.

On hearing this voice the muffled man, who had thrown off his broad-brimmed hat, turned suddenly round.

"And Ralph Greyson!" she added.

Then throwing her arms around the wasted form of Edith Malcome, she exclaimed: "My daughter! my daughter! is it thus I find you?" and sank insensible on the sofa beside her.

Hannah Doliver sprang toward Rufus, covering him with kisses and calling him her "dear, dear son."

The young man threw her roughly to the floor, and, alarmed by the sudden scene of tumult and confusion, rushed into the street.

Florence clung close to the side of her father, who seemed struck dumb with horror and amaze.

At length the sheriff approached him. "Do you wish further proofs against the man we accuse?" he demanded.

"Take the villain away!" roared Major Howard, bursting suddenly into a terrific ebullition of anger, "and burn him at the stake. Hanging is too easy death for such a monster of wickedness!"

The assembly, terrified by the angry, tumultuous scene, began to disperse.

"Pause for a brief moment, my friends," said the major, growing somewhat calmer; "I have a few words of explanation 'tis meet you should hear. That man," pointing to Col. Malcome, who stood in the strong grasp of his keepers, glaring around him with the ferocity of a baffled tiger, "is the wretch who married my sister to steal her fortune, and leave her in poverty and distress with a young babe at her breast, to debauch himself with her serving-woman, by whom he had also a child. There lies the woman he has wronged," said he, his face growing fiercer, as he pointed to the form of the supposed Mrs. Howard, cast lifelessly on the sofa beside Edith Malcome, "at the feet of her daughter, and there stands the vile creature," pointing a wrathful finger toward Hannah Doliver, "who was his leman. But her bastard boy has fled the embrace of his polluted mother. My sister returned to me, after suffering inhuman barbarities from this monster, but he withheld her child. Her heart was broken by misfortune, and her only wish was to pass the remainder of her life in quiet and seclusion. My wife died when this dear girl was an infant," said he, taking the hand of Florence in his, who stood with her eyes fixed immovably on her father's face; "and I besought my sister to stand in the place of a mother to my little daughter."

Florence directed a quick, troubled glance toward the form which still lay motionless on the sofa beside Edith, but did not move.

"I have no more to say," resumed the major more calmly; "the artful wickedness which has threatened my ruin is exposed. Officers of justice, do your duty! Take Herbert Mervale from my presence!"

The strong men grasped the form of the prisoner and marched him from the room. The baffled villain made no resistance. He closed his eyes to avoid beholding the loathing, abhorrent glances which were showered on him from all sides.

As the hermit was slowly following the receding group, Major Howard stepped to his side, and, laying his hand lightly on his arm, said:

"Will you not remain till the guests have retired?"

"No," answered the recluse, shaking his head sadly, "I have done my duty and had better depart."

"You have saved me from destruction," said Major Howard, in a tone trembling with grateful emotion, as he seized the thin, emaciated hand of the hermit, and pressed it warmly to his bosom; "how shall I reward you?"

"I seek no reward from your generosity," returned the solitary, escaping from the grasp which detained him; "the consciousness of having done right is sufficient recompense."

Thus speaking, he turned away. Major Howard returned to the parlors. The guests were departing, and the several members of the family had disappeared.

He hurried to the apartment occupied by his sister, and there beheld her and Edith lying side by side, apparently in tranquil sleep, with Florence and Sylva, Edith's maid, watching at the bed-side.

Hannah Doliver was nowhere to be seen.

Florence advanced to meet her father, and, twining her arm affectionately round his neck, turned a tender glance on the pale faces of the sleepers, and said:

"O, father! father! let us kneel by this low couch and thank God for this merciful deliverance!"



CHAPTER XLV.

——————————-"All this is well; For this will pass away, and be succeeded By an auspicious hope, which shall look up With calm assurance to that blessed place Which all who seek may win, whatever be Their earthly errors, so they be atoned; And the commencement of atonement is The sense of its necessity."

Baby No. 2, had appeared at the home of Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, and the delighted grandmother held the tiny little creature this way and that way, gazing on its features with the most doting fondness, and nearly smothering it with affectionate kisses.

And baby No. 2 did not squeal like its lusty-lunged predecessor. O, no! it had the softest little feminine quackle, for all the world like a downy young gosling; and Mrs. Salsify said she would have it called Goslina, it quackled so sweetly. So Goslina Shaw was the euphonious sobriquet of baby No. 2, and the joyful grandame returned it to the bed beside the pale face of its mother, where 'twas quackling off to sleep, when Mr. Salsify came in from the store, his features glowing, as if he had some startling intelligence to convey.

"My sakes! what is it, Mr. Mumbles?" asked the fond wife quickly marking her husband's excited manner.

"I guess folks will have something to talk about besides my getting gagged at the Woman's Convention," said Mr. Salsify, rather maliciously, drawing a chair before the grate and placing his feet on the fender.

"Why, what has happened?" inquired his wife, eagerly.

"Enough has happened," returned he, "if all Martha Pinkerton has just been telling me is true."

"Where did you see her?" asked Mrs. Salsify.

"She came into the store to-night to buy a chunk of cheese; so I asked her what was the news? when she told me of the awfulest tragedy that occurred at Col. Malcome's the night they undertook to get Florence Howard married to the colonel's son."

"O, mercy, who was killed?" exclaimed Mrs. S., with uplifted hands.

"Nobody as I know of," returned Mr. Mumbles, whose ideas of a tragedy were different from those of his good wife; "but then the whole company might have been, for they had a murderer amongst them."

"Mercy to me, how awful!" said Mrs. Salsify. "What was his name and how did he get there?"

"His name was Col. Malcome, and he got there by his own wickedness."

"You don't mean to tell me that handsome Col. Malcome is a murderer!" exclaimed Mrs. Salsify, with terror depicted on her features.

"Yes I do, and worse than that; he burned Major Howard's house, and tried to get his pretty daughter married to her own brother."

"How can Rufus Malcome be a brother to Florence Howard?" asked Mrs. Mumbles, in amaze. "You are talking nonsense to me, I fear."

"O, no," returned her husband. "I tell you this Colonel Malcome has turned out the strangest. He is Major Howard's mother, and Dilly Danforth's aunt, and that old hermit's sister, and the Lord knows who and what else; but they have carried him off to jail, so there'll be no chance for him to burn any more houses."

Here Mr. Mumbles drew a long breath and rested a while.

"I am glad I didn't marry him," said a feeble voice from the bed.

"So am I, my daughter," said the father quickly; "and you may thank me for having saved you from a fate so deplorable. Your mother was mightily taken with this colonel when he came fawning round us, and she was pretty cross when I told her it would not do to let him marry you. I knew that great black head was full of wickedness, and so it has proved."

Mrs. Salsify sat rather uneasily while her husband vaunted his superior knowledge of human nature, but the gentle Goslina began to quackle from the bed, and she soon forgot all else in care for the dear little creature.

While this conversation was passing at the home of the Mumbles, the Hermit of the Cedars sat before the glowing fire which brightened the rough walls of Dilly Danforth's humble abode. He had acknowledged himself as her long-absent brother, and great was her joy at beholding him again, though she grieved to know how one deep sorrow had blasted his early promise and made him a wretched, solitary recluse.

"I fear," said she, at length, "you must still feel bitterly toward me for the low connection I was so unfortunate as to form, which biased the mind of your fair lady's brother against your suit."

"No, my sister," returned the hermit, in a tone of tender sadness; "I deeply regret the harshness and wrong I visited upon you in the wild fury of that early disappointment, for I have learned no act of yours influenced Major Howard against my suit. It was the wily artfulness of my rival, who breathed specious tales of my unworthiness in the ear of the brother, and caused her, the fair, unsuspecting girl, to turn from me and give her hand to Mervale."

The hermit's voice trembled as he pronounced these latter words, and he bowed his head in silence. The sister pitied the sorrow which she knew not how to soothe.

At length Willie entered, his face all bright with smiles.

"What makes you look so glad?" asked his mother, gazing with fond admiration on the tall, handsome boy; for she still regarded him as a child, though he was nearly grown to man's estate.

"I have got something for Uncle Ralph," said he, looking cunningly in the hermit's face.

"What is it, William?" inquired he, with a solemn smile.

The youth drew a letter from his pocket and placed it in his uncle's hand.

"It is from Edgar," said he, eagerly breaking the seal.

All were silent while he was occupied in the perusal.

"Edgar has received the disclosures in regard to the pretended Col. Malcome with unaffected astonishment," remarked the hermit, as he refolded the letter and placed it in his bosom. "He appears delighted to learn that Willie Danforth, of whom he has heard me speak so regardfully, is his cousin, and sends much love to him and also to his new-found aunt."

