To the natives, the English fur-trader was the representative of his race; and as they gradually found themselves no match for his methods or his morals, their simple faith in the white man's honesty, their debasing fear of his prowess, their reverence for him as a superhuman being, little by little died out. They saw themselves wronged, despoiled, and abused, with less and less power to assert their rights and maintain their independence; and their hearts became more and more filled with a sullen desire for revenge. In the ethics of the North American Indian, there was but one mode of gratifying this feeling. Nothing would suffice but the blood of the offender. This fearful code, with all its horrors, was felt alike by the innocent and the guilty, when Philip and the hour came.

Meanwhile the plantation at Pocomtuck was increasing in strength and prosperity. The rich soil of the meadows yielded an abundance of Indian corn, wheat, rye, barley, beans, and flax. Game of every kind was plenty and easily secured. Flocks of turkeys, pigeons, geese, and ducks were all about them in the woods and waters. The forest also furnished condiments, in the form of sugar from the sap of the maple tree, and honey from the heart of the "bee tree." The rivers teemed with choice fish; herds of deer were so common as to impress the name of "Deerfield" permanently upon the settlement. Peace and plenty smiled on all, and the foundations of the little community seemed firmly established. The planters had come to stay. In 1673, a minister had been secured in the person of Samuel Mather, a Harvard graduate of 1671. In 1675, they had already "a little house for a meeting-house, yt they meete in," and were building a dwelling for the minister. None dreamed that the horrors of an Indian war were so soon to overwhelm them and change the whole aspect of nature and of human affairs in this quiet valley. The news of the outbreak at far-off Plymouth, in June, 1675, raised no fears in them. The attack on Brookfield, August 2, opened their eyes, and preparations for defence were pushed with vigor. The swamp fight under the shadow of Wequamps brought the war to their very doors; and, on the first of September, the settlers were called upon to defend their homes against the attack of those who had hitherto been considered trusty friends.

The days of peace and plenty were over for this unhappy people. On the slaughter of Lothrop and the "Flower of Essex," at Bloody Brook, September 18, this chosen land was deserted and given back to the wilderness.

After seven years of wandering, such of the survivors as had courage enough returned to the desolate scene of their former prosperity; but the progress of resettlement was slow and painful. Fortifications were built, old and young trained for soldiers, watch and ward kept night and day, scouts ranged the surrounding forests, and all were constantly on the alert. All hunting or fishing, all labor in forest or field, all journeying, was at the imminent risk of life or liberty. From the nearest swamp or thicket, from behind some fence, stump, or clump of brake, at any moment might appear the flash of the musket or gleam of the scalping-knife. Never ending toil under these conditions, and unceasing vigilance, were the price of existence, and the stern realities of life closed in upon them on every side. Labor they must, or starvation was at the door; for their sustenance must be drawn from their own acres. They could not look back for aid, as the towns below were in the same condition. Women and children were not exempt from laborious toil. Of relaxation there was little, and recreation was unthought of. Even parental love was constrained and formal. Children were born into a cold and cheerless atmosphere, and it is not to be wondered at that they grew up hard and austere men and women, whose chief or only solace was the hope of an eternity of rest and psalm-singing, in a heaven earned by the endurance of trials with piety, patience, and faith that all their sufferings would in some way redound to the glory of God.

There was little desire or opportunity for cultivating the mind. A dense ignorance of letters was the rule. Hardly a woman born of the generation preceding Queen Anne's War could write her name, and many of the most active and useful men could do no better. The people lived wholly off the land. Their clothing and bedding were either from flax, raised, pulled, rotted, broken, and swingled by the men; and hatchelled, carded, spun, and woven into cloth, and cut, and made up by the women; or else of wool sheared from the flocks, carded and spun by hand, and knit into stockings, or woven into blankets or rugs, or into flannel, to be fulled for men's wear; or into linsey-woolsey, for the women and children. To the material for men's garments must be added buckskin for breeches and leggins. Shoes were often made of untanned hide, moccasin fashion, a method borrowed from the Indians. Thorns took the place of pins in woman's gear, and thongs did duty for buttons, with men. If the maiden did have "genuine bear's oil" for her hair, for lack of a mirror her head must be dressed by the pool or placid spring.

The imports were the metals for the smith, guns, swords, lead, powder, rum, salt, sickles, razors, jack-knives, scissors, needles. There was seen occasionally, in the most forehanded families, a show of red shag cotton, calico, or Manchester. Very rarely some ambitious woman would appear with a silk wimple, scarf, or ribbon. In such extreme cases, be she dame or maiden, the stern hand of the law fell heavily upon the culprit, and certainly with more weight if she wore the unseemly and offending article "in a flaunting manner."

They had neither tea nor coffee. Their drink beside water was cider or malt beer. Spirituous liquors were a luxury, used principally in sickness, at weddings, funerals, or other special occasions. Indian corn and wheat were staple articles of diet; the former eaten as hulled corn, or beaten in a mortar into samp or hominy; and probably wheat was prepared in the same manner. Their dishes were of wood or pewter; gourd-shells answered for dippers and vessels of various use; and clam-shells made acceptable spoons. The household utensils were largely home-made.

Artisans were few. The wood-work of their carts, ploughs, yokes, and other farm implements, was generally made at home. The cart-irons, ploughshares, chains, axes, billhooks, scythes, and other cutting instruments, were hammered out on the anvil of the village blacksmith; and the work turned out by them is unequalled by any of the craft to-day.

With all their hardships and poverty, with all their distress and danger, the people were strict in the observance of all the established rites of their faith. The meeting-house burned in Philip's War was at once replaced on the second settlement. Within a score of years this had been outgrown, and a third edifice erected. It was two stories, square, with the roof rising from each of the sides to the turret in the centre. Of the interior finish a little is known. There were no pews; the worshippers were "seated" in fixed places, according to rules established in town-meeting, where the "dignity" of each rude bench was formally discussed and declared by vote. The women sat on the right of the minister, and the men on the left. The boys and girls were stored away somewhere in nooks and corners, under the eye of the tythingmen. On each side of the entrance places were reserved where, on entering, the men could deposit their loaded guns under the care of an appointed guard. While the faithful pastor was warning his devout hearers against the wiles of the tempter within, the sentinel, stationed in the turret above, watched all approaches, to guard against surprisal by an enemy without.

The communities of this period are often referred to as pure democracies, where each man was ranked equal to every other. This is far from the fact. There were real aristocratic distinctions in every town, nowhere more apparent than in meetings for religious worship. The truth appears to be that the settlers were still bound by the fetters of habit and custom brought from the mother-land. Emancipation from its aristocratic practices and social distinctions came only with the slow growth of democratic ideas and the overthrow of kingly rule.

DWELLINGS.

The first houses of the settlers were doubtless of logs, one story high, "daubed" with clay. A common form was eighteen feet square, with seven feet stud, stone fireplaces, with catted chimney, and a hip-roof covered with thatch. These structures generally gave way in a few years to large frame houses, covered with "clo'boards" and shingles, having fireplace and chimney of brick, which was laid in clay mortar, except the part above the roof, where lime was used. Of these houses, two styles prevailed; one represented by the "Old Indian House," the other, less elaborate, by the house now standing on the Smead lot. This house is thirty feet square, two stories, with pitch roof, facing the street westerly. It is covered with cloveboards, apparently the original, with no signs of paint. It has four windows in front, and five at each end. The front door, a little south of the centre, opens directly into the south front room, which is sixteen by eighteen feet. On the north of this, is a huge chimney which rises through the ridge, and the north front room, twelve by thirteen feet. North of the chimney is a large, dark closet. East of it is the kitchen, eleven by twenty feet, south of which is the buttery. Stairs to cellar and chambers occupy the southeast corner. The space over the kitchen is unfinished. The southwest chamber is fifteen by fifteen, the northwest twelve by thirteen. Each story is seven and a half feet stud. The frame is of hewn timber, generally nine by fourteen inches. The plates are nine by sixteen; those at the ends in the upper story project twelve inches over the walls, supported by the side plates, and studs on the inner edge. The rafters are sawed, four by four inches, and supported by purlins which are framed into heavy beam rafters at the middle and each end of the roof. The whole building is of pine. There was no lath and plaster; the walls were made of matched boards. The ceiling was finished by the joists and underside of the floor above being planed; the floors were double or of matched boards.

