A pang of jealous feeling for an instant darted through me, but Conrad's face met mine, and its dark expression drove the demon power from me. I saw the withering scowl of hate he cast upon De Clairville, and I inwardly determined to shield the noble youth from the malice of that dark one; for, bright as was to me the hope of Ella's love, I loved her too well to be ought but rejoiced in her happiness. Although it brought sorrow to myself, yet she was blessed. Mirth and joy, now for a while cheered our lonely homes; we knew we were to lose our flower; but love like theirs is a gladsome thing to look at. Many were the gifts De Clairville brought his bride from the rich shore of England. Bracelets, radiant as her own bright eyes, and pearls as pure as the neck they twined. Among other things was a fairy case of gold, in the form of a locket, which he himself wore. Ella wished to see what it contained, and laughingly he unclosed it before us: 'twas the faded rose leaves of her offerings to the love spirit on Walburga's eve. They had rested on his heart, he said, in the hours of absence; and there, in death, should they be still. Ella blushed and hid her face upon his bosom. I sighed at the memory of that day, but Conrad's gloomy frown recalled me to the present—this was their bridal eve. Our pastor was with us, and the lowly building where we worshipped was decorated with simple state for the occasion.

It stood on an eminence some distance from the other houses. That night I was awakened from sleep by a sudden light shining through the room—a wild dream' was yet before me, and a death snriek seemed ringing in my ears. I looked from the window; our little church was all in flames; 'twas built of rough logs, and was of little value, save that it was hallowed by its use. A fire had-probably been left on to prepare it for the morrow, and from this the mischief had arisen. I thought little about it, and none knew of its destruction till the morn.

The sun rose round and red, and sparkled o'er the glittering sheen of the frost king's gems, flung in wild symmetry o'er the earth, till all that before looked dark and drear was wreathed with a veil of dazzling beauty; even the blackened logs where the fire had been had their delicate tracery of pearly fringe. The guests assembled in our dwelling, and the pastor stood before the humble altar, raised for the occasion. The walls were rude, but the bride in her young beauty might have graced a palace. She leaned on Conrad's arm, according to our custom, as her oldest unmarried relative. The tables were spread with the bridal cheer, and the blazing fire crackled merrily on the wide hearth-stone. The bridegroom's presence alone was waited for. Gaily hung with flags was the ship, and cheers rung loudly from her crew as a boat left her side. It came, but bore but the officers invited to the wedding. Where was De Clairville? None knew! We had expected he passed the night on board; but there he had not been. 'Twas most strange! The day passed away, and others like it, and still he came not. He was gone for ever. Had he proved false and forsaken his love? Such was the imputation thrown on his absence by Conrad.

The sailors joined us; a band of Indian hunters led the way, and for miles around the woods were searched, but trace of human footsteps, save our own, we saw not. Long did the vessel's crew linger by the shore, hoping each day for tidings of their loved commander's fate, but of him they heard no more, and it was deemed he had met his death by drowning.

Conrad, whose morose manner suddenly disappeared for a bold and forward tone, so utterly at variance from his usual that all were surprized, still persisted in asserting that he had but proceeded along the coast, and would join his vessel as she passed onward. One of the sailors, an old and grey-haired man, who loved De Clairville as a son, indignantly denied the charge. He was incapable of such an action. "God grant," said he, "he may have been fairly dealt with." "You would not say he had been murdered," said Conrad. "No," said the old man, "I thought not of that: if he were, not a leaflet in your woods but would bear witness to the crime."

We were standing then by the ruined church—a slender beech tree grew beside it—one faded leaf yet hovered on its stem—for an instant it trembled in the blast, then fell at Conrad's feet, brushing his cheek as it passed. If the blow of a giant had struck him he could not have fallen more heavily to the ground. An inward loathing, such as may mortal man never feel to his fellow, forbade me to assist him. He had fainted; but the cold air soon revived him, and he arose, complaining of sudden illness. The sailors left us, and the ship sailed slowly from our waters, with her colours floating sadly half-mast high.

