Once upon a time a retired man of business came to our ville, accompanied by his son. He was one of the class known in England as "Commys," and so obnoxious in France as commis-voyageurs. He stopped at the Cheval Blanc, and in conversation with mine host inquired if it might chance that some cafe-keeper in the town desired to sell his cafe and marry his daughter. Monsieur Brissom mentioned to him our cafe-keepers blessed with marriageable daughters, and "Commy" made the rounds among them, announcing that he had a son whom he wished to marry to some charming demoiselle doted with a cafe. One of the cafe-keepers had "precisement votre affaire." It was arranged that Mademoiselle Clothilde should be promenaded by her mother the next Sunday on the jetty, where the young man should join the counter-current, and thus each take observations of the other.

As said, so done. Monsieur Henri and Mademoiselle Clothilde declared themselves enchanted with each other.

"Tres-bien," said the reflective parents. "Now fall in love as fast as ever you please."

Monsieur and mademoiselle not only "fell," but plunged.

Two weeks afterward, however, the papas fell out. Cafetier exacted more than Commis could promise, and Commis declared Mademoiselle Clothilde pas grand' chose: her eyebrows were too white, and her toes turned in.

The marriage was declared "off," and the young people were ordered to fall out of love the quickest possible.

"Too late!" they cried.

"You have seen each other but four times."

"Quite enough," declared the lovers.

"You shall not marry," shouted the parents.

"We will!" screamed their offspring.

Nevertheless they could not, for the French law gives almost absolute power to parents. Mademoiselle would have no dot unless her father chose to give her one, and no French marriage is legal without paternal consent or the almost disgraceful expedient of sommations respectueuses. Mademoiselle threatened to enter a convent. Cafetier assured her that no convent opens cordial doors to dotless girls.

Juliet was ready to defy all the Capulets when she had seen Romeo but once; Corinne was ready to fling all her laurels at Oswald's feet at their second interview; Rosamond Vincy planned her house-furnishing during her second meeting with Lydgate; even Dorothea Brooke felt a "trembling hope" the very next day after her first sight of Mr. Casaubon. How, then, could one expect poor Clothilde to yield up her undersized, thin-moustached, and very unheroic-looking Henri, having seen him four times?

There was one way out of her troubles,—that to which Alphonse Daudet's and Andre Theuriet's people gravitate as needles to their pole. She walked one dark midnight upon the jetty alone. Nobody saw the end; but the next Sunday, three weeks to a day from the one when the two had countermarched in matrimonial procession, Mademoiselle Clothilde was laid in her grave.

The whole French social system revolves around the dot.

"How dare you speak to my father so!" I once heard a daughter reproach her mother. "How dare you, who brought him no dot!"

"It is a pity Madame Marais has no more influence in her family," I heard remarked in a social company. "It is a pity, for she is a good woman, and her husband and sons are all going to the bad."

"Yes, it is a pity," answered another; "but, then, what else can she expect? She brought no dot into the family."

Once upon a time a young man made a friendly call upon a family in our ville, he a distant relative of the family. He sat in the salon with mother and daughter, when suddenly the mother was called away a moment. When she returned, not more than two minutes later,—horror! she could not enter the room! In closing the door she had somehow disarranged the handles; screws had dropped out and could not be found; the knob would not turn. What a situation! A young girl shut up in a locked room with a young man! What a scandal if the story got out in the town! and what could the poor, distracted mamma do to release her daughter from that damning situation without the knowledge of the servants? She dared not even summon a locksmith, for locksmith tongues are free; and who would not shoot out the lip at poor Jeanne, hearing the miserable story at breakfast-tables to-morrow?

"You must marry Jeanne, mon cousin," cried mamma through the keyhole.

"Impossible, ma cousine. You know I am fiance," laughed he.

Nevertheless he did!

For when papa heard that Jeanne had remained two whole hours shut up with Cousin Pierre in a brilliantly-lighted salon, with a frantic mother at the keyhole and all the servants grinning upon their knees searching for the missing screws, he added twenty thousand francs to her dot on the spot, and Pierre wrote to his other fiancee that he had "changed his intentions."

"Mamma's tapage was too funny," laughed Madame Pierre, telling me this story herself. "Pierre and I laughed well on our side of the door, although we were careful not to let maman hear us. For we had often been alone together before when nobody knew it."

Which makes all the difference in the world in our ville, as well as elsewhere.

Pierre's funny experience did not end with his betrothal. In relating the adventure which follows, I wish it distinctly to be understood that I do it in all respect, admiration, and reverence for the Church which is the mother of all Churches calling themselves Christian. The Holy Roman Catholic Church is no less holy that her servants are so often base and vile and that her livery is so often stolen to serve evil in. What wickedness and hypocrisy have we not in our own Protestant clergy, and without even the tremendous excuse for it which the conditions of European society give for the occasional levity of its priesthood! In France the Church is a recognized profession, to which parents destine and for which they educate their sons without waiting for them to exhibit any special bias toward a religious life. In spite of themselves, many young men are even forced into the priesthood, not only by strong family influence, but through having been educated so as to be absolutely unfitted for any other walk of life. With us the priesthood is a matter of deliberate and perfectly voluntary choice, and he who wears it as a cloak is ten thousand times the hypocrite his Catholic brother is.

It happened that our cure of Saint-Etienne was a jolly good fellow, somewhat given to wine-bibbing, and much given to Rabelaisian stories. He was also hail-fellow-well-met with Pierre, and Pierre, like most of the young men of France, prided himself upon his entire freedom from the "superstitious." Pere Duhaut lived by teaching and preaching.

In France the church sacrament of marriage cannot be performed unless both the contracting parties furnish certificates of having made confession within three weeks. To secure his certificate it would be necessary for Pierre to confess to the cure of Saint-Etienne, Pere Duhaut.

"I confess to Duhaut!" he laughed in our house. "I'll be—what's-his-named first. Old Duhaut might as well confess to me. I shall simply give him six francs and get my certificate without any more ado, just as the other fellows get theirs."

That very afternoon Pere Duhaut took tea with us, and Emile was mean enough to betray Pierre's intentions.

"We'll see," said our cure.

The next day Pierre passed our windows. He bowed gayly, and called up that he was going for his six francs' worth of ante-nuptial absolution. An hour later he passed again, but he did not look up. In the evening Pere Duhaut came, bursting with laughter.

"Ask Pierre how he got his certificate," he guffawed. Then he told us the story. Pierre, it seems, had offered the six francs, which offer the confessor had rejected with scorn.

"In to the confessional," he cried, "and make your confession like a penitent!"

"I'll make it fifteen," grinned Pierre.

"Not for a thousand. In! in!"

"Come, now, Duhaut, this is all humbug. You know I'm not penitent, and I'll be—— if I'll confess to you."

Without more words, the burly priest seized the recalcitrant and grabbed him by the neck, trying to force him into the confession-box. Pierre resisted, and, as the cure told us bursting with laughter, the two wrestled and waltzed half around the church. Finally Pierre was brought to his knees.

"Eh bien, allez! What am I to confess?" he grumbled.

"Every sin you have committed since your last confession."

How malicious was Pere Duhaut in this! for he knew Pierre had not kept the observances of the Church since he left home at seventeen, and had not been an anchorite either.

"I'll make it an even hundred," begged the now exasperated yet humbled Pierre. "Come, now, do be reasonable; that's a jolly old boy."

"Confess! confess!" roared the confessor, dealing the kneeling impenitent a sounding cuff on the ear.

"Ask Pierre how he got his certificate," roared Pere Duhaut. "Demandez-lui! Demandez-lui!"

But we never did.

Until his grave received him, only a few weeks ago, a marked character of our ville was a stooping old man, of a ghastly paleness, noted through all the region for avarice and for speaking every one of his many languages each with worse accent than the other. His Spanish sounded like German, his German had the strongest possible American accent, his English was vividly Teutonic, and after forty years of marriage his Norman wife never ceased to mock at his atrociously-mouthed French. He was wine-merchant and banker combined, and, though his social position was among the best in our bourgeoise ville, all the world smiled with the knowledge that the rich old banquier, whose nose had a strong Hebraic curve, delivered his own merchandise at night from under his long coat, in order to escape the tax on every bottle of wine transported from one domicile to another.

The stately gate-post of "Pere S——'s" pretentious and philistine mansion is decorated with the coats-of-arms of several nations. England's is there, Germany's, Spain's, Portugal's, as well as our own Eagle; while upon days when our own exiled hearts beat most proudly—4th of July and 22d of February—our star-spangled banner floats from his roof-top as well as from our own, the only two, of course, in our ville. Our ville, so important to us, has scarcely an existence for our home government, and administrative changes there float over us like clouds of heaven, without touching us in their changefulness. Thus Pere S——, though so courteous and cordial to Americans, has been long years forgotten at Washington, whence every living servitor of the administration that appointed him our consul here has long since passed away forever. He was born in Pennsylvania, of German parents, nearly eighty years ago. He received his appointment in 1837, and held it through fourteen administrations since Van Buren, without ever returning to America, till he faded away one little month ago and was buried in the parish cemetery of Saint-Leonard by a Lutheran pastor brought over for the occasion from Havre. No church-bells tolled for his death, and the street-children did not go on their way singing, as they always do, to the sound of funeral bells.

"Viens, corps, ta fosse t'attend!" for Pere S—— was a heretic, and could not have slept in consecrated ground had he died before the Republique Francaise removed religious restrictions from all burial-places. All the consular corps in all the region round about followed the old man to his long home, all our public buildings hung their flags half-mast high, all our little world told queer stories of the dead old man. But our own hearts grew tender with thoughts of this life finished at fourscore years with its longing of almost half a century unfulfilled. "Philip Nolan" we often called the old man, who sometimes said to us, with yearning, pathetic voice,—

"I am an American; I am here only till I make my fortune. When I am rich enough I shall go Home. I shall die and be buried at Home,—when I am rich enough."