Mrs. Danforth looked gratified at these words, as did also Willie.

"I am sure I want to see him very much," said the latter. "When is he coming home, uncle?"

"In summer, when the woods are green, he says," returned the hermit; "he is now taking sketches in the vicinity of Richmond, Va."

"Was his father an artist?" asked Mrs. D.

"Yes," answered the recluse. "I well remember where sister Fanny first met him, and how quick a wild, deep love grew out of the romantic adventure. It was a few months after we left this country—I to forget in travel my cankering sorrows, she to companion my wanderings. How it affects me now to think that we left you in suffering poverty without even a kind good-by! Our shares in the estate of our deceased parents furnished us with funds for travel, while yours had been squandered by a dissolute man. But we should have given you of ours to alleviate your wants and distresses. Fanny often told me so; but my worst passions were roused by the misfortune I conceived you had helped to bring upon me, and I would not hear her pleadings in your behalf. What a hard-hearted wretch I have been!"

The hermit paused and covered his face.

Willie looked from his uncle to his mother, and at length approached him. "Do not fall into one of your gloomy reveries," said he; "tell us more of Edgar's mother."

"Ay, yes," said the hermit, rousing himself; "I was speaking of her first meeting with her future husband. It was among the ruins of the Eternal City. She had wandered forth by herself one day, and, intoxicated by the scenes that met her eye on every hand, roamed so far that when the shades of night began to fall, she discovered herself in the midst of gloomy, crumbling walls and tottering columns, without knowing whither to direct her steps. While she stood indeterminate, a gentleman approached, and kindly inquired if she had lost her way. She answered in the affirmative, and he offered to escort her home. I remember how glowing bright was her face that night, as she came bounding up the steps of our habitation, and presented the 'young artist she had found beneath the walls of Rome,' as she termed her companion, and laughingly recounted her adventure. I believe our family are predisposed to strong feelings, for I never witnessed a love more engrossing than was hers for the young Lindenwood; nor was his devotion to her less remarkable. They were married, and I left them to pursue my wanderings alone.

"When, after a lapse of several years, I returned, it was to stand over their death-beds, and receive their boy under my protection. His father was rich, and a large fortune was left to his only child. A few more years I roamed, and then with the young Edgar sought my native shores.

"You know the rest. It is a long yarn I have spun you," said he, rising, "and I marvel you are not both asleep."

"Are you going back to the forest to-night?" asked Mrs. Danforth, as he wrapped the long coat about his thin form, and placed the broad-brimmed hat over his gray locks.

"Yes, Delia," answered he. "I sleep best with the roar of the cedars in my ears."

"I will go with you," said Willie, springing for his cap.

The twain set forth together, while the lonely woman sought her couch and thought mournfully of long-past days and years.



CHAPTER XLVI.

"She is a bustling, stalwart dame, and one That well might fright a timid, modest man. Look how she swings her arms, and treads the floor With direful strides!"

It was a bright, sunny spring morning, and Wimbledon was beautiful in budding foliage, singing blue-birds and placid little river, with the sunbeams silvering its ripply surface.

The windows of Mr. Pimble's kitchen were raised and therein Peggy Nonce moved vigorously to and fro, with rolled-up sleeves and glowing face, stirring a great fire which roared and crackled in the jaws of a huge oven, and then back to the pantry, where she wielded the sceptre of an immense rolling-pin triumphantly over whole trays of revolting pie-crust, marched forth long files of submissive pies, and lodged them in the red-hot prison.

While the stalwart house-keeper was thus occupied, Mr. Pimble, with a yellow silk handkerchief tied over his straggling locks, and his pale, palm-figured wrapper drawn closely around him, scraped the stubbed claw of a worn-out corn broom over the kitchen floor, clapping his heelless slippers after him as he moved slowly along. Peggy never heeded him at all, but rushed to and fro, as if there had been no presence in the kitchen save her own, often dragging the dirt away, on her trailing skirts, just as the indefatigable sweeper had collected it in a pile.

All at once, pert little Susey Pimble opened the parlor door and swinging herself outward, said, "I want the dining-room castors and tea-cups, and mamma says I am to have them and you are to come and give them to me."

The father rested his arms on the broom handle, and turning his face toward his hopeful daughter, who was a "scion of the old stock," said, "I will come soon as I have swept the floor."

"I cannot wait," returned Susey, sharply, "I must have them this moment."

The father laid down his broom passively, and saying, "What an impatient little miss you are!" clappered off to the dining-room, and brought forth the desired articles on a waiter.

Miss Susey, all atilt with delight, danced forward and caught it from her father's hands; but its weight proved too much for her little arms, and down it went to the floor with a fearful crash! Susey sprang back with a frightened aspect at the mischief she had done, and Peggy Nonce, dropping her rolling-pin, rushed out of the pantry and beheld the fragments of broken china scattered over the floor. Her face crimsoned with anger.

"What a destructive little minx!" she exclaimed, glaring on the offending Susey. "How dared you meddle with those dishes?"

"Mamma said I might have them to play house with," answered Susey, with flashing eyes.

"Who ever heard of such a thing as giving a child a china tea set to play with?" said Peggy, holding up her bare, brawny arms in amazement.

"My mother has heard of such a thing; and she knows more than fifteen women like you, old aunt Peggy Nonce," returned Miss Susey, with the air of a tragedy queen.

The unusual sounds aroused Mrs. Pimble, who appeared at the parlor door with a goose-quill behind her ear, and a written scroll in her hand. When her eyes fell on the spectacle in the centre of the kitchen, she stamped violently, and exclaimed, in a tempestuous tone, "What does this mean?" Mr. Pimble slunk away into a corner, while Peggy pursed up her lips with a defiant expression, and Susey grew suddenly very meek and blushing-faced.

Mrs. Pimble's eyes followed her husband. "You crawling, contemptible thing," she exclaimed, "have you grown so stupid and insensate that you cannot comprehend a simple question? Again I demand of you, what does this mean?" and she pointed her finger sternly to the broken fragments which strewed the floor.

"Susey said you told her she might have the castors and tea things, and that I was to give them to her," said Mr. Pimble, without lifting his eyes from the hearth he was contemplating.

"Very well, I did tell Susey she might have the articles mentioned to amuse herself with, and it was fitting she should have them, or I had not given my consent. But why do I find them dashed to the floor and rendered useless? Answer me that, you slip-shod sloven?"

With an awful air, Mrs. Pimble folded her arms and looked down upon her husband, who cringed away before her ireful presence, and said, "Susey dropped the waiter."

"Dropped the waiter!" repeated Mrs. Pimble, her anger freshening to a gale. "And could you not prevent her from dropping it? or had you no more sense than to load an avalanche of china on the arms of a little child?"

"She took the waiter from me," said Pimble, in a dogged tone, his eyes still studying the tiles in the hearth.

Mrs. Pimble darted upon him one glance of the most withering contempt, and taking Susey by the hand led her from the room, without deigning to utter another word.

Soon as she disappeared Peggy set about clearing up the broken crockery, and Mr. Pimble crawled off into the recess of a window where the sun might shine on his shivering frame, and at length fell asleep. He had hardly concluded his first dream of fragmentary tea-cups, ere a violent pulling at his draggling coat-tails, which hung over the sill, caused him to wake with a start, when he beheld Peggy Nonce at his side, saying, "Dilly Danforth was come to see him." With a hopeless yawn he crawled out of his sunny nook, and, turning his dull, sleepy eyes toward the disturber of his quiet, demanded, in a surly tone, "what she wanted with him."

"I have come to pay my quarter's rent," said Mrs. Danforth, placing a bank note in his grimy hand. He closed his skinny fingers on it with an eager clutch, and looked in the woman's face with a vague expression of wonder.

"I am glad to get a shilling from you at last," said he, fondling the note; "but this will not quite pay up the last quarter's rent. There's about half a dollar more my due. You can come and do the spring cleaning, and then I'll call matters square between us."

"I thought ten dollars was the sum specified, for three months' rent," remarked Mrs. Danforth.

"It was," returned he, "but you know you had the pig's feet and ears at the fall butchering, and Mrs. Pimble gave you a petticoat in the winter. These things would amount to more than fifty cents, if I put their real value upon them; but as you have cashed this payment, I will, as I said before, call all square with a few days' light work from you."