The "Old Indian House," built by John Sheldon, about 1698, stood at the north end of the training-field, facing the south. Its frame was largely of oak. It was twenty-one by forty-two feet, two stories, with a steep pitch roof. In front, the second story projected about two feet, the ends of the cross-beams being supported by ornamental oak brackets, two of which are preserved in Memorial Hall. A lean-to thirteen and a-half feet wide ran the whole length of the north side, its roof being a continuation of that on the main building.

The ground floor was thus thirty-four and a-half by forty-two feet. From the centre rose the chimney, about ten feet square at the base, with fireplaces on the sides and rear. South of it was the front entry, which, including the stairway, was eight by twelve feet. The lower floor was laid under the sill, which, projecting beyond the wall, formed a ledge around the bottom of the rooms wide enough for the children to sit upon. Stepping over the sill into the front entry, doors are seen on either hand opening into the front rooms; stairs on the right, lead, by two square landings and two turns to the left, to a passage over the entry, from which, at the right and left, doors lead to the chambers. In the rear of the chimney is a small, dark room, with stairs to the garret. Including the garret, there were five rooms in the main structure, each of them lighted by two windows with diamond panes set in lead.

In the centre of the lean-to was the kitchen, with windows in the rear; east of this was a bedroom, and west, the buttery and back entry. The fireplace was a deep cavern, the jambs and back at right angles to each other and the floor.

At the sides, hanging on spikes driven into pieces of wood built into the structure for the purpose, were the long-handled frying-pan, the pot-hook, the boring iron, the branding iron, the long iron peel, the roasting hook, the fire-pan, the scoop-shaped fire-shovel, with a trivet or two. The stout slice and tongs lean against the jambs in front.

In one end was the oven, its mouth flush with the back of the fireplace. In this nook, when the oven was not in use, stood a wooden bench on which the children could sit and study the catechism and spelling-book by firelight, or watch the stars through the square tower above their heads, the view interrupted only by the black, shiny lug-pole, and its great trammels; or in the season, its burden of hams and flitches of pork or venison, hanging to be cured in the smoke. The mantle-tree was a huge beam of oak, protected from the blaze only by the current of cold air constantly ascending. The preparation of fuel was no light task, and "building a fire" was no misnomer. The foundation was a "back-log," two or three feet in diameter; in front of this the "fore-stick," considerably smaller, both lying on the ashes; on them lay the "top-stick," half as big as the back-log. All these were usually of green wood. In front of this pile was a stack of split wood, branches, chips, and cobs, or, if cob-irons were present, the smaller wood was laid horizontally across these. The logs would last several days, and be renewed when necessary, but the fire was not allowed to go out. Should this happen, the fire-pan was sent to a neighbor for coals, or the tin lantern with a candle for a light. In default of neighbors, the tinder-box, or flint-lock musket with a wad of tow were used to evoke a spark. "Tending fire" meant renewing the lighter parts of the fuel; for this purpose, there was, in prudent families, a generous pile of dry cord-wood in the kitchen. With these appliances, considerable warmth was felt in the room; the larger part of the heat, however, was lost up the huge chimney. Fresh air rushed in at every crack and cranny to supply this great draft; and, although the windows were small, and the walls lined with brick, there was no lack of ventilation. In this condition of things, the high-backed settle in front of the blazing fire was a cozy seat. It was the place of honor for the heads of the family and distinguished guests. Sometimes the settle was placed permanently on one side of the fireplace, the seat hung on leather hinges, under which was the "pot-hole," where smaller pots, spiders, skillets, and kettles were stored.

The fireplaces in the front rooms were of the same pattern, but smaller than that in the kitchen. Fires were seldom built there except at weddings, funerals, or on state occasions. The furniture, for the most part home-made, rude and unpainted, was scanty—a few stools, benches, and split-bottomed chairs; a table or two, plain chests, rude, low bedsteads, with home-made ticks filled with straw or pine needles. The best room may have had a carved oak chest, brought from England, a tent or field bedstead, with green baize, or white dimity curtains, and generous feather bed. The stout tick for this, the snow-white sheets, the warm flannel blankets, and heavy woollen rugs, woven in checks of black, or red, and white, or the lighter harperlet, were all the products of domestic wheel and loom. There were no carpets. The floors were sprinkled with fine, white sand, which, on particular occasions, was brushed into fanciful patterns with a birch broom, or bundle of twigs. The style of painting floors called "marbling," hardly yet extinct, was a survival of this custom.

The finishing of the "Indian House" was more elaborate than that of the Smead house; but there was no lath and plaster, the ceiling being the same. The partitions and walls were of wainscot-work, with mouldings about the doors and windows. These mouldings were all cut by hand from solid wood. In some cases the oak summer-tree was smoothed and left bare, with a capital cut on the supporting posts; generally, hereabouts, it was covered with plain boards,—it may be, in the best room, with panels. No finer lumber is found than that with which these old houses were finished.

Their massive frames, each stout tenon fitted to its shapely mortise by the try rule, whose foundations were laid by our sires so long ago that the unsubdued savage still roamed in the forest where its timbers were hewn, stand as firmly as when the master-builder dismissed the tired neighbors, who had heaved up the huge beams, and pinned the last rafter to its mate (for there were no ridgepoles) at the raising.

AN EVENING AT HOME.

The ample kitchen was the centre of family life, social and industrial. Here around the rough table, seated on rude stools or benches, all partook of the plain and often stinted fare. A glance at the family gathered here after nightfall of a winter's day may prove of interest. After a supper of bean-porridge, or hominy and milk, which all partake in common from a great pewter basin, or wooden bowl, with spoons of wood, horn, or pewter; after a reverent reading of the Bible, and fervent supplication to the Most High for care and guidance; after the watch was set on the tall mount, and the vigilant sentinel began pacing his lonely beat, the shutters were closed and barred, and with a sense of security the occupations of the long winter evening began. Here was a picture of industry, enjoined alike by the law of the land and the stern necessities of the settlers. All were busy. Idleness was a crime. On the settle, or a low arm-chair, in the most sheltered nook, sat the revered grandam—as a term of endearment called granny—in red woollen gown, and white linen cap; her gray hair and wrinkled face reflecting the bright firelight; the long stocking growing under her busy needles, while she watched the youngling of the flock, in the cradle by her side. The goodwife, in linsey-woolsey short gown and red petticoat, steps lightly back and forth in calf pumps beside the great wheel, or poises gracefully to give a final twist to the long-drawn thread of wool or tow. The continuous buzz of the flax wheels, harmonizing with the spasmodic hum of the big wheel, shows that the girls are preparing a stock of linen against their wedding day. Less active, and more fitful, rattles the quill-wheel, where the younger children are filling quills for the morrow's weaving. Craftsmen are still scarce, and the yeoman must depend largely on his own skill and resources. The grandsire, and the goodman, his son, in blue woollen frocks, buckskin breeches, long stockings, and clouted brogans with pewter buckles, and the older boys, in shirts of brown tow, waistcoat and breeches of butternut-colored woollen homespun, surrounded by piles of white hickory shavings, are whittling out with keen Barlow jack-knives, implements for home use,—ox-bows and bow-pins, axe-helves, rakestales, forkstales, handles for spades and billhooks, wooden shovels, flail-staff and swingle, swingling knives, pokes and hog-yokes for unruly cattle and swine. The more ingenious, perhaps, are fashioning buckets, or powdering tubs, or weaving skepes, baskets, or snow-shoes. Some, it may be, sit astride the wooden shovel, shelling corn on its iron-shod edge, while others are pounding it into samp or hominy in the great wooden mortar.

There are no lamps or candles, but the red light from the burning pine knots on the hearth glows over all, repeating, in fantastic pantomime on the brown walls and closed shutters, the varied activities around it. These are occasionally brought into a higher relief by the white flashes, as the boys throw handfuls of hickory shavings on to the fore-stick, or punch the back-log with the long iron peel, while wishing they had "as many shillings as sparks go up chimney." Then, the smoke-stained joists and boards of the ceiling, with the twisted rings of pumpkin, strings of crimson peppers, and festoons of apple, drying on poles hung beneath; the men's hats, the crook-necked squashes, the skeins of thread and yarn hanging in bunches on the wainscot; the sheen of the pewter plates and basins, standing in rows on the shelves of the dresser; the trusty firelock, with powder-horn, bandolier, and bullet-pouch, hanging on the summer-tree, and the bright brass warming-pan behind the bedroom door—all stand more clearly revealed for an instant, showing the provident care for the comfort and safety of the household. Dimly seen in the corners of the room are baskets in which are packed hands of flax from the barn, where, under the flax-brake, the swingling-knife and coarse hackle, the shives and swingling tow have been removed by the men; to-morrow the more deft manipulations of the women will prepare these bunches of fibre for the little wheel, and granny will card the tow into bats, to be spun into tow yarn on the big wheel. All quaff the sparkling cider or foaming beer, from the briskly-circulating pewter mug, which the last out of bed in the morning must replenish from the barrel in the cellar. But over all a grave earnestness prevails; there is little laughter or mirth, and no song to cheer the tired workers. If stories are told they are of Indian horrors, of ghosts, or of the fearful pranks of witchcraft.

