"Eh? what! what!" spluttered the surgeon, as he jumped up, drew on his boots, dipped his face in a basin of water, and hastily completed his toilet. In less than five minutes he was on parade.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Elmsley, after giving this warning, had passed again through the mess-room, and knocked at Ronayne's door. But there was no answer.

"Hilloa, Ronayne," he called loudly, as he turned the handle of the latch, "are YOU in bed too?"

But no Ronayne was there. He looked at the bed—like the doctor's, it had been laid upon, but no one had been within the clothes.

What was the meaning of this? After a few moments of delay, he flew back to Von Vottenberg's room, but the latter was already gone. Retracing his steps, he met Ronayne's servant entering at the mess-room door.

"Where is your master?" he inquired. "How is it that he is not in his room—has not been in bed?"

"Not been in bed?" repeated the lad, with surprise. "Why, sir, he told me last night that he was very drowsy and should lie late; and, that he mightn't be disturbed, he desired me to sleep in one of the block-houses. I was only to wake him in time for guard-mounting, and as it wants but ten minutes to that, I am just come to call him."

"Clean out the mess-room directly—open the windows, and pat every thing in order," said the lieutenant, fearing that Captain Headley might, on hearing of the absence of the young officer, pay his quarters a visit in search of some clue to the cause. "I see it all," he mused, as he moved across the parade-ground. "He would not, generous fellow, get me into a scrape, by making me privy to his design, and to avoid the difficulty of the gate, has got over the pickets somewhere—yet, if so, he must have had a rope, and assistance of some kind, for he never could have crossed them without. Yet, where can he be gone, and what could he have expected to result from his mad scheme? Had he waited until now, he would have known by the arrival of the fishing-party with their sad charge, how utterly useless was all this risk."

"Well, Mr. Elmsley," said the captain, who now appeared at the front of his own door, fully dressed for parade, and preparing to issue forth in all the stateliness of command.

"The parade is formed, sir," remarked the lieutenant, confusedly, "but I cannot find the officer of the guard."

"Sir!" exclaimed Captain Headley.

"I cannot find Mr. Ronayne, sir—I have myself been over to his quarters, and looked into his bed-room, but it is clear that he has not been in bed all night."

"What is the meaning of all this? Send Doctor Von Vottenberg here immediately."

And lucky was it for that gentleman that the officer who now desired his attendance on the commandant had roused him from that Lethean slumber in which he had been, only a few minutes before, so luxuriously indulging.

"Doctor Von Vottenberg," commenced the captain, as soon as that official made his appearance before him; "you are quartered with Mr. Ronayne. Have you seen any thing of him last night or this morning—no evasion, nay," seeing that the doctor's brow began to be overclouded, "I mean no attempt to shield the young man by a suppression of the truth."

"I certainly saw him last night, Captain Headley, but not at a very late hour. We took a glass or two of punch, and smoked a couple of pipes together, but we both went to bed early, and for my part, I know that I slept so soundly as to have heard nothing—seen nothing, until I got up this morning."

The doctor spoke truly as to the time of their retirement to rest, for the ensign had left him early in the night, while he had found his way to his own bed, early in the morning.

"The boat is nearing the landing-place, sir," reported the sergeant of the guard, who now came up, and more immediately addressed Lieutenant Elmsley.

This information, for the moment, banished the subject under discussion. "Let the men pile their arms," ordered Captain Headley; "and when this is done, Mr. Elmsley, follow me to the landing-place."

In a few minutes both officers were there. The boat was within fifty yards, when the subaltern joined his captain; and the oarsmen, evidently desirous of doing their best in the presence of the commanding officer, were polling silently and with a vigor that soon brought it to its accustomed berth.

"What body is that, Corporal Nixon?" inquired the latter, "and how is it that you are only here this morning?"

"Sir," answered the corporal, removing one of his hands from the steer-oar, and respectfully touching his cap, "it's poor Le Noir, the Frenchman, killed by the Injins yesterday, and as for our absence, it couldn't be helped, sir; but it's a long report I have to make, and perhaps, captain, you would like to hear it more at leisure than I can tell it here."

By this time the men had landed from the boat, leaving the Canadian to be disposed of afterwards as the commanding officer might direct. The quick eye of the latter immediately detected the slight limping of Green, whose wound had become stiff from neglect, cold, and the cramped position in which he had been sitting in the boat.

"What is the matter with this man?" he inquired of the corporal. "What makes him walk so stiffly?"

"Nothing much the matter, captain," was the indifferent reply. "It's only a ball he got in his leg in the scrimmage last night."

"Ha! the first gun-shot wound that has come under my treatment during the three long years I have been stationed here. Quick, my fine fellow, take yourself to the hospital, and tell the orderly to prepare my instruments for probing."

"Scrimmage last night; what do you mean, Corporal Nixon—whom had you the scrimmage with?"

These remarks fell at the same moment from the lips of the commander and those of the surgeon, the latter rubbing his hands with delightful anticipation of the treat in store for him.

"With the Indians, captain," replied Nixon; "the Indians that attacked Mr. Heywood's farm."

"Captain Headley," interrupted the lieutenant, with unusual deference of manner, for he was anxious that no further reference should be made to the subject in presence of the invalids and women, who, attracted by the news of the arrival of the boat, had gathered around, partly from curiosity, partly for the purpose of getting their expected supply of fish, "do you not think it better to examine Corporal Nixon first, and then the others in turn?"

"Very true, Mr. Elmsley, I will examine them separately in the orderly-room to see how far their statements agree; yet one question you can answer here, corporal. You say that it is the body of Le Noir, killed by the Indians. Where is Mr. Heywood, then?"

The generous Elmsley felt faint, absolutely sick at heart on hearing this question; the very object be had in view in proposing this private examination was thereby threatened with discomfiture.

"Mr. Heywood has been carried off by the Indians," calmly replied the corporal, yet perceptibly paling as he spoke.

"Indeed! this is unfortunate. Let the men go to their barracks, and there remain until I send for them," ordered the commandant. "You, corporal, will come to me at the orderly-room, in half an hour from this. That will be sufficient time for you to clean yourself, and take your breakfast. None of your party, I presume, have had their breakfast yet?"

"No, your honor," answered Green, who seemed to fancy that his wound gave him the privilege of a little license in the presence of his chief, "not unless an old turkey, the grandfather of fifty broods, and as tough as shoe- leather, can be called a breakfast."

Captain Headley looked at the speaker sternly, but took no other notice of what he, evidently, deemed a very great liberty, than to demand how he presumed to disobey the order of the surgeon. Then desiring him to proceed forthwith to the hospital and have his leg dressed, he himself withdrew after postponing the parade to one o'clock.

"And are you sure, Nixon, that Mr. Heywood has been carried off by the Indians," asked Lieutenant Elmsley, the revulsion of whose feelings on hearing the corporal's answer to the question put by Captain Headley had been in striking contrast with what he had experienced only a moment before; "are you quite sure of this?"

The interrogatory was put, immediately after the commanding officer had retired, doubtingly, in a low tone, and apart from the rest of the men.

"I saw them carry him off myself, sir," again deliberately said the corporal. "The whole of the party saw it too."

"Enough, enough," pursued the lieutenant, in a friendly tone. "I believe you, Nixon. But another question. Were you joined last night by any one of the regiment? recollect yourself."

The corporal declaring that nothing in the shape of an American uniform had come under his notice, since he departed from the Fort the preceding evening, the officer next turned his attention to the boat.

"What are you fumbling about there, Collins?" he asked, rather sharply—"Why do you not go and join your mess?" This was said as the rest of the party were now in the act of moving off with their muskets and fishing apparatus.

"Poor fellow!" interposed the corporal, "he is not himself to-day; but I am sure, Mr. Elmsley, you will not be hard upon him, when I tell you that, but for him, there wouldn't be a man of us here of the whole party."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the lieutenant, not a little surprised at the information; "but we shall hear all about that presently; yet what is he fidgetting about at the bottom of the bow of the boat?"

"There's another body there, sir, besides Le Noir's. It's that of the poor boy at Heywood's—an Indian scalped him and left him for dead. Collins, who put a bullet into the same fellow, not an hour afterwards, found the boy by accident, while retreating from the place where we had the first scrimmage with the red devils. He was still breathing, and he took every pains to recover him, but the cold night air was too much for him, and he died in the poor fellow's arms."

"Well, this is a strange night's adventure, or rather series of adventures," remarked the lieutenant half aside to himself. "Then, I suppose," he resumed, more immediately addressing the corporal, "he has brought the body of the boy to have him interred with Le Noir?"

"Just so, sir, for he mourns him as if he had been his own child," answered Nixon, as the officer departed— "here, Loup Garou, Loup Garou," and he whistled to the dog. "Come along, old fellow, and get some breakfast."

But Loup Garou would not stir at the call of his new master. Sorrow was the only feast in which he seemed inclined to indulge, and he continued to crouch near the body of the Canadian as impassible and motionless as if he was no longer of earth himself.

"Come along, Collins," gently urged the Virginian, approaching the boat, where the former was still feeling the bosom of the dead boy in the vain hope of finding that life was not yet extinct. "It's no use thinking about it; you have done your duty as a soldier, and as a good man, but you see he is gone, and there is no help for it. By and by, we will bury them both together; but come along now. The dog will let nobody near them."

"Dash me, corporal, if I ever felt so queer in my life!" answered Collins, in a melancholy tone, strongly in contrast with his habitual brusque gaiety; "but, as you say, it's no use. The poor lad is dead enough at last, and my only comfort now is to bury him, and sometimes look at his grave."