Mrs. Danforth drew another note from her pocket, and, placing it in his hand, asked him to satisfy himself of his claims upon her, as she could not favor him with her services as he desired, having work of her own to do. Mr. Pimble looked still more astonished when he felt the second note between his fingers. He put it in his pocket and returned her a silver piece. She took it, and, turning to depart, said, "I shall not want your house any longer, Mr. Pimble. I am going to move away to-day."

"Where are you going?" he asked, opening his sleepy eyes very wide.

"I have hired a room in Deacon Allen's cottage," answered she. "It is near the seminary, where William attends school."

Mr. Pimble continued to stare on the woman, with distended eyeballs.

"You have been a very peaceable tenant," he said at length; "I would rent my house cheaper, if you would remain another year."

"I have made my arrangements to move, and would prefer to do so," returned Mrs. Danforth, bidding him good-morning.

He looked very much disconcerted after she was gone, and muttered, he "did not see what had set Dilly Danforth up so, all at once."



CHAPTER XLVII.

"'Tis silent all!—but on my ear The well-remembered echoes thrill; I hear a voice I should not hear, A voice that now might well be still. Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake; Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake, To listen though the dream be flown."

"O, it is ever the wildest storms that lull to the sweetest calms!" wrote Florence Howard, on a new-turned leaf of her well-treasured journal. "My heart is singing grateful anthems to the all-wise Father, who stretched forth his friendly arm to save me from the 'snare of the spoiler.' As I sit here to-night, with a young May moon gleaming down through the far depths of liquid ether, like a sweet, angel face of pity and love, how dimly o'er my memory come the stormy scenes of sin and passion which conspired to render terrible the winter that has passed away! My soul, long torn and rent by grief and wild-contending emotions, grows tranquil in the calm and quiet which have succeeded the furious storm, and settles to peaceful rest.

"It is enough for me to know my father's wrongs are righted and I am still his own, and only his. The clown, from whose polluting arms kind Providence rescued me, has never shown his hateful form among us since the day that witnessed the disclosure of his father's baseness. His vile mother has also disappeared, in search of her son. Great Heaven! to think I was so near becoming the wife of that woman's child of sin; and, but for that strange, wild hermit, who lifted the black curls that veiled the monster who sought our destruction, O, where had we all been now? And was it not a striking instance of Jehovah's righteous retributions, that the man who was once the betrothed of my aunt, should be the instrument selected by Heaven to disclose the villany and wickedness of the wretch who seduced her affections by artful falsehoods, and made her his wife, but to steal her fortune and blast her life? Poor, dear aunt Mary! I mourn not nor pine to find she is not my mother, for surely the fragile Edith, so rudely shocked by the disclosures of her father's crimes, would have drooped and died, had she not found a mother's fond affection to comfort and sustain her in the trial hour. It is a beautiful sight, this reuenion of parent and child. How trustingly they cling to each other, and how their wan aspects brighten in the warmth of their mutual affection! But I think there's a love in the mother's heart yet stronger than that she feels for her child. I watch her emotional excitement when the name of the hermit is mentioned, and I think that early devotion has survived all disappointments and afflictions. What a romantic thing it would be for them to meet in the evening of life and renew the promises of their youth! But it may not be, for the conviction steals coldly o'er me that my dear aunt has been too deeply tried to long survive her sorrows. Even the joy of discovering a daughter may not save her from the tomb which opens to receive her weary form in its oblivious arms. Father looks on the thin, wasted form, following Edith closely as her shadow, with a fond, earnest gaze fixed on the gentle girl, and turns to hide a tear. O, would the blow might be a while averted! All is so bright and sunny around us now. I even try to nurse the belief that I could not be happier, but my heart will rebel against the specious falsehood. Still, still it wears the fetters love so enduringly fastened. Still I remember that double dawn which rose on me as I stood on the cloud-veiled summit of old, hoary-headed Mount Washington.

'And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood and heart and brain, I would give, to call the affluence of that moment back again, Europe, with her cities, rivers, hills of prey, sheep-sprinkled downs, Ay, an hundred sheaves of sceptres, ay, a planet's gathered crowns,'

"But I must not write thus, lest I grow ungrateful for the mercies of a gracious Providence. Let me thank my God for his remembrance in the hour of sorest need, and lie down to slumber."

She closed her book, and, dropping softly on her knees before the low curtained couch, leaned her young head, with its dark, clustering curls, against the white cushions, and remained several moments in silent prayer. Then rising, she closed the casements and retired to rest.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

"Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd should fly from thee, thy home is still here.

* * *

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in thy heart; I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"

A graceful form bent over a printed page, and by the light of a waxen taper, devoured its startling contents. Ah, how awfully startling to the reader! for it was Louise Edson poreing over the disclosures of Col. Malcome's wickedness and crime. But, as she drew toward the close, a sudden ray of light struggled through the anguish and misery which had cast her features into utter darkness, when her eye first lighted on the glaring capitals of the criminal's name. Concealing the paper which contained the fearful tale of his guilt, she hastened to her own apartment.

As the shades of the following evening drew on, a female figure, wrapped in a large shawl, with her features closely veiled, stood at the iron door of the huge, black jail, and besought an entrance.

"Who do you wish to see?" demanded the jailer, in a coarse, rough tone, seeking to penetrate the veil with his impertinent eyes.

She breathed a low word in his ear. The man started.

"Is it possible you wish to behold a wretch like him?" exclaimed he.

The lady drew up her slight form with an air of dignity, and said, "Deliver my message, and bring me his answer!"

Awed by her manner, the jailer hastened his steps to obey her command.

The door of a gloomy cell on the second floor of the huge building opened with a harsh, grating sound, and the man stepped in and secured the door behind him. The prisoner, who was sitting beside a table, with pen and paper before him, turned round and fixed his eyes upon the intruder. "What do you want?" asked he. "When you use double bolts and bars to secure me, is it necessary to come every hour to see if I have not escaped?"

"I have not come to satisfy myself of your safety," returned the jailer, scowling on the speaker. "There's a woman at the outer door who wants to know if you will grant her a brief interview."

The prisoner started abruptly at these words. "What is her name?" demanded he, quickly.

"I do not know," answered the man. "She did not tell me; but she seemed mighty impatient for an answer to her request."

The prisoner bowed his head and sat in silence several moments. At length he said, "Bring her in! I have a curiosity to know what woman would penetrate these walls to seek an interview with me."

The jailer disappeared. In a few moments footsteps were heard along the dark passage, a female form was ushered into the cheerless apartment, and the lock turned harshly upon her. Then a white hand was laid lightly on the bright curling locks of the bowed head, and a low voice whispered in the ear of the incarcerated man, "It is a pitiful heart that forgets a friend in adversity."

"Louise!" said the prisoner, shrinking away with evident pain from her touch. "Why are you here?"

"To cheer you,—to comfort you," said she, earnestly regarding his pale, handsome features.

But he turned away from her gaze, shaking his head mournfully. "This is the deepest humiliation I have yet endured," he said, while a creeping shudder convulsed his frame. "To feel those clear eyes fastened upon me, piercing through and through my soul, and reading all the guilt and crime that's written there. O, Louise! was it not enough to drive me, by your unrelenting scorn and bitterness, to commit the act which has brought me here, without seeking to torment your victim by penetrating his dungeon to mock at the misfortune your own cruelty occasioned?"

He raised his pale, distressed face imploringly to hers as he ceased to speak; but she started back from her position at his side, and with an angry accent said, "I do not understand how any fell influence of mine should cause you to break the heart of an innocent woman by your guilty conduct with another."

"I did not seek to refer the blame of those early sins to any influence of yours," he answered. "How could I, when they were committed before your birth? In the very dust I acknowledge those deeds of villany and vileness. But too late is my grief and repentance. The blow has fallen, and my doom is fixed."

He leaned his arms forward upon the table, and, sinking his head upon them, uttered a low groan of hopeless, despairing misery.

Tears sprang to Louise's eyes, and, approaching, she dropped on her knees at his side, and laid her hand on his arm, "Do you remember a promise I gave you long ago?" she asked softly. "If I have seemed forgetful, let me renew it now."

He still retained his attitude of dejection, and seemed regardless of her pleading tones.

"You will not hear me," she said at length, in a voice broken with grief, "when I kneel at your feet and ask your pardon."

"You kneel to me!" said he, suddenly grasping her arm and striving to raise her from the humble position. "Rise, I entreat, if you would not drive me mad!"

She stood before him, with tears falling fast from her beautiful eyes. "Who is the cruel one now?" she asked. "Who throws me aside and refuses forgiveness when it is repentantly implored?"

"What signifies the pardon of a wretch like me?" said he, in a tone of agony. "What is he? what can he be to you?"