This was the age of superstition. Women were hung for witches in Salem, and witchcraft believed in everywhere. Every untoward event was imputed to supernatural causes. Did the butter or soap delay its coming, the churn and the kettle were bewitched. Did the chimney refuse to draw, witches were blowing down the smoke. Did the loaded cart get stuck in the mud, invisible hands were holding it. Did the cow's milk grow scant, the imps had been sucking her. Did the sick child cry, search was made for the witches' pins. Were its sufferings relieved by death, glances were cast around to discover the malignant eye that doomed it. Tales of events like these, so fascinating and so fearful, sent the adults, as well as children to bed with blood chilled, every sense alert with fear, ready to see a ghost in every slip of moonshine, and trace to malign origin every sound breaking the stillness—the rattle of a shutter, the creak of a door, the moan of the winds or the cries of the birds and beasts of the night. For more than a century later, the belief in witchcraft kept a strong hold on the popular mind and had a marked influence on the character of the people.

For two or three evenings previous to Feb. 29, 1704, a new topic of supernatural interest has been added to the usual stock. Ominous sounds have been heard in the night, and, says Rev. Solomon Stoddard, "the people were strangely amazed by a trampling noise round the fort, as if it were beset by Indians." The older men recalled similar omens before the outbreak of Philip's War, when from the clear sky came the sound of trampling horses, the roar of artillery, the rattle of small arms, and the beating of drums to the charge. As these tales of fear, coupled with their own warning, were in everybody's mouth, what wonder if the hearts of the thoughtful sank within them; that they cowered with undefinable dread, as under the shadow of impending disaster; and asked each other with fear and trembling the meaning of this new and dire portent. They had not long to wait the answer.

Even then, only just beyond the northern horizon an avalanche was sweeping down to overwhelm the settlement. A horde of Frenchmen turned half Indian, and savages armed with civilized powers of destruction, under Hertel de Rouville, a French officer of the line, were hurrying towards our doomed frontier, over the dreary waste of snow which stretched away for three hundred miles to the St. Lawrence. In the dark shade of some secluded glen, or deep ravine, a day's march nearer our border, each night their camp was pitched and kettles hung. Their fires lighted up the mossy trunks and overhanging branches of the giant hemlock and the towering pine, throwing their summits into a deeper gloom, and building up a wall of pitchy darkness which enclosed the camp on every side.

A frugal supper, and quiet soon reigned within this circle; around each camp-fire the tired forms of the invaders were soon stretched on beds of evergreens—great dark blotches, with luminous centres, on the crystal snow—a sound sleep undisturbed by the relief of sentinels, or replenishment of fires—up at dawn, a hasty breakfast, and onward. The nearer and nearer prospect of blood and plunder added new strength to their limbs, and sent new gleams of ferocity across their swart faces. Dogs with sledges aided to transport the equipage of the camp, and the march was swift.

The errand of this horde was to murder the inhabitants and burn the dwellings of an unprotected town; its ultimate purpose was to please the Abenaki Indians of Maine. These Indians had complained to the governor of Canada about some fancied or real wrong done them by the English, and begged for redress. The prayer of the savages, and the policy of the French, were in full accord, and this expedition was sent out to prove to the Indians that the French were their friends and avengers. Its object was accomplished.

Leaving the dogs, sledges, and such baggage as suited his purpose, at the mouth of West River, under the shadow of Wantastiquet, De Rouville, with scouts well advanced, pushed forward his eager army on its last day's march with caution and celerity, and reached the bluff overlooking our valley on the night of Feb. 28, 1703-4. Here, behind a low ridge, the packs were unstrapped, the war-paint put on, and final preparations made. Not long before dawn, at the darkest hour of the night, the attack was made on the sleeping town with fire and sword.

Many attempts have been made to depict the shocking tragedies of this dreadful morning, but no pen or pencil ever has succeeded in fitly portraying the terrible reality, the ghastly horrors of this crowning event in the life of a frontier town.



TRUST.

BY J. B. M. WRIGHT.

There's a lesson ever hiding Deep within the floweret's cell, Of an endless trust abiding Safe with Him who guideth well.

As the flowers are ever gazing To the land above the stars, We, our earnest life upraising, Look beyond life's sunset bars,

With our eager footsteps wending, Strive to reach the summits grand, Where, the past and future blending, His own guardian angels stand.



ELIZABETH.[E]

A ROMANCE OF COLONIAL DAYS.

BY FRANCES C. SPARHAWK, Author of "A Lazy Man's Work."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE CAPITULATION.

It was the fifteenth of June. The expected ships had joined Commodore Warren, and his fleet of eleven men-of-war bore into the harbor. Signals had been agreed upon between the two commanders. The brush was piled upon Green Hill ready to send its columns of flame into the air when the Dutch flag at the mast-head of Warren's ship should announce that he was ready.

Under the inspiring promise of this flag, and in the blaze of the answering signals, the troops, with drums beating and colors flying, were to rush to the assault. Archdale's opinion, that heavy guns at the lighthouse would be disastrous to their old enemy the Island Battery, had been confirmed by two Swiss deserters, and that place was now almost untenable under a galling fire. The Circular Battery, built to protect the entrance to the city, was little better than a mass of ruins, while the fire that morning from Pepperell's fascine batteries was so hot that the enemy could not stand to their guns. Land and sea trembled with the shock of the cannonade. In the midst of all this Warren came ashore. The troops were drawn up as if for parade, and the Commodore addressed them in a few spirited words which stirred their devotion to the flag under which they were fighting. Then Pepperell stepped forward and swept his keen eyes along the ranks of the men. He had a knowledge of them and an interest in them that Warren could not even understand. To the Englishman they were so many soldiers eager to uphold the honor of the British nation, and he was proud of them. But Pepperell saw the forests to be hewn, the fields to be reclaimed from the wilderness, the cities yet unbuilded. He saw the life, great, though half its greatness was not dreamed of, that was to pour in through this gate which to-day's work was to open. For, not only that fear and hatred of Popery which marked his age, but, already, that American love of liberty, to which priestcraft is so inimical, burned within him. A touch of Winkelried's fervor kindled his eye. If into his breast, and into the breasts of his comrades, the bayonets of the enemy were to be planted, yet should a way be made for his countrymen.

"Soldiers," he said, "some of you fellow-citizens, and all of you fellow-workers in a great cause, I have no fear of you. I have good reason to know your persistence, and your undaunted courage. Our mother England needs us to-day. She has not demanded this work of us, for she has thought of us as children. Shall she find us grown to brawny manhood?" A deafening cheer rolled from rank to rank to answer him. "Foes assail her, and the enemy's hand is at her throat. Have we the glorious privilege of striking it down? Yes! To-day." Again cheer on cheer burst from the ranks, and rose above the roar of the cannon. "Then, let us spring to our work with nerves of steel, and arms of iron, and hearts of oak, like our ships that outride the storm, like our trees that laugh at the gale. But, look! it is we who command the gale, for it is our cannon that thunder. The enemy's—they are faint and fainter in reply. Their gates are broken down; their walls are broken down; their hearts quake within them, for all their gallant front. My brave soldiers, remember your comrades who lie here in their graves, and carry home to their sorrowing families the news that they have not died in vain; and carry home to your rejoicing families the assurance that you have not lived in vain. For more than that homes shall be peaceful, more than that hearts shall be happy, is it that religion shall be free. But one thing let us remember: strong hearts are not boastful; not in our own might do we go forth to this battle. 'Christo duec,'—'with Christ for our leader,'—this is our courage. Our flag, whose motto ends with this, may well begin, 'Nil desperandum—'Never despair.' We never have despaired; we have known only hope, and now hope is to become a certainty. On you rests the glory of making it so. On you. The enemy is ours to-day! Louisburg is ours TO-DAY! When you look toward the fleet and see the red flag at the mast-head of the 'Superbe;' when you look toward the hill and see the three columns of smoke rise up—then in your might, in the might of Christ, your Leader, march on! Fight! Conquer! And draw breath only within the walls of Louisburg!"