Temperament is Fate. Pere S——'s temperament of Harpagon fated him to die as he had lived,—a man without a country.

MARGARET BERTHA WRIGHT.



THE PRIMITIVE COUPLE.

I.

PARADISE.

The island in Magog Lake was like a world by itself. Though there were but fifteen or twenty acres of land in it, that land was so diversified by dense woods, rocks, verdant open spots, and smooth shore-rims that it seemed many places in one.

Adam's tent was set in the arena of an amphitheatre of hills, upon close, smooth sward sloping down to the lake-margin of milk-white sand. Beyond the lake stood up a picture as heavenly to man's vision as the New Jerusalem appearing in the clouds.

This was a mountain bounded at the base by two spurs of the lake, and clothed by a plumage of woods, except upon spaces near the centre of its slope. Here green fields disclosed themselves and two farm-houses were nested, basking in the light of a sky which deepened and deepened through infinite blues.

Though it was high noon, dew yet remained upon the abundance of ferns and rock-mosses on those heights around the camp. The tent stood open at both ends, framing a triangular bit of lake-water and shore. Within it were a table piled with books, an oval mirror hung over a toilet-stand, garments suspended along a line, a small square rug overlying the sward, and camp-chairs.

The two cots had been stripped of their blankets—which were out sunning upon a pole—and set in the thickest shade, and upon one of these cots Eva was stretched out, having a pillow under her head. Her dress was of a green woollen stuff, and barely reached the instep of her low shoes. A mighty bunch of trailing ferns, starred with furry azure flowers and ox-eyed daisies, was fastened from her neck to her girdle. She had drawn her broad sun-hat partly over the bewitching mystery of her eyes and forehead, to keep the sky-glow at bay, but left space enough through which to search the whole visible world, and her face was smiling with pure joy. To be alive beside Lake Magog was sufficient; and she was both alive and beloved.

She thought within herself how indescribable all this beauty was. A pleasant wind smelling of world-old fern-loam fanned her. There were neither mosquitoes nor flies to sting, and, had there been, Adam was provided with a bottle of pennyroyal oil, wherewith he would anoint her face and hands, kissing any lump planted there before he came to the rescue.

Eva felt sure she never wanted to go back to civilization again. Days and days of shining weather, fog-or dew-drenched in the morning, wine-colored or opaline in the evening; cool, starry nights, so cool, so dense with woods-shade that they drove her to hide her head in the blankets under Adam's arm; glowing noons, when the world swam in ecstasy; long pulls at the oars from point to point of this magic lake, she holding the trolling-line at the stern of the boat, her husband sometimes resting and leaning forward to get her smile at nearer range upon his face; plunges into the warm lake-water in the afternoon when time stood still in a trance of satisfaction:—what a honeymoon she was having! Why should it ever end? There were responsible folks enough to carry the world's work forward. Two people might be allowed to spend their lives in paradise, if a change of seasons could only be prevented. Anyhow, Eva was soaking up present joy. She half closed her eyes, and whispered fragmentary words, feeling that her heart was a censer of incense, swinging off clouds of thanksgiving at every beat.

Adam came from the spring with a dripping pail. A fret-work of cool drops stood all over the tin surface, even when he set the pail beside his heated stove. That water had been filtered through moss and pebbles and chilled by overlaced boughs until its nature was glacial.

The cooking-stove stood quite apart from the tent, under a tree. Blue woodsmoke escaped from its pipe and straight-way disappeared. A covered pot was already steaming, and Adam filled and put the kettle to boil. Not far from the stove was a stationary table, made of boards fastened upon posts. The potato-cellar and the cold-chest were boxes sunk in the ground. Some dippers, griddles, and pans hung upon nails driven in the tree.

Adam spread the table with a red cloth, brought chairs from the tent, and came and leaned over Eva's cot. He was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, hardy-looking Scotchman, gentlemanly in his carriage, and bearing upon his visible character the stamp of Edinbro' colleges and of Calvinistic sincerity. He wore the Highland cap or bonnet, a belted blouse, knickerbockers, long gray stockings, and heavy-soled shoes.

"Well, Mrs. Macgregor," said Adam, giving the name a joyful burr in his throat, "my sweethairt. I must have a look of your eyes before you taste a bit of my baked muskalunge."

"Well, Mr. Macgregor. And will I get up and set the table and help put on dinner?"

"No, my darling. It's all ready,—or all but a bit of fixing."

"I am so happy," said Eva, "so lazy and happy, it doesn't seem fair to the rest of the world."

"There is at this time no rest of the world," responded Adam. "Nothing has been created but an island and one man and woman. Do you belaive me?"

"I would if I didn't see those farm-houses, and the boats occasionally coming and going on the lake; yes, and if you didn't have to row across there for butter and milk, and to Magog village for other supplies."

"That's a mere illusion. We live here on ambrosial distillations from the rocks and muskalunge from the lake. I never came to Canada from old Glazka town, and never saw Loch Achray, or Loch Lomond, or any body of water save this, since I was created in God's image without any knowledge of the catechism. And let me see a mon set foot on this strond!"

"Oh, you inhospitable creature!"

"I but said let me see him."

"Yes, but I know what you meant. You meant you didn't want anybody."

"My wants are all satisfied, thank God," said Adam, lifting his cap. "I have you, and the breath o' life, and the camp-outfit."

"And the mountains, and the lake, and the rocks, and the woods," added Eva. "I never could have believed there were such sublime things in the world if I hadn't seen them."

"Neither could I," owned the Scotchman. "Especially such a sublime thing as me wife."

Eva struck at him, restraining her palm from bringing more than a pat upon his cheek.

"How your little hand makes me tremble!" said Adam, drawing his breath from chest-depths. "Will I ever grow to glimpse at you without having the blood spurt quick from me hairt, or to touch you without this faintness o' joy? And don't mock me wi' your eyes, bonnie wee one, for it's bonnie wee one you'll be to me when you're a fat auld woman the size of yonder mountain. And that changes the laughter in your eyes."

"I didn't suppose you ever could call me a fat old woman."

"I'll be an auld man then meself, me fiery locks powthered with ashes, and my auld knees knocking one at the ither," laughed Adam.

"But hand in hand we'll go," sang Eva, "And sleep thegither at the foot, Joh—n Ander—son, my jo—o."

"Oh, don't!" said Adam, with a sudden grasp on her wrist. "My God! one must go first; and I could naither leave you nor close these eyes of yours." He put his other hand across his eyelids, his lower features wincing. "Sweetheart," said Adam, removing it, and taking her head between his palms, "for what we have already received the Lord make us duly thankful. And shut up about the rest. And there's grace said for dinner: excepting I didn't uncover me head. Excuse me bonnet."

"Take off your ridiculous bonnet," said Eva, emerging from the eclipse of a long kiss, "and drag me out of my web. If I am to be your helpmeet, make me help."

"You naidn't lift a finger, my darling. I don't afford and won't have a sairvant in the camp, so I should sairve you myself."

Passing over this argument, Eva crept up on the stretcher and had him lift her to the ground. Her shape was very slender and elegant, and when the two passed each an arm across the other's back to walk together school-girl fashion, Adam's grasp sloped far downward. She did not quite reach his shoulder.

They made coffee, and served up their dinner in various pieces of pottery. The baked muskalunge was portioned upon two plates and surrounded with stewed potato. Potatoes with scorched jackets, enclosing their own utmost fragrance, also came out of the ashes. Adam poured coffee for Eva into a fragile china cup, and coffee for himself into a tin pint-measure. The sugar was in a glass fruit-jar, and the cream came directly off a pan in the cold-box. They had pressed beef in slices, chow-chow through the neck of the bottle, apricot jam in a little white pot, baker's rolls, and a cracked platter heaped with wild strawberries. Around the second point of Magog Island, down one whole stony hill-side, those strawberries grew too thick for stepping. The hugest, most deadly sweet of cultivated berries could not match them. You ate in them the light of the sky and the ancient life of the mountain.

"I never was so hungry at home," said Eva, accepting a finely-done bit of fish with which her lord fed her as a nestling. "Perhaps things taste better eaten out of unmatched crockery and under a roof of leaves. I wouldn't have a plate different in the whole camp."

"Nor would I," said Adam.

She looked across at the mountain-panorama, for, though stationary, it was also forever changing, and the light of intense and burning noon was different from the humid veil of morning.

"And yonder goes a sail," she tacked to the end of her mountain-observations.

"Heaven speed it!" responded Adam, carrying his cup for a second filling to the coffee-pot on the stove. "Will ye have a drop more?"

"Indeed, yes. I don't know how many drops more I shall drink. We get so fierce and reckless about our victuals. Will it be the spirit of the old counterfeiters who used to inhabit this island entering into us?" suggested Eva, using the English-Canadian idiom of the western provinces.

"Without doot. It was their custom never to let a body leave this strond alive, and they can only hairm us by making us eat oursels to death."

"Nearly a hundred years ago, wasn't it, they lived here and made counterfeit money and drew silly folks in to buy it of them? When I hear the rocks all over this island sounding hollow like muffled drumming under our feet, I scare myself thinking that gang may be hid hereabouts yet and may come and peep into the tent some night."

"Behind them all the army of bones they drowned in Magog watther or buried in the island," laughed Adam. "It's not for a few old ghosts we'd take up our pans and kettles and move out of the Gairden of Eden. I'll keep you safe from the counterfeiters, my darling, never fear."

"You said heaven speed that sail yonder; but the man has taken it down and is rowing in here."

"Then he's an impudent loon. Who asked him?"

"The sight of our tent, very likely. And maybe it will be some friend of ours, stopping at the Magog House. He wears a white helmet-hat; and isn't that a yachting-suit of white flannel?"

"He comes clothed as an angel of light," said Adam.