Turning her head aside, she said in a soft, trembling voice, "He is what he has ever been, and still may be,—my world of love and happiness!" Her cheeks flushed, as, lifting her eyes, she encountered his earnest gaze. She sought to move away, but he was by her side. "Louise! Louise!" said he, in a tone of thrilling emotion, "Dare I hope that you love me still?"

There was no word; but she put her arm round his neck and sank weeping on his bosom. He pressed her again and again to his heart. "Ah, indeed!" said he, at length, "this is the luxury of woe. To know at last this love is mine, and be separated forever from its dear embraces by the cold walls of a prison. Stern justice can inflict no pang like this."

"Talk not of separation," said she, lifting her head, and revealing a face redolent with happiness. "No hand shall take me from you save the hand of death!"

He gazed with unspeakable tenderness on her glowing features, and said sorrowfully, "My wickedness does not deserve this angel-comforter. Why did you withhold this blessed consolation when the world smiled brightly on me?"

"To bestow it when the world had cast you off," said she; "to think of you at your best, when it had made your name a by-word and reproach."

He pressed his lips tenderly to the white, upturned brow, and drew her to a seat. A half-hour passed in low, earnest conversation, when the grating of the iron key aroused them, and Louise had only time to draw her veil over her features when the jailer entered. "I am ready to follow you," she said, advancing toward him.

He held the heavy door asunder, and, with one lingering glance on the form of the prisoner, she went forth and followed her guide through the dark passages, and down the steep flights of stairs. He unlocked the street-door, and she stepped lightly forth beneath the light of the stars.



CHAPTER XLIX.

"They loved;—and were beloved. O happiness. I have said all that can be said of bliss In saying that they loved. The young heart has Such store of wealth in its own fresh, wild pulse, And it is love that works the mind, and brings Its treasure to the light. I did love once, Loved as youth, woman, genius loves; though now My heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wear The falsest of false things—a mask of smiles; Yet every pulse throbs at the memory Of that which has been."

Summer showered her wealth of roses over the gardens and grassy paths of Wimbledon. Day after day the sound of the busy hammer rang out on the scented air, and crowds of workmen were seen at eventide hurrying to their separate places of abode. Great teams, loaded with fancy and ornamental wood and iron work, labored through the streets, and "Summer Home" was rising from its ruins in all its former magnificence and splendor.

Major Howard decided he could not use the confiscated wealth of the pretended Col. Malcome for a better purpose than to rebuild the mansion his wickedness had destroyed.

Florence was delighted at the prospect of regaining the beautiful home she had lost; for, elegant and luxurious as was her present abode, she was disquieted by too frequent remembrance of the terrible scenes she had witnessed beneath its roof. Still, the Howards were for the most part very happy. Edith's bright head was again covered with its golden wealth of curls, and her merry laughter echoed joyously through the halls and parlors of the proud mansion. It seemed her greatest delight to bring a smile to the wan cheek of her mother, who was failing slowly, even beneath the genial influence of a summer sun.

As Florence stood on the vine-curtained terrace one balmy August morning, inhaling the sweet air, and listening to the thrilling warblings of Edith's pet canaries, as they swung in their wire-wrought cages from the roof above, she beheld Willie Danforth coming up the garden path, holding a letter toward her in his cunning, tempting way. She extended her hand to receive it.

"No," said he, suddenly drawing it back. "I don't think I'll let you have this tiny little missive, unless you will first promise to tell me who is the writer."

"Why, how can I tell you till I know myself?" said she, still reaching for the letter, which he continued to withhold, smiling at her eager, impatient aspect.

His frolicsome habit of teasing gently any one he loved always reminded her of Edgar Lindenwood, and he was very like his cousin in personal appearance. So thought Florence; and he and his mother, who lived in a room of Dea. Allen's cottage, just across the garden, became marked favorites of hers.

At length Willie gave her the letter. She broke the seal quickly, and hurried through the contents.

"I'll tell you who 'tis from, gladly," said she, with a bright smile; "for I fancy it will afford you pleasure to know. Do you remember a little girl, named Ellen Williams, who used to trip over the piazza we stand on now?"

The young man's face brightened and blushed as he replied eagerly,

"That do I, and her brother Neddie."

"Well, they are both coming here to make me a nice, long visit," said she, in a delighted tone. "Is not this happy news?"

"It is, indeed," answered Willie; "but where did you make their acquaintance, Florence?"

"During the period of my travels they were my constant companions. I recollect how eagerly Ellen inquired for you, when we first met at Niagara; but I was then almost ignorant of your existence, and could give her no satisfactory information. I told her there was a youth I had heard called Willie Greyson, who lived with a hermit; and she said Greyson was your mother's maiden name; but so dutiful and affectionate a son as you would never leave a lonely, widowed parent to dwell with a solitary hermit. So she would believe you were dead."

"And did that belief appear to cause her any regret?" asked William, who had been listening with an earnest expression to Florence's words.

"Yes, indeed," returned she; "the pretty, gentle girl has a strong regard for you, Willie. You must renew acquaintance when she and her brother come to pay me their long-meditated visit."

"I don't know," said the young man, rather sadly.

"I believe you will be a second Hermit of the Cedars, or the Hemlocks, or the Pines," said she, laughing; "for you are already half as melancholy as your uncle, at times."

"Do you consider him so very gloomy, then?" asked Willie.

"He has the most mournful expression I ever saw," answered Florence; "but he is an entertaining companion for all that. I always sit apart, and listen in silence, when he relates some tale or adventure of his extensive travels. He was with us yesterday evening, and I never saw him so animated and lively before. Even Aunt Mary's pale, grief-worn countenance assumed a cheerful expression while listening to his sprightly, intelligent conversation."

"Did you not know the cause of his unusual exhilaration?" inquired William.

"No," said Florence, looking innocently in the face of the questioner.

"Edgar is at home."

"Why did he not inform us of his nephew's return?" asked Florence, growing suddenly very pale, and finding it convenient to lean against a pillar near by.

"Perhaps he did not think the intelligence would interest your family," returned Willie; "he is very modest in his confidences."

The seminary bell now commenced to ring, and the youth hastened away with a pleasant good-morning.

Florence stood there a long time, behind the thickly-interwoven woodbines and honeysuckles, supporting herself against the marble column, forgetful of all save the blissful thought that the man she loved was once more near her. He was, indeed, nearer than she supposed, for there came a light footstep on the vine-shrouded terrace, and she felt an arm stealing softly around her, while a voice, whose briefest tone she could never mistake, whispered in her ear:

"Again we have met, and O, Florence! say, in mercy say, it shall be to part no more!"

There is nothing so natural, to a woman that loves, as the presence of the beloved object; and Florence turned toward Edgar with no amazement or surprise; but love unspeakable lighted her features as she placed her hand in his, tenderly, trustfully, and with a manner that convinced him she would never withdraw it again.

Then she led him into the drawing-room, where the family soon assembled, and were presented to the young artist.

Aunt Mary was delighted with his appearance, and soon engaged him in a conversation which grew very brilliant and animated on his part, and was joined in by Florence and Edith, till Major Howard entered, whose joy at again beholding his former travelling companion knew no bounds, and the mirth and merriment increased four-fold. Evening had fallen ere they were aware, when Edgar rose and said he must return to the hermit's habitation.

All regretted to lose his presence, and Major Howard strongly invited him to regard his mansion as a home while he should remain in the vicinity.

Edgar thanked him for his generous offer, and gracefully bowed a good-evening.

Florence accompanied him to the hall door, and he drew her forth on the terrace, which was now glinted over by the silvery moonbeams.

"Come soon again," said she.

"Yes, dearest," he answered. A long, sweet kiss and gentle adieu, in which there was love enough to feast even her long-famishing soul, and he was gone.

She skipped lightly into the parlor, kissed her father, Aunt Mary, Edith, Sylva, and Fido, the little Spanish poodle that was nestled in her arms, and then bounded up the stairs to her own apartment, singing as she went.

"There goes the happiest heart in Wimbledon, to-night," said her father, as he caught the sound of her musical voice ringing through the spacious hall above.

"Save one," said Aunt Mary, with a sad smile.

"He is beyond its precincts," returned Major Howard. "Edith, did you ever love?" said he, quickly turning his discourse toward the gentle girl, who stood, regarding attentively the faces of the speakers, as if she hardly comprehended their words.

"No," answered she, innocently.

"Heaven grant you never may," said her mother, fervently; "come, my child, let us seek the quiet of our own apartment."

Edith threw her arm affectionately round the wasted form.

"Good-night, uncle," said she, and they all disappeared.