In the tumult of applause that followed this appeal the commanders turned toward one another. Warren was about to go back to his ship and give the final orders for bringing the fleet into action at once; for the lengthening shadows gave warning that the day was waning, and that it was time for plan and speech to ripen into action. With a word of parting, they clasped hands briefly, and the Commodore had already turned to enter his boat, when, with his face toward the city, he suddenly stopped.

"Look!" he said to Pepperell. "Who is that?"

"A white flag, as I live!" cried the General, watching the captain in command of the advance battery, who was going forward to receive the French officer. "Yes," he continued, as Duchambou's letter was handed to him. "See! he asks time to consider terms of capitulation."

After a few hasty orders, by which truce succeeded war, the commanders were seated in Pepperell's tent, their voices seeming to themselves to ring out strangely in the silence about them. The soldiers, flushed with desire for victory, rested upon their arms in an impatient acquiescence, and Pepperell himself, who, as a commander, rejoiced in the thought that bloodshed might be prevented, yet turned martial eyes upon his companion for a moment, and said, stifling a sigh:—

"They'd have gone at it splendidly!"

"Yes," answered the Commodore; "but this is better. Only we must not give those ships time to come up, or Duchambou may change his mind, and we may have our fight on worse terms."

"I agree with you perfectly," answered Pepperell. "We will be no sticklers for trifles."

Another boat beside the Commodore's had lain rocking on the tide in the shallow water while the General was speaking to his men. At the end of his address the oars were plied vigorously, and the boat shot out from the shore. Suddenly, by tacit consent, every oar hung poised on the boat's edge, and the stalwart rowers, bending forward with upturned faces, remained motionless, their eyes fastened upon some object on shore.

"Yes, it's a white flag!" said one of them at last. "Truce? Aint we going to have a chance at the 'parley-vous?'"

A murmur of disappointment answered him.

"I do believe they've struck," said another. And the oars began to be moved again, as if the sooner their work was over the sooner the pliers would learn what they were anxious to know.

"What are you saying?" cried Mr. Royal. "What's that about truce?" he added to the man next him.

"Don't know, sir," the man answered.

"Don't you see the officer with the white flag going up to the General?" volunteered another.

"Stop!" cried Mr. Royal, decidedly. "Wait a moment. If there's a truce, I'm not going to Canso yet." The boat was almost at the side of the waiting vessel, and the men exchanged looks of impatience, although they complied at once.

"There's Col. Vaughan," said Nancy. "See! he's there beside the General, and he looks as cross as can be."

"Then you may be sure the engagement is put off," returned Elizabeth.

"I shall not leave yet. I will go back to shore," said her father, glad to return to a place which only consideration for his daughter's safety had induced him to leave at that time.

They had just stepped upon the beach again when the General came up, accompanied by Commodore Warren.

"They're going to surrender," said Pepperell to Elizabeth, as the two commanders bowed, and passed on hastily.

So Elizabeth did not go to Canso, where the hospitals had been removed. In the light of after events she felt sometimes that it might have been better if she had gone.

Two days later Pepperell marched into Louisburg, at the head of his troops. The French, who were to depart with the honors of war and to sail for France, were drawn up, as if on parade, to receive the victorious army. The colonial volunteers looked at the battered defences, which were still strong enough to have resisted them longer if a combined attack had not been threatened, and they said to one another:—

"It takes our General to capture a Gibraltar. We should all have been in our graves if we had obeyed Governor Shirley, and begun by assault."

From the window of a house overlooking the square, Elizabeth and her faithful attendant watched the whole ceremony of giving and taking formal possession of the city, the exchange of salutations between the French troops and their conquerors, and the departure of the former, with drums beating and colors flying, to embark for France under a twelve months' parole. When all was over, and she still sat there, her eyes full of proud tears at the glory of her country, a voice behind her said:—

"Do you remember the agreement we made?"

She turned, surprised, her lashes still wet.

"I didn't hear you coming," she answered. "You mean when I said I should like to be invited to walk through Louisburg?"

"Yes."

"I should be glad, by and by, if you have leisure; although I suppose that everybody will have that now."

He smiled. "If you saw Pepperell's tasks, you wouldn't think so."

"Then, I suppose that you are busy, too, and everybody else?"

"Yes. Shall I come for you at sunset?"

The words seemed to sound over and over again in Elizabeth's ears,—words, in themselves, almost ungracious, but which his tone had made to mean, "No business ranks your pleasure." Already they had returned to the courtesies of peace. She could not answer in a different spirit; she must abide by the idle words he had remembered, and go. Her work here was over. Many of her patients had been sent home, and all were well cared for now.

Sunset in the middle of June, and in that latitude, was only the burnished gate-way to a beautiful twilight that lingered as if loath to leave the land it loved. The city lay as tranquil as if no bombshell had ever burst over it, or no alien force now held possession of it. Soldiers were everywhere; but order reigned. Voices were heard, and laughter; but not even rudeness assailed the inhabitants, who, while waiting for transportation, had received a promise of protection in their shattered homes. These ventured out now, in the new immunity from cannon-balls, to examine the ruins of their city.

"We've done a good deal of damage in six weeks to a fortress that it took thirty years to build," said Archdale to Elizabeth. "There are only three whole houses left in the city." As he spoke they were passing by gaping walls and shattered gun-carriages. They walked through entire streets where the buildings, all more or less demolished, showed at every point the cruelties of war. At one place they heard voices coming from a roofless dwelling, which proved that its inmates still called it home, and clung to the poor shelter that it gave.

"Take care!" cried Stephen, drawing her back suddenly. And as he spoke, a stone from the high wall lost the balance it had precariously kept, and fell almost at her feet. "We will walk in the middle of the street," he said, and they went on again, she leaning lightly on the arm he offered her through the ways rough and often obstructed. It all seemed like nothing else that had ever been with them, or ever would be with them again. The city, wrecked by the storm that had raged against it, lay in the stillness of hopelessness, and the moon that rose before the twilight had begun to fade made the calmness appear deeper in sight of the destruction that had brought death. It seemed to Elizabeth like Archdale's own life.

"Do you know where Mr. Royal is?" he asked.

"I am not anxious about him," she answered, with a smile. "He is well provided for in every way at General Pepperell's banquet." She stopped suddenly, and turned to Stephen. "That is where you ought to be, too," she said; "and you are here on account of my thoughtless speech."

"Not so at all," he answered, with decision. "To be walking here with you is what I like best."

She understood that her knowledge of his suffering and her sympathy made this very natural. That evening for the first time they spoke of Katie. He said that it seemed strange to him that the thought of her had so little power over him.

"It will all come back with the old life," she answered; "that seems broken now, but we shall take it up again."

"Where we left it?" he asked.

"I think so," she answered him.

He said nothing, for he did not himself understand what it was that moved him so, and why he should be so eager to deny what must be true. Only one thing was clear to him: that nothing must break the peace of this evening. This was real in the midst of so much that seemed unreal, and beautiful in the midst of confusion. They went on for a time in a mood that Archdale dreaded to break in upon. But there was something that he must tell her, lest she should learn it in a still harder way.

"I have news," he began at last, reluctantly.

"News?" she cried. "From home? About any one there? Not bad?"

"Yes, bad, but not from home at all. News that I wish you need never hear; but this cannot be helped; and I know all that can be known about the matter. Shall I tell you?"

"Yes," she answered, faintly.

"It is about Edmonson."

"I thought so."

"And Harwin."

"Yes. They"—

"They fought," he finished,—"yes. I don't know how they managed it, nor how Harwin could leave the fleet, but in some way he did." The speaker paused.

"Well?" she said, tremulously, after a silence.

"Harwin was killed." Archdale felt her hand tighten its grasp. "And Edmonson," he added. Suddenly she drew away from him, and looked at him searchingly, her breath coming unevenly.

"What!" she gasped. "Both! Both of them! Two deaths! How could it be? Tell me what you mean."

"That is what I mean. It is true. Edmonson, you remember, willed, at last, to recover, and he did so rapidly, that is, he was well enough to go about, though not to report for duty. How he and Harwin arranged matters, or met in the lonely spot in which they were found, I can't explain,—nobody can. Evidently, it was a duel, and it appears to have been without seconds, to make the matter more secret. Each must have given the other his death, for they were found—But I need not tell you all this."