Ella thus suddenly bereaved, mourned in wild and bitter grief, but woman's pride, at times her guardian angel, at others her destroyer, took up its stronghold in her heart. The tempter Conrad awoke its tones—with specious wile he recalled De Clairville's lofty ideas of name and birth—how proudly he spoke of his lady mother and the castled state of his father's hall. Was it not likely that, at the last, this pride had rallied its strength around him, and bade him seek a nobler bride than the lowly maiden of the "Refugees?" Too readily she heard him, for love the fondest is nearest allied to hate the deepest, and De Clairville's name became a thing for scorn and hate. 'Twas vain for me to speak—what could I say? A species of fascination seemed to be obtained by Conrad o'er her—a witching spell was in his words—'twas but the power, swayed by his strong and ill-formed mind, over her weak but gentle one—which, if rightly guided, would have echoed such sweet music—and, ere the summer passed, she had forgotten her lost lover, and was to wed him.

To others there was nothing strange in this, but to me it brought a wild and dreary feeling; not that my early dreams were unchanged, for I had learned to think a love like her's, so lightly lost and won, was not the thing to be prized. Alas! I knew not the blackness of the spirit that beguiled her, and wrought such woe. Still she had done wrong—the affections of man's heart may not be idly dealt with—the woman who feigns what she feels not, has her hand on the lion's mane. Ella at one time had done this, and she reaped a dark guerdon for her falsehood. Yet in her it might have been excused, for the very weakness of her nature led her to it. Let those who are more strongly gifted beware of her fate.

The earth was in the richest flush of her green beauty. On the morn, Ella was again to be a bride—the golden light streamed through the glad blue sky, and all looked bright and fair—the remains of the church, which had long looked black and dreary, were gay with the richness of vegetation—the bracken waved its green plumes, and the tall mullen plant, with its broad white leaves, raised its pale crest above the charred walls. While the dew was shining bright I had gone forth—surprise and consternation greeted my solitary approach when I returned. Again the holy book had been opened—the priest stood ready with the bride, and tarried for the lover—they thought he was with me, but I had not seen him—daylight passed away, night came, but brought him not—the moon arose, and her shadowy light gave to familiar things of day the spectral forms of mystery.

While we sat in silence, thinking of Conrad's absence, a dog's mournful whine sounded near—it grew louder, and attracted our attention. We followed the sound—it came from the ruins of the church, and there, among the weeds and flowers lay Conrad stiff and cold—he was dead, and, oh the horrible expression of that face, the demoniac look of despair was never written in such fearful lines on human face before. All felt relief when 'twas covered from the sight. One hand had 'twined in the death grasp round the reed-like stem of the mullen plant—we unclosed it, and it sprung back, tall and straight as before; something glittered in the other—'twas the half of De Clairville's golden locket—how it came to be in his possession was strange, but we thought not of it then.

Events like these have a saddening influence on the mind, and the gloom for Conrad's sudden death hung heavy o'er us—Ella's mourning was long and deep. I was not grieved to see it, for sorrow makes the spirit wiser.

Three years passed away—little change had been among us, save that some of our aged were gone, and the young had risen around us. Once more it was the first of May—the night was dark and still, but the silvery sounds of the waging earth came like balm o'er the soul—there was a murmur in the forest, as though one heard the song of the young leaves bursting into life, and the glad gushing of the springing streams rose with them. The memory of other days was floating o'er my mind, when a soft voice broke on my reverie. Her thoughts had been with mine—"Ethel," said she, "remember you, how on such a night as this, you once sought my love. Alas! how little knew I then of my own heart—your's it should then have been—you know the shades that have passed over it. Is Ella's love a worthless gift, or will you accept it now as freely as 'tis offered. How long and sternly must we be trained e'er love's young dream can be forgotten." The events that intervened all passed away, and Ella was again the same maiden that stood with me so long ago by the streamlet's side on Walburga's eve. My heart's long silenced music once more rung forth its melody at her sweet words, and life again was bright with the gems of hope and fond affection.