CHAPTER L.

"We leave them at the portal Of earthly happiness; We pray the power immortal May hover o'er to bless; And strew their future pathway With flowers of peace and love, Till death shall call their spirits To Eden realms above."

When "Summer Home" rose complete in its beautiful architectural design, with its wealth of foliage and flowers all in wildest, richest profusion, a young bride walked under the trailing vines which overhung the marble-supported terrace, and a manly form at her side opened the hall door and ushered her into the magnificent drawing-rooms. It was Florence Lindenwood.

Then a carriage came rolling up the long avenue of cedars, conveying Major Howard, his sister, Edith, and Sylva, with the lap-dog and pet canaries in her care, to the newly-completed mansion. What a regal home they entered, and how proud and happy were their beaming faces!

The day was passed with a social group of friends, among whom Ned Williams, his sister Ellen, and young Willie Danforth, were the most lively and mirthful. At night-fall the hermit appeared, and was warmly received. He sat down by aunt Mary, and conversed calmly, as was his wont.

Florence glanced about the apartment in search of her husband, wondering that he did not come forward to welcome his uncle, but he had disappeared. She flew up stairs to their apartment, and beheld him sitting before a table, apparently absorbed in the contents of some volume. Stepping softly forward, she leaned over his shoulder. He was reading her journal.

"Thief!" she exclaimed, covering the page with her little white hands, "where did you find this?"

"It attracted my notice this morning when I was packing your books for removal," returned he. "I did not know I was so well loved before, Florence," he added, with a provoking smile.

"Look out that I do not cease to love you altogether," said she, shaking her tiny finger playfully in his face, "if you steal into my private affairs in this way. But come below now," she continued, taking his hand; "uncle Ralph has arrived and waits to see you."

They descended to the parlor, and after the pleasant evening was passed and the guests severally departed, the hermit presented to his nephew the fortune left him by his long-deceased father. It was much larger than Edgar had ever supposed. He amply remunerated the care and protection of his kind guardian, and besought him to forsake the forest-hut and dwell beneath his grateful roof. But the recluse waived the entreaties of the young, happy couple.

He "could not desert his home in the cedars. It was the spot where the most placid years of his life had been passed. He would frequently visit the abode of Edgar, and also that of his lately-recovered sister, but still chose to retain the wild-wood habitation as a retreat when melancholy moods rendered him unfit for all society, and he could only find consolation in the lone solitude of nature."

So, with a fervent blessing on their bright young heads, he departed on his solitary way to the distant forest.

And the starry night stole on, while all was quiet and peaceful above and around the mansion of "Summer Home."



THE LAST CHAPTER.

"Let's part in friendship, And say good-night."

Shadowy-vested romance, that whilom roamed the grassy paths and flower-strewn ways of Wimbledon, is wrapping the heavy folds of her dew-moistened mantle around her, and stealing silently away. Yet for a moment let her turn a parting glance toward the motley groups which have companioned her midnight rambles, and are seen passing in the distance with their eyes fixed steadily on her receding form.

Foremost in the crowding phalanx we mark the firm, upright figure of Mr. Salsify Mumbles, and his commanding aspect and majestic tread assure us that he has "risen in his profession" to the airy summit of his most ambitious aspirations. We fancy another story has crowned his mansion, and a second piazza stretched its snowy palings around its painted walls. Beside him is his amiable wife, with the sweet baby Goslina, in a robe of dimity, pressed close to her affectionate shoulder, quackling softly as they pass along.

Close behind is Mary Madeline and her tender spouse, a hand of each given to their hopeful son, who, ever and anon, turns his mites of eyes up to his parents' faces and utters a piercing squeal.

Then Miss Martha Pinkerton comes primly on, with Mrs. Stanhope at her side, who turns often with a friendly glance toward a happy-seeming couple that walk apart, as if their chief enjoyment was in each other's society.

"You have rescued and redeemed me," whispered a manly voice in the ear of the graceful figure which leaned so confidingly on his arm.

"Let us forget the past and be happy," said his companion, lifting her clear eyes to his eloquent face.

Their forms faded from our vision, and the pleasant reverie into which we were sinking to weave fair garlands, to crown their future years, was rudely broken by a ranting bustle and confusion. Philanthropy was sweeping past.

Mrs. Pimble, in nankin bloomers, with pert Susey clinging to the hem of her brief skirt, stalked on with angry stride, vociferating at the top of her voice.

Mrs. Lawson towered indignantly at her side, joining in wrathful denunciations of the tyrant man; and fair, persecuted Dr. Simcoe's assenting voice was faintly heard amid the fiendish shrieks of those pestiferous younglings, Simcoe's children.

We knew by their ireful aspects some dreadful peril had menaced the cause of Woman's Rights, and while we gazed, their clamor increased to furious yells of rage and defiance, and a dark, descending cloud hung threateningly over their wrathful heads as they passed along.

On their vanishing shadows Mr. Pimble clappered his heelless slippers, with the long skirts of his palm-figured wrapper streaming on the air behind him; like the grim ghost of manhood pursuing its flying aggressors.

Then Florence, like a beam of light, danced past on the arm of Edgar, and a merry, laughing group followed quickly in their rear, among which we recognized the tall, portly form of Major Howard, smiling benignly on the happy faces around him.

But we looked in vain for the thin, bowed figure of his grief-stricken sister. There were two willow-shaded graves in the grass-grown church-yard, and o'er them bent the spectre-like form of the Hermit of the Cedars, his gray locks moistened by the falling night-dews, and his pale face turned upward to the midnight stars with an expression of mournful resignation.

As the clock in the ivy-hung steeple tower rang forth its echoing chimes on the odorous air, we cast one glance toward the swiftly-vanishing groups, and silently turned away.

Cold and bitter on our long-wrapped senses strike the harsh, blunt-edged realities of every-day existence. The multiplied images which but yesterday peopled our brain and thronged on our notice, have "departed thence, to return no more."

The last sound of their multitudinous voices has died in the distance, and Wimbledon is to us as if it had never been.



SCRAGGIEWOOD;

A

TALE OF AMERICAN LIFE.



CHAPTER I.

"Sweetly wild Were the scenes that charmed me when a child; Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dark, Leaping rills, like the diamond spark; Torrent voices thundering by, When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high, And a quiet roof, like the hanging-nest, 'Mid cliffs, by the feathery foliage drest."

October's harvest-moon hung in the blue ether. Brightly fell her golden beams on the tall, old forest trees, that pointed spar-like toward the starry heaven, and down, through their interlacing branches, upon gray, mossy rocks and uprooted trunks, over which wild vines wreathed in untrained exuberance; and dim, star-eyed flowers reared their slender heads among the rank undergrowth of bush and shrub.

And here, in this primeval wildness, her silver beams revealed a low, thatched cottage standing in a narrow opening. Its walls were built of rough stones, piled one upon another in a rude, unartistical manner; and the heavy turf roof, which projected far over the sides, was sunken and overgrown with moss and lichens.

From this rough dwelling proceeded tones of mirth and hilarity. How strangely they sounded in the lone solitude of nature! Through an open window might be seen a group, seated round a small table, consisting of two young men, and an old woman in a high starched cap, with a huge pair of iron-bowed spectacles mounted on her Roman nose. A child was sleeping on a pallet in a corner of the room, and one of the young men passed the candle a moment over the low cot, and, gazing intently on the sleeper, asked in a lively, careless tone,

"Sacri, Aunt Patty! is that your baby, or the fair spirit that unrolls the destinies of mortals to your inspired vision?"

"She is neither one nor t'other," answered the old woman. "Now please to hold that candle up here close to my eyes."

"But I want to know who that is asleep there; for I've a notion she is more concerned in my destiny than anything you'll find in that old teacup."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the woman musingly, as she continued to peer, with a mystic expression of countenance, into a small and apparently empty teacup, which she turned slowly round and round in her skinny hand, muttering at intervals in an ominous undertone.

"Well, Aunt Patty, out with it!" said the youth at length, tired of her long silence. "Isn't it clear yet? Here's another bit of silver; toss that in, and stir up again;" and he threw a shining half-eagle down on the table. The woman's face brightened as she clutched it eagerly.

"Come, now let's hear," continued the young man, "what's to be Mr. Lawrence Hardin's destiny."

"May be, if you saw all I see in this cup, you would not be so eager to know its contents," said the crone in a boding voice.

"What! Whew, old woman! croaking of evil when I've twice crossed your palm with silver! This is too bad."

"But don't you know the decrees of fate are unalterable?" said the woman, solemnly.