"Yes, tell me how you are sure that they both—died in the duel."

"Edmonson must have given the death-wound first, for it seemed as if Harwin, in an expiring agony, had sprung upon him and stabbed him to the heart, as he fell himself." Elizabeth stood motionless, her face turned away and one hand over her eyes. "The news was brought to the General yesterday morning, and he sent me over to investigate," added Archdale after a pause, in which he had studied her with the utmost attention.

Suddenly she turned quite away from him with a low moan. "It is terrible, terrible!" she said under her breath. "And I—I—Oh, take me back to the house!"

As Archdale obeyed, they went on without speaking, she no longer holding his arm, but shrinking into herself as if she would have liked to be invisible altogether.

"I think," she said at last, slowly, "that I ought to have been willing to go to Canso. Perhaps I could have prevented the meeting by having them watched, or in some way. Of course I can't tell. But I ought not to have been selfish, and ask to stay here."

She had almost reached the house as she said this.

"You, selfish!" he cried.

But he fancied that she did not hear him, for she only repeated: "I ought not to have been so selfish," and after a moment, as she stepped upon the threshold, added, "Thank you; but I should not have gone if I had known. Good-night."

He was alone in the moonlight; in a mood greatly at variance with the tranquil sky that he stood looking into vaguely. Was Elizabeth suffering only because she was connected, though so innocently, with this dreadful thing? Was this all? It must be. And yet,—and yet people could love where they despised,—there was Katie.

Then he saw that not only sympathy for Elizabeth had made him speak, but the desire to see how Edmonson's death affected her. Well, after all, he had not seen anything clearly, and he was neither proud of himself, nor happy, as he walked away.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

COMPENSATION.

"Yes, Boston has gone wild," asserted Colonel Archdale a week after the news of the capture of Louisburg. He was in his brother's house, with Mr. Archdale, his wife, and Katie, as eager listeners. "And not only Boston," he went on, "but New York and Philadelphia, too. As to Boston, there has never been anything like it since the place was founded. Captain Bennett got in with the news about one o'clock the morning of the third. But they didn't fire the salvos until daylight. Then the bells rang—oh! how they rang!—and the streets filled like magic. The cannon fired, the people shouted and wept for pride and joy. All day long crowds kept pouring in from the towns round about, and at night there was not a house in the city or near it that was not illuminated. Pepperell's official report was very interesting. Part of it was read to the people; but I saw the document. He speaks handsomely of Commodore Warren, which was to be expected of him; and he says that he believes there never were such rains seen before, 'which,' he adds, 'is not perhaps to be wondered at, for we gave the town about nine thousand cannon-balls and six hundred bombs before it surrendered;' and he said, too, that 'the day of the flag of truce the fire from Island Battery made some of the gunners run into the sea for shelter.'"

"Has Elizabeth returned?" asked Katie, after further details of the surrender had been given.

"Yes; she came home with her father in Captain Bennett's ship. I saw her that same day."

"How is she?"

"Very well; she looks worn, however; she must have worked hard. She is a strange young lady,—very charming, though."

"Yes, indeed; as good as gold," assented Katie, wondering if Elizabeth's fatigue had seriously injured her good looks. She wondered, also, if Stephen were any more reconciled to his fate. But she did not ask this.

"I suppose Stephen has not come home yet," said her mother at the moment.

"He will not be here at present. He wrote me that Pepperell needed him there."

New England was full of the elation that a youth feels at having given evidence of manly prowess. For the idea of the expedition had been born in the colonial brain, and the enterprise had been carried through by colonial nerve, muscle, and endurance. The very sinews of war had come from New England. Days of thanksgiving were appointed. The soldiers who returned broken down by wounds or illness found welcome and aid, and the families of those who had died in the service were considered by some as opportunities for proving the gratitude they felt for victory. Europe was amazed at the exploit, and England had good reason to remember a conquest which counterbalanced the disasters that she had met with on the Continent, and was the best achievement of the war of 1744. News soon came that Warren had been made Admiral, and their own soldier, Pepperell, created a Baronet.

One perfect afternoon in September Katie set out through the fields to her uncle's house. The walk was not too long when one went across lots. She would perhaps stay to tea, and then the Colonel would send her home. She felt that it was very nice in all the family not to resent her change of mind in regard to Stephen. That day she went on in happy mood.

At last she crossed the little bridge over the creek, and walked slowly up to the house, wondering that she had found neither of her cousins on the river this beautiful day. They would have taken her across the stream, and saved her the distance down the bank to the bridge, and up the long avenue on the other side. But it was cool under the arching trees. She sauntered on. Exercise had brightened her color a little, but it was still as delicate as the petal of a rose; her eyes, too, were full of brightness; her mouth, with its beautiful curves, was bewitching. Altogether, a more graceful figure, in its white dress, and a more perfect face, had seldom made their way through a vista of summer foliage. Was it her fault if too critical an observer missed in the face those shadowy lines that nothing but thought can draw, and in the eyes that peculiar clear depth of shining that comes only when fires of pain have burned into the soul, and purified it, and made it luminous? The shadows of the great trees above her flickered over her face, and did their best to make up the defect, and her long lashes threw a beautiful shade around the bright brown eyes. A young life that suffering has never touched has a wonderful charm in its exemption. It is only when suffering fails in its work that something is missed in the face it has passed over.

As she came near the house she saw that the hall door stood open. She thought that her uncle, or one of the girls, was there. With a smile of greeting she ran the few more steps up the avenue, and standing on the threshold, called merrily:—

"Here am I! Where are you, somebody? Uncle Walter? Faith?" Then she gave a cry of surprise, and, holding out her hand without any embarrassment, said:—

"Stephen! you at home? I hadn't heard of it. When did you come?"

Archdale stood a moment motionless, looking at her fixedly. Then he came forward mechanically and took her hand, still staring at her, in what seemed to her a kind of bewilderment, until she again asked when he had returned, and hoped that he had escaped wounds and illness in the siege.

"Yes," he said, at last, in what seemed to her an unnatural way, "I am quite well, thank you." After a pause he added, "I was coming this evening to see you all. I reached here only to-day."

"Come back with me," she answered, "and"—she hesitated a moment, then, feeling that it was better for poor Stephen to have the encounter over at once, since he must bear the pain of it, she busied herself with looking through the open door of the drawing-room, and added,—"You will meet Lord Bulchester there; he is coming this evening." In spite of herself she turned pale, and her eyelids drooped.

But Stephen held out his hand with a coolness that she told herself was admirably assumed.

"I congratulate you," he said. "He is a much better match than I am. He is a good fellow, too, else I shouldn't be glad, my dear cousin." He had not called her cousin for years, not since their betrothal, and Katie looked up at him. Their eyes met.

After her return that evening, and after Stephen had left his uncle's house, she sat talking listlessly with Lord Bulchester. She was thinking over the account of the death of Harwin and of Edmonson. She had learned the details that afternoon. They were dreadful, she thought.

She perceived something of the truth as to this duel. She knew now, as she had told her mother before, that Harwin was not a man to love to his death; it was Elizabeth's suitor who had done that. And Katie, at the moment lightly touched by the crime and the horror, sat lost in contemplation of something that did move her deeply.

"Yes," she said to herself, "it was she, not I, who had the power. And now? Yes, now, is it still not I? How very strange!"

CHAPTER XXXIV.

IN THE STORM.

Drip! drip! fell the rain that day, two weeks after Stephen Archdale's return from Louisburg. It was an easterly drizzle that, looked at from the window, seemed to be merely time wasted, for the rain appeared to be amounting to nothing; but if one tried it, he found it chilling, penetrating, and gloomy enough. To Archdale, as he plodded through the muddy streets, Boston had never looked so dismal; yet within the last ten days he had tasted enough of its hospitality to have had the memory of its smiling faces lighten his gloom. But another memory overshadowed these. He had not been to see Mistress Royal during his stay in town. He wondered if this neglect seemed strange to her, or if she had not even noticed it. Of course, feted and flattered as she was, the heroine of the hour, though bearing her honors under protest, she had not wasted her thoughts upon him. He was doing her injustice here, and he felt sure of it; she had thought of his meetings with Katie. But her very sympathy was what he wanted least of all; it was as strong a defence as the walls of Louisburg.