In places so lone as that in which we lived, the fancies of superstition have ample scope to range. It had long been whispered through the settlement that the spirit of Conrad appeared on the spot where he had died at certain times. When the moon beamed, a shadowy form was seen to wave its pale arms among the ruins of the church, which yet remained unchanged. So strongly was the story believed, that after night-fall none dared to pass the spot alone. Ella, too, had heard it, and trembled whilst she disbelieved its truth. Our marriage morning came, and Ella was for the third time arrayed in her bridal dress. A wreath of pearl gleamed through her hair, and lace and satin robed her peerless form—the tinge upon her cheek might not have been so bright as once it was, but to me she was lovely—more of mind was blended with the feelings of the heart, and gave a higher tone to her beauty. The holy words were said, and my fondest hopes made truth. Is it, that because in our most blissful hours the spirits are most ready fall, or was it the sense of coming ill that threw its dreary shade of sadness o'er me all that day? The glorious sun sunk brightly to his rest, but the rose cloud round his path seemed deepened to the hue of blood. A wailing sound came o'er the waters, and a whispering, as of woe, sighed through the leafy trees. This feeling of despondency I tried in vain to banish; as the evening came, it grew deeper, but Ella was more joyous than ever, for a long time, she had been. All the fairy wiles of her winning youth seemed bright as of old—glad faces were around us, and she was the gayest of them all; when, suddenly, something from the open door met her eyes—one loud shriek broke from her, and she rushed wildly from among us. I saw her speed madly up the hill, where stood the church. I was hastening after, when strong arms held me back, and fingers, trembling with awe and dread, pointed to the object of their terror—there among the ruins stood a tall and ghost-like form, whose spectral head seemed to move with a threatening motion—for an instant I was paralysed, but Ella's white robes flashed before me, and I broke from their grasp. Again I heard her shriek—she vanished from me, but the phantom form still stood. I reached it, and that thing of fear was but a gigantic weed—a tall mullen that had outgrown the others on the very spot where we had found the body of Conrad; the waving of its flexile head and long pale leaves, shining with moonlight, were the motions we had seen—but where was Ella? The decaying logs gave way beneath her, and she had fallen into a vault or cellar beneath the building. Meanwhile those at the house recovered their courage, and came towards us, bearing lights. We entered the vault, and, on her knees before a figure, was Ella—the form and dress were De Clairville's, such as we had seen him in last, but the face, oh! heaven, the face showed but the white bones of a skeleton. The rich brown curls still clung to the fleshless skull, and on the finger glittered the ring with which Ella was to have been wed. The half of the golden locket was clasped to his breast—the ribbon by which it hung seemed to have been torn rudely from its place, but the hand had kept its hold till the motion caused by our descent—it fell at Ella's feet, a sad memento of other days, and recalled her to sensation. Horror paled the brows of all, but to me was given a deeper woe, to think and know what Ella must have felt.

Every feeling was deepened to intensity of agony in the passing of that night—that dreary closing of my bridal day. How came the morning's light I know not, but when it did, the fresh breeze blew on my brow, and I saw the remains of De Clairville lying on the grass before me—they had borne him from below, and it showed more plainly the crime which had been among us. The deep blue of the dress was changed to a darker hue where the red life blood had flowed, and from the back was drawn the treacherous implement of death. The hearts of all readily whispered the murderer's name, and fuller proof was given in that ancient dagger that had long been an heir-loom in the family of Conrad—a relic of the old Teutonic race from whence they sprung—well was it known, and we had often wondered at its disappearance. He, Conrad, was the murderer—he had slain De Clairville, and fired the building to conceal his crime. God was the avenger of the dark deed—the mighty hand of conscience struck him in his proudest hour—the humblest things of earth, brought deathly terror to his soul. 'Twas evident the appearance of the mullen plant, which drew us to the spot, had been the cause of his death. The words of the old sailor seemed true. The lowly herb had brought the crime to light, and in the hand of heaven had punished the murderer.