"O, law, yes! but I didn't know an old cracked saucer was so formidable."

"It is no saucer, sir; it is a cup, and your destiny is in it."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other young man; "pretty well wound up, Hardin, if your destiny is contained in a teacup."

"Hush!" exclaimed the crone in an angry tone. "More than his or yours, you noisy chatterer! The whole world's, I may say, is in the cup."

"In the pot, you mean," said the youth, knocking with his bamboo stick on the side of a small, black teapot, that stood at the old woman's right hand.

"Well, yes; in the pot, I should say, perhaps," added she in a softened tone.

"The world's destiny is in a teapot, and Aunt Patty Belcher pours it forth at her pleasure; that's it;" and here they all joined in a hearty laugh.

"That will do," said Hardin at length; "now read off, good Dame Belcher. Sumpter is digesting his fortune. Give me a more palatable one than his."

The old woman rubbed her long, peaked nose violently, and then raising her eyes slowly to the young man's face, said, "Thou art ambitious, Lawrence Hardin!"

"Wrong there, most reverend sorceress!" exclaimed the one called Sumpter.

"Now, hark ye!" exclaimed the old crone; "I won't be interrupted. I guess I know my own cups."

"Be quiet, be quiet, Jack!" said Hardin. "Why will you be so presumptuous as to gainsay a prophet's assertions! Go on, Aunt Patty; he will not disturb you again."

"Well, I tell you again," said the woman, casting a disdainful glance on Sumpter, who had withdrawn to a chair at the foot of the cot-bed, and was regarding attentively the tiny form lying there wrapped in tranquil sleep, "I tell you again, you are ambitious. You want to be thought great. You want to be first. You thirst for power for the sake of bowing others to your will. You have rich parents now, and are surrounded by all that heart could wish; but, mind ye, there's a dark cloud in the rear. It threatens tempest and desolation. Soon your parents will be dead, and you hurrying from your rich, splendid home to seek your fortune in a distant country. You will seem to prosper for a while, and then it blackens again. You can see yourself," she added, holding the cup before the young man's face, "that black clump in the bottom."

"I see only a few tea-grounds your turnings and shakings have settled together," remarked he, carelessly.

"Destiny placed them as they are, young men," said the hag, solemnly.

"May be so," he added; "but tell me, how long shall I live? Shall I be successful in love, and will my lady be handsome?"

"Thou wilt live longer than thou wilt wish; ay, drag on many years when thou wouldst fain be sleeping in the earth's cold bed! Thou wilt love,—thou wilt marry, and thy lady will be beautiful as the day-star."

"Enough, enough!" exclaimed the youth, starting to his feet. "Do you hear, Jack? Is not mine a brave fortune? I shall love, marry, and my wife will be a goddess of beauty."

"Yes," said the crone; "but mark, she will not love you."

"Whew! How is that? Not love me? And wherefore not, old woman?"

"Because she will love another," repeated the hag in a low, but firm, decided tone.

"But you are spoiling your fair pictures, Aunt Patty," said Hardin.

"Destiny is destiny," said she with a solemn look.

"Ay, yes; I forgot!" he exclaimed, laughing gayly. "Come, Sumpter, let's be off. I am afraid our good seeress will discover you and I fighting a duel in that ominous cup, or brewing a tempest in her teapot."

"Ha, ha, ha! it is not impossible," ejaculated Sumpter. "Now I believe she did say I would go out of the world in a terrible uproar, shooting somebody or getting shot myself. Which was it, dame?"

"Time will tell you soon enough, young man," returned the woman, in an angry, scornful tone.

"O, don't be cross, good Aunt Patty!" he said, noticing her dark looks; "don't mind my balderdash. Here's another piece of silver for you. Now, good-night, and long live Scraggiewood and the seeress, Madam Belcher!"

"Good-night, young men, and God bless ye, I say!" exclaimed the crone, her eye brightening at sight of the silver.

"Just tell me the name of the little sleeper," said Sumpter, lingering a moment, while Hardin turned the carriage which had brought them to the forest-cottage.

"What do you want to know her name for?" asked Aunt Patty.

"O, because she resembles a sister I lost," returned Sumpter after a brief hesitation.

"Well, it is my niece, Annie Evalyn."

"Ah! she lives with you?"

"Yes; ever since she was born a'most. Her father and mother died when she was a baby."

"Hillo, Sumpter!" said Hardin, from without, "trying to coax a prettier sequel to your fortune? Come on!"

Sumpter hurried forth, and the carriage rattled away over the rough road of Scraggiewood.



CHAPTER II.

"A holy smile was on her lip, Whenever sleep was there; She slept as sleep the blossoms hushed Amid the silent air."

The sun was peeping through the crevices of the rock-built cottage when old Dame Belcher, the fortune-teller, awoke on the following morning.

"Well, about time for me to be stirring these old bones," she murmured. "Good fees last night;" and here she drew a leather bag from beneath her pillow, and chuckled over its contents; "these little siller pieces will buy plenty of ribbons and gewgaws for hinny, so she can flaunt with the best of them at Parson Grey's school. She was asleep here last night when the young city chaps came, and don't know a word about their visit; I carried her off in my arms to her own little cot, after they were gone, and I'll creep into her room a moment now to see if she still sleeps."

Thus saying, the old woman slipped on her clothes, and, crossing a rude entry, lightly lifted a latch and entered a small, poor, though very tidy apartment. A broken table, propped against the rough, unplastered wall, contained a bouquet of wild flowers tastefully arranged, and placed in a bowl of clear water, some writing materials, and a few books piled neatly together. A fragrant woodbine formed a beautiful lattice-work over the rough-cut hole in the wall which answered for a window. Two chairs covered with faded chintz, and a small cot-bed dressed in white, completed the furnishing. On this latter, breathing softly in her quiet sleep, lay a lovely child, on whose fair, open brow eleven summers might have shed their roses. The old woman approached, and with her wrinkled palms smoothed away the heavy masses of chestnut hair that curled around her childish face.

"Bless it, how it sleeps this morning!" she said, in a low whisper; "but it must not have its little hands up here;" and she parted the tiny fingers that were locked above the graceful head, and laid them softly on the sleeper's breast. "I may as well go, while she sleeps so quietly, and gather a dish of the crimson berries she loves so well, for her breakfast; they will be nice with a dish of old Crummie's sweet milk;" and, pinning a green blanket over her head, the old woman went forth on her errand.

Meantime the child awoke, and, seeing the sunbeams stealing through the net-work of vines, and streaming so warm and bright over the rough, stone floor, started quickly from her couch, and, robing herself in a pink muslin frock, issued from her room, carolling a happy morning song. She sat down on a bench before the door of the cottage, and in a few moments her aunt appeared, bearing in one hand a white bowl filled with purple berries, and in the other a bucket of milk, all warm and frothing to the brim.

"O, then you are up, hinny!" she said, on seeing the child; "just look at what aunty has got for your breakfast. Now, you come in and pick over the berries with your little, nice, quick fingers, and I'll spread the table, strain the milk, and bake a bit of oaten cake, and we'll have a meal fit for a king."

The child obeyed readily, and soon the humble tenants of the rocky cottage were seated at their simple repast.

"I've some good news to tell you, Annie," said the woman, as she cut open a light, oaten cake, and spread a slice of rich, yellow butter over its smoking surface.

"What is it, aunty?" asked the child.

"There was two gentlemen here last night, after you fell asleep on my bed here, and they gave me lots o' siller for reading their fortunes. I've got it all here in the leather bag for you, hinny; 'twill buy plenty of gay ribbons to tie your pretty hair."

"O, I would not use it for that, aunty!" said Annie, quickly.

"What then, child?"

"For something useful."

"And what so useful as to make my Annie look gayest of all the village lasses?"

"Why, that's no use at all, aunty; I shan't have one more pretty thought in my head for having a gay ribbon on my hair. Use it, aunty, please, to buy me some new books, so I can enter the highest class in school when George Wild does. Mr. Grey says I can read and cipher as well as he, though I am not so old by two years."

"Well, well, hinny, it shall be as you wish; just like your father,—all for books and learning,—though your mother leaned that way too. Yes, of all our family she was always called the lady; and lady she was, indeed, as fine as the richest of them; but poverty, Annie,—O, 'tis a sad thing to be poor!"

"We are not poor, aunty," said the child, pouring the sweet milk over her berries; "only see what nice things we have! this rich milk old Crummie gives us, and this golden butter, and these light, sweet cakes! O, aunty! if you would only—only"—and she paused.

"Only what, child?" asked the fond old woman.

"But you won't be angry if I say it?" said the child, a conscious blush suffusing her lovely features.