They both watched the figure and the boat growing larger in perspective. Features formed in the blur under the rower's hat; his individuality sprung suddenly from a shape which a moment ago might have been any man's.

"Oh, Adam, it will be Louis Satanette from Toronto," exclaimed Eva.

"And what's a Toronto man doing away up on Lake Magog?"

"What will a Glasgow man be doing away off here on Lake Magog?"

"Camping with his wife, and getting more religion than ever was taught in the creeds."

"I'm not so sure of that, then."

"Because I don't love a Frenchman?"

"A French-Canadian. And a member of Parliament, too. Think of that at his age! They say in Toronto he is one of the most promising men in the provinces."

"Can he spear a salmon with a gaff, and does he know a pairch from a lunge? And he couldn't be a Macgregor, anyhow, if he was first man in Canada."

Eva laughed, and, forming her lips into a kiss, slyly impressed the same upon the air, as if it could reach Adam through some invisible pneumatic tube. He was not ashamed to make a return in kind; and, the boat being now within their bay, they went down to the sand to meet it.



II.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT.

In spotless procession the days moved along until that morning on which Adam dreamed his dream. He waked up trembling with joy and feeling the tears run down his face. His watch ticked like the beating of a pulse under his pillow, and he kept time to its rhythm with whispered words no human ear would ever hear him utter with such rapture.

He had dreamed of breasting oceans and groping through darkness after his wife until he was ready to die. Then, while he lay helpless, she came to him and lifted him up in her arms. There was perfect and unearthly union between them. His happiness became awful. He woke up shaken by it as by a hand of infinite power.

Instead of turning toward her, he was still. Such experiences cannot be told. The tongue falters and words limp when we try to repeat them to the one beloved. A divine shame keeps us silent. Perhaps the glory of that perfect love puts a halo around our common thoughts and actions for days afterward, but no man or woman can fitly say, "I was in heaven with you, my other soul, and the gladness was so mighty that I cried helplessly long after I woke."

Adam kept his sleeve across his eyes. He had risked his life in many an adventure without changing a pulse-beat, but now he was an infant in the grasp of emotion.

When at last he cast a furtive glance at Eva's cot, she was not there. She often slipped out in the early morning to drench herself with dew. Once he had discovered her stooping on the sand, washing soiled clothes in the lake. She clapped and rubbed the garments between soap and her little fists. The sun was just coming up in the far northeast. Shapes of mist gyrated slowly upward in the distance, and all the morning birds were rushing about, full of eager business. Eva stopped her humming song when she saw him, and laughed over her unusual employment. The first time she ever washed clothes in her life she wanted to have Magog for her tub and accomplish the labor on a vast and princess-like scale. Adam helped her spread the wet things on bushes, and they both marvelled at the bleached dazzle which the sun gave to those garments.

He did not move from the cot, hoping awhile that she might come in, dew-footed, and yet kiss him. That clear shining of the face which one sometimes observes in pure-minded devotees, or in young mothers over their firstborn, gave him a look of nobility in the pallid shadow of the tent.

He thought of all their days on the island, and, incidentally, of Louis Satanette's frequent comings. The Frenchman was a beautiful, versatile fellow. He sailed a boat, he swam, he fished knowingly, he sang like an angel, leaning his head back against a tree to let the moonlight touch up his ivory face and silky moustache and eyebrows. He had firm, marble-white fingers, nicely veined, on which reckless exposure to sun and wind had no effect, and the kindliest blue eyes that ever beamed equal esteem upon man and woman. Sometimes this Satanette came in a blue-flannel suit, the collar turned well back from the throat, and in a broad straw hat wound with pink and white tarlatan. He looked like a flower,—if any flower ever expressed along with its beauty the powerful nerve of manliness.

Frequently he sailed out from Magog House and stayed all night on the island, slinging his own hammock between trees. Then he and Adam rose early and trolled for lunge in deep water under the cliff. In the afternoon they all plunged into the lake, Eva swimming like a cardinal-flower afloat. Adam was careful to keep near her, and finally to help her into the boat, where she sat with her scarlet bathing-dress shining in the sun and her drenched hair curling in an arch around her face.

All these days flashed before Adam while he put a slow foot out on the tent-rug.

There was nobody about the camp when he had made his morning toilet and unclosed the tent-flaps, so he built a fire in the stove, hung the bedding to sun, and set out the cots. A blueness which was not humid filtered itself through the air everywhere, and fold upon fold of it seemed rising from invisible censers on the mainland.

Eva hailed him from the lake. She came rowing across the sun's track. The water was fresh and blue, glittering like millions of alternately dull and burnished scales.

Adam drew the boat in and lifted her out, more tenderly but with more reticence than usual.

"You don't know where I have been, laddie," exclaimed Eva. "Look at all the fern and broken bushes in the boat; and I have my pocket sagged down with gold-streaked quartz. I went around to the other side of the island, where the counterfeiters' hole is, to look into it while the morning sun on the lake threw a reflection."

"There's nothing wonderful to be seen there."

"How will we know that? The rocks sound hollow all about, and there may be a great cavern full of counterfeiters' relics. Oh, Adam, I saw Louis Satanette's sail!"

"He comes early this morn."

"I think he has been camping by himself over on the lake-shore. He says we'll explore the counterfeiters' hole, and let us go directly after breakfast."

"What is it worth the exploring?" said Adam. "Four rocks set on end, and you crawl in on your hands and knees, look at the dark, and back out again. It's but a burrow, and ends against the hill's heart of rock. I've to row across yonder for the eggs and butter and milk."

The smoke rising from different points on the mainland kept sifting and sifting until at high noon the air was pearl-gray. As if there was not enough shadow betwixt him and the sun, Adam sat in his boat at the foot of the cliff, where brown glooms never rose quite off the water. He looked down until sight could pierce no farther, and, though a fish or two glided in beautiful curves beneath his eye, he had no hook dropped in as his excuse for loitering.

The eggs and butter and milk for which he had rowed across the lake were covered with green leaves under one of the boat-benches.

Straight above him, mass on mass, rose those protruding ribs of the earth, the rocks. He lay back in the boat's stern and gazed at their summit of pinetrees and ferns. Bunches of gigantic ferns sprouted from every crevice, and not a leaf of the array but was worth half a lifetime's study. Yet Adam's eye wandered aimlessly over it all, as if it gave him no pleasure. Nor did he seem to wish that a little figure would bend from the summit, half swallowed in greenness and made a vegetable mermaid from the waist downward, to call to him. He was so haggard the freckles stood in bold relief upon his face and neck.

The hiss of a boat and the sound of row-locks failed to move him from his listless attitude. He did, however, turn his eyes and set his jaws in the direction of the passing oarsman. Louis Satanette was all in white flannel, and flush-faced like a cream-pink rose with pleasant exhilaration. He held his oars poised and let his boat run slowly past Adam.

"What have you the matter?" he exclaimed, with sincere anxiety.

"Oh, it's naught," said Adam. "I'm just weary, weary."

"You have been gone a very, very long time," said Louis, using the double Canadian adjective. "Mrs. Macgregor is on the lookout."

Adam thought of her when she was not on the lookout. He also thought of her tidying things about the camp in the morning, and singing as he pulled from the bay. Perhaps she was on another sort of lookout then.

"I'll go in presently," he muttered.

"Beg pardon?" said Louis Satanette, bending forward, and giving the upward inflection to that graceful Canadian phrase which asks a repetition while implying that the fault is with the hearer.

"I said I'd go in presently. There's no hurry."

"Allow me to take you in," said Louis. "You have approached too close to the altars of the sylvan gods, and their sacrificial smoke has overcome you. Don't you see it rising everywhere from the woods?"

"The sylvan gods are none of my clan," remarked Adam, shifting his position impatiently, "and it's little I know of them. There's a graat dail of ignorance consailed aboot my pairson."

Louis Satanette laughed with enjoyment:

"Well, au revoir. I will put up my sail when I turn the points. It will be a long run up the lakes, with this haze hanging and not wind enough to lift it."

"Good-day to ye," responded Adam. "We'll likely shift camp before you're this way."

"In so short a time?" exclaimed Louis.

"In so lang a time. I'm soul-sick of it. It's lone; it's heavy. The fine's too great for the pleasure of the feight. Look, now,—there were two rough laddies up Glazka way, in my country, and they came to fists aboot a sweethairt, the fools. But when they are stripped and ready, one hits the table wi's hond, and says he, 'Ay, Georgie, I'm wullin' to feight ye, but wha's goin' to pay the fine?'"

Louis Satanette laughed again, but as if he did not know just what was meant."

"It's a cautious mon, is the Scotchmon," said Adam, "but no' so slow, after all."

"Oh, never slow!" said Louis. "Very, very fast indeed, to leave this paradise in the midst of the summer."

"'Farewell to lovely Loch Achray,'" sighed Adam: "Where shall we find, in any land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand?"

Louis made a sign of adieu and dipped his oars.

"It's only au revoir," said he, shooting past. "Be very, very far from parting with Magog too early."

"'So lone a lake, so sweet a strand,'" repeated Adam, dropping his head back against the stern.

He did not move while the sound of the other's oars died away behind him. He did not move while the afternoon shadows spread far over the water.

The long Canadian twilight advanced stage by stage. First, all Magog flushed, as if a repetition of the old miracle had turned it to wine. Then innumerable night-hawks uttered their four musical notes in endless succession, upon the heights, down in the woods, from the mainland mountain. The north star became discernible almost overhead. Then, with slow and irregular strokes, Adam pulled away from the cliff, and brought his keel to grate the sand in front of his tent.

Eva was sitting there on a rock, huddling a shawl around her.

"Oh, Adam Macgregor!" she began, in a low voice, "and do you condescend to bring your wraith back to me at last?"

"It's nothing but my wraith," said Adam, lifting his eggs and butter and milk, and stepping from the boat. "The mon in me died aboot noon."