We buried De Clairville beneath a mossy mound, where the lofty pine and spicy cedar waved above, and hallowed words were said o'er his rest. A blight seemed to hover o'er our lonely settlement by the deed which had been done within it. Nothing bound us to the spot; but hues of sadness rested with it, and ever would. 'Twas an unhallowed spot, and we prepared to leave it, and seek another resting place.

Our boats lay ready by the beach, and some were already embarked. I took a last look around—something white gleamed among the trees around De Clairville's grave—'twas Ella, who lay there dead. She always accused herself as the cause of De Clairville's death, and indirectly, too, she had been—but restitution now was made. We laid her by his side, and thus I lost my early, only love.

Here then was it where we chose our heritage, and here we have since remained, but everything is changed since then. Many an aged brow has passed from earth, and many a bright eye closed in death. Every trace of old is passing away, save where their shadows glide in the memory. Even the grave where Ella slept is gone from earth.

Twenty years after her death I made a pilgrimage to the place—the young sapling pines which shaded it had grown to lofty trees—human voice seemed never to have broken in tones of joy or woe the deep solitude around—the long grass waved rank and dark above the walls we had raised, and the red berries hung rich and ripe by the ruined hearthstone. Again, when another twenty years passed, I came to it once more—the weight of age had gathered o'er me, but there lay the buried sunlight of my youth, and the spirit thoughts of other days drew me to it. Again there was a change—a change which told me my own time drew near. The woods were gone long since—the reaper had passed o'er the lowly graves, and knew them not. The last record of my love and of my woe, was gone. Dwellings were raised along the lonely beach, and laden ships floated on the long silent waters. I bade the place farewell for ever, and returned to await in peace and hope my summons to the promised rest.

The old man paused—the dreams of the past had weakened him, and he retired for the night. Next morn we waited long for his presence, but he came not. We sought his chamber, and found him dead. The soul had passed away—one hand was folded on his heart, and oh! the might of earthly love. It clasped a shining braid of silken hair, and something, of which their faint perfume told to be the faded rose leaves—frail memorials of his fondly loved Ella, but lasting after the warm heart which cherished them was cold. He was gone where, if it be not in heaven "a crime to love too well," his spirit may yet meet with her's, in that holy light, whose purity of bliss may not be broken by the vain turmoil of earthly feelings. So ends the story of uncle Ethel.

* * * * *

Well, said Grace, after we had discussed Ethel's melancholy story, although I don't believe in ghosts, I cannot do away with my faith in dreams, and last night I had a most disagreeable one, which disturbed me much. I thought I had engaged my passage, and when I unclosed my purse to pay down the money, nothing was in it but a plain gold ring and a ruby heart. My money was gone, and, oh! the grief I felt was deeper than waking language can describe. Then, Grace, said I, you must receive consolation for your disagreeable dream, in the words of your own favourite song, "Rory o'More," that dreams always go by contrary you know, and so I shall read your dream. The plain gold ring means that tie, which, like it, has no ending. The heart has, in all ages, been held symbolical of its holiest feeling, and thus unite love and marriage, and your sorrow will be turned to joy. So I prognosticate your dream to mean. And time told I had foretold aright—for soon after we had arrived in St. John's, the entrance to which, from the main river, is extremely beautiful, showing every variety of scenery, from the green meadows of rich intervale, where stand white dwellings and orchard trees, to the grey and barren rocks, with cedary plumage towering to the sky.