The half-hour given by Captain Headley to the men to clean themselves and eat their breakfasts, afforded his subaltern ample time to take his own, which had all this time been waiting. When he readied his rooms he found that he had another ordeal to go through. Mrs. Elmsley was already at the bead of the table, and pouring out the coffee, with Miss Heywood seated on her left—the latter very pale, and having evidently passed a sleepless night. As the officer entered the room, a slight flush overspread her features, for she looked as if she expected him to be accompanied by another, but when he hastily unbuckled his sword, and placed it, with his cap, on a side-table, desiring his wife to lose no time in pouring out the coffee, as he must be off again immediately, she felt, she knew not wherefore, very sick at heart, and became even paler than before. Nor was she at all re-assured by the tone of commiseration in which, after drawing a chair to her side, and affectionately pressing her hand, he inquired after her own and her mother's health.

"Why, George," said Mrs. Elmsley, who remarked this change in her friend, and in some degree divined the cause, "where are Mr. Ronayne and the doctor? You told me last night they were to breakfast here—and see, one, two, three, four, five cups (pointing at each with her finger), I have prepared accordingly. Indeed, I scarcely think this young lady would have made her appearance at the breakfast-table, had she not expected to meet—who was it, my dear? and she turned an arch look upon her friend —"ah! I know now—Von Vottenberg."

"Nay, I have no more need of disguise from your husband than from yourself, Margaret," replied Miss Heywood, her coloring cheek in a measure contradicting her words—"it was Harry Ronayne I expected; but," she added, with a faint smile, "do not imagine I am quite so romantic as not to be able to take my breakfast, because he is not present to share it; therefore if you please, I also will trouble you for a cup of coffee."

"All in good time," remarked Mrs. Elmsley. "I dare say, Ronayne is engaged in some duty which has prevented him from keeping his engagement as punctually as he could have desired. We shall certainly see him before the breakfast things are removed."

"It seems to me," said her husband, who was taking his meal with the appetite of any other than a hungry man, and even with a shade of vexation on his features, "that you all appear to be very much in the dark here. Why, Margaret, have you not heard what has occurred during the night, as well as this morning?"

"How should I have heard any thing, George?" replied Mrs. Elmsley. "I have seen no one since you went out this morning—who could have communicated news from without? Surely you ought to know that. Will you have more coffee?"

"No, thank you—I have no appetite for coffee or for any thing else. I almost wish I had not come. Dear Maria," he added, impetuously, taking Miss Heywood's hand in his own; "I know you have a noble—a courageous heart, and can bear philosophically what I have to tell you."

"I can bear much," was the reply, accompanied by a forced smile, that was contradicted by the quivering of the compressed lip; "and if I could not, I find I must begin to learn. Yet what can you have to tell me, my dear Mr. Elmsley, more than I already divine—my poor father—" and the tears started from her eyes.

"Ha! there at least, I have comfort for you—although there has been sad work at the farm—the fishing-party have come in with the bodies of poor Le Noir and the boy Wilton, but they all say that Mr. Heywood was carried off a prisoner by the Indians."

"Carried off a prisoner," repeated Miss Heywood, a sudden glow animating her pale features—"oh! Elmsley, thank you for that. There is still a hope then?"

"There is indeed a hope; but, dearest Miss Heywood, why must I heal with one hand and wound with the other. If I give comparative good news of your father, there is another who ought to be here, and whose absence at this moment is to me at once a pain and a mystery."

"You mean Harry Ronayne?" she said, hesitatingly, but without manifesting surprise.

"Where the foolish fellow has gone," he continued, "I do not know, but he has disappeared from the Fort, nor has he left the slightest clue by which he may be traced."

"Does Captain Headley know this?" she inquired, recollecting, that part of the conversation that had passed between them the preceding day, in reference to the succor that might have been afforded at the farm.

"He does. I made the report of Ronayne's absence to him personally, and the doctor was summoned to state if he had seen any thing of him. He, however, was as ignorant as a man, who had been drunk during the night, and was not yet quite sober in the morning, could well be. The captain was as much surprised as displeased, but further inquiry was delayed on the sergeant of the guard coming up and announcing the near approach of the boat containing the fishing-party."

"Tell me, dear Mr. Elmsley," said Miss Heywood, after a few moments of seeming reflection; "what is your own opinion of the matter? How do you account—or have you at all endeavored to account for Ronayne's absence?"

"I can easily understand the cause," he replied, "but confound me if I can attempt to divine the means he took to accomplish his object."

He then proceeded to relate the circumstances of his proposal to Captain Headley—the abrupt refusal he had met with—his subsequent application to himself to pass him out of the gate, and the final abandonment of his request when he found that his acquiescence would seriously compromise him, as officer of the guard.

"Noble Harry!" thought Miss Heywood—"your confusion, your vexation of yesterday, arose from not being able to follow your own generous impulses: but now I fully understand the resolve you secretly made—and all for my sake. Do not think me very romantic," she said aloud to Mr. Elmsley, "but really, Margaret, I cannot despair that all will yet, and speedily, be well. The only fear I entertain is that the strict Captain Headley may rebuke him in terms that will call up all the fire of his nature, and induce a retort that may prove a source of serious misunderstanding—unless, indeed, the greatness of the service rendered, plead his justification."

"Now that we are on the subject, dear Miss Heywood," remarked Elmsley, "let me once for all disabuse you of an impression which I fear you entertain—or is it so? Do you think that Ronayne has had an opportunity of joining the party at the farm?"

"Certainly, I do," she answered, gravely, "or why should he have gone forth? Pray do not rob me of what little comfort, in expectation, I have left."

"That he went forth madly and single-handed for the purpose, I can believe—nay, I am sure of it; but I grieve to add that he has not been seen there."

"This, indeed, is strange," she returned in faltering tones, and with ill-disguised emotion, for, hitherto she had been sustained by the belief that he was merely lingering behind the party, in order to satisfy himself of facts, the detail of which could not fail to be satisfactory to her ear. "How know you this?"

"I questioned Corporal Nixon, who commanded the party, and who apprised me of Mr. Heywood's having been carried off by the Indians, for I was deeply anxious, as you may presume, to know what had become of my friend—and this far less even for my own sake than for yours."

"And his answer was?" and there was deep melancholy in the question.

"That no American uniform had come under his notice during his absence from the Fort, save those of the party he commanded. These, as far as I can recollect, were his precise words."

"Mr. Elmsley," said a sentry, who now appeared at the door of the breakfast-parlor, "Captain Headley waits for you in the orderly room."

"Is Corporal Nixon there?" asked the lieutenant.

"He is, sir."

"Good, Dixon, I shall be there immediately."

"God bless you," he continued, to Miss Heywood, when the man had departed. "We shall, perhaps, elicit from him, something that will throw light upon the obscure part of this matter. Margaret, do not leave the dear girl alone, but cheer up her spirits, and make her hope for the best."

So saying, he shook her hand affectionately, pushed back his chair from the table, and resuming his cap and sword, left the friends together, promising to return as soon as the examination of the man should be concluded.



CHAPTER IX.

Mr. Heywood's history may be told in a few words. He was the son of an officer who had served in one of the American partizan corps, during the Revolution, and had been killed at the attack made by General Green upon the stronghold of Ninety-Six, in the South. At that time he was a mere youth, and found himself a few years after, and at the age of eighteen, without fortune, and wholly dependent upon his own resources. The war being soon ended, his naturally enterprising disposition, added to great physical strength, induced him to unite himself with one of the many bands of adventurers that poured into the then, wilds of Kentucky, where, within five years, and by dint of mere exertion and industry, he amassed money enough to enable him to repair to Charleston, in South Carolina, and espouse a lady of considerable landed property, with whom he had formed a partial engagement, prior to his entering on that adventurous life. The only fruit of this union was a daughter, and here, as far as fortune was concerned, they might have enjoyed every comfort in life, for Mrs. Heywood's property was principally situated in the neighborhood, but her husband was of too restless a nature to content himself with a sedentary life. He had at the outset embarked in commerce —the experience of a few years, however, convincing him that he was quite unsuited to such pursuits, he had the good sense to abandon them before his affairs could be involved. He next attempted the cultivation of the estate, but this failing to afford him the excitement he craved, he suddenly took leave of his family, and placing every thing under the control of a manager, once more obeyed the strong impulse, which urged him again to Kentucky. Here, following as a passion the occupation of his earlier years, he passed several seasons, scarcely communicating during that period, with his amiable and gentle wife, for whom, however, as well as for his daughter—now fifteen years of age, and growing rapidly into womanhood —he was by no means wanting in affection. Nor was his return home THEN purely a matter of choice. Although neither quarrelsome nor dissipated in his habits, he had had the misfortune to kill, in a duel, a young lawyer of good family who had accompanied him to Kentucky, and had consequently fled. Great exertions were made by the relatives of the deceased to have him arrested on the plea that the duel, the result of a tavern dispute, had been unfair on the part of the survivor. As there was some slight ground for this charge, the fact of Mr. Heywood's flight afforded increased presumption of his guilt, and such was the publicity given to the matter by his enemies, that the rumor soon reached Charleston, and finally, the ears of his family.

Revealing, in this extremity, his true position to his wife, Mr. Heywood declared it to be his intention either to cross the sea, or to bury himself forever in the remotest civilized portion of their own continent, leaving her however, to the undisturbed possession of the property she had brought him, which would of course descend to their child.