"Angry with my darling! no."

"Only not tell any more fortunes, aunty; then we should be so happy."

"Not tell any more fortunes! What ails the child? Why, that's the way half our living comes; and an easy way to earn it, too; much easier than to sit and spin on the little linen wheel from morning till night."

"Easier, but not so honorable, is it, aunty?"

"Honorable! Yes, child; what put it into your pretty, curly head that it was not honorable to read future events and take fees for it?"

"Why, sometimes the girls and boys at school laugh and scorn at me, and call me the old witch's brat, or the young Scraggiewood seeress, or some such name," said the child, in a tone of sorrowful regret; "and I've often wished you would not tell fortunes any more. Learn me how to use the small wheel, aunty, and all the hours when I'm out of school, I'll spin fast as I can. I know we could get a very good living without your telling fortunes; don't you think so, aunty?"

"Why, child, I never thought a word about it," said the old woman, gazing on the beautiful face upturned to hers, and grown so earnest in its pleading.

"But you will think to-day, while I'm at school, won't you, aunty? I see George coming for me, now;" and, moving her chair from the table, she sprang for her satchel and sun-bonnet as her little play-fellow came over the stile, calling her name.

"You must have on your shoes this morning, hinny," said her aunt; "there was a heavy dew last night, and the path is wet."

"Yes," said George, "have them on, Annie, for I want you to go with me by the brook to get some pretty eglantines I saw last night, nearly bloomed; they are all out this morning, I know."

Annie was soon equipped, and, with a hearty blessing from Aunt Patty, they took their way hand in hand toward the village school.



CHAPTER III.

"On sped the seasons, and the forest child Was rounded to the symmetry of youth; While o'er her features stole, serenely wild, The trembling sanctity of woman's truth, Her modesty and simpleness and grace; Yet those who deeper scan the human face, Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth, Might clearly read upon its Heaven-writ scroll, That high and firm resolve that nerved the Roman soul."

Through three bright summers had George Wild led Annie Evalyn over the rough forest path to the village school. They were the only children residing in Scraggiewood, and, therefore almost constantly together. How they roamed through the dim old woods in search of moss and wild flowers, and, in the autumn time, to gather the brown nuts of the chestnut and beech trees; how many favorite nooks and dells they had, in which to rest from their ramblings, and talk and tell each other of their thoughts and dreamings of the life to come! But George would often say he could not understand all Annie's wild words; he thought her whimsical and visionary, and it pained him to find her ambitious and aspiring as her years increased; he would fain have her always a child, rapt in the enjoyment of the present hour, content and satisfied with his companionship and aunt Patty's purple berries and oaten cakes, believing the heaven that closed round Scraggiewood bounded the universe; for something whispered to his heart, if she went forth into the wide world, she would not return to him; and he loved her as well as his indolent nature was capable of loving, and indeed would do a great deal for her sake. She possessed more power to rouse him to action than any other person, and she loved him, too, very well,—but very coolly, very calmly, with a love that sought the good of its object at the expense of self entirely, for she could bear to think of parting with him forever, and putting the world's width between them, so he was benefited and his usefulness increased by the proceeding. And he had always been her companion and protector. Next to her aunty she ought to love him; but his mind was not of a cast with hers; he could not appreciate her dreamy thoughts and aspirations. He was content to fold his arms, and be floated through life by the tide of circumstances, the thing he was; but she could not be so; she must trim her sails and stem the current; within her breast was a spirit that would not be lulled to slumber, but impelled her incessantly to action; there was a quenchless thirst for knowledge, unappeased, and it must be slaked.

Mr. Grey, the kind village pastor, who had become deeply interested in his young pupil during her attendance at the village school, offered to take her under his charge, and afford her the privilege of pursuing a course of study with his own daughter, Netta, with whom Annie had formed a close friendship at school. Aunt Patty said she should be lost without her "hinny," and George Wild remonstrated half angrily with her, for going off to leave him alone; but all to no effect—Annie must go.

"But why won't you go with me, George?" she asked, turning her liquid blue eyes upon his sullen face. "Don't you want to gain knowledge, and fame, and honor, in the great world, and perhaps some day behold multitudes bowing in reverence at your feet?"

"No, I want nothing of all this. I've knowledge enough now, and so have you, if you would only think so. And, as for fame and honor, I believe I'm happier without them, for I've often heard it remarked, 'increase of knowledge is increase of misery.'"

"Well, it is not the misery of ignorance," said Annie, proudly. "I am astonished to hear such sentiments from you, George Wild. I had thought you possessed a nobler, braver heart than to sit down here beneath the oaks of Scraggiewood, and waste the best years of your life in sloth and inaction."

"Why, I've not been sitting alone, have I, Annie?" he asked with an insinuating smile.

"But you will sit here alone henceforth, if you choose to continue this indolent life; childhood does not last forever; my child-life is over, and I am going to work now, hard and earnest."

"For what?"

"For something noble; to gain some lofty end."

"Well, I hope you'll succeed in your high-wrought schemes; but for my part, I see no use in fretting and toiling through this life, to secure some transitory fame and honor. Better pass its hours away as easily and quietly as we can."

"We should not live shrunk away in ourselves, but strive to do something for the benefit and happiness of our species."

"O, well, Annie! if to render others happy is your wish and aim, you have but to remain here in your humble cottage home, and I'll promise you you'll do that."

"Why, George," said she, noticing his rueful countenance, "what makes you look so woe-begone? As if I were about to fly to the ends of the earth, when I'm only going two little miles to Parson Grey's Rectory, and promise to walk to Scraggiewood every Saturday evening with you."

"But I feel as if I was going to lose you, Annie, for all that; the times that are past will never return."

"No; but there may be brighter ones ahead," she answered, hopefully.

George shook his head. None of her lofty aspirations found response in his bosom; the present moment occupied his thoughts. So the common wants of life were supplied, and he free from pain and anxiety, he was content, nor wished or thought of aught beyond. The great world of the future he never longed to scan, nor penetrate its misty-veiled depths, and leave a name for lofty deeds and noble actions, that should vibrate on the ear of time when he was no more.

And thus drifted asunder on the great ocean of life the barks that had floated on calmly side by side through a few years of quiet pleasure. They might never spread their sails together again; wider and wider would the distance grow between them; higher and higher would swell the waves as they sped on their separate courses; the one light and buoyant with her freight of noble hopes and dauntless steersman at the helm, the other without sail or ballast, drifted about at the mercy of winds and waves.



CHAPTER IV.

"A gentle heritage is mine, A life of quiet pleasure; My heaviest cares are but to twine Fresh votive garlands for the shrine Where 'bides my bosom's treasure. I am not merry, nor yet sad, My thoughts are more serene than glad."

It was a lovely spot, that peaceful vicarage. Tall elms shaded the sloping roof, and roses and jessamines poured their rich perfume on the morning and evening air. Here two years of calm, tranquil enjoyment glided over Annie Evalyn, as she, with unremitting assiduity, pursued the path of science under the guidance of the good parson. Each day fresh joys were opening before her, in the forms of newly-discovered truths. Her faculties developed so rapidly as to astonish her tutor, wise as he was in experience, and well-taught in ancient and modern lore.

"Annie," said he, one evening, as they sat together in the family parlor, "what do you intend to do with all this store of knowledge you are treasuring up with such eager application?"

She looked up quickly in his face, and a flush for a moment passed over her usually pale features.

"I know what you would say," he added; "that you think no one can have too much knowledge—is it not?"

"Do you think one can?" she asked.

"Perhaps not too much well-regulated knowledge; knowledge adapted to an efficient end and purpose."

Again Annie turned her dark blue, expressive eye full upon his face.

"I mean to put my little store of learning to good use," she said, thoughtfully.

"Well, so I supposed, Annie. What do you intend to do?"

"Something great and good," she answered, her eye kindling with the lofty thought within.

"And could you accomplish but one, which should it be?"

"Will not a great thing be a good one also?" she inquired.

He shook his head.

"That does not necessarily follow," he said; "that which is great may not be good, but remember, Annie, what is good will surely be great."

"I shall consider your words, dear sir," said Annie. "I am much indebted to you for the privileges your kindness has afforded me, and hope some day to be able to make a grateful recompense."

"What I do is done freely, my child, and from a sense of duty. Do not speak of recompense. Has not the companionship you have afforded my little Netta, to say nothing of myself and sister Rachel, amply repaid the small trouble your instruction has caused?"