Grace having engaged her passage home, we were turning from the office, when a stranger bounded to us, and caught her by the hand. Grace Marley, he exclaimed—my own, my beautiful. I felt her lean heavily on my arm; she had fainted. And so deep was that trance, we fancied she was gone—but joy rarely kills, and she awoke to the passionate exclamations of her lover—for such he was, come o'er the deep sea to seek her. An explanation ensued. Their letters to each other had all miscarried. None had been received by either. (All this bitter disappointment, however, happened before the establishment of our post.) So Grace, instead of returning to Ireland, was wedded next day, her husband having brought means with him to settle in the country. The magician, Love, flung his rose-light o'er her path, and, when I saw her last, she fancied the emerald glades of Oromot, where her home now lay, almost as beautiful as those by the blue lakes of Killarney, in the land of her birth.

With the end of September commence the night frosts. The woods now lose their greenness; and the most brilliant hues of crimson, and gold, and purple, are flung in gorgeous flakes of beauty over their boughs, as though each leaf were crystal, and reflected and retained the light of some glorious sunset. In this lovely season, which is most appropriately termed the fall, we wished to get along with our church, and have it enclosed before the winter. This was rather an arduous undertaking in young settlement like ours; but there were those here who loved

"Old England's holy church, And loved her form of prayer right well."

And liberally they came forward to raise a temple to their faith in the wilderness. The "Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Lands" had promised assistance; but the frame must first be erected and enclosed ere it could be claimed. In this country cash is a most scarce commodity, and many species of speculation are made with the aid of little real specie. Large sums are spoken of, but rarely appear bodily: and our church got on in the same way. The owner of the saw-mill signed twenty pounds as his subscription towards it, and paid it in boards—the carpenters who did the work received from the subscribers pork and flour for their pay—and our neighbour, the embarrassed lumber-man, who was still wooden-headed enough to like anything of a timber spec, got out the frame by contract, himself giving most generously five pounds worth of work towards it. And thus the church was raised, and now it stands, with white spire, pointing heavenward, above the ancient forest trees.

As winter was now approaching, how to pass its long evenings agreeably and rationally was a question which was agitated. The dwellers of America are more enlightened now than in those old times when dancing and feasting were the sole amusements, so a library was instituted and formed by the same means as the church had been—a load of potatoes, or a barrel of buckwheat, being given by each party to purchase books with. The selection of these, to suit all tastes, was a matter of some difficulty, the grave and serious declaiming against light reading, and regarding a novel as the climax of human wickedness. One old lady, who by the way was fond of reading, and had studied the ancient tale of Pamela regularly, at her leisure, for the last forty years, was the strongest against these, and, on being told that her favourite tome was no less than a novel, she consigned it to oblivion, and seemed, for a time, to have lost all faith in sublunary things. After some little trouble, however, the thing was satisfactorily arranged. Even here, to this lone nook of the western world, had reached the fame of the Caxtons of modern times. Aught that bore the name of Chambers, had a place in our collection, and the busy fingers of the little Edinburgh 'devils' have brightened the solitude of many a home on the banks of the Washedemoak.

The Indian summer, which, in November, comes like breathing space, ere the mighty power of winter sweeps o'er the earth, is beautiful, with its balmy airs and soft bright skies, yet melancholy in its loveliness as a fair face in death—'tis the last smile of summer, and when the last wreath of crimson leaves fall to earth, the erratic birds take their flight to warmer lands—the bear retires to his hollow tree—the squirrel to his winter stores—and man calls forth all his genius to make him independent of the storm king's power. In this country we have a specimen of every climate at its utmost boundary of endurance; in summer we have breathless days of burning heat shining on in shadowless splendour of sunlight; but it is in the getting up of a winter's scene that New Brunswick is perfect. True, a considerable tall sample of a snow-storm can sometimes be enjoyed in England, but nothing to compare with the free and easy sweep with which the monarch of clouds flings his boons over this portion of his dominions. After the first snow-storm the woods have a grand and beautiful appearance, festooned with their garlands of feathery pearls—the raindrops which fall with the earlier snows hang like diamond pendants, and flash in the sun, "As if gems were the fruitage of every bough."