What did he want? Why had he not been to see her? Why should he go? The mist and dimness of the day were nothing to the obscurity in his own mind. All that he was quite sure of was, that whenever he had received an invitation, and the heroes of Louisburg had had lionizing enough, he had thought, first of all that he should meet Elizabeth Royal; yet when he had met her he had never talked much to her; but by stealth he had watched her constantly.

That morning he was walking toward her home. Should he go in and ask for her? He slackened his steps as he drew near. But what should he say to her? Commonplaces? He went on.

Elizabeth happened to go to the window as Archdale was disappearing down the street. Since his return an arrangement had been made to pay back the money that she had put into the Archdale firm, and a part of this had been already paid; the rest was to follow soon. It was no wonder that Mr. Archdale wanted to be rid of all thought of her, since she had made him lose what he valued most in the world. After a time she turned back to the open fire again and took up her book; but she did not read much. "Is it possible," she said to herself at last, "that it annoys me because he does not treat me as the rest do, as if I had done something wonderful? He knows better. And surely I have done him injury enough to make him wish never to see me again." Again she sat with her book in her lap and thinking. "There was a charm in that terrible life at Louisburg that I cannot find here," she said to herself at last. "I suppose I am not made for gayety. He was one of the figures in it, and he recalls it. But all that life has gone, and he with it." Then she was shocked at a disposition that could prefer bloodshed to peace. No; it certainly was not this: it was because for once she had been a little useful. She felt sure that Stephen Archdale had met Katie, and, as he went down the street past the house that rainy morning, Elizabeth's thoughts followed him with a pity all the more deep that it would be compelled to be forever silent.

A week went by,—a week of weather that had all the sultriness of August. Mrs. Eveleigh, more amazed at each added day of this, predicted calamity, and urged Elizabeth to give up an excursion that she had promised to take down the harbor with a party of friends. Sir Temple and Lady Dacre, who had spent the summer in Canada, and had returned to Boston, were among the guests; indeed, the party had been made for them, and, as the dainty yacht sped out to sea, none were more pleased with it, and with being in it, than Lady Dacre.

Archdale was nearer Mistress Royal than he had been since their walks and talks together at Louisburg. But Sir Temple Dacre had seized upon her almost at starting, and when the yacht ran ashore for the party to stroll under the trees on the point and to lunch there, the conversation was still going on. Sir Temple was asking Elizabeth about her late experiences and observations; he found the first very interesting, and the latter unusually keen.

As the company grouped themselves upon the beach, however, Elizabeth found Archdale beside her.

"I want you to see the waves from that point," he said. "It puts me in mind of one of the juttings of the shore up there."

She walked on with him, and two of her companions, who had heard the remark, followed, desirous, as they said, to get a sight of anything that could give them a hint of Louisburg. Elizabeth would not spoil Archdale's satisfaction by saying that she saw no resemblance. She listened while he answered the questions of the others, and by suggestions and reminders she led him on to vivid descriptions of one of the incidents of the siege. In talking he constantly referred to her. "You remember," he said, sometimes; or at others, "You were not there;" or, again, "It was on such a day," recalling some event with which she was connected. It seemed to Archdale very soon when the summons came to lunch.

"I haven't enjoyed myself so much for a long time. I hope we are not going home yet," protested Lady Dacre, as the party went on board again.

"No, indeed!" cried Archdale. "Where should you like to go, Lady Dacre?"

Her ladyship pointed to a line of shore a few miles distant. "Is that too far?"

"Not if the wind holds good," returned another of the party so promptly that a sailor, who was about to speak, drew back again with a frown, and contented himself with muttering something to his companions.

For a time the wind was fair; but when they had gone two-thirds of the distance it failed them. The boat lay, rocking a little, but with no onward progress, her sails hanging flabby and motionless. Gradually laughter and jest ceased from the lips of the pleasure-seekers.

"A shower coming up," said Sir Temple Dacre, in a tone that he wished to make unconcerned. But it was not a mere shower that threatened, but something more awful in the brassy heavens, the stifling atmosphere, the clouds that had gathered with a swiftness unprecedented in that region. The air seemed to have receded behind the clouds to swell the fury of the tempest that was coming. The stillness was full of horror; it seemed like the uplifting of a weapon to strike. The reticence of the sailors was ominous. This calm had fallen so suddenly that the boat had not been able to reach land, or even water more sheltered. It must meet the full fury of the tempest.

The lightning began to play incessantly. The thunder had a sound of struggle, as if the giant of the skies were breaking his fetters.

At length the listeners heard a sullen roar more prolonged than the tempest, and the wind was upon them. The little vessel shivered and flew before it. It swept past the cove that the sailors had hoped to enter, and bore down with terrible speed toward the rocky coast beyond. The sails had been furled, but the wind and the water needed no aid. The rain came, a blinding deluge; the forked bolts seemed to have set the air on fire; the crash of the thunder and the roar of the wind and the water all mingled together.

The company had scattered. Only a few had gone into the little cabin, the rest preferring to take what small chance the freedom of the deck might give them. With all conventionalities swept away, they were themselves as their companions had never seen them before and never would again. Some were crouched on the deck, with sobs and cries for help; some knelt in silent prayer, and others sat with a stoicism of bearing that their paleness and anxious eyes showed was superficial.

Elizabeth, with an unconquerable desire to meet death upon her feet, stood clinging to the mast. She had thrust her arm through a rope about it, and so could resist the wind which, as she stood, was somewhat broken to her by the mast. Archdale, catching by one thing and another, came toward her. Slipping one arm into the rope, he put the other about her in a firm support.

She looked up at him. She remembered him as she had seen him during the siege, imperturbable in a storm of shot. "You have faced death many times before," she said.

"Never with you beside me. The dread of this is that I cannot save you." And then, as he looked at her, all that he had come to understand, and had meant to break to her so slowly, lest she should be startled away from him, broke from him at once in impetuous speech. "But death with you, Elizabeth," he cried, "is better to me than life without you. I have known it for only a little time; I can't tell how long it has been true. But, in face of death, you shall know it. Don't think me fickle. You know better than any one else how I played out that game to the bitter end,—no, the happy end,—for at this moment I would rather stand here five minutes and speak out my heart to you, and feel that you love me, and die in your love, Elizabeth, than spend a long life by Katie Archdale's side. My darling, I am selfish. I would send you away to safety if I could; but I must be glad to have you here beside me." For she was clinging to him, and her head, that had from the first been bent to avoid the wind, was almost upon his shoulder. A moment ago he had thought that this would be enough to comfort him if she did not turn from him; now it was not even the beginning, it was only a divine possibility. He bent over her. "Before it is too late, my darling," he said.

But she did not speak. Only, after a moment, she raised her head, and their eyes met.

The wind shrieked in its fury, the water seethed and hissed, and the boat rushed on toward the rocks. The two turned their eyes away to watch the sea, and then back again upon each other.

"It is the water that unites us again," said Archdale, "and this time forever. My wife, kiss me once here before eternity come."

"Have you no hope?" she asked him.

"It is cruel," he answered. "No, I have none. When we touch the rocks the boat will go to pieces in an instant. And look at the sea." She raised her lips to his as he bent over her; no color came into her face; she was already at the gates of death. She spoke a few low words to Archdale, and then they stood together in silence.

Through the blackness of the storm they saw the turrets of foam where the water was raging over the hidden rocks. Elizabeth shivered. "My father!" she said, brokenly. Stephen could speak no word of comfort. He could only clasp her more closely as they waited for the fatal crash. His eyes now rested upon hers, and now measured the distance between the boat and the breakers.

"What does it mean?" he cried at last. "We are not going directly upon them now! Can the wind have veered? O God! is there any chance? any of life with you, Elizabeth? No, it cannot be." His voice had an unsteadiness that his conviction of the destruction that they were rushing upon had not given it.

The wind had veered, and in veering had fallen a very little. It no longer rained in such torrents; but the rain had been a discomfort unnoticed in the danger. The wind, still furious, and the rocks which they were nearing, left no one in the boat, thought for the rain.

It grew a little lighter. The vessel gave herself a shake, not like the straining of the moments before, and rushed on. Yet the wind had lost something of its force, and it was not now driving directly against the rocks, as Archdale had seen. It might veer and fall still more before they should be reached. There was still terrible danger; but there was, at least, one chance of escape.

So the minutes went by. The rocks grew plainer to the watchers until it seemed to them probable that they were passing over the outermost ones. But, if the boat could round the point before her without striking, it would find a smoother shore beyond.