But Mrs. Heywood would not listen to the proposal. Although she had much to complain of, and to pain her, all recollection of the past faded from her memory, when she beheld her husband in a position of danger, and even in some degree of humiliation, for she was not ignorant that even in the eyes of people not over scrupulous, ineffaceable infamy attaches to the man, who, in a duel, aims with unfair deliberation at the life of his opponent; and anxious to satisfy herself that such a stain rested not on the father of her child, she conjured him to tell her if such really was the case. He solemnly denied the fact, although he admitted there were certain appearances against him, which, slight as they were, his enemies had sought to deepen into proofs—and in the difficulty of disproving these lay his chief embarrassment.

The tone—the manner—the whole demeanor of Mr. Heywood carried conviction with his denial, and his wife at once expressed her determination to renounce for his sake, all those local ties and associations by which she had been surrounded from childhood, and follow his fortunes, whithersoever they might lead. This, she persisted, she was the more ready and willing to do, because her daughter's education having been some months completed, under the best masters, there was now no anxiety on her account, other than what might arise from her own sense of the contemplated change.

Maria Heywood was accordingly summoned to the consultation —made acquainted with her father's position, and the necessity for his instant departure from that section of the country—and finally told that with her it rested to decide, not only whether he should go alone, but if they accompanied him, whether it should be to Europe, or to the Far West.

"Rest with me to decide!" exclaimed the warm-hearted girl as she threw herself into her mother's arms. "Oh, how good of you both thus to consult me, whose duty it is to obey. But do not think that it is any privation for me to leave this. I cannot claim the poor merit of the sacrifice. I have no enjoyment in cities. Give me the solitude of nature, books, and music, and I will live in a wigwam without regret."

"Dear enthusiast," said Mrs. Heywood, pressing her fondly to her heart; "I knew well in what spirit would be your answer. You decide then for the Far West?"

"Oh, yes, dear mamma! the Far West for me—no Europe. Give me the tall, dense forests of our own noble land! I desire no other home—long have I pictured to myself the vast lakes—the trackless woods and the boundless prairies of that region of which I have read so much, and now," she concluded, with exaltation, "my fondest wishes will be realized, and I shall pass my life in the midst of them. But, dear papa, to what particular spot do we go?"

"To Chicago, my noble girl! It is the remotest of our Western possessions, and quite a new country. There I may hope to pass unheeded, but how will you, dear Maria, endure being buried alive there, when so many advantages await you here?"

"Only figuratively, papa," she replied with a pensive smile stealing over her fine intellectual features. "Have no fear for me on that score, for depend upon it, with so much natural beauty to interest, it will be my own fault, if I suffer myself to be buried alive. What think you, dear mamma?"

"I think with you, my child," replied Mrs. Heywood, looking approvingly at her daughter, "that it is our duty, as it assuredly will be our pleasure to accompany your father wherever he may go."

It was now arranged that Mr. Heywood, furnished with a considerable sum of money in gold, should set out alone on the following night for their new destination, and make the necessary preparations for their reception, while his wife, through her agent, should endeavor to dispose of the estate. As it would require some time for this, and as the arrangements at Chicago could not well be completed within several months, it was settled that they should meet at Albany, early in the following autumn, where they should proceed to take possession of their new abode. For his better security and freedom from interruption, Mr. Heywood, while travelling, was to assume a feigned name, but his own was to be resumed immediately after his arrival at Chicago, for neither he nor his family could for a moment think of increasing the suspicion of guilt, by continuing a name that was not their own; and, finally, as a last measure of precaution, the free servants of the establishment, had, with the exception of Catharine, whom they were to take with them, been discharged, while a purchaser having fortunately been found, the slaves, with the estate, were handed over to a new master, proverbial for his kindness to that usually oppressed race. By these means they found themselves provided with funds more than adequate to all their future wants, the great bulk of the sum arising from the sale of the estate being vested in two of the most stable banks of the Union.

With the money he took with him, carefully deposited in his saddlebags, for he performed the whole of the journey on horseback, Mr. Heywood had caused the cottage already described, to be built and furnished from Detroit, in what, at that period, and so completely at the ultima thule of American civilization, was considered a style of great luxury. He had, however, shortly prior to his setting out for Albany, purchased several hundred acres of land, about two miles up the Southern branch of the Chicago, leaving instructions with Le Noir, whom he had engaged for a long term of service, to erect upon it a log building and outhouses. This he had been induced to do from that aching desire for physical exertion which had been familiar to him from boyhood, and which he felt could never be sufficiently indulged within the limited compass of the little village itself—subjected as he must be to the observation of the curious and the impertinent. He returned from Albany after a few months' absence, in the autumn of 1809, bringing with him his friends who occupied the cottage, while he himself obtained their assent that he should inhabit the farm house, completed soon after his return. Here he cut with his own hands, many a cord of the wood that his servants floated down in rafts, not only for his own family, but to supply the far more extensive wants of the garrison, with which, however, he had little or no intercourse, beyond that resulting from his business relations.

Such was the condition of things at the period at which our narrative has opened. Maria Heywood had now been three years an occupant of the cottage, and within that time solitude and habits of reflection had greatly matured her mind, as years had given every womanly grace to her person. The past had also tended much to form her character, upon which the development of physical beauty so often depends. At her first debut into society at Charleston, in her fourteenth year—an age that would have been considered premature, but for the rapidity with which form and intellect are known to ripen in that precocious climate—she had received, but listened with indifference to the vapid compliments of men whose shallowness she was not slow to detect, and whose homage conveyed rather a fulsome tribute to her mere personal beauty, than a correct appreciation of her heart and understanding. Not that it is to be inferred that she prided herself unduly upon this latter, but because it was by that standard of conduct chiefly, that she was enabled to judge of the minds of those who evinced so imperfect a knowledge of the female heart, when, emerging from the gaiety of girlhood, it passes into the earnestness of womanly feeling.

But although cold—almost repellant to all who had poured their ephemeral and seldom varying homage in her ear—no woman's heart ever beat with more kind—more generous—more devoted sentiments, than her own. Possessed of a vivid imagination, which the general quietude of her demeanor in a great degree disowned, she had already sketched within her glowing mind her own beau ideal, whose image was a talisman to deaden her heart against the influence of these soulless realities.

With such sentiments as these had Maria Heywood cheerfully consented to accompany her parents to that secluded spot, from which there was little probability of a speedy return; but solitude, so far from weakening the strong impressions that had entwined themselves around her heart, from the moment of her emancipation from childhood, only served to invest them with new power. The more her feelings repined—the more expanded her intellect—the stronger became the sense of absence of one who could enter into, and in some degree, give a direction to all her thoughts and emotions—sharing with her the rich fruit that springs from the consciousness of kindred associations of mind. But this was the secret of her own heart—of the heart of one whose personal attractions were well suited to the rich and overflowing character of her soul, and who had now attained that age which gives eloquent expression to every movement of the ripely moulded form.

Above the middle size, the figure of Maria Heywood was at once gracefully and nobly formed. Her face, of a chiselled oval, was of a delicate olive tint, which well harmonized with eyes of a lustrous hazel, and hair of glossy raven black. A small mouth, bordered by lips of coral fulness, disclosed, when she smiled, teeth white and even; while a forehead, high for her sex, combined with a nose, somewhat more aquiline than Grecian, to give dignity to a countenance that might, otherwise, have exhibited a character of voluptuous beauty. Yet, although her features, when lighted up by vivacity or emotion, were radiant with intelligence; their expression when in repose was of a pensive cast, that, contrasted with her general appearance, gave to it a charm, addressed at once to sense and sentiment, of which it is impossible, by description, to give an adequate idea. A dimpled cheek, an arm, hand and foot, that might have served the statuary as a model, completed a person which, without exaggeration, might be deemed almost, if not wholly faultless.

The habits of Mr. Heywood were of that peculiar nature —his desire of isolation from every thing that could be called society was so obvious, that for the first year of the residence of the family at Chicago, scarcely any intercourse had been maintained between the inmates of the cottage and the officers' wives; and it was only on the occasion of the commanding officer giving a party, to celebrate the anniversary of American Independence on the following year, that the first approach to an acquaintance had been made. It had been deemed by him a matter of duty to invite all of the few American families that were settled in the neighborhood, and of course the Heywoods were of the number. On the same principle of conventionalism the invitation was accepted, and not slight was the surprise of the ladies of the garrison, when they found in the secluded occupants of the cottage, to whom they had assigned a doubtful position in society, those to whom no effort of their own prejudice could refuse that correct estimate, which quiet dignity without ostentation, is ever certain to command.

At the announcement of the names of Mrs. and Miss Heywood, the somewhat stately Mrs. Headley was disposed to receive with hauteur the inmates of the cottage, but no sooner had Maria Heywood, accompanied by her gentle mother, entered the apartment with the easy and composed air of one to whom the drawing-room is familiar, than all her prejudices vanished, and with a heart warming towards her, as though she, had been the cherished sister of her love, she arose, pressed her hand affectionately and welcomed her to the Fort with the sincerity of a generous and elevated nature, anxious to repair its own wrong.

From that period, both by the wife of the commandant, and by Mrs. Elmsley—the only two ladies in the garrison, Maria Heywood was as much liked and courted, as she had previously been disregarded. To deny that the noble girl did in some measure exult in this change, would be to do wrong to the commendable pride of a woman, who feels that the unjust prejudice which had cast a false shadow over her recent life, has at last been removed, and that the value, of which she was modestly conscious, began to be appreciated.