I remember once coming from St. John's by water. The frost set in rather earlier than we expected. The farther from the sea the sooner it commences; so as we proceeded up the river our boat was stopped by the crystal barrier across the stream, not strong enough yet to admit of teaming, and we had nothing for it but a walk of seven miles through the forest,—home we must proceed, though evening was closing in and darkness would soon be around us, the heavy atmosphere told of a coming storm, and ere to-morrow our path would be blocked up. America is the land of invention; and here we were, on the dreary shore, in the dusky twilight—a situation which requires the aid of philosophy. We were something in the predicament of the Russian sailors in Spitzbergen, we wanted light to guide us on the "blaze," without which we could not keep it; but beyond the gleam of a patent congreve, our means extended not. One of our company, however, a native of the country, took the matter easy. Some birch trees were growing near, from which he stripped a portion of the silvery bark, which being rolled into torches, were ignited; each carried a store, and by their brilliant light we set out on our pilgrimage. The effect of our most original Bude on the snow-wreathed forest was magical—we seemed to traverse the palace gardens of enchantment, so strange yet splendid was the scene—the snow shining pure in the distance, and the thousand ice gems gleaming ruby red in the rays of our torches. They are wondrous to walk through, those boundless forests, when one thinks that by a slight deviation from the track the path would be lost; and, ere it could be found again, the spirit grow weary in its wanderings, and, taking its flight, leave the unshrouded brows to bleach on summer flowers or winter snows, in the path where the graceful carraboo bounds past, or the bear comes guided by the tainted breeze to where it lies.

It was on this midnight ramble that the facts of the following lines were related to me, ending not, as such tales generally do, in death, but in what perchance was worse,—civilisation lost in barbarism.

Many years ago two children, daughters of a person residing in this province, were lost in the woods. What had been their fate none knew —no trace of them could be found until, after a long period of time had elapsed, one of them was discovered among some Indians, by whom they had been taken, and with whom this one had remained, the other having joined another tribe. She appeared an Indian squaw in every respect—her complexion had been stained as dark as theirs—her costume was the same, but she had blue eyes. This excited suspicion, which proved to be correct. The story of the lost children was remembered, which event occurred thirty years before. With some difficulty she was induced to meet her mother, her only remaining parent. The tide of time swept back from the mother's mind, and she hastened to embrace the child of her memory, but, alas! the change. There existed for her no love in the bosom of the lost one. Her relatives wishing to reclaim her from her savage life, earnestly besought her to remain with them, but their ways were not as her's—she felt as a stranger with them, and rejoined the Indian band, with whom she still remains.



THE LOST CHILDREN.

At early morn a mother stood, Her hands were raised to heaven. And she praised Almighty God For the blessings He had given; But far too deep were they Encircled in her heart,— Too deep for human weal, For earth and love must part. She looked with hope too bright On the forms that by her bent, And loved, by far too fondly, Those treasures God had sent. They bound her to the earth, With love's own golden chain, How were its bright links severed By the spirit's wildest pain? She parted the rich tresses, And kissed each snowy brow, And where, oh! happy mother, Was one so blest as thou? The summer sun was shining All cloudless o'er the lea, When forth her children bounded, In childhood's summer glee. They strayed along the woody banks, All fringed with sunny green, Where, like a silver serpent, The river ran between. Their glad young voices rose, As they thought of flower or bird, And they sang the joyous fancies That in each spirit stirred. Oh! sister, see that humming bird; Saw ye ever ought so fair? With wings of gold and ruby, He sparkles through the air; Let us follow where he flies O'er yonder hazel dell, For oh! it must be beautiful Where such a thing can dwell. Yet to me it seemeth still, That his rest must be on high; Methinks his plumes are bathed In the even's crimson sky: How lovely is this earth, Where such fair things we see, And yet how much more glorious The power that bids them be! Nay, sister, let us stay Where those water lilies float, So spotless and so pure Like a fairy's pearly boat. Listen to the melody That cometh soft and low, As through the twining tendrils The water glides below. Perchance 'twas in a spot like this, And by a stream as mild, Where the Jewish mother laid Her gentle Hebrew child. Then rested they beneath the trees, Where, through the leafy shade, In ever-changing radiance, The broken sun-light played; And spoke in words, whose simple truth Revealed the guileless soul, Till softly o'er their senses A quiet slumber stole. Lo! now a form comes glancing Along the waters blue, And moored among the lilies Lay an Indian's dark canoe. The days of ancient feud were gone. The axe was buried deep. And stilled the red man's warfare, In unawaking sleep. Why stands he then so silently, Where those fair children lie? And say, what means the flashing Of the Indian's eagle eye? He thinks him of his lonely spouse, Within her forest glade; Around her silent dwelling No children ever played. No voice arose to greet him When he at eve would come, But sadness ever hovered Around his dreary home. Oh! with those lovely rose-buds Were my lone hearth-stone blest, My richest food should cheer them, My softest furs should rest. Their kindred drive us onward, Where the setting sunbeams shine; They claim our father's heritage, Why may not these be mine? He raised the sleeping children, Oh! sad and dreary day! And o'er the dancing waters He bore them far away. He wiled their hearts' young feelings With words and actions kind, And soon the past went fading All dream-like from their mind.