With the brightening of the prospect Elizabeth had drawn away from Archdale, and they had joined the others who had revived a little in the new hope. All were breathless with suspense, for the next few moments were more full of instant peril than those that had gone before. At any moment they might strike, and then—half a mile or more of foaming water between them and the shore, while the two frail boats that they had to make the passage in would not hold them all.

The storm on shore was remembered for years as something nearer a tropical hurricane than had been known ever to have visited New England.

The boat swept on. Once there came a sound that made the listeners shiver, but the keel grated and passed over, the point was rounded, and they entered calmer water, wild enough, however, and found the wind still falling and the place more sheltered.

But it was not for some time, and not without great danger in the passage, that all the party stepped again upon land.

They were miles away from their homes, and must find present shelter, and such conveyance as they could.

On the way to a farm-house that had opened its doors to them, Archdale, who had been helping in getting the company on shore, joined Elizabeth. He took the shawl that she was carrying and threw it over his arm, making use of the opportunity to say a few words to her in an undertone.

He never forgot the expression with which she looked up at him. Embarrassment and amusement threw a veil over her gratitude for their safety, and over that new force in her that danger had revealed.

"You would not have had everything all your own way so readily," she said, "if—if—I mean, I—I should not have"—She stopped.

A terrible fear seized upon Archdale.

"You regret what you said? You did not mean it, Elizabeth?" His lips were dry. He spoke with difficulty. It had seemed to him too wonderful for belief.

She gave him one swift glance that set his heart aglow. She slipped her hand into his proffered arm, and went on demurely in the drenched procession.

END.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.



THE ORIOLE.

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD.

Oriole, sitting asway High on an emerald spray, Why that melodious zest, Bird of the beautiful breast, Bright as the dawn of the day?

What are the words that you say?— "Sing and be merry with May, Since to be merry is best," Oriole?

Winter has wasted away; Gone are the skies that were gray: Hear the glad bird near its nest! Come let us join in its jest,— Join in the joy of the gay Oriole!



A TRIP AROUND CAPE ANN.

BY ELIZABETH PORTER GOULD.

Mr. and Mrs. Gordon allowed no summer to pass without going with their family to some place noted for its beautiful or historical attractions. Their ten days' stay in Nantucket, in July, 1883, as well as their intelligent sojourn in Concord the following summer, had been to them a fruitful source of many an hour's conversation and pleasure.

And now the summer of 1885 was approaching, and where should they go? To be sure they could not have the delightful company of Miss Ray, the young lady who had been with them for several seasons, for she had married, and gone to reside in Colorado. But their daughter Bessie was still with them, and also their son Tom. He was now a student in the Institute of Technology. This constituted the Gordon family.

After a little discussion, it was decided to yield to Mrs. Gordon's desire to visit the home of her childhood, Manchester, Mass., and take what she had not taken for twenty years, a ride round the Cape. Bessie and Tom had never taken this trip, and Manchester was a good place to start from. These were two important considerations which finally decided the matter.

As they finished talking, Mrs. Gordon, in her zeal for historical truth, begged that whenever they thought of or wrote the name of the Cape, they would spell it with an e. She could not imagine Queen Anne spelling her name Ann.

"Indeed," she added, "your Uncle Tenney in his 'Coronation' spells it with an e, and so does Smith's 'Narrative,' the first document which tells of it. That should be authority, surely."

When the middle of July came, the Gordons started, as they had planned to do, to go to the home of Mrs. Gordon's mother in Manchester (now so well known as Manchester-by-the-Sea), on old High Street. The town had changed the name of this street to Washington, but the old lady could not be tempted to call it so, for she had always lived on High Street, indeed was born there, and she didn't see "why it wasn't the same street that it always was." The good-sized brick house in which she lived was particularly dear to Mrs. Gordon, since in it she first saw the light of this world, and in it some of her pleasantest child-days had been spent. So when upon their arrival she saw Tom boyishly stop to swing on the linked iron chains which marked the front entrance to the house, she herself was swinging on them, as in the olden days.

Upon entering the house, she found herself spontaneously going, just as she used to do, through the hall to the piazza on the back of the house, to catch a glimpse of the fresh green garden, with its summer houses—one of which enclosed the well—which to her youthful eye had been so grand. How prettily the nasturtiums, growing over the wall, adorned the time-honored lane by the house! No wonder that they had caught the artistic eye of Enneking. For these nasturtiums, with the dear old lane which had known her childish feet, the large elm tree, and even a portion of the house itself, as caught by his genius, had greeted her eye when a short time before she had been in New York city. Then the house had another and peculiar interest, since it had been dedicated, like a church. A relative of hers, a well-to-do sea-captain, had built it some fifty years ago, and although he was no professor of religion, yet he conceived this idea concerning it. Perhaps the size of the house had suggested this to him, since it was a large one for those days. Everybody thought it was so strange to have the minister come and hold a regular dedication service. The house was full of people to witness it. But when, many years afterward, the first services of a church which was formed from the old one were held in the parlors of this very house, many thought Captain Allen's act prophetic.

The morning after the arrival of the Gordon family at this interesting brick house, familiar to all old frequenters of Manchester, Mr. Gordon made arrangements for a ride around the town. Every year, he said, had something new to show. They went first in the direction of Gale's Point. The sight of the comfortable Smith farm, where Mrs. Gordon used to visit when a girl, brought to her mind the fact that the whole of this Gale's Point, where now there were no less than sixteen fine houses was then a part of this farm known as Major's Smith's pasture land. It could have been bought for a mere song. But now some of the land had brought over six thousand dollars an acre. How she did wish that her father had been far-seeing enough to have bought up all this shore when he could have done so for a mere pittance!

They stopped every little while to enjoy the fine ocean-views which the Point afforded. Mr. Gordon's business eye was noticing every improvement.

"They'll miss it," he said, as they passed in sight of the observatory on Doctor Bartol's place across the stream, "if they do not build a bridge over to Tuck's Landing. People then could drive directly there from Point Rocks here, instead of going way round through the town. It must come in time. It will come."

He seemed thus to have settled the matter, as far as himself was concerned; and then wondered why that little wooden building was being erected on the landing owned by the town. He found out its use, however, when, a few weeks later, he was an invited guest to one of the annual picnics held by the "Elder Brethren." These gatherings, he learned, had become quite an institution for the mingling of fish chowders and bright speeches.

Continuing their drive, they soon paused in front of the Howe place, for its fine sea-view, and, later on, by the Black residence, for the added inland view. The sight of Lobster Cove brought to mind the many good picnics once enjoyed there. Soon Gale's Point was behind them, and they were driving past the Masconomo, the hotel which gives such a pretty background of human interest to Old Neck beach. This Indian name suggested Indian history to Mrs. Gordon. She was so surprised that her children were ignorant of Masconomo, the sagamore of Agawam.

"Why, this town ought to have been named Masconomo," she added, after having told them of his kind treatment of Governor Endicott's men, when in 1630 they landed on these, his shores. "I am glad that Mr. Booth remembered him when he built this hotel. I thanked him once for it."

As she finished speaking, she called attention to the quaint, sloping-roof house perched upon a large, high rock, which they were then passing. This was the one which Mr. James T. Fields had built and occupied a number of summers before his death. The sight of it brought to mind some pleasant little experiences of her friendship with him, which she related as they continued their drive down the Old Neck road. On this they passed the house, perhaps a hundred years old, now owned and occupied by John Gilbert, the actor. A little further on they came to the Towne place, which, through the courtesy of its owner, gave them a good look at Eagle Head and the pretty houses which dot the surrounding shore. Returning, they drove for a while on the singing sands of Old Neck beach, before going back through the town towards West Manchester to Doctor Bartol's observatory. On reaching that, through the kindness of the venerable doctor, they were privileged to view from the top its fine outlook.

"What a short distance to Gale's Point," exclaimed Tom pointing in that direction, "but what a long ride round!"

"That's what I said," responded his father. "The bridge must come."