It was at this party that her acquaintance with the young Southerner had commenced, and it is needless to trace the gradual rise of an attachment which similarity of tastes had engendered. Naturally of an ardent disposition, the youth had, as we have remarked on a previous occasion, hitherto loved to indulge in the excitement of the wild sports of the forest and the prairie, as the only present means of giving freedom to that spirit of enterprise, so usually wedded to the generous and unoccupied mind; but, from the period of his acquaintance with Maria Heywood, a total change had come over his manner of life. The hunt—the chase—and the cup that so often succeeded, were now almost wholly abandoned, and his only delight NOW in excursions was to ride with her across the prairie, or to pull her in his light skiff either along the shores of the Michigan, or through the various branches of the river, contemplating the beautiful Heavens by moonlight, and indulging in speculations, which were not more the fruit of romantic temperament, than of the intensity of Love. He had, moreover, four dogs trained to draw her in a light sledge of his own device and construction, in winter. In these rambles she was usually accompanied either by Mrs. Headley, or by the wife of his friend and brother subaltern, and after the invigorating exercise of the day, his evenings, whenever he could absent himself from the Fort, were devoted within the cottage to books, magic, and the far more endearing interchange of the resources of their gifted minds. In summer there were other employments of a domestic character, for in addition to their rides, walks, and excursions on the water, both found ample scope for the indulgence of their partiality for flowers, in the taste for practical horticulture possessed by Ronayne, under whose care had grown the luxuriant beauty which every where pervaded the little garden, and made it to the grateful girl a paradise in miniature.

Thus had passed nearly two years, and insensibly, without a word of love having been breathed, each felt all the security which a consciousness of being beloved alone could yield, and that assurance imparted to their manner and address when alone a confiding air, the more endearing from the silence of their lips. But although no word uttered by themselves proclaimed the existence of the secret and holy compact, not only were they fully sensible of it themselves, but it was obvious to all —even to the least observant of the garrison, and many were there, both among the soldiers and their wives—by all of whom the young ensign was liked for his openness and manliness of character—who expressed a fervent hope that the beautiful and amiable Miss Heywood would soon become the bride of their favorite officer. This it was, which had led the men of the fishing-party to express in their way, their sorrow for the young lady, when she should hear of the events at the farm-house, even while passing their rude encomiums on the sweetness of disposition of her, whom they already regarded as the wife of their young officer.

It was nearly noon, and Lieutenant Elmsley had not yet made his appearance with the promised report. Maria Heywood had, after passing an hour with her mother, returned to the breakfast-room, which it will be recollected opened immediately upon the barrack-square. Her friend being engaged with her domestic affairs, which every lady was at that period in a measure compelled to superintend, she had thrown herself (still in her morning dishabille) on a couch with a book in her hand, but with a mind wholly distracted from the subject of its pages. After continuing some time thus, a prey to nervous anxiety, as much the result of Elmsley's long absence as of her former fears, the sound of the fifes and drums fell startlingly, she knew not wherefore, upon her ear and drew her to the door. The men were falling in, and in the course of a few minutes the little line was formed a few yards to her left, with its flanks resting on either range of building, so that the mess-room door, then open, was distinctly visible in front. At the same moment, Captain Headley and the lieutenant, followed by Corporal Nixon and the other men of the fishing-party— Green only excepted—passed out of the orderly room on her right, moved across, and took up their position in front of the parade.

"God bless me, Maria, what is that, or is it his ghost!" suddenly and unguardedly exclaimed Mrs. Elmsley, who had that moment joined her friend—placing her arm at the same time round her waist.

"What do you mean, Mar—" but before Maria Heywood could complete her sentence, all power of speech was taken from her in the emotion with which she regarded what, after a momentary glance, met her view.

It was her lover, fully equipped for parade, and walking towards the men with a calm and deliberate step, which seemed to evince total unconsciousness that any thing unusual had happened.

"Here is a chair, my love—you really tremble as if the man was a ghost. Now then, we shall have a scene between him and our amiable commandant."

"God forbid!" tremulously answered the almost bewildered girl; "I am the cause of all."

"You! Stuff, Maria. What nonsense you talk, for a sensible girl. How should you be the cause? but, positively, Ronayne can never have been away from the Fort."

"Do you think so, Margaret?"

"I am sure of it. Only look at him. He is as spruce as if he had only just come out of a band-box. But hush, not a word. There, that's a dear. Lean your head against my shoulder. Don Bombastes speaks!"

"No sign of Mr. Ronayne yet?" demanded Captain Headley, his back turned to the slowly advancing officer, whose proximity not one of the men seemed inclined to announce, possibly because they feared rebuke for insubordination. Mr. Elmsley, he pursued to that officer, who, acting on a significant half-glance from his friend, was silent also as to his approach. "Let a formal report of his absence without leave, be made to me immediately after the parade has been dismissed."

"Nay, sir," said the ensign, in his ordinary voice and close in the ear of the speaker, "not as having been absent from duty, I trust. I am not aware that I have ever missed a guard or a parade yet, without your leave."

At the first sound of his voice, the surprised commandant had turned quickly round, and there encountered the usual deferential salute of his subordinate.

"But, Mr. Ronayne, what means this? Where, sir, have you been? and, if not absent, why thus late? Do you know that the men have already been paraded, and that when required for your guard, you were not to be found?"

"The fatigues of the night, Captain Headley," returned the young officer, with some hesitation of manner; "the incessant watching—surely there—"

"I knew he had not been out of the Fort. Courage, Maria! was audible to the men who were nearest to the speaker, from Elmsley's doorway.

"I know what you would urge, Mr. Ronayne," remarked the captain; you would offer this in plea for your late appearance. I make all due allowance in the matter; but, let me tell you, sir, that an officer who thoroughly understands his duty, and consults the interests of the service, would make light of these matters, in cases of strong emergency."

"Poor Ronayne!" sighed Maria, to her friend. "This is terrible to his proud spirit. In presence of the whole of the men, too!"

"I told you, my dear, there would be a row, but never fear—Elmsley be there. See, he is looking significantly at us, as if to call our attention to what is passing."

The lieutenant had been no less astonished than the captain, at the unexpected appearance of Ronayne—even more so, indeed—because he had observed, without, however, remarking on it, the cool and unhastened pace at which he moved along the square, from the direction of the mess-room. "Now it is coming," he thought, and half- murmured to himself, as he saw the crimson gathering on his brow, during the last harsh address of his superior.

"Captain Headley," said the young man, drawing himself up to his full height, and somewhat elevating his voice, for be had remarked there were other and dearer eyes upon him, than those immediately around. "I WILL NOT be spoken to in this manner, before the men. If you think I have been guilty of a breach of duty or of discipline, I am prepared to meet your charges before the proper tribunal, but you shall not take the liberty of thus addressing me in public parade. My sword, sir," and he unbuckled it, and offered the handle, "is at, your disposal, but I deny your further right."

"No, no, no!" shouted several men from the ranks

"No. no, no!" repeated almost every man of the fishing- party, in even more energetic tones, while the commanding officer was glancing his eye keenly and rapidly along the little line, to detect those who had set the example of insubordination.

"Ugh! wah! good soger!" came from one of a small party of Indians in the rear, as the disconcerted captain turned, frowningly, from the men in front to those who had followed him from the orderly room, and now stood grouped on the inner flank.

"What is the meaning of all this?" he cried, in a loud and angry voice.

"Am I braved in my own command, and by my own men? Mr. Elmsley, who are these Indians, and how came they in?"

"They are a part of the encampment without, sir. There was no order given against their admission this morning, besides it is Winnebeg, and you have said that the gates of the Fort was to be open to him at all hours."

"Ah! Winnebeg, my friend, how do you do. I did not know it was you or your people. You know you are always welcome."

"How do, gubbernor," answered the chief, coming round from the rear of the line, and taking the proffered hand—"'Spose not very angry now—him good warrior—him good soger," and he pointed to the young subaltern.

"Ensign Ronayne is, no doubt, very sensible to your good opinion," remarked the captain, with evident pique; "but, Winnebeg, as I am sure you never allow a white man to interfere with you, when you find fault with your young chiefs, you must let me do the same."

"What find him fault for?" asked the chief, with some surprise; "brave like a devil!"

"Captain Headley," interposed the ensign, with some impatience, "am I to surrender my sword, or resume my duty?"

But the captain either could not, or would not give a direct answer. "Can you give me a good reason, Mr. Ronayne, why I should not receive your sword? Do you deny that you have been guilty of neglect of duty?"

"In what?" was the brief demand.

"In being absent from the Fort, without leave, sir."

"Indeed! To substantiate that, you must bring proofs, Captain Headley. Who," and he looked around him, as if challenging his accuser, "pretends to have seen me beyond these defences?"

The commandant was for some moments at a loss, for he had not anticipated this difficulty. At length he resumed. "Was it not to be absent without leave, that, when the guard was all ready to be marched off, you were not to be found?"

"Had the guard been marched off, or the parade even formed, I should of course, have come justly under your censure, Captain Headley; but it was not so—you ordered the parade and guard-mounting for a later hour. I am here at that hour."

"Hem!" returned the commandant, who was in some degree obliged to admit the justice of the remark; "you defend yourself more in the spirit of a lawyer, than of a soldier, Mr. Ronayne, but all this difficulty is soon set at rest. I require but your simple denial that you have been absent from the Fort, within the last twenty-four hours. That given, I shall be satisfied."

"And that, sir," was the firm reply of the youth, "I am not disposed to give. I am not much versed in military prudence, Captain Headley," he pursued, after a few moments' pause, and in a tone of slight irony, which that officer did not seem to perceive, "but at least sufficient to induce me to reserve what I have to say for my defence. You have charged me, sir, with having been absent from the Fort without leave; and it is for you to prove that fact before a competent authority."