* * * * *

Oh! brightly sped the beaming sun Along his glorious way, And feathery clouds of golden light Around his parting lay. In beauty came the holy stars, All gleaming mid the blue, It seemed as o'er the lovely earth A blessed calm they threw. A sound of grief arose On the dewy evening air, It bore the bitter anguish Of a mortal's wild despair; A wail like that which sounded Throughout Judea's land, When Herod's haughty minions Obeyed his dark command. The mourning mother wept Because her babes were not, Their forms were gone for ever From each familiar spot. Oh! had they sought the river, And sunk beneath its wave; Or had the dark recesses Of the forest been their grave. The same deep tinge of sorrow, Each surmise ever bore; Her gems from her were taken; Of their fate she knew no more. Long years of withering woe went on, Each sadly as the last, To other's ears the theme became A legend of the past. But she, oh! bright she cherished Their memory enshrined, With all a mother's fondness And fadeless truth entwined. Many a hope she treasured In sorrow's gloom had burst, But still her spirit knew No grieving like the first. Along her faded forehead The hand of time had crost, And every furrow told Her mourning for the lost. With such deep love within her, What words the truth could give, Howe'er she heard the tidings— "Thy children yet they live." But one alone was near, And with rushing feelings wild, The aged mother flew To meet once more her child. A moment passed away— The lost one slowly came, And stood before her there— A tall and dark-browed dame. Far from her swarthy forehead Her raven hair was roll'd; She spoke to those around her, Her voice was stern and cold: "Why seek ye here to bind me, I would again be free; They say ye are my kindred— But what are ye to me? My spring of youth was past With the people of the wild: And slumber in the green-wood My husband and my child. 'Tis true I oft have seen ye In the visions of the night; But many a shadow comes From the dreamer's land of light. If e'er I've been among ye, Save in my wandering thought, The memory has passed away— Ye long have been forgot." And were not these hard words to come To that fond mother's heart, Who through such years of agony Had kept her loving part. Her wildest wish was granted— Her deepest prayer was heard— Yet it but served to show her How deeply she had err'd. The mysteries of God's high will May not be understood; And mortals may not vainly ask, To them, what seemeth good. With spirit wrung to earth, In grief she bowed her head: "Oh! better far than meet thee thus, To mourn thee with the dead." But, think ye, He who comforted The widowed one of Nain— Who bade the lonely Hagar With hope revive again? Think ye that mother's trusting love Should bleed without a balm? No! o'er the troubled spirit There came a blessed calm. Amid the savage relics Around her daughter flung, Upon her naked bosom A crucifix there hung. And though the simple Indian False tenets might enthral— Yet, 'twas the blessed symbol Of Him who died for all. And the mourner's heart rejoiced For the promise seemed to say— She shall be thine in Heaven, When the world has passed away. Tho' now ye meet as strangers, Yet there ye shall be one; And live in love for ever, When time and earth are gone.