Eva walked along by his side to the cool-box, where he deposited his load.

"What is the matter with you, laddie, that you look and talk so strangely?"

"Oh, naught," said Adam, turning and facing her. "I but saw you kissing Louis Satanette on the hill to-day."



III.

THE FLAMING SWORD.

The changes which passed over her face were half concealed by the twilight. She was grieved, indignant, and frightened, but over all other expressions lurked the mischievous mirth of a bad child.

"I meant to tell you about it," she said.

"Hearken," said Adam, with a fierce stare. "I've stayed out on the lake all day, and I'm quiet. At first I wasn't. But when he came by I gave him nothing but a good word."

"I wish you'd scolded him instead of me," said Eva, propping her back against the table and puckering her lips.

"He did naught," said Adam, "but what any man would do that got lave. It's you that gave him lave that are to blame."

"Don't be so serious about a little thing," put forth Eva. "We just walked over to the counterfeiters' hole, and coming back we picked strawberries, and he teased me like a girl, and caught hold of me and kissed me. We've been such good friends in camp. I think it's this easy, wild life made me do it."

"She'll blame the very sky over her instead of taking blame to herself," ground out Adam from between his jaws. "I sat in me boat below and saw you arch your head and look at him ways that I remember. My God! why did you make this woman so false, and yet so sweet that a mon canna help loving her in spite o' his teeth?"

"Because I'd die if folks didn't love me," burst out Eva, with a sob. "And if men can't help loving me, what do you blame me for?"

"What right have you to breathe such a word when you're married to me?"

"But I'm not used to being married yet," pleaded Eva. "And I forgot, this once."

"It's once and for all," said Adam, "You'll never be to me what you were before. Is it the English-Canadian way to bring up women to kiss every comer?"

"I didn't kiss anybody but Louis Satanette," maintained Eva, "and I didn't really want to kiss him"

"Never mind," said Adam. "Don't trouble your butterfly soul about it." And he turned away and walked toward the tent.

"I'll not love you if you say such awful things to me," she flashed after him.

"Ye can't take the breeks off a Hielandman," he replied, facing about, "Ye never loved me. Not as I loved you. And it's no loss I've met, if I could but think it."

"Oh, Adam!" Now she ran forward and caught him around the waist. "Don't be so hard with me. I know I am very bad, but I didn't mean to be."

Some faint perception of that coarse fibre within her was breaking with horror through her face. She held to his hands after he had separated her from his person and held her off.

"All that you do still has its effect on me," said the man, gazing sternly at her. "I love ye; but I despise myself for loving ye. This morn I adored ye with reverence; this night you're as a bit o' that earth."

Eva let go his hands and sat down on the ground. As he made his preparations in the tent he could not help seeing with compassion how abjectly her figure drooped. All its flexible proud lines, were suddenly gone. She was dazed by his treatment and by the light in which he put her trifling. She sat motionless until Adam came out with one of the cots in his arms.

"I'm to sleep upon the hill in the pine woods to-night," said he. "Go into the tent, and I'll fasten the flaps. You shan't be scared by anything."

"Let me get in the boat and leave the island, if you can't breathe the same air with me," said Eva. staggering up.

"No, I can't breathe the same air with ye to-night, but ye'll go into the tent," said Adam, with authority.

"I'll not stay there," she rebelled. "I'll follow you. You don't know what may be on this island."

"There can be nothing worse than what I've seen," said Adam; "and that's done all the hairm it can do."

"Oh, Adam, are we both crazy?" the small creature burst out, weeping as if her heart would break. "Don't go away and leave me so. I am not real bad in my heart, I know I am not; and if you would be a little patient with me and help me, I shall get over my silly ways. There is something in me, you can depend upon, if I did do that foolish thing. And my mother didn't live long enough to train me, Adam; remember that. Won't you please kiss me? My heart is breaking."

He put down the cot and took her by the shoulders, trembling as he did so from head to foot:

"My wife, I belaive what you say. I'd give all the days remaining to me if I could strain ye against my breast with the feeling I had this morn. But there comes that sight. I never shall see the hill again, I never shall see a spot of this island again, without seeing your mouth kissing another man. Go into the tent. God knows I'd die before hairm should come to you. But not to-night can I stay beside you. Or kiss you."

He carried her into the tent and put her on her bed. She had made all the night-preparations herself, placing the pillows on both cots and turning back the sun-sweetened blankets.

Adam left her sobbing, buttoned the tent-flaps outside, and placed a barricade of kettles and pans which could not be touched without disturbing him on the hill. Then, taking up his own bed, he marched off through the ferns, edging his burden among dense boughs as he ascended.

When he had made the joints of his couch creak with many uneasy turnings, had clinched at leaves, and started up to return to the tent, only to check himself in the act as often as he started, he lost consciousness in uneasy dreams rather than fell asleep.

He was smothering, and yet could not open his lips to gasp for a breath of air. Then he was drowning: he gulped in vast sheets of water upon his lungs. An alarm sounded from Eva's barricade. He heard the pans and kettles clanging and her own voice in screams which pierced him, yet he could not move. A nightmare of heat enveloped him; the smothering element pouring upon his lungs was not water, but smoke; and he knew if no effort of will could move his body to her rescue he must be perishing himself.

After these brief sensations his existence was as blank as the empty void outside the worlds, until his ears began to throb like drums, and he felt water, like the tears he had shed in the morning, running all over his face. Eva held him in her arms, and alternately kissed his head and drenched it from the lake.

Moreover, he was in the boat, outside the bay, and their island glowed like a furnace before his dazzled eyes.

Those pine woods where he had gone to sleep were roaring up toward heaven in a column of fire. The tent was burning, all its interior illuminated until every object showed its minutest lines. He thought he saw some of Eva's dark hairs in an upturned hair-brush on the wash-stand.

Fire ran along the cliff-edge and dropped hissing brands into the lake. Old moss logs and pine-trees dry as tinder sent out sickening heat. The light ran like a flash up the tree over their stove, and in an instant its crown was wavering with flames. The grass itself caught here and there, and in whatever direction the eye turned, new fires as instantaneously sprang out to meet it.

Stumps blazed up like lighted altars, or like huge gas-jets suddenly turned on. Adam saw one log lying endwise downhill, one side of which was crumbling into coals of fierce and tremulous heat, while from the other side still sprung unsinged a delicate tuft of ferns.

The smoke was driving straight upward in a quivering current, and in Lake Magog's depths another island seemed to be on fire.

Sublime as the sight was, all these details impressed themselves on the man in an instant, and he turned his face directly up toward the woman.

"Darling, your face looks blistered," said Adam.

"It feels blistered," replied Eva. "I'll put some water on it, now that you've caught your breath again. I thought I could not get you out from those burning trees."

"But you dragged me down the hill?"

"Yes, and then dipped you in the lake and pushed off with you in the boat. I don't know how I did it. But here we are together."

Adam bathed her face carefully himself, and held her tight in his arms. The unspeakable love of which he had dreamed, and the heat of the burning island, seemed welding them together without other sign than the fact.

Not a word was sighed out for forgiveness on either side. They held each other and floated back into the lake. Adam took an oar and occasionally paddled, without wholly releasing his hold of Eva.

"Don't you remember our fish's nest?" she whispered beside his neck. "I wonder if the slim little silver thing is swimming around over the gravel hollow, frightened by all this glare? I hope those overhanging bushes won't catch fire and drop coals on her; for she's a silly thing,—she might not want to dart out in deep water and lose her unhatched family."

Adam smiled into his wife's eyes. He was quite singed, but did not know it.

"Ay, burn," he spoke out exultantly, apostrophizing the island. "Burn up our first home and all. It's worth it. We're the other side o' the world of fire now. We've passed through it, and are afloat on the sea of glass."

M. H. CATHERWOOD.



PROBATION.

Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate: The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring, But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait, For storms and tears that seasoned excellence bring; And Love doth fix his joyfullest estate In hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's brooding wing. Youth sues to Fame: she coldly answers, "Toil!" He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserve Responds the goddess, "Woo them from the soil." Then fervently he cries, "Thee will I serve,— Thee only, blissful Love." With proud recoil The heavenly boy replies, "To serve me well—deserve."

FLORENCE EARLE COATES.



THE PIONEERS OF THE SOUTHWEST.

TWO PAPERS. II.

The route of Robertson lay over the great Indian war-path, which led, in a southwesterly direction, from the valley of Virginia to the Cherokee towns on the lower Tennessee, not far from the present city of Chattanooga. He would, however, turn aside at the Tellico and visit Echota, which was the home of the principal chiefs. While he is pursuing his perilous way, it may be as well to glance for a moment at the people among whom he is going at so much hazard.

The Cherokees were the mountaineers of aboriginal America, and, like most mountaineers, had an intense love of country and a keen appreciation of the beautiful in nature, as is shown by the poetical names they have bequeathed to their rivers and mountains. They were physically a fine race of men, tall and athletic, of great bravery and superior natural intelligence. It was their military prowess alone that enabled them to hold possession of the country they occupied against the many warlike tribes by whom they were surrounded.

They had no considerable cities, or even villages, but dwelt in scattered townships in the vicinity of some stream where fish and game were found in abundance. A number of these towns, bearing the musical names of Tallassee, Tamotee, Chilhowee, Citico, Tennassee, and Echota, were at this time located upon the rich lowlands lying between the Tellico and Little Tennessee Rivers. These towns contained a population, in men, women, and children, estimated at from seven to eight thousand, of whom perhaps twelve hundred were warriors. These were known as the Ottari (or "among the mountains") Cherokees.

About the same number, near the head-waters of the Savannah, in the great highland belt between the Blue Ridge and the Smoky Mountains, were styled the Erati (or "in the valley") Cherokees. Another body (among whom were many Creeks), nearly as large, and much more lawless than either of the others, occupied towns lower down the Tennessee and in the vicinity of Lookout Mountain. These, from their residence near the stream of that name, were known as the Chickamaugas.