"March off your guard, Mr. Ronayne," was the abrupt rejoinder of the commandant, for he liked not the continuation of a scene in which the advantage seemed not to rest with him, but with the very party whom he had sought to chasten; "Mr. Elmsley dismiss the parade. I had intended promoting on the spot, Corporal Nixon and private Collins for their conduct yesterday, but the gross insubordination I have just seen, has caused me to change my mind. Neither shall have the rank intended, until the guilty parties are named. I give until the hour of parade to-morrow for their production, and if, by that time, their names are not laid before me, no such promotion shall take place while I command the garrison. Dismiss the men, sir. Here, Winnebeg, my good fellow, you have come at a good moment. I have dispatches to send to Detroit this very evening, and I know no one I can trust so well as yourself."

"Good," was the answer, "Winnebeg always ready to do him order—no angry more, gubbernor, with young chief," pointing to the ensign, as he moved off with his small guard. "Dam good soger—you see dis?" and he touched his scalping-knife with his left hand, and looked very significantly.

"No, Winnebeg, not angry any more," was the reply; "but how do you know him to be good soger? What has your scalping-knife to do with it?"

"Winnebeg know all," said the chief gravely, as he laid his heavy hand upon the shoulder of the commandant, "but can't tell. Young chief say no, and Winnebeg love young chief."

This remark forcibly struck Captain Headley, and brought back to his mind, certain recollections. He, however, asked no further question, but pointed, as they moved in the direction of his own apartments, towards the sun, showing by his gesture that it was not too early to take the mid-day dram.

"Where the devil have you been, man, and with what confounded impudence you got through the scrape," was remarked at a distant part of the same ground, and at the same moment with the conversation just given.

"How is Maria?" eagerly asked Ronayne. "When shall I see her?"

"Well enough to hear all that passed between you and Military Prudence," returned his friend; "but that is no answer to my question."

"There was nothing like braving it," answered the other evasively; "but I say, Elmsley, I am devilish hungry, that breakfast you invited me to last night is over long ago, of course." This last sentence was uttered in a mock piteous tone.

"Just what I was going to speak about, my dear boy. We have had number ONE, but before half an hour, we shall be seated at number TWO. When your sergeant has relieved his sentries, come over and you will find a piping hot breakfast."

"Will it be quite consistent with military prudence to leave my guard so soon, after the lecture I have had?" remarked the ensign, with a smile—"but, ah! I had nearly forgotten. Elmsley, I must say a few words to you before I go in, and a better opportunity cannot be afforded than while we are walking from this to your place. Just go then, and order the breakfast as you propose, and return here. I shall have completed the arrangements of the guard by that time, and all that I have to ask of you, can be answered as we go along."

"I hope it is no great secret you have to impart," returned the lieutenant, "for I am a sad hand at the mysterious, and shall be sure to tell my wife, if I do not tell Maria."

"Not you—you will tell neither, but au revoir."



CHAPTER X.

At the moment when Ensign Ronayne removed his sword, with the intention of handing it to his commanding officer, in anticipation of the arrest which he expected, Maria Heywood, little conversant with those military formalities, and apprehending from the previous high tone of her lover, that something fearful was about to occur, had not absolutely fainted, but become so agitated, that Mrs. Elmsley was induced to take her back to the sofa, on which she had previously been reclining. As she was leaving her chair, Mrs. Headley, whose attention had also been arrested by the loud and angry voice of her husband, came from her own door and joined the little group, anxiously inquiring the cause of the disturbance without.

In a few brief sentences, and as correctly as she was able, Mrs. Elmsley explained to her the circumstances, and although her attentive auditor offered no very pointed remark, it was evident from her manner that she deeply deplored that strict military punctilio, which had led the husband whom she both loved and esteemed, to place himself in a false position with his own force—for that it was a false position in some degree, to provoke insubordination, and yet be without the power to punish it, she had too much good sense not to perceive. She felt the more annoyed, because she had on more than one occasion, observed that there was not that unanimity between her husband and Lieutenant Elmsley, which she conceived ought to exist between parties so circumstanced —a commander of a remote post, and his second in command, on whose mutual good understanding, not only the personal security of all might depend, but the existence of those social relations, without which, their isolated position involved all the unpleasantness of a voluntary banishment. This had ever been to her a source of regret, and she had on several occasions, although in the most delicate and unobtrusive manner, hinted at the fact; but the man who doated upon her, and to whom, in all other respects, her desire was law, evinced so much inflexibility in all that appertained to military etiquette, that she had never ventured to carry her allusions beyond the light commentary induced by casual reference to the subject.

If then she lamented that unfortunate coolness, if not absolute estrangement, which existed between Lieutenant Elmsley and her husband, bow much more acutely did she feel the difficulty of the position now, when the only other responsible officer of the garrison—and that a young man of high feeling and accomplishment, whom she had ever liked and admired—was fast being led into the same antagonism. Nay, what rendered the matter more painful to her, was the fact of the latter being the lover, or perhaps the affianced of a girl, whom she regarded with a fervor not often felt by one woman for another, and for whose interests she could have made every sacrifice, not affecting those of her husband.

Such were the women who were now seated on the ottoman, engaged more in their own reflections, than in conversation, when Lieutenant Elmsley entered the room, announcing that the truant would shortly be in for breakfast, which, he requested, might be instantly prepared in the usual manner, only adding thereto a couple of bottles of claret.

"Ah! pardon me, Mrs. Headley," he added, somewhat stiffly, as his wife left the room to issue the necessary orders, "I did not see you, or I should have been rather more ceremonious in my domestic communications."

Mrs. Headley slightly colored. She was sensible that pique towards her husband, and a belief that she wholly shared his sentiments, had induced this rather sarcastic speech.

"By no means, Mr. Elmsley. I trust you will not put ME down as a stranger, whatever your disposition to others."

There was a significance in the manner in which this was said, that deeply touched the lieutenant, and his tone immediately changed.

"Then, I take you at your word," he said. "It is a long time since I have had the pleasure of seeing you here, and you must positively join our second breakfast. I know Captain Headley is engaged with Winnebeg, whom he purposes sending off this evening with despatches, so that you will not be missed for at least an hour. There, look at Miss Heywood's imploring look—she pleads with her eyes in my favor, although there is no chance, it appears, of getting a word from her lips."

"Nay," remarked the other, who had rallied from her late despondency, on hearing the object of the breakfast; "you are very unreasonable, Mr. Elmsley. You do not deserve that I should speak to you to-day, and I am not quite sure that I shall."

"And pray, fair lady, why not? Wherein have I had the misfortune to offend?"

"Ah! do you forget? You promised to bring me a certain report of certain occurrences, and yet instead of that, not a word have you condescended to address to me until this moment."

"I plead guilty," he answered deprecatingly, "but pray for a suspension of sentence, until the return of one through whose influence I hope to obtain your pardon! I go now," he whispered, "to lead him to your feet."

"Well, what is the great question you have to put to me?" said the lieutenant to his friend, whom he had rejoined, and with whom he now returned slowly towards the house—"one involving a case of life and death it might be imagined, from the long face you put on when alluding to the matter."

"Nay, not exactly that, but still involving a good deal. Tell me frankly, Elmsley, has Miss Heywood heard any further account of the events at the farm-house?"

"She has heard the report brought in by Nixon and the rest of the fishing-party."

"And what was that, I pray you?" eagerly returned the ensign.

"That Mr. Heywood had been carried off by the Indians."

"From whom did she hear it?"

"It was I who told her, on the strength of what the corporal reported, not only to myself, but to Captain Headley."

"You are a considerate fellow, Elmsley," said his friend, warmly pressing his hand. "I thank you for that, and now that the great question, as you term it, is answered, I am quite ready for the promised breakfast. Did these fellows bring home any fish? I have a great fancy for fish this morning."

"No; they brought home dead men," and the lieutenant looked searchingly into the face of his companion, dwelling on every word, moreover, as if he would convey that he (Ronayne), knew perfectly well what freight the boat had brought to the Fort.

Further remark was prevented by their arrival at their destination—the front-door being open, and revealing the little party within. The first upon, whom the young officer's eye fell, was Mrs. Headley, of whose intended presence, his friend had not thought of apprising him. Still smarting under a keen sense of the severity of reproof of his commanding officer, and falling into the common error of involving the wife in the unamiability of the husband, Ronayne would have retired, even at the risk of losing his breakfast, and, what was of far more moment to him, of delaying his meeting with her to whom his every thought was devoted. But when Mrs. Headley, who had remarked the movement, came forward to the door, and gave him her hand with all the warmth and candor of her noble nature, the pique vanished from his mind, and in an instant, he, like Elmsley, evinced that devotion and regard for her, which her fascinating manner could not fail to inspire.

The sense of constraint being thus banished by the only one whose presence had occasioned it, the party, after a few minutes low conversation between the lovers, sat down gaily to a meal—half-break fast, half-luncheon, at which the most conspicuous actor was the lately reprimanded ensign.

"Really, Mr. Ronayne, you must have met with a perfect chapter of adventures during your absence last night. You have devoured the last four fresh eggs, my cook says, there were in the house—three limbs of a prairie fowl, and nearly the half of a young bear ham. Do, pray, tell us where you have been to gain such an appetite? Indeed you must—I am dying to know."

"My dear Mrs. Elmsley," he replied, coloring, "where should I have been but in the Fort?"