After driving through one or two of the neighboring places, and also through the Higginson woods, where as yet there was but one house, they drove back to the centre of the town. Before returning home they spent some little time in Allen's favorite corner-store, where they indulged with its genial owner—who was an old friend of Mrs. Gordon's—in pleasant reminiscences. He told them much of the present condition of the town, and of its projected changes. He said that the taxes, which had been as high as thirteen or fourteen dollars a thousand, and as low as four dollars and eighty cents, were just now six dollars and ten cents a thousand. He greatly interested Bessie and Tom by telling amusing and even thrilling anecdotes of some old ancestors of theirs who had been prominent in town affairs. He told of one in particular, an old sea-captain, who was captured by the British in the revolutionary war for being an American; how he suffered everything while incarcerated in Dartmoor prison, rather than deny his birthright. The originality of this old "grandsir," as he was called, also interested them. He always called the gentry, or the "upper ten," the "Qual." This was his name for the quality, as others called them. Tom was specially pleased to hear that the farm which he owned and lived on was still owned and occupied by his descendants, having been in the same family name since 1640. What is called "Leach Mountain" belongs to the estate.

As the Gordons were leaving the friend who had so entertained them, he invited them to go in the afternoon to the Essex woods to see the Agassiz rock, and the immense boulder near it. This invitation they were happy to accept. Bessie was the only one of the party who had visited the place. She had taken a trip there the summer before with a party of scientific people, and had not wearied in speaking of its peculiar characteristics. No wonder that Agassiz himself had come to see it, and expressed his admiration for it. Then such an immense boulder resting upon another boulder and bearing upon its summit a thrifty pine tree, was certainly a wonder. And they all thought so too, when in the afternoon they were climbing the rough ladder (manufactured by two Manchester gentlemen for the purpose) to obtain the views over all the trees of the town, and islands, with the ocean winding in and out. They found it hard to believe that such boulders found in thick woods could have been borne hither in ages gone by, by the force of the waters of the sea. But Tom declared, with a student's air which did not escape his father's attention, that since they all showed the marks of glacial action, it must have been so. After visiting this novel freak of nature, they drove up through the Essex woods. These woods of nearly four miles in length were especially dear to Mrs. Gordon, since they were so associated with good times of her youth. She silently thanked the far-seeing people who, to preserve them from the hand of the wood-cutter had secured a portion on each side of the road.

These drives around Manchester led her to reflect how the town was improving under the influence of its summer residents. New roads had been made, and one long since closed had been reopened. Bessie had told of this the summer before, when she had driven over its several miles of woods to the Chebacco lakes. The streets were now lighted and watered, and even some of the fences had been removed. This she considered a great improvement. Indeed, since her visit to Williamstown, and other towns in the Berkshire hills, she could not be wholly satisfied with any place seeking beauty as long as the houses were shut in by fences. She looked upon these as relics of barbarism, necessary only to primitive or disorderly regions. To be sure she did not see but four or five of the eleven or twelve cabinet manufactories which she used to see, but she saw a public library well patronized by the nearly two thousand inhabitants.

The large cobble-stones in front of some of the houses so attracted Tom's attention that they all decided to go the next day to Cobble-stone Beach to see these "hard-boiled eggs of the sea" which the ocean for ages had been rounding into perfect shape. This they did before they went to Norman's Woe to enjoy, with a party of friends, an old-fashioned picnic. While sitting on the rocks at Norman's Woe, Tom, at Bessie's request, recited The Wreck of the Hesperus. She could never think of the one without the other, the poet had so immortalized it.

They had several yacht sails, one day going as far as Marblehead Neck, where they landed, and enjoyed the hospitality of the Club House. Their swift return to Manchester in less than an hour's time was a great pleasure. But the days were going, and they were yet to go round the Cape. The day that was finally set for this purpose proved to be one of the loveliest of the season. By nine o'clock they were driving through the Manchester woods, where every now and then the sweet wild roses greeted them by the roadside. As Mrs. Gordon looked in among the stately pines she felt as never before the steady friendship of nature. The thought rested her. These old trees were as true to her to-day as they were years ago. She soon saw in the distance on Graves' Beach the house which the poet Dana, as one of the first summer residents, had built some forty years ago. This was still in the Dana name, and the one near it was the summer-house of the poet's grandson and his wife, the daughter of Longfellow.

Later they passed the Manchester poorhouse, with its good ocean-view, and caught a glimpse of Baker's island. When they came to a small pond by the roadside, separated from the salt water by only a narrow strip of land, Mrs. Gordon recalled how, when it was owned by the town (it now belonged to the Jefferson Coolidge estate), she and her brother used to gather its pond-lilies with the pink-tinted leaves. They were thought to be extra fine. Just before they reached the Crescent beach in Magnolia, they saw among the trees on the right the summer home of James Freeman Clarke. After pausing for a good look at Magnolia with its Hesperus, its Sea-View hotels, and its pretty cottages in the distance, and passing the boundary stone between Manchester and Gloucester, they found themselves in the Gloucester woods. They drove leisurely along to enjoy their fragrance. They passed the swamp where the magnolia plant grows, away from its Virginia home. Bessie, the day before, had seen for the first time in her life, in a garden in the village, its white fragrant blossoms on a plant which had successfully thrived, after having been transplanted from this swamp. Others had thrived as well, much to the delight of their owners.

Upon nearing Gloucester, the rocks became more apparent. The beautiful Hovey place on the right gave particular satisfaction to Mr. Gordon for its combination of woods, ocean-view, and look of solid comfort.

Soon Gloucester harbor, with Eastern Point lighthouse in the distance, came before them. Then they crossed the little narrow bridge under which the Massachusetts and Ipswich Bays meet. Tom had curiosity enough to notice that the Ipswich was then running into the Massachusetts.

After passing the Pavilion Hotel, and driving through Gloucester's main street with its busy outlook, they came to the Rockport road, with its quaint houses, resembling those of Marblehead. While on this road they saw, off on the right, Bass Rock, where was the summer home of Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

Just before entering Rockport the rocks were so many and connected that, if they had chosen, they could have walked to the highway on Ipswich Bay on them alone. No wonder that such a place was called Rockport.

While in the town they went to the Cove to see something of the extensive fish business carried on there. They walked on to the Point, to see the old fort which, in the time of the revolutionary war, contained enough plucky men to seize a barge with men and a cannon, which a passing British man of War sent to besiege them. The men were taken to Gloucester, but the cannon was left there where it remained until it found a better place in the town-hall yard. There, all renovated, it now stands as a precious relic of American pluck.

Mr. Gordon was interested to see where the breakwater was to be, for which government had been petitioned. This he considered a necessity sure to come.

From Rockport they went on to Pigeon Cove, passing on the way thrifty-looking houses, the Rockport Granite Company quarries, and also those of the Pigeon Cove Company.

After having done justice to the good dinner which the Pigeon Cove House afforded, they continued their ride around the Cape. Driving on to Phillips Avenue, they passed the Ocean View House, and later the summer home of Sara Jewett, the actress. Next to this was the house of the late Doctor Chapin, who was a pioneer in Pigeon Cove as a summer resident. After passing other cottages, and some boarding-houses, they came to Halibut Point, the extreme point of Cape Ann. Here they alighted, and went down on the rocks, and spent some time, on this perfect summer day, in enjoying the grand old ocean. They then retraced their steps, and were soon driving past more pretty cottages nestling among the pine trees, surrounded by wild roses and well-directed care, until they come out to the main road again. They then drove through Folly Cove, a fishing-place facing Ipswich Bay, and also Lanesville, where they saw work going on in the Lanesville Granite Company quarries. At Bay View they visited the Cape Ann quarries. Here they saw the model of the Flying Mercury, which, cut in granite, had just been sent on to the new post-office in Baltimore. They also saw some granite balusters being made for the same place. All this reminded Mrs. Gordon of her visit here some fourteen years before, when she had seen the workmen cutting the eagle for the Boston post-office. The polishing of the granite attracted their attention. They learned that it took three days of constant rubbing of sand and water over the granite by machine to obtain the polish required. They next visited the place of General B. F. Butler, near there, and also the one adjoining it of Colonel Jonas French. Thence they returned to Gloucester, through the pretty winding road by the Squam river, leaving the village of Annisquam, connected by a bridge, at the right. They arrived in Manchester in the early evening, delighted with their all-day trip. Mrs. Gordon had enjoyed the striking and many changes which the twenty years had brought; while Mr. Gordon was more than ever convinced of the value of this shore to those seeking the beauty and healing strength of woods. They lingered a day or two longer in Manchester, in which they enjoyed a moonlight stroll on the beach, as well as a long, interesting drive all over Beverly Farms. While driving through Franklin Haven's beautiful grounds, which he so generously opens to the public, they, with others who had gone before them, gratefully appreciated this privilege of seeing such beauty away from the public thoroughfare. "In a peculiar sense," mused Mrs. Gordon, "such men are benefactors. They rest the tired eye, and calm the troubled nature."