These various bodies were one people, governed by an Archimagus, or King, who, with a supreme council of chiefs, which sat at Echota, decided all important questions in peace or war. Under him were the half-or vice-king and the several chiefs who governed the scattered townships and together composed the supreme council. In them was lodged the temporal power. Spiritual authority was of a far more despotic form and character. It was vested in one person, styled the Beloved man or woman of the tribe, who, over a people so superstitious as the Cherokees, held a control that was wellnigh absolute. This person was generally of superior intelligence, who, like the famous Prophet of the Shawnees, officiated as physician, prophet, and intercessor with the invisible powers; and, by virtue of the supernatural authority which he claimed, he often by a single word decided the most important questions, even when opposed by the king and the principal chiefs.

Echota was located on the northern bank of the Tellico, about five miles from the ruins of Fort Loudon, and thirty southwest from the present city of Knoxville. It was the Cherokee City of Refuge. Once within its bounds, an open foe, or even a red-handed criminal, could dwell in peace and security. The danger to an enemy was in going and returning. It is related that an Englishman who, in self-defence, once slew a Cherokee, fled to this sacred city to escape the vengeance of the kindred of his victim. He was treated here with such kindness that after a time he thought it safe to leave his asylum. The Indians warned him against the danger, but he left, and on the following morning his body was found on the outskirts of the town, pierced through and through with a score of arrows.

About two hundred cabins and wigwams, scattered, with some order but at wide intervals, along the bank of the river, composed the village. The cabins, like those of the white settlers, were square and built of logs; the wigwams were conical, with a frame of slender poles gathered together at the top and covered with buffalo-robes, dressed and smoked to render them impervious to the weather. An opening at the side formed the entrance, and over it was hung a buffalo-hide, which served as a door. The fire was built in the centre of the lodge, and directly overhead was an aperture to let out the smoke. Here the women performed culinary operations, except in warm weather, when such employments were carried on outside in the open air. At night the occupants of the lodge spread their skins and buffalo-robes on the ground, and then men, women, and children, stretching themselves upon them, went to sleep, with their feet to the fire. By day the robes were rolled into mats and made to serve as seats. A lodge of ordinary size would comfortably house a dozen persons; but two families never occupied one domicile, and, the Cherokees seldom having a numerous progeny, not more than five or six persons were often tenants of a single wigwam.

These rude dwellings were mostly strung along the two sides of a wide avenue, which was shaded here and there with large oaks and poplars and trodden hard with the feet of men and horses. At the back of each lodge was a small patch of cleared land, where the women and the negro slaves (stolen from the white settlers over the mountains) cultivated beans, corn, and potatoes, and occasionally some such fruits as apples, pears, and plums. All labor was performed by the women and slaves, as it was considered beneath the dignity of an Indian brave to follow any occupation but that of killing, either wild beasts in the hunt or enemies in war. The house-lots were without fences, and not an enclosure could be seen in the whole settlement, cattle and horses being left to roam at large in the woods and openings.

In the centre of Echota, occupying a wide opening, was a circular, tower-shaped structure, some twenty feet high and ninety in circumference. It was rudely built of stout poles, plastered with clay, and had a roof of the same material sloping down to broad eaves, which effectually protected the walls from moisture. It had a wide entrance, protected by two large buffalo-hides hung so as to meet together in the middle. There were no windows, but an aperture in the roof, shielded by a flap of skins a few feet above the opening, let out the smoke and admitted just enough light to dissipate a portion of the gloom that always shrouded the interior. Low benches, neatly made of cane, were ranged around the circumference of the room. This was the great council-house of the Cherokees. Here they met to celebrate the green-corn dance and their other national ceremonials; and here the king and half-king and the princes and head-men of the various towns consulted together on important occasions, such as making peace or declaring war.

At the time of which I write, several of the log cabins of Echota were occupied by traders, adventurous white men who, tempted by the profit of the traffic with the Cherokees, had been led to a more or less constant residence among them. Their cabins contained their stock in trade,—traps, guns, powder and lead, hatchets, looking-glasses, "stroud," beads, scarlet cloth, and other trinkets, articles generally of small cost, but highly prized by the red-men, and for which they gave in exchange peltries of great value. The trade was one of slow returns, but of great profits to the trader. And it was of about equal advantage to the Indian; for with the trap or rifle he had gotten for a few skins he was able to secure more game in a day than his bow and arrow and rude "dead-fall" would procure for him in a month of toilsome hunting. The traders were therefore held in high esteem among the Cherokees, who encouraged their living and even marrying among them. In fact, such alliances were deemed highly honorable, and were often sought by the daughters of the most distinguished chiefs. Consequently, among the trader's other chattels would often be found a dusky mate and a half-dozen half-breed children; and this, too, when he had already a wife and family somewhere in the white settlements.

These traders were an important class in the early history of the country. Of necessity well acquainted with the various routes traversing the Indian territory, and with the state of feeling among the savages, and passing frequently to and fro between the Indian towns and the white settlements, they were often enabled to warn the whites of intended attacks, and to guide such hostile parties as invaded the Cherokee territory. Though often natives of North Carolina or Virginia, and in sympathy with the colonists, they were, if prudent of speech and behavior, allowed to remain unmolested in the Indian towns, even when the warriors were singing the war-song and brandishing the war-club on the eve of an intended massacre of the settlers.

Living in Echota at this time was one of this class who, on account of his great services to the colonists, is deserving of special mention. His name was Isaac Thomas, and he is said to have been a native of Virginia. He is described as a man about forty years of age, over six feet in height, straight, long-limbed, and wiry, and with a frame so steeled by twenty years of mountain-life that he could endure any conceivable hardship. His features were strongly marked and regular, and they wore an habitual expression of comic gravity; but on occasion his dark, deep-set eye had been known to light up with a look of unconquerable pluck and determination. He wore moccasins and hunting-shirt of buckskin, and his face, neck, and hands, from long exposure, had grown to be of the same color as that material. His coolness and intrepidity had been shown on many occasions, and these qualities, together with his immense strength, had secured him high esteem among the Cherokees, who, like all uncivilized people, set the highest value upon personal courage and physical prowess. It is related that shortly before the massacre at Fort Loudon he interfered in a desperate feud between two Cherokee braves who had drawn their tomahawks to hew each other in pieces. Stepping between them, he wrenched the weapons from their hands, and then, both setting upon him at once, he cooled their heated valor by lifting one after the other into the air and gently tossing him into the Tellico. Subsequently, one of these braves saved his life at the Loudon massacre, at the imminent risk of his own. If I were writing fiction, I might make of this man an interesting character: as it is, it will be seen that facts hereinafter related will fully justify the length of this description.

A wigwam, larger and more pretentious than most of the others in Echota, stood a little apart from the rest, and not far from the council-house. Like the others, it had a frame of poles covered with tanned skins; but it was distinguished from them by a singular "totem,"—an otter in the coils of a water-snake. Its interior was furnished with a sort of rude splendor. The floor was carpeted with buffalo-hides and panther-skins, and round the walls were hung eagles' tails, and the peltries of the fox, the wolf, the badger, the otter, and other wild animals. From a pole in the centre was suspended a small bag,—the mysterious medicine-bag of the occupant. She was a woman who to this day is held in grateful remembrance by many of the descendants of the early settlers beyond the Alleghanies. Her personal appearance is lost to tradition, but it is said to have been queenly and commanding. She was more than the queen, she was the prophetess and Beloved Woman, of the Cherokees.

At this time she is supposed to have been about thirty-five years of age. Her father was an English officer named Ward, but her mother was of the "blood royal," a sister of the reigning half-king Atta-Culla-Culla. The records we have of her are scanty, as they are of all her people, but enough has come down to us to show that she had a kind heart and a sense of justice keen enough to recognize the rights of even her enemies. She must have possessed very strong traits of character to exercise as she did almost autocratic control over the fierce and wellnigh untamable Cherokees when she was known to sympathize with and befriend their enemies the white settlers. Not long before the time of which I am writing, she had saved the lives of two whites,—Jeremiah Jack and William Rankin,—who had come into collision with a party of Cherokees; and subsequently she performed many similar services to the frontier people.

Other wigwams as imposing as that of Nancy Ward, and not far from the council-house, were the habitations of the head-king Oconostota, the half-king Atta-Culla-Culla, and the prince of Echota, Savanuca, otherwise called the Raven. Of these men it will be necessary to say more hereafter: here I need only remark that they have now gathered in the council-house, with many of the principal warriors and head-men of the Ottari Cherokees, and that the present fate of civilization in the Southwest is hanging on their deliberations.

They are of a gigantic race, and none of those at this conclave, except Atta-Culla-Culla, are less than six feet in height "without their moccasins." Squatted as they are gravely around the council-fire, they present a most picturesque appearance. Among them are the Bread-Slave-Catcher, noted for his exploits in stealing negroes; the Tennassee Warrior, prince of the town of that name; Noon-Day, a wide-awake brave; Bloody Fellow, whose subsequent exploits will show the appropriateness of his name; Old Tassell, a wise and reasonably just old man, afterward Archimagus; and John Watts, a promising young half-breed, destined to achieve eminence in slaughtering white people.

As one after another of them rises to speak, the rest, with downcast eyes and cloudy visages, listen with silent gravity, only now and then expressing assent by a solitary "Ugh!"

There is strong, though suppressed, passion among them; but it is passion under the control of reason. Whatever they decide to do will be done without haste, and after a careful weighing of all the consequences. In the midst of their deliberations the rapid tread of a horse's feet is heard coming up the long avenue. The horseman halts before the council-house, and soon the buffalo-hide parts in twain, and a tall young warrior, decorated with eagles' feathers and half clad in the highest style of Cherokee fashion, enters the door-way. He stands silent, motionless, not moving a pace beyond the entrance, till Oconostota, raising his eyes and lifting his huge form into an erect posture, bids him speak and make known his errand.