"True! where SHOULD you have been, indeed; but this is not the point, my hungry gentleman. Where WERE you? If I was, I KNOW WHO," she added, significantly, "I should have my suspicions, unless, indeed, you have already confessed within the few minutes you have been in the room."

"Nay, do not imagine I have so much influence over the truant, as to compel him to the confessional," said Maria Heywood. "I assure you I am quite as much in the dark as any one present."

"Come, Mr. Ronayne, recount your adventures," added Mrs. Headley. "Recollect you are not on parade now, or exactly before the sternest Court of Inquiry in the world, and should therefore, entertain no dread of punishment on your self-conviction."

"Thus urged and encouraged," said the ensign, during one of the short pauses of his knife and fork, which, in truth, he had handled as much to study what he should say, as to satisfy his hunger; "who could resist such pleading, were there really any thing to communicate; but I am quite at a loss to conceive why so general an opinion seems to prevail that I have been out of the Fort, and in quest of adventure. Why not rather ascribe my tardiness at parade to some less flattering cause—a head-ache—fatigue from night-watching—indolence, or even a little entetement, arising from the denial of a very imprudent request I made to Captain Headley last evening, to allow me the command of a detachment for a particular purpose. Pardon me, I have made quite a speech, but indeed you compel me."

"Let us drown this inquisition in a bumper of claret," interposed Elmsley, coming to the assistance of his friend, whose motive for thus parrying inquiry into his conduct, he thought he could divine. "I say, my dear fellow, you may wish yourself a head-ache—fatigue— indolence, or even a little entetement every morning of your life, if it is to be cured in this manner. This is some of the most splendid Lafayette that ever found its way into these western wilds. Look well at it. It is of the clearest, the purest blood of the grape—taste it again. A bottle of it will do you no harm if you had twenty guards in charge."

As he had desired and expected, the introduction of his remarks on the wine proved not only a means of changing the conversation, but of causing the ladies to withdraw from the table, round which they had been sitting, rather to keep the young officer company, than to participate in the repast themselves. Mrs. Headley was the first to move.

"Give me your arm, and see me home," she said carelessly, to Ronayne, who now having finished his breakfast, had also risen. "Do not be jealous, my dear Miss Heywood, but you will later know, if you do not know already, that the wife of the commanding officer always appropriates to herself, the handsomest unmarried young officer of the regiment."

Both Ronayne and his betrothed were too quick of apprehension not to perceive, under this light gaiety, a deep interest, and a desire to convey to them both, that, if unhappily, there did not exist a cordial understanding between her husband and the former, in matters purely military, and in relation to subjects which should have no influence over private life, she was by no means, a party to the disunion.

"Not very difficult to choose between the handsomest and the cleverest of the unmarried officers of the garrison of Chicago," replied Maria Heywood with an effort at cheerfulness; "therefore, Mr. Ronayne, I advise you not to be too much elated by Mrs. Headley's compliment. After that caution, I think you may be trusted with her."

"What a noble creature, and what a pity she has so cold and pompous a husband," remarked Lieutenant Elmsley, as Mrs. Headley disappeared from the door-way. "I never knew her so well as this morning, and upon my word, Margaret, were both HE and YOU out of the way, I should be greatly tempted to fall in love with her."

"You would act wisely if you did, George; I have always thought most highly of her. She is, it is true, a little reserved in manner, but that I am sure comes wholly from a certain restraint, imposed upon her by her husband's formality of character. I say I am sure of this, for there have been occasions when I have seen her exhibit a warmth of address, as different from her general demeanor, as light is from shadow."

"Perhaps Headley has systematically drilled her into the particular bearing that ought to be assumed by the wife of the commandant of a garrison."

"Nay, George! that is not generous, but I know you are not serious in what you say. You judge Mrs. Headley better, and that she is not a woman to be so drilled. She has too much good sense, despite all her partiality for her husband, to allow herself to be improperly influenced, where her judgment condemns; and although, as his wife, she must necessarily act in concert with him, it by no means follows that she approves unreservedly, all that he does."

"You are a dear, noble creature yourself!" exclaimed the gratified Elmsley, as he fondly embraced his wife. "There is nothing I love so much as to see one woman warm in the defence of another—one so seldom meets with that sort of thing. What, Maria, tears?"

"Yes—tears of pleasure!" she answered earnestly, as she held her handkerchief to her eyes—"tears of joy to see so much generosity of feeling among those whom I have so much reason to esteem and admire. You are right," she pursued, addressing Mrs. Elmsley, "she is indeed a noble woman. Perhaps I may justly be accused of a little partiality, for I never can forget the frank and cordial proffers of friendship with which she received me on the first night of my appearance here."

"Ha! Von Vottenberg to the rescue!" exclaimed Elmsley, with sudden animation, as the stout figure of the former shaded the door-way. "Well, doctor, have you passed away in the evaporation produced by fright, the violent head-ache you were suffering from this morning? If not, try that claret. It is capital stuff, and a tumbler of it will make up for the breakfast you have lost."

"Faith, and there is no breakfast lost, that I can perceive," chuckled the doctor, seating himself unceremoniously at the table, and commencing upon the remains of the bear ham, and prairie hen.

"I fear the tea and coffee are cold," said Mrs. Elmsley; "let me get some hot for you?"

"By no means, my dear Mrs. Elmsley, I could not think of such slops with generous claret at my elbow. Nay, do not look offended. Your tea and coffee are always of the best, but they do not just now, suit my taste. Miss Heywood, how do you do this morning? How is your gentle mother? I have called expressly to see her. Elmsley, where is that runaway, Ronayne?"

And where indeed was he? They had not walked more than three or four paces, when Mrs. Headley, after some little hesitation, addressed him thus:—

"Mr. Ronayne, notwithstanding your evident desire to conceal the fact, I can plainly see that you were not within the Fort last night. I can fully comprehend that your motive for absenting yourself, has been praiseworthy, but you must also admit that the reproof you met with this morning, was not altogether undeserved. Pray do not start or look grave, for, believe me, I am speaking to you only as a friend—indeed it was to have the opportunity of convincing you that I am such, that I asked you to escort me."

"Really, Mrs. Headley," interrupted the young officer, little divining to what all this was to tend, and feeling not altogether at his ease, from the abruptness with which the subject had been introduced, "I feel as I ought, the interest you profess to take in me, but how is that connected either with my asserted absence, or the reproof it entailed?"

"It is so far connected with it, that I wish to point out the means by which any unpleasant result may be avoided!"

"Unpleasant result! Mrs. Headley?"

"Yes, unpleasant result, for I have too good an opinion of you not to believe that any thing tending to destroy the harmony of our very limited society, would be considered such by you."

"I am all attention, Madam. Pray, proceed."

"The pithiness of your manner does not afford me much encouragement yet I will not be diverted from my purpose, even by that. You have had the Commandant's lecture," she continued, with an attempt at pleasantry, "and now you must prepare yourself for (pardon the coinage of the term) that of the Commandantess."

"The plot thickens," said the ensign, somewhat sharply— "both the husband and the wife. Jupiter Tonans and Juno the Superb in judgment upon poor me in succession. Ah! that is too bad. But seriously, Mrs. Headley, I shall receive with all due humility, whatever castigation you may choose to inflict."

"No castigation I assure you, Ronayne, but wholesome advice from one, who, recollect, is nearly old enough to be your mother. However, you shall hear and then decide for yourself."

"Although," she pursued, after a short pause, "we women are supposed to know nothing of those matters, it would be difficult, in a small place like this, to be ignorant of what is going on. Hence it is that I have long since remarked, with pain and sorrow, the little animosity which exists between Headley and yourself—(I will not introduce Mr. Elmsley's name, because what I have to say has no immediate reference to him), and the almost daily widening breach. Now, Ronayne, I would appeal to your reason. Place yourself for a moment in my husband's position. Consider his years, nearly double your own—his great responsibility and the peculiar school of discipline in which he has been brought up. Place yourself, I repeat, in his position, and decide what would be your sentiments if, in the conscientious discharge of your duty, you thought yourself thwarted by those very men—much your juniors both in years and military experience—on whose co-operation you had every fair reason to rely."

"You have, my dear Mrs. Headley, put the case forcibly yet simply." returned the ensign, who had listened with marked deference to the whole of her remonstrance. "In such a case I should feel no slight annoyance, but why imagine that I have sought to thwart Captain Headley?"

"Was it not apparently to thwart him—bear in mind I speak to you dispassionately and as a friend—to refuse in the presence of the whole garrison this morning to account for your absence of last night, which might have been easily explained, had you been so disposed?"

"But, my dear Mrs. Headley, why is it persisted in, that I was absent—and even if such were the case, might not I have had a good reason for refusing to commit myself by the avowal."

"Admitting this, could you have maintained your position without, in a measure, setting his authority at defiance —thus encouraging the men to do the same. Was this right, I ask? Was this officer-like?"

"Well, no, perhaps not. I blush not to make the admission to YOU, for indeed, there is no resisting so bewitching a master in petticoats. Yet, what would you have me do?"

"Ah, now, I begin to entertain some hope of you," she replied, in a gayer tone, placing her hand at the same time familiarly on his shoulder and looking approvingly in his face. "Ronayne, you are engaged—perhaps will shortly become the husband of the noble girl, whom I love even as though she were my own daughter—yes," she repeated energetically, as she felt his grateful pressure of her hand, "even as though she were my own daughter—nay, you know I like yourself for your open, although rather too impetuous character. Do you then think that feeling this it can be any other than a source of deep pain and vexation to me, to see those in whom I feel so much interest, alienated from each other—in some degree even mutually hating and hated?"