"But you forget in all this I am as much or more the recipient as the giver. If Netta has found me a tolerable companion, I have found her a charming one; and all yours and aunt Rachel's teachings—ah! I fear I'm much the debtor after all," she said, shaking her head, doubtfully, and smiling in her listener's face with artless simplicity and gratitude.

"No, no, not a debtor, Annie," he said, stroking her bright curls; "I cannot admit that. Let the benefits be mutual, if you will, nothing more. I see Netta in the garden gathering flowers. She is a good little girl, and loves you dearly, though she has none of the brilliancies that characterize your mind. I do not intend to flatter; go now and join your friend. I expect a party of western people to visit me to-morrow, and have some preparations to make for their reception."

Annie bowed, and glided down the gravelled path of the garden. In a shady bower she found Netta, arranging a bouquet of laurel leaves and snow-white jessamines.

"O!" she exclaimed, looking up as Annie approached; "there you are, sis. Now I'll twine you a wreath of these fragrant flowers."

"And I'll twine one for you, Netta," said Annie. "Of what shall it be?"

"Simple primroses or violets; these will best adorn my lowly brow; but Annie, bright Annie Evalyn, shall wear naught but the proud laurel and queenly jessamine;" and, giving a twirl to her pretty wreath, she tossed it over her friend's high, marble-like brow, bestowing a playful kiss on either cheek as she did so.

"Does it sit lightly, Annie?" she asked.

"Yes, Netta, and now bend in turn to receive my wreath of innocence, not more pure and lovely than the brow on which it rests."

Netta knelt, and the garland was thrown over her flaxen curls. Thus adorned, the lovely maidens strolled up the avenue, arm in arm, and made their way to the study-room, as it was called; a large, airy chamber fronting the east, situated in a retired portion of the house, to be removed from noise and intrusion.

"Now you shan't study or write to-night, for who knows when we may have another quiet evening together? These western friends of father's are coming to-morrow, and our time and attention will be occupied with them. I want to hear you talk to-night, Annie. Tell me some of your eloquent thoughts, your glowing fancies. I'm your poor, little, foolish Netta, you know."

"You are my dear, dear friend," said Annie, throwing her arms impulsively round the slender, graceful neck, and kissing the soft young cheek. "I'm feeling sad and gloomy this evening, and fear I cannot entertain you with conversation or lively chit-chat."

"Tell me what makes you sad."

"I don't know. Are you never sad without knowing the cause of your gloomy feelings?"

"No, I think not."

"Well, I am. Often a shadow seems thrown across my spirit's heaven, but I cannot tell whence it comes; the substance which casts the shade is invisible. Who are these friends of your father's that are to visit us?"

"O, they are a wealthy family with whom father became acquainted in the circuit of his travels last season."

"Their name?"

"Prague, Dr. Prague, wife and daughter; also two young children, for whom they are seeking a governess here in the east, as good teachers are obtained with difficulty in their section of the country."

"Ah!" said Annie, in a tone of voice so peculiar that Netta turned involuntarily toward her.

"O, Annie, Annie!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms round her friend's neck.

"What has so suddenly alarmed you?" asked Annie, endeavoring to soothe her.

"You won't go off with these strangers and leave us, will you, dear Annie?"

"Why, who is a visionary now, Netta?" she asked, laughing merrily; "what put the thought of my going away into this pretty head, lying here all feverish with excited visions? Pshaw, Netta, you are a whimsie!"

"Then you won't go?" she said, her face brightening. "No thought of becoming the governess this western family are seeking, and going away with them, has entered your brain?"

"Why should there, Netta?"

"But would you say nay should you receive the offer?"

"I can tell better when the moment arrives. But there, Netta, don't cloud that fair brow again. I feel well assured no such moment will come."

"I'm not so sure, Annie."

"Well, well, let us kiss, and retire to be ready to receive the visitors on the morrow."

And with a sisterly embrace they sought their private apartments.



CHAPTER V.

"O, show me a place like the wild-wood home, Where the air is fragrant and free, And the first pure breathings of morning come In a gush of melody. When day steals away, with a young bride's blush, To the soft green couch of night, And the moon throws o'er, with a holy hush, Her curtain of gossamer light."

Alone Annie Evalyn was walking in the summer twilight over the rough road toward Scraggiewood.

Near two months had elapsed since she last visited her Aunt Patty at the rock-built cottage, and she pictured in her mind, as she walked on, the surprise and good-natured chiding which would mark her old aunt's reception. She gazed upward at the tall forest trees swaying to and fro in the light evening breeze, and far into its dim, mazy depths, where gray rocks lay clad in soft, green moss, and gnarled, uprooted trunks overgrown with clinging vines, and pale, delicate flowers springing beautiful from their decay. She listened to the murmuring of the brook in its rocky bed, and a thousand memories of other years rushed on her soul. The strange, fast-coming fancies that thronged her brain when she in early childhood roamed those dark, solemn woods, or sat at night on the lowly cottage stile, gazing on the wild, grotesque shadows cast by the moonbeams from the huge, forest trees; or how she listened to the solemn hootings of the lonesome owl, the monotonous cuckoo, and sudden whippoorwill; or laughed at the glowworm's light in the dark swamps, and asked her aunty if they were not a group of stars come down to play bo-peep in the meadows.

And then she thought of George Wild, her early playfellow. He was away now, in a distant part of the country, whither he had been sent by his father to learn the carpenter's trade. He had come to bid her good-by with tears in his eyes, not so much at parting from her, she fancied, as from dread of the active life before him. It would be hard to tell whether Annie felt most pity or contempt for his weakness. He was the only friend of her early childhood, and, as such, she had still a warm, tender feeling at her heart for him; and, had he possessed a becoming energy and manliness of character, this childish feeling might have deepened into strong, enduring affection as years advanced. But Annie Evalyn could never love George Wild as he was; and thus she thought as she brushed away a tear that had unconsciously started during her meditations, and found herself at the door of her aunt's cottage. She bounded over the threshold and into the old lady's arms, bestowing a shower of kisses ere poor Aunt Patty could sufficiently collect herself and recover from the surprise to return her darling's lavish caresses.

"Ah, yes, you naughty little witch! here you are at last, pretending to be mighty glad to see your old aunty, though for two long months you've never come near her. But, bless it, how pretty it grows! and how red its cheeks are, and how bright its eyes!" she exclaimed, brushing away the curling locks and gazing into her darling's face.

"But you'll forgive me, aunty, won't you?" said Annie, coaxingly. "Indeed, I meant to have come long before; but if you only knew how much I have had to occupy my time,—so many things to learn, and such hard, hard lessons."

"O, yes! always at your books, studying life away."

"Why, aunty! you just exclaimed how fresh and blooming I was grown, and I've something so nice to tell you. There are some wealthy people from the west visiting at Parson Grey's, and they were in search of a governess for their little children. Would you think it, aunty, their choice has fallen upon me? and I am to accompany them on their return home. They have a daughter about my own age, sweet Kate Prague. She will be a fine companion—I love her so dearly now."

Aunt Patty dropped her arms by her side, and remained silent after Annie had ceased speaking.

"What is the matter, aunty?" asked she, eagerly.

"And so you, young, silly thing, are going to leave your friends and go off with these strangers, that will treat you nobody knows how. Annie! Annie! does Parson Grey approve of this?"

"Yes, aunty; he thinks it will be a fine opportunity for me to see something of the world, and learn the arts and graces of polite society."

"Ah! but these great, rich folks are often unkind and overbearing, and oppress and treat with slight and scorn their dependents."

"O, Mr. Grey knows this family well, and recommends them in the highest terms."

"Well, for all that, I can't bear the thought of losing you. So young and ignorant."

"Ignorant, aunty? Why, Dr. Prague himself says I know twice as much as his daughter Kate."

"Ah! book-learnin' enough; but I will tell you, Annie, a little experience is better than all your books."

"Well, how am I to obtain experience but by mingling in the world, and learning its manners and customs?"

"Ah, dear! I fear you will find this world, you are so anxious to see and know, is a hard, rough place."

"Well, aunty, don't dishearten me at the outset. See what a nice box of honey I've brought you from Aunt Rachel Grey. Some of it will be delightful on your light batter cakes, with a slice of old Crummie's yellow butter. I must go out and bid the dear old creature good-by. How I used to love to drive her to the brook for water!"

"Ah, those were happy days for me, Annie!" said the old woman, sorrowfully. "I shall never see the like again."

"Don't say so, aunty," said Annie, her own heart experiencing a thrill of anguish at the prospect of leaving her old forest-home, and kind, loving protector. "I shall return some day, may be rich and famous, and good, too, I hope; for Parson Grey says 'tis better to be good than great."