The young brave explains that the chief of the pale-faces has come down the great war-path to an outlying town to see the head-men of the Ottari. The warriors have detained him till they can know the will of their father the Archimagus.

The answer is brief: "Let him come. Oconostota will hear him."

And now an hour goes by, during which these grave chiefs sit as silent and motionless as if keeping watch around a sepulchre. At its close the tramp of a body of horsemen is heard, and soon Robertson, escorted by a score of painted warriors, enters the council-chamber. Like the rest, the new-comers are of fine physical proportions; and, as the others rise to their feet and all form in a circle about him, Robertson, who stands only five feet nine inches and is not so robust as in later years, seems like a pygmy among giants. Yet he is as cool, as collected, as apparently unconscious of danger, as if every one of those painted savages (when aroused, red devils) was his near friend or blood-relation. The chiefs glance at him, and then at one another, with as much wonderment in their eyes as was ever seen in the eyes of a Cherokee. They know he is but one man and they twelve hundred, and that by their law of retaliation his life is forfeit; and yet he stands there, a look of singular power on his face, as if not they but he were master of the situation. They have seen physical bravery; but this is moral courage, which, when a man has a great purpose, lifts him above all personal considerations and makes his life no more to him than the bauble he wears upon his finger.

Robertson waits for the others to speak, and there is a short pause before the old chief breaks the silence. Then, extending his hand to Robertson, he says, "Our white brother is welcome. We have eaten of his venison and drunk of his fire-water. He is welcome. Let him speak. Oconostota will listen."

The white man returns cordially the grasp of the Indian; and then, still standing, while all about him seat themselves on the ground, he makes known the object of his coming. I regret I cannot give here his exact answer, for all who read this would wish to know the very words he used on this momentous occasion. No doubt they were, like all he said, terse, pithy, and in such scriptural phrase as was with him so habitual. I know only the substance of what he said, and it was as follows: that the young brave had been killed by one not belonging to the Watauga community; that the murderer had fled, but when apprehended would be dealt with as his crime deserved; and he added that he and his companion-settlers had come into the country desiring to live in peace with all men, but more especially with their near neighbors the brave Cherokees, with whom they should always endeavor to cultivate relations of friendliness and good-fellowship.

The Indians heard him at first with silent gravity, but, as he went on, their feelings warmed to him, and found vent in a few expressive "Ughs!" and when he closed, the old Archimagus rose, and, turning to the chiefs, said, "What our white brother says is like the truth. What say my brothers? are not his words good?"

The response was, "They are good."

A general hand-shaking followed; and then they all pressed Robertson to remain with them and partake of their hospitality. Though extremely anxious to return at once with the peaceful tidings, he did so, and thus converted possible enemies into positive friends; and the friendship thus formed was not broken till the outbreak of the Revolution.

While Robertson had been away, Sevier had not been idle. He had put Watauga into the best possible state of defence. With the surprising energy that was characteristic of him, he had built a fort and gathered every white settler into it or safe within range of its muskets. His force was not a hundred strong; but if Robertson had been safely out of the savage hold, he might have enjoyed a visit from Oconostota and his twelve hundred Ottari warriors.

The fort was planned by Sevier, who had no military training except such as he had received under his patron and friend Lord Dunmore. Though rude and hastily built, it was a model of military architecture, and in the construction of it Sevier displayed such a genius for war as readily accounts for his subsequent achievements.

It was located on Gap Creek, about half a mile northeast of the Watauga, upon a gentle knoll, from about which the trees, and even stumps, were carefully cleared, to prevent their sheltering a lurking enemy. The buildings have now altogether crumbled away; but the spot is still identified by a few graves and a large locust-tree,—then a slender sapling, now a burly patriarch, which has remained to our day to point out the spot where occurred the first conflict between civilization and savagery in the new empire beyond the Alleghanies. For the conflict was between those two forces; and the forts along the frontier—of which this at Watauga was the original and model—were the forerunners of civilization,—the "voice crying in the wilderness," announcing the reign of peace which was to follow.

The fort covered a parallelogram of about an acre, and was built of log cabins placed at intervals along the four sides, the logs notched closely together, so that the walls were bullet-proof. One side of the cabins formed the exterior of the fort, and the spaces between them were filled with palisades of heavy timber, eight feet long, sharpened at the ends, and set firmly into the ground. At each of the angles was a block-house, about twenty feet square and two stories high, the upper story projecting about two feet beyond the lower, so as to command the sides of the fort and enable the besieged to repel a close attack or any attempt to set fire to the buildings. Port-holes were placed at suitable distances. There were two wide gate-ways, constructed to open quickly to permit a sudden sally or the speedy rescue of outside fugitives. On one of these was a lookout station, which commanded a wide view of the surrounding country. The various buildings would comfortably house two hundred people, but on an emergency a much larger number might find shelter within the enclosure.

The fort was admirably adapted to its design, and, properly manned, would repel any attack of fire-arms in the hands of such desultory warriors as the Indians. In the arithmetic of the frontier it came to be adopted as a rule that one white man behind a wall of logs was a match for twenty-five Indians in the open field; and subsequent events showed this to have been not a vainglorious reckoning.

There were much older men at Watauga than either Sevier or Robertson,—one of whom was now only twenty-eight and the other thirty,—but they had from the first been recognized as natural leaders. These two events—the building of the fort and the Cherokee mission, which displayed Sevier's uncommon military genius and Robertson's ability and address as a negotiator—elevated them still higher in the regard of their associates, and at once the cares and responsibilities of leadership in both civil and military affairs were thrust upon them. But Sevier, with a modesty which he showed throughout his whole career, whenever it was necessary that one should take precedence of the other, always insisted upon Robertson's having the higher position; and so it was that in the military company which was now formed Sevier, who had served as a captain under Dunmore, was made lieutenant, while Robertson was appointed captain.

The Watauga community had been till now living under no organized government. This worked very well so long as the newly-arriving immigrants were of the class which is "a law unto itself;" but when another class came in,—men fleeing from debt in the older settlements or hoping on the remote and inaccessible frontier to escape the penalty of their crimes,—some organization which should have the sanction of the whole body of settlers became necessary. Therefore, speaking in the language of Sevier, they, "by consent of the people, formed a court, taking the Virginia laws as a guide, as near as the situation of affairs would admit."

The settlers met in convention at the fort, and selected thirteen of their number to draft articles of association for the management of the colony. From these thirteen, five (among whom were Sevier and Robertson) were chosen commissioners, and to them was given power to adjudicate upon all matters of controversy and to adopt and direct all measures having a bearing upon the peace, safety, good order, and well-being of the community. By them, in the language of the articles, "all things were to be settled."

These articles of association were the first compact of civil government anywhere west of the Alleghanies. They were adopted in 1772, three years prior to the association formed for Kentucky "under the great elm-tree outside of the fort at Boonesboro." The simple government thus established was sufficient to secure good order in the colony for several years following.

Now ensued four more years of uninterrupted peace and prosperity, during which the settlement increased greatly in numbers and extended its borders in all directions. The Indians, true to their pledges to Robertson, continued friendly, though suffering frequently from the depredations of lawless white men from the old settlements. These were reckless, desperate characters, who had fled from the order and law of established society to find freedom for unbridled license in the new community. Driven out by the Watauga settlers, they herded together in the wilderness, where they subsisted by hunting and fishing and preying upon the now peaceable Cherokees. They were an annoyance to both the peaceable white man and the red; but at length, when the Indians showed feelings of hostility, they became a barrier between the savages and the industrious cultivators of the soil, and thus unintentionally contributed to the well-being of the Watauga community.

No event materially affecting the interests of the colony occurred during the four years following Robertson's visit to the Cherokees at Echota. The battles of Lexington and Concord had been fought, but the shot which was "heard round the world" did not echo till months afterward in that secluded hamlet on the Watauga. But when it did reverberate amid those old woods, every backwoodsman sprang to his feet and asked to be enrolled to rush to the rescue of his countrymen on the seaboard. His patriotism was not stimulated by British oppression, for he was beyond the reach of the "king's minions." He had no grievances to complain of, for he drank no tea, used no stamps, and never saw a tax-gatherer. It was the "glorious cause of liberty," as Sevier expressed it, which called them all to arms to do battle for freedom and their countrymen.

"A company of fine riflemen was accordingly enlisted, and embodied at the expense and risque of their private fortunes, to act in defence of the common cause on the sea-shore."[001] But before the volunteers could be despatched over the mountains it became apparent that their services would be needed at home for the defence of the frontier against the Indians.

Through the trader Isaac Thomas it soon became known to the settlers that Cameron, the British agent, was among the Cherokees, endeavoring to incite them to hostilities against the Americans. At first the Indians resisted the enticements—the hopes of spoil and plunder and the recovery of their hunting-grounds—which Cameron held out to them. They could not understand how men of the same race and language could be at war with one another. It was never so known in Indian tradition. But soon—late in 1775—an event occurred which showed that the virus spread among them by the crafty Scotchman had begun to work, at least with the younger braves, and that it might at any moment break out among the whole nation. A trader named Andrew Grear, who lived at Watauga, had been at Echota. He had disposed of his wares, and was about to return with the furs he had taken in exchange, when he perceived signs of hostile feeling among some of the young warriors, and on his return, fearing an ambuscade on the great war-path, he left it before he reached the crossing at the French Broad, and went homeward by a less-frequented trail along the Nolachucky. Two other traders, named Boyd and Dagget, who left Echota on the following day, pursued the usual route, and were waylaid and murdered at a small stream which has ever since borne the name of Boyd's Creek. In a few days their bodies were found, only half concealed in the shallow water; and as the tidings flew among the scattered settlements they excited universal alarm and indignation.