"Yet, what would you have me to do, my dear Mrs. Headley? Some concession I suppose, must be made. Any thing in honor and in reason will I do for your sake," returned the young officer, deeply touched by her manner and language.

"This I wish you to do, Ronayne. Take the first favorable opportunity, either while on guard to-day, or when relieved to-morrow, to see Headley privately, and by such language as you well know how to use, remove the unfavorable impression you have left on his mind—depend upon it, although extremely cold and inflexible when apparently braved, my husband has a warm and generous—aye, a noble heart, and will freely grant what is frankly solicited. Bear in mind, moreover, Ronayne, that it is no humiliation to admit error when conscious of having committed it; and if this be so in the social relations of life, how much less derogatory is it in a military sense."

"Say no more, dearest Mrs. Headley, since it is your wish, I will go, no matter what the reception I encounter; and any further rebuke I may meet with, I will cheerfully endure for your sake."

"Now then, Ronayne, you are once more yourself, the generous, high-minded boy, in whom I delighted, even as a mother would delight in her son, when you first arrived here about three years ago. Yet, recollect that not only I shall be gratified and benefitted by this, but YOU and YOURS. Let but this unhappy discord terminate, and we shall then be what soldiers and those connected with them, ought ever to be—one undivided family. And now, for the present, farewell."

"God bless you!" fervently exclaimed the ensign, as he took his leave of the graceful and noble wife of the commanding officer, with emotions that fully testified the effect produced upon him by her generous confidence and candor.

From the frequent reference made by Mrs. Headley to her own riper years, one might have been induced to consider her rather in the decline of life; but such was not the case. Her splendid and matronly figure might indeed have impressed the superficial observer with the belief that she had numbered more than forty summers, but the unchained and luxuriant hair—the white, even and perfect teeth— the rich, full lip, and unwrinkled brow, and smooth and brilliant cheek, would not have permitted the woman most jealous of her charms, could such have been found, to pronounce her more than six-and-thirty, which was, indeed, her age. It was a source of gratification to her to consider and represent herself as older than she really was; and if she had any peculiarity—a weakness it could not be called—it was that of loving to look upon those younger persons who claimed a place in her friendship and esteem, as though she actually stood in the maternal relation to them. This may have, in some degree, arisen from the fact of her having ever been childless herself.

As Ronayne approached Elmsley's house on his return, a remarkably handsome and noble-looking Indian—quite a youth—was leaning against the frame of the door, and according to the simple habit of his race, indulging his curiosity by looking at, and admiring all that he beheld within. Elmsley himself had gone out, but Von Vottenberg, still seated at the breakfast-table, was discussing, with its remains, the now nearly finished claret, while Mrs. Elmsley and Maria Heywood were seated on the sofa opposite to the door, passing their whispered remarks on the Indian, whose softened dark glances occasionally fell with intense admiration on the former, when he fancied the act unseen, but as instantly were withdrawn, when he perceived that it was observed.

Mrs. Elmsley was endeavoring to dissipate the dejection of her friend by rallying her, as the young officer came to the door, on the evidently new conquest she had made. The Indian turned to look at the intruder upon his pleasant musings, when a "wah!" expressive of deep satisfaction escaped him, and at the same moment, Ronayne grasped, and cordially shook his hand.

"Ha! there is his formidable rival, and seemingly his friend," whispered Mrs. Elmsley, in the ear of Maria— "handsome fellows, both of them, so much so, that were I single, like you, I should have some difficulty in choosing between them."

As she uttered these words, a sharp and unaccountable pang, sudden and fleeting as electricity, shot through the frame of her friend. The blood suddenly receded from her cheek, and then rapidly returning, suffused it with a burning heat.

"What is the matter, my love? Are you ill, you looked so pale just now?" tenderly inquired Mrs. Elmsley.

"I cannot account for what I experienced. It was a feeling different from any I had ever known before—a strange, wild, and inexplicable dread of I know not what. But it has passed away. Take no notice of it, dear, before Ronayne."

"Mrs. Elmsley," said the latter, almost using force to induce the modest-looking young Indian to enter the room, "will you allow me first to introduce my friend Waunangee to you, and then to give him a glass of claret? Forgive the liberty I take, but I confess a good deal of obligation to him, and would fain do the civil in return."

"Indeed! what a set speech for a glass of wine. Give it to him by all means, if it is only for his beautiful eyes—that is to say, if the doctor has left any—or stay, I will get another bottle."

"By no means," returned the young officer, "this unconscionable man has just left about half a tumbler foil, and I do not intend he shall have more. Waunangee," he pursued, after filling and presenting him with the glass, "that is the lady of the house," pointing to Mrs. Elmsley, "you must drink to her health."

"And dis you handsome squaw," remarked the Indian, a moment or two after having tossed off the wine, which quickly circulated through his veins. "Dis you wife!" he repeated, throwing his expressive eyes upon Miss Heywood, while a rich glow lighted up his dark, but finely formed features.

"Hush!" said Ronayne, making a sign to intimate that he was not to indulge in such observations.

But even the small quantity of wine he had taken was acting potently on the fast animating Indian. "Dis no you squaw—dis Waunangee squaw," he said, with strong excitement of manner. "Waunangee, see him beautiful, Waunangee got warm heart—love him very much!"

"Tolerably well for a modest youth!" exclaimed the laughing Mrs. Elmsley. "Who would have thought that one with those soft black eyes, more fitted for a woman than a man, would hazard so glowing a speech, after an acquaintance of barely five minutes?"

"Who says Chicago doesn't abound in adventure?" sneered Von Vottenberg, as he arose and passed into the apartment of his patient. "I shall certainly write a book about this when I get back into the civilized world, and entitle it 'The Loves of the Handsome Waunangee, and the Beautiful American.'"

"You had better write 'The Loves of the Fat Von Vottenberg, and his Mistress, Whisky Punch,'" remarked Ronayne, peevishly, for in spite of himself, he felt annoyed at an observation, which he thought delicacy might have spared. "Come, Waunangee, my good friend, we must go."

But the young Indian was not so easily led. "Waunangee have him first dis nice squaw," he said, with all that show of dogged obstinacy which so usually distinguishes his race, when under the influence of liquor, and bent upon the attainment of a particular object.

"Hear me, Waunangee," replied the other, placing his hand upon his shoulder, and now, that Mrs. Elmsley only was present with his affianced, feeling less scruple in explaining to the young savage—"that is my squaw—my wife."

"Why you no tell him so?" asked the youth, gravely, and with an air of reproach, while, at the same time, he fixed his soft and melancholy eyes upon Miss Heywood. "Waunangee love officer's squaw—but Waunangee good heart. Shake him hand, my friend," he continued, walking up to her, and tendering his own, while, singular as it seemed to all, a tear dimmed his eye, and stole down his cheek. "'Spose no Waunangee wife—you Waunangee's friend?"

The generous but trembling girl, shook cordially the hand that rested in her own, and assured the youth, in a way easily intelligible to him, that, as the friend of her husband, and she blushed deeply, as the moment afterwards she became sensible she had used a word, she could not but feel to be premature, she would always regard him with friendship and esteem.

"What a nice little scene we might get up out of this morning's adventure," said the ever gay Mrs. Elmsley, as Waunangee, after having shaken hands with herself, departed with Ronayne. "Really, my dear, he is a fine looking, and certainly a warm-hearted fellow, that Wau—Wan—what's his name, Maria?"

"Waunangee. I know not how it is, Margaret, or why—I should attach so much importance to the thing, but if ever those glimpses of the future, called presentiments, had foundation in truth, that young Indian is destined to exercise some sort of influence over my fate."

"You do not mean that he is to supplant Ronayne, I hope," returned her friend, trying to laugh her oat of the serious mood, in which she seemed so much inclined to indulge.

"How can you speak so, Margaret? No, my presentiment is of a different character. But it is very foolish and silly to allow the feeling to weigh with me. I will try to think more rationally. Say nothing of this, however, and least of all to Ronayne."

"Not a word, dearest. Good bye for the present. I must look after the dinner. You know who dines with us."

A look expressive of the deep sense she entertained of the consideration of her friend, was the only commentary of Miss Heywood, as she passed into her mother's apartment.



CHAPTER XI.

It was now the middle of May. A month had elapsed since the events detailed in the preceding chapters. The recollection of the outrage at Heywood's farm, committed early in April was fast dying away, save in the bosoms of those more immediately interested in the fate of its proprietor, and apprehensions of a repetition of similar atrocities had, in a great measure, ceased. A better understanding between the commanding officer and his subordinates—the result of a long private interview, which Ensign Ronayne had had with the former, on the morning after his promise to Mrs. Headley, followed by an apology on parade that day, had arisen. Corporal Nixon was now Sergeant Nixon—Collins had succeeded to him, and Le Noir and the boy—Catholic and Protestant—had been buried in one grave. Ephraim Giles filled the office of factotum to Von Vottenberg, whose love of whisky punch, was, if possible, on the increase. Winnebeg, the bearer of confidential despatches, announcing the hostile disposition and acts of certain of the Winnebagoes, had not returned, and Waunangee, who, recovered from the fumes of the claret, had, in an earnest manner, expressed to Ronayne contrition for the liberty he had taken with Miss Heywood, had departed from the neighborhood, no one knew whither. Harmony, in a word, had been some days restored in the Fort, and the only thing that detracted from the general contentment, was the uncertainty attending the fate of Mr. Heywood—regretted less, however, for his own sake, than for that of his amiable daughter, who vainly sought to conceal from her friends, the anxiety induced by an absence, the duration of which it was utterly impossible to divine. As for Mrs. Heywood, she was still in ignorance, so well had things been managed by the Elmsleys, that any of the fearful scenes had occurred. She still believed her husband to be at the farm.