In the days of the early settling of the country, marriages were attended with a ceremony called stumping. This was a local way of publishing the banns, the names of the parties and the announcement of the event to take place being written on a slip of paper, and inserted on the numerous stumps bordering the corduroy road, that all who ran might read, though perchance none might scan it save some bewildered fox or wandering bear; the squire read the ceremony from the prayer-book, received his dollar, and further form for wedlock was required not. Now they order these things differently. A wedding is a regular frolic, and generally performed by a clergyman (though a few in the back settlements still adhere to the custom of their fathers), a large party being invited to solemnise the event. The last winter we were in the country we attended one some distance from home; but here, while flying along the ice paths, distance is not thought of. Nothing can be more exhilarating than sleigh-riding, the clear air bracing the nerves, and the bells ringing gladly out. These bells are worn round the horse's neck and on the harness, to give warning of the sleigh's approach, which otherwise would not be heard over the smooth road. The glassy way was crowded with skaters, gliding past with graceful ease and folded arms, "as though they trod on tented ground." We soon reached our destination, and found assembled a large and joyous party. The festival commenced in the morning, and continued late. The fare was luxuriant, and the bride, in her white dress and orange blossoms (for, be it known, such things are sometimes seen, even in this region of spruce and pine), looked as all brides do, bashful and beautiful. The "grave and pompous father," and busy-minded mother, had a look which, though concealed, told that at heart they rejoiced to see their "bairn respeckit like the lave," and "all indeed went merry as a marriage bell." We and some others left at midnight. The air was piercingly cold, and the bear skins in which we were wrapped soon had a white fringe, where fell the fast congealing breath. There was no moon, and the stars looked dim, in the fitful gleam of the streamers of the aurora borealis, which were glancing in corruscations of awful grandeur along the heavens, now throwing a blood red glare on the snow, their pale sepulchral rays of green or blue imparting a ghastly horror to the scene, or arranging themselves like the golden pillars of some mighty organ, while, ever and again, a wild unearthly sound is heard, as if swords were clashing. Those mysterious northern lights, whose appearance in superstitious times was supposed to threaten, or be the forerunner, of dire calamity; and no wonder was it, for even now, with all the light science has thrown upon such things, there is attached to them, seen as they are in this country, a feeling of dread which cannot all be dispelled.

Travelling on the ice is not altogether free from danger; and even when it is thought safe, there are places where it is dangerous to go. The best plan of avoiding these is to follow the track of those who have gone before—never, but with caution, and especially at night, striking out a new one.

One of the parties who accompanied us wished to reach the shore. There was a path which, though rather longer, would have led him safely to it, but he determined to strike across the unmarked ice, to where be wished to land. All advised him to take the longer way, but he was resolute, and turned his horse's head from us. The gallant steed bounded forward—the golden light was beaming from the sky—and we paused to watch his progress. A fearful crashing was heard—then a sharp crack, and sleigh, horse, and rider vanished from our sight. 'Twas horrible to see them thus enclosed in that cold tomb.

Assistance was speedily sought from the shore, but ere it came I heard the horrid shout of "steeds that snort in agony," while the blue sulphurous flash from above showed the man struggling helplessly among the breaking ice. Poles were placed from the solid parts to where he was, and he was rescued. He was carried to the nearest house, and with some difficulty restored to warmth. The sleighing rarely passes without many such accidents occurring, merely through want of caution.

When the balmy breezes of spring again blew ever New Brunswick, circumstances had arisen which induced me to leave it, and though I loved it not as my native land, I sighed to go, so much of kindness and good feeling had I enjoyed among its dwellers; and I stood on the vessel's deck, gazing on it till the green trees and white walls of Partridge-Island faded in the distance, and the rolling waves of the Bay of Fundy, throwing me into that least terrestrial of all maladies, the "mal du mer," rendered me insensible of all sublunary cares.

THE END