The settlers had been so long at peace with the Cherokees that they had been lulled into a false security; but, the savage having once tasted blood, they knew his appetite would "grow by what it fed on," and they prepared for a deadly struggle with an enemy of more than twenty times their number. The fort at Watauga was at once put into a state of efficient defence, smaller forts were erected in the centre of every scattered settlement, and a larger one was built on the frontier, near the confluence of the north and south forks of the Holston River, to protect the more remote settlements. This last was called Fort Patrick Henry, in honor of the patriotic governor of Virginia. The one at Watauga received the name of Fort Lee.

All the able-bodied males sixteen years of age and over were enrolled, put under competent officers, and drilled for the coming struggle. But the winter passed without any further act of hostility on the part of the disaffected Cherokees. The older chiefs, true to their pledges to Robertson, still held back, and were able to restrain the younger braves, who thirsted for the conflict from a passion for the excitement and glory they could find only in battle.

Nancy Ward was in the secrets of the Cherokee leaders, and every word uttered in their councils she faithfully repeated to the trader Isaac Thomas, who conveyed the intelligence personally or by trusty messengers to Sevier and Robertson at Watauga. Thus the settlers were enabled to circumvent the machinations of Cameron until a more powerful enemy appeared among the Cherokees in the spring of 1776. This was John Stuart, British superintendent of Southern Indian affairs, a man of great address and ability, and universally known and beloved among all the Southwestern tribes. Fifteen years before, his life had been saved at the Fort Loudon massacre by Atta-Culla-Culla, and a friendship had then been contracted between them which now secured the influence of the half-king in plunging the Cherokees into hostilities with the settlers.

The plan of operations had been concerted between Stuart and the British commander-in-chief, General Gage. It was for a universal rising among the Creeks, Chickasaws, Cherokees, and Shawnees, who were to invade the frontiers of Georgia, Virginia, and the Carolinas, while simultaneously a large military and naval force under Sir Peter Parker descended upon the Southern seaboard and captured Charleston. It was also intended to enlist the co-operation of such inhabitants of the back settlements as were known to be favorable to the British. Thus the feeble colonists were to be not only encircled by a cordon of fire, but a conflagration was to be lighted which should consume every patriot's dwelling. It was an able but pitiless and bloodthirsty plan, for it would let loose upon the settler every savage atrocity and make his worst foes those of his own household. If successful, it would have strangled in fire and blood the spirit of independence in the Southern colonies.

That it did not succeed seems to us, who know the means employed to thwart it, little short of a miracle. Those means were the four hundred and forty-five raw militia under Moultrie, who, behind a pile of palmetto logs, on the 28th of June, 1776, repulsed Sir Peter Parker in his attack on Sullivan's Island in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina, and the two hundred and ten "over-mountain men," under Sevier, Robertson, and Isaac Shelby, who beat back, on the 20th and 21st of July, the Cherokee invasion of the western frontier.

As early as the 30th of May, Sevier and Robertson were apprised by their faithful friend Nancy Ward of the intended attack, and at once they sent messengers to Colonel Preston, of the Virginia Committee of Safety, for an additional supply of powder and lead and a reinforcement of such men as could be spared from home-service. One hundred pounds of powder and twice as much lead, and one hundred militiamen, were despatched in answer to the summons. The powder and lead were distributed among the stations, and the hundred men were sent to strengthen the garrison of Fort Patrick Henry, the most exposed position on the frontier. The entire force of the settlers was now two hundred and ten, forty of whom were at Watauga under Sevier and Robertson, the remainder at and near Fort Patrick Henry under no less than six militia captains, no one of whom was bound to obey the command of any of the others. This many-headed authority would doubtless have worked disastrously to the loosely-jointed force had there not been in it as a volunteer a young man of twenty-five who in the moment of supreme danger seized the absolute command and rallied the men to victory. His name was Isaac Shelby, and this was the first act in a long career in the whole of which "he deserved well of his country."

Thus, from the 30th of May till the 11th of July the settlers slept with their rifles in their hands, expecting every night to hear the Indian war-whoop, and every day to receive some messenger from Nancy Ward with tidings that the warriors were on the march for the settlements. At last the messengers came,—four of them at once,—as we may see from the following letter, in which Sevier announces their arrival to the Committee of Safety of Fincastle County, Virginia:

"FORT LEE, July 11, 1776.

DEAR GENTLEMEN,—Isaac Thomas, William Falling, Jarot Williams, and one more, have this moment come in, by making their escape from the Indians, and say six hundred Indians and whites were to start for this fort, and intend to drive the country up to New River before they return.

JOHN SEVIER."

He says nothing of the feeble fort and his slender garrison of only forty men; he shows no sign of fear, nor does he ask for aid in the great peril. The letter is characteristic of the man, and it displays that utter fearlessness which, with other great qualities, made him the hero of the Border. The details of the information brought by Thomas to Sevier and Robertson showed how truthfully Nancy Ward had previously reported to them the secret designs of the Cherokees. The whole nation was about to set out upon the war-path. With the Creeks they were to make a descent upon Georgia, and with the Shawnees, Mingoes, and Delawares upon Kentucky and the exposed parts of Virginia, while seven hundred chosen Ottari warriors were to fall upon the settlers on the Watauga, Holston, and Nolachucky. This last force was to be divided into two bodies of three hundred and fifty each, one of which, under Oconostota, was to attack Fort Watauga; the other, under Dragging-Canoe, head-chief of the Chickamaugas, was to attempt the capture of Fort Patrick Henry, which they supposed to be still defended by only about seventy men. But the two bodies were to act together, the one supporting the other in case it should be found that the settlers were better prepared for defence than was anticipated. The preparation for the expedition Thomas had himself seen: its object and the points of attack he had learned from Nancy Ward, who had come to his cabin at midnight on the 7th of July and urged his immediate departure. He had delayed setting out till the following night, to impart his information to William Falling and Jarot and Isaac Williams, men who could be trusted, and who he proposed should set out at the same time, but by different routes, to warn the settlements, so that in case one or more of them was waylaid and killed the others might have a chance to get through in safety. However, at the last moment the British agent Cameron had himself disclosed the purpose of the expedition to Falling and the two brothers Williams, and detailed them with a Captain Guest to go along with the Indians as far as the Nolachucky, when they were to scatter among the settlements and warn any "king's men" to join the Indians or to wear a certain badge by which they would be known and protected in any attack from the savages. These men had set out with the Indians, but had escaped from them during the night of the 8th, and all had arrived at Watauga in safety.

Thomas and Falling were despatched at once with the tidings into Virginia, the two Williamses were sent to warn the garrison at Fort Patrick Henry, and then the little force at Watauga furbished up their rifles and waited in grim expectation the coming of Oconostota.

But the garrison at Fort Patrick Henry was the first to have tidings from the Cherokees. Only a few men were at the fort, the rest being scattered among the outlying stations, but all were within supporting-distance. On the 19th of July the scouts came in and reported that a large body of Indians was only about twenty miles away and marching directly upon the garrison. Runners were at once despatched to bring in the scattered forces, and by nightfall the one hundred and seventy were gathered at the fort, ready to meet the enemy. Then a council of war was held by the six militia captains to determine upon the best plan of action. Some were in favor of awaiting the attack of the savages behind the walls of the fort, but one of them, William Cocke, who afterward became honorably conspicuous in the history of Tennessee, proposed the bolder course of encountering the enemy in the open field. If they did not, he contended that the Indians, passing them on the flank, would fall on and butcher the defenceless women of the settlements in their rear.

It was a step of extreme boldness, for they supposed they would encounter the whole body of seven hundred Cherokees; but it was unanimously agreed to, and early on the following morning the little army, with flankers and an advance guard of twelve men, marched out to meet the enemy. They had not gone far when the advance guard came upon a force of about twenty Indians. The latter fled, and the whites pursued for several miles, the main body following close upon the heels of the advance, but without coming upon any considerable force of the enemy. Then, being in a country favorable to an ambuscade, and the evening coming on, they held a council and decided to return to the fort.

They had not gone upward of a mile when a large force of the enemy appeared in their rear. The whites wheeled about at once, and were forming into line, when the whole body of Indians rushed upon them with great fury, shouting, "The Unacas are running! Come on! scalp them!" They attacked simultaneously the centre and left flank of the whites; and then was seen the hazard of going into battle with a many-headed commander. For a moment all was confusion, and the companies in attempting to form in the face of the impetuous attack were being broken, when Isaac Shelby rushed to the front and ordered each company a few steps to the rear, where they should reform, while he, with Lieutenant Moore, Robert Edmiston, and John Morrison, and a private named John Findlay,—in all five men,—should meet the onset of the savages. Instantly the six captains obeyed the command, recognizing in the volunteer of twenty-five their natural leader, and then the battle became general. The Indians attacked furiously, and for a few moments those five men bore the brunt of the assault. With his own hand Robert Edmiston slew six of the more forward of the enemy, Morrison nearly as many, and then Moore became engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand fight with an herculean chieftain of the Cherokees. They were a few paces in advance of the main body, and, as if by common consent, the firing was partly suspended on both sides to await the issue of the conflict. "Moore had shot the chief, wounding him in the knee, but not so badly as to prevent him from standing. Moore advanced toward him, and the Indian threw his tomahawk, but missed him. Moore sprung at him with his large butcher-knife drawn, which the Indian caught by the blade and attempted to wrest from the hand of his antagonist. Holding on with desperate tenacity to the knife, both clinched with their left hands. A scuffle ensued, in which the Indian was thrown to the ground, his right hand being nearly dissevered, and bleeding profusely. Moore, still holding the handle of his knife in the right hand, succeeded with the other in disengaging his own tomahawk from his belt, and ended the strife by sinking it in the skull of the Indian. Until this conflict was ended, the Indians fought with unyielding spirit. After its issue became known, they retreated."[002] "Our men pursued in a cautious manner, lest they might be led into an ambuscade, hardly crediting their own senses that so numerous a foe was completely routed. In this miracle of a battle we had not a man killed, and only five wounded, who all recovered. But the wounded of the enemy died till the whole loss in killed amounted to upward of forty."[003]

As soon as this conflict was over, a horseman was sent off to Watauga with tidings of the astonishing victory. "A great day's work in the woods," was Sevier's remark when speaking subsequently of this battle.