But, as it was not likely she could much longer remain in ignorance of what had been the subject of conversation with every one around her, it was advised by Von Vottenberg, that, as the warmth of spring was now fully developed, and all dread of the Indians resuming their hostile visit, at an end, she should be conveyed back to the cottage, the pure air around which, was much more likely to improve her health, than the confined atmosphere of the Fort. She had accordingly been removed thither early in May, accompanied by her daughter and Catherine.

Ronayne, of course, become once more a daily visitor, and soon beneath his hand, the garden began again to assume the beautiful garb it had worn at that season, for the last two years. The interviews of the lovers here, freed from the restraints imposed upon them while in the Fort, had resumed that fervent character which had marked them on the afternoon of the day when they so solemnly interchanged their vows of undying faith. They now no longer merely looked their love. They spoke of it—drank in the sweet avowal from each others lips, and luxuriated in the sweet pleasure it imparted. They were as the whole world to each other, and although language could not convey a warmer expression of their feelings, than had already gone forth from their lips, still was the repetition replete with a sweetness that never palled upon the ear. Like the man who never tires of gazing upon his gold, so did they never tire of the treasures of the expressed love, that daily grew more intense in their hearts. And yet, notwithstanding this utter devotedness of soul—notwithstanding her flattering heart confessed in secret the fullest realization of those dreams which had filled and sustained her in early girlhood—albeit the assurance the felt that, in Ronayne, she had found the impersonation of the imaginings of her maturer life, still whenever he urged her in glowing language to name the day when she would become his wife, she evaded an answer, not from caprice, but because she would not bring to him a heart clouded by the slightest tinge of that anxiety with which ignorance of her father's fate, could not fail to shade it. A painful circumstance which happened about that period, at length, however, brought affairs to a crisis.

It was a lovely evening towards the close of May, and after a somewhat sultry morning which had been devoted to a ride on horseback along the lakeshore—Mrs. Headley and Mrs. Elmsley, who had accompanied them, having returned home, that Ronayne and his betrothed sat in the little summer-house already described. Mrs. Heywood who had been so far recovered from her weakness by the change of air, as to take slight exercise in the garden, supported by her daughter, and the young officer, had on this occasion expressed a wish to join them, in order that she might inhale the soft breeze that blew from the south, and enjoy once more the scenery of the long reach of the river, which wound its serpentine course from the direction of the farm. To this desire no other objection was offered, than what was suggested by her companions, from an apprehension that the fatigue of the ascent would be too great for her. She, however, persisted in her wish, declaring that she felt herself quite strong enough—an assertion for which her returning color gave some evidence. They ceased to oppose her. It was the first time the invalid had been in the summer-house, since the same period the preceding spring, and naturally associating the recollection of her husband, with the familiar objects in the distance, she took her daughter's hand, and said in a low and husky voice, that proved how much she had overrated her own strength:

"How is it, Maria, my love, that we have seen nothing of your father, lately? I have never known him, since we have been in this part of the country, to be so long absent from us at one time."

"Nay, dear mamma," returned the pained girl, the tears starting to her eyes, in spite of her efforts to restrain them, "I do not exactly know what can detain him. Perhaps he is not at the farm," and here her tears forced their way—"you know, dearest mamma, that he is very fond of long hunting excursions."

"Yes, but, my child, why do you weep? Surely there is nothing in that to produce such emotion. He will soon be back again."

"Oh! yes, I hope so. Forgive me, my dear mamma, but I have a very bad head-ache, and never felt more nervous than I do this evening. Perhaps it is the effect of my ride in the heat of the sun. Shall we go on. It is nearly sunset, and I dread your being exposed to the night-air."

"Oh! it is so delicious," softly returned the invalid; "I feel as if I had not lived for the last twelve months, until now. Only a little while longer, shall I not, Mr. Ronayne? Perhaps I may never have an opportunity of ascending to this summer-house again."

During this short conversation, trifling in itself, but conveying, under the circumstances, so much subject for deep and painful reflections, the young officer had evinced much restlessness of manner, yet without interposing any other remark than to join Miss Heywood's entreaties that her mother would suffer herself to be conducted home, before the dew should begin to fall. In order, moreover, as much as possible to leave them uninterrupted in the indulgence of their feelings, he had from the first risen, and stood with his back to them, within the entrance of the summer house, and was now, with a view to drown their conversation to his own ear, whistling to Loup Garou, sitting on his haunches outside the garden-gate, looking fixedly at him.

Touched by the account he had received of the fidelity of the dog, he, had, with the consent of Sergeant Nixon, who was glad to secure for his favorite so kind a protector, become possessed of him from the moment of his return home; and time, which had in some degree blunted the sorrow of the animal for the loss of one master, rendered equally keen his instinct of attachment for the other. Within the month he had been his, every care had been taken by Ronayne himself, as well as by his servant, to wean the mourner from the grave of Le Noir, on which, for the first few days, he had lain, absorbed in grief—refusing all food, until, yielding at length to the voice of kindness, his memory of the past seemed to have faded wholly away.

Ronayne, however, from a fear of exciting unpleasant recollections in those who were not ignorant of the former position of the dog, had endeavoured as much as possible, to prevent him from crossing the river during his visits to the cottage; but, within the last four or five days, Loup Garou would not thus be kept back, and when expelled from the boat, had swam across, taking up his station at the gate, beyond which, however, he did not presume to pass, as if sensible that the delicate parterres within, were interdicted ground, and there generally lay squatted with his nose resting on the grass, between his outstretched fore-paws, until his master came forth on his return home.

The unexpected and encouraging whistle of the latter on this occasion, which had been given in pure unconsciousness, caused him to prick his ears, and uttering a sharp cry, he sprang over the gate, bounding rapidly towards the eminence on which his master stood. About half-way between its base and the summit, there was a beautiful rose-bush which had been planted by Ronayne, and from which he had plucked two flowers, for the mother and daughter, during the ascent, and presented with a hand that was observed by Maria Heywood to tremble, and a cheek unwontedly pale.

On arriving opposite the rose-tree, the animal suddenly stopped, and putting his nose to the ground close under it, and sniffing almost furiously, uttered a prolonged and melancholy howl, while, with his fore-paws he began to scratch up the loose earth around, regardless of the voice of his master, who renewed his whistling, and called upon him almost angrily to desist.

Alarmed at this perseverance of action, the ensign descended to the spot—laid hands on Loup Garou, and sought to remove him, but the animal, strong of neck— full in the chest—and on the present occasion, under the influence of furious impulse, was not to be restrained.

The moaning of the dog—the descent-the corrective voice of his master, and the seeming struggle of both to attain opposite purposes, naturally attracted the attention of those above, and they both rose and neared to the doorway Ronayne had so recently quitted. Their horror may well be imagined when, on looking down, they found that the dog had already uncovered a human body, which, though disfigured and partially decomposed, filial and conjugal affection too clearly distinguished as the father of the one, the husband of the other!

Uttering a feeble shriek, Mrs. Heywood fell insensible within the threshold of the summer-house, while her daughter, less overwhelmed, but with feelings impossible to describe, stooped and chafed her mother's temples, and notwithstanding a horrid thought, which, despite her own will, shot through her mind, that the man to whom she had given every affection of her heart, was in some degree connected with this horrid spectacle, she called vehemently to him for assistance.

The situation of the perplexed officer was scarcely less painful. On the one hand, feeling all the necessity of retaining his grasp of Loup Garou, as the only means of preventing him from further uncovering of the body—on the other, urged by the summons of her, whom he knew, from her very manner, to be in possession of this fearful secret, his mind become a perfect chaos, and large drops of perspiration streamed from his brow. In this irritating dilemma, a sudden transport of rage took possession of his heart, and seizing Loup Garou with both his hands, he so compressed them around his throat, that the dog, already exhausted with his exertions, was half-strangled before being raised with a frantic effort, and dashed with violence upon the body he had so unhappily been instrumental in discovering.

Scarcely had this been done—a low moaning from Loup Garou, as if reproaching him for the act, alone denoting that he breathed, when the ensign flew up the steps of the summer-house, and regardless of the involuntary half-shudder of his betrothed, as he approached, caught the insensible invalid in his arms, and so carrying her, that her eyes, if she should open them, could not encounter the horrid spectacle below, again rapidly descended, and hurried towards the house. Maria Heywood, on passing the rose-tree so recently prized, but now so abhorrent to her sight, could not resist a strong impulse to look upon the mysteries so strangely unveiled, but although the twilight had not yet passed away, nothing could be seen but the displaced earth, and stretched over the excavation he himself had made, the motionless body of the dog.

Sick at heart, and with wild and unconnected images floating through her heated brain, she followed almost mechanically to the cottage.

This was no time for ceremony. When answering the loud ring, Catherine appeared hurriedly at the door, Ronayne bore his inanimate charge into her bedroom, and in silence and deep grief, sought, by every means in his power, to restore her. But all his efforts proving vain, he, in a state of mind difficult to describe, tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a few hurried lines to Elmsley, requesting him to allow his wife to come over immediately with Von Vottenberg, and when they had departed, to call upon Captain Headley and explain the cause of his absence. This note he gave to Catherine, with instructions to cross in the boat which was waiting for himself, and to return with Mrs. Elmsley, or if she did not come, with the doctor.