Meanwhile, Oconostota, with his three hundred and fifty warriors, had followed the trail along the Nolachucky, and on the morning of the 20th had come upon the house of William Bean, the hospitable entertainer of Robertson on his first visit to Watauga, Bean himself was at the fort, to which had fled all the women and children in the settlement, but his wife had preferred to remain at home. She had many friends among the Indians, and she felt confident they would pass her without molestation. She was mistaken. They took her captive, and removed her to their station-camp on the Nolachucky. There a warrior pointed his rifle at her, as if to fire; but Oconostota threw up the barrel and began to question her as to the strength of the whites. She gave him misleading replies, with which he appeared satisfied, for he soon told her she was not to be killed, but taken to their towns to teach their women how to manage a dairy.

Those at the fort knew that Oconostota was near by on the Nolachucky, but he had deferred the attack so long that they concluded the wary and cautious old chief was waiting to be reinforced by the body under Dragging-Canoe, which had gone to attack Fort Patrick Henry. News had reached them of Shelby's victory, and, as it would be some time before the broken Cherokees could rally and join Oconostota, they were in no apprehension of immediate danger. Accordingly, they went about their usual vocations, and so it happened that a number of the women ventured outside the fort as usual to milk the cows on the morning of the 21st of July. Among them was one who was destined to occupy for many years the position of the "first lady in Tennessee."

Her name was Catherine Sherrell, and she was the daughter of Samuel Sherrell, one of the first settlers on the Watauga. In age she was verging upon twenty, and she was tall, straight as an arrow, and lithe as a hickory sapling. I know of no portrait of her in existence, but tradition describes her as having dark eyes, flexible nostrils, regular features, a clear, transparent skin, a neck like a swan, and a wealth of wavy brown hair, which was a wonder to look at and was in striking contrast to the whiteness of her complexion. A free life in the open air had made her as supple as an eel and as agile as a deer. It was said that, encumbered by her womanly raiment, she had been known to place one hand upon a six-barred fence and clear it at a single bound. And now her agility was to do her essential service.

While she and the other women, unconscious of danger, were "coaxing the snowy fluid from the yielding udders of the kine," suddenly the war-whoop sounded through the woods, and a band of yelling savages rushed out upon them. Quick as thought the women turned and darted for the gate of the fort; but the savages were close upon them in a neck-and-neck race, and Kate, more remote than the rest, was cut off from the entrance. Seeing her danger, Sevier and a dozen others opened the gate and were about to rush out upon the savages, hundreds of whom were now in front of the fort; but Robertson held them back, saying they could not rescue her, and to go out would insure their own destruction. At a glance Kate took in the situation. She could have no help from her friends, and the tomahawk and scalping-knife were close behind her. Instantly she turned, and, fleeter than a deer, made for a point in the stockade some distance from the entrance. The palisades were eight feet high, but with one bound she reached the top, and with another was over the wall, falling into the arms of Sevier, who for the first time called her his "bonnie Kate," his "brave girl for a foot-race." The other women reached the entrance of the fort in safety.

Then the baffled savages opened fire, and for a full hour it rained bullets upon the little enclosure. But the missiles fell harmless: not a man was wounded. Driven by the light charges the Indians were accustomed to use, the bullets simply bounded off from the thick logs and did no damage. But it was not so with the fire of the besieged. The order was, "Wait till you see the whites of your enemies' eyes, and then make sure of your man." And so every one of those forty rifles did terrible execution.

For twenty days the Indians hung about the fort, returning again and again to the attack; but not a man who kept within the walls was even wounded. It was not so with a man and a boy who, emboldened by a few days' absence of the Indians, ventured outside to go down to the river. The man was scalped on the spot; the boy was taken prisoner, and subjected to a worse fate in one of the Indian villages. His name was Moore, and he was a younger brother of the lieutenant who fought so bravely in the battle near Fort Patrick Henry.

At last, baffled and dispirited, the Indians fell back to the Tellico. They had lost about sixty killed and a larger number wounded, and they had inflicted next to no damage upon the white settlers. They were enraged beyond bounds and thirsting for vengeance. Only two prisoners were in their power; but on them they resolved to wreak their extremest tortures. Young Moore was taken to the village of his captor, high up in the mountains, and there burned at a stake. A like fate was determined upon for good Mrs. Bean, the kindly woman whose hospitable door had ever been open to all, white man or Indian. Oconostota would not have her die; but Dragging-Canoe insisted that she should be offered up as a sacrifice to the manes of his fallen warriors; and the head-king was not powerful enough to prevent it.

She was taken to the summit of one of the burial-mounds,—those relics of a forgotten race which are so numerous along the banks of the Tellico. She was tied to a stake, the fagots were heaped about her, and the fire was about to be lighted, when suddenly Nancy Ward appeared among the crowd of savages and ordered a stay of the execution. Dragging-Canoe was a powerful brave, but not powerful enough to combat the will of this woman. Mrs. Bean was not only liberated, but sent back with an honorable escort to her husband.

The village in which young Moore was executed was soon visited by Sevier with a terrible retribution; and from that day for twenty years his name was a terror among the Cherokees.

Before many months there was a wedding in the fort at Watauga. It was that of John Sevier and the "bonnie Kate," famous to this day for leaping stockades and six-barred fences. He lived to be twelve years governor of Tennessee and the idol of a whole people. She shared all his love and all his honors; but in her highest estate she was never ashamed of her lowly days, and never tired of relating her desperate leap at Watauga; and, even in her old age, she would merrily add, "I would make it again—every day in the week—for such a husband."

EDMUND KIRKE.



A PLEASANT SPIRIT.

It was drawing toward nine o'clock, and symptoms of closing for the night were beginning to manifest themselves in Mr. Pegram's store. The few among the nightly loungers there who had still a remnant of domestic conscience left had already risen from boxes and "kags," and gathered up the pound packages of sugar and coffee which had served as the pretext for their coming, but which would not, alas! sufficiently account for the length of their stay. The older stagers still sat composedly in the seats of honor immediately surrounding the red-hot stove, and a look of disapproval passed over their faces as Mr. Pegram, opening the door and thereby letting in a blast of cold air upon their legs, proceeded to put up the outside shutters.

"In a hurry to-night, ain't you, Pegram?" inquired Mr. Dickey, as the proprietor returned, brushing flakes of snow from his coat and shivering expressively.

"Well, not particular," replied Mr. Pegram, with a deliberation which confirmed his words, "but it's pretty nigh nine, and Sally she ast me not to be later than nine to-night, for our hired girl's gone home for a spell, and that makes it kind of lonesome for Sally: the baby don't count for much, only when he cries, and I'll do him the justice to say that isn't often."

"It's a new thing for Sally to be scary, ain't it?" queried Mr. Crumlish, with an expression of mild surprise.

"Well, yes, I may say it is," admitted Mr. Pegram; "but, you know, we had a kind of a warning, before we moved in, that all wasn't quite as it should be, and, as bad luck would have it, there was a Boston paper come round her new coat, with a story in it that laid out to be true, of noises and appearances, and one thing and another, in a house right there to Boston, and Sally she says to me, 'If they believe in them things to Boston, where they don't believe in nothing they can't see and handle, if all we hear's true, there must be something in it, and I only wish I'd read that piece before we took the house.'

"I keep a-telling her we've neither seen nor heard nothing out of the common, so far, but all she'll say to that is, 'That's no reason we won't;' and sure enough it isn't, though I don't tell her so."

"But surely," said Mr. Birchard, the young schoolmaster, who boarded with Mr. Dickey, "you don't believe any such trash as that account of a haunted house in Boston?" There was a non-committal silence, and he went on impatiently, "I could give you a dozen instances in which mysteries of this kind, when they were energetically followed up, were proved to be the results of the most simple and natural causes."

"Like enough, like enough, young man," said Uncle Jabez Snyder, in his tremulous tones, "and mebbe some folks not a hunderd miles from here could tell you another dozen that hadn't no natural causes."

"I should like very much to hear them," replied the young man, with an exasperatingly incredulous smile.

"If Pegram here wasn't in such a durned hurry to turn us out and shet up," said Mr. Dickey, with manifest irritation, "Uncle Jabez could tell you all you want to hear."

Mr. Pegram looked disturbed. It was with him a fixed principle never to disoblige a customer, and he saw that he was disobliging at least half a dozen. On the other hand, he was not prepared to face his wife should he so daringly disregard her wishes as to keep the store open half an hour later than usual. He pondered for a few moments, and then his face suddenly brightened, and he said, "If one of you gentlemen that passes my house on your way home would undertake to put coal on the fire, put the lights out, lock the door, and bring me the key, the store's at your disposal till ten o'clock; and I'm only sorry I can't stay myself."

Two or three immediately volunteered, but as the schoolmaster and Mr. Dickey were the only ones whose way lay directly past Mr. Pegram's door, it was decided that they should divide the labors and honors between them.

"I'd like you not to stop later than ten," said Mr. Pegram deprecatingly, as he buttoned his great-coat and drew his hat down over his eyes, "for I have to be up so early, since that boy cleared out, that I need to go to bed sooner than I mostly do."

Compliance with this modest request was readily promised, good-nights were exchanged, and the lessened circle drew in more closely around the stove, for several of the company had reluctantly decided that, all things considered, it would be the better part of valor for them to go when Mr. Pegram went.