I've Been Thinking; or, the Secret of Success

CHAPTER XXVI.

The Widow Brown, in consequence of the disclosure made by the dying Ned Saunders, was placed in no very agreeable situation. She thought that the unhappy man had his reason, but she could not be so very sure as to be willing to publish what might not after all be true, to the certain injury not only of Mr. Cross, who had ever been kind to her, but of her son also, who had wound himself around her heart, and for whom she had been so earnestly entreated by that miserable woman who declared herself his mother.

She comprehended but a very little of the nature of papers of any kind, beyond those solemn legacies from God to man, which daily she perused with love and gratitude. And what Ned Saunders meant by papers which Mr. Cross was anxious to get hold of, she could not conceive.

'The poor, deluded soul,' said she one day, while walking alone, her thoughts too burdensome to be kept in; 'I am very doubtful that he knew what he said when he talked about those papers; and now that the dreadful deed is done, what good end can be answered by publishing it abroad? It will not build the house again, and God will avenge it in his own time and way.'

She wished much, however, for the time when William should be able to make some disclosures as to his share in the terrible transaction. That he was a participator in the crime she could not believe; but that he had attacked Ned Saunders, and that the consequences had proved fatal to one of them, she had too strong evidence to doubt. The whole was altogether beyond the comprehension of the poor widow, and all she could do, at present, was to wait for time to make plain the path of duty.

William, however, could no longer bear the struggle which agitated his mind, and he determined to unburden it. As there were reasons why he preferred to communicate with his sister, he took an opportunity, when alone, to reveal all he knew, and let her into the secret of his own present condition, and the villany of Cross. Hettie's first impulse was to fly at once to Mr. Rutherford.

'He ought to be made acquainted with these facts without a moment's delay.'

'But David, sister; think of him.'

Hettie was silent; she gazed a moment at her brother, then leaned back in her chair, and resting her head upon her hand, was lost for awhile in busy thought.

'David must be told, William; he must know it before any one else; he has had no hand in it, and all his kindness to us demands this confidence in him.'

William made no reply; he was much exhausted, and even the effort of thinking was painful. The mother also now came in, and, wishing a little relaxation, Hettie left the room and sought a favourite spot to which she was in the habit of retiring, sheltered alike from the rays of the sun and common observation—a tumult of distracting thoughts rioted within; again and again she resolved the doubtful question as to her present duty, and the difficulties attending any course which presented itself to her were so great, that she most heartily longed for some experienced counsel to guide her steps.

In the midst of her perplexities, she was startled at the sound of approaching footsteps.

'I thought I should never find you. Your mother said she guessed you was here; but that thick clump of bushes hid you so, that I had almost given it up.'

'I come here occasionally; it is so retired.'

'I should think it was retired enough; but I don't see what you want to get off so alone for; it is lonely enough, I should think, all over these old barrens. But ain't you glad Bill is so much better?'

'He is better certainly, David; more like himself than he has been yet—don't you think so?'

'That he is—but you look sick; you sit by that bed too much, Hettie. You want a ride—come—Bony's at the cottage—go along with me: we will soon bring your color back.'

'Not to-day, David; indeed I have no desire to ride to-day; and besides, since you are here, I want to have some conversation with you upon a matter in which you are deeply concerned.'

'Well, come on—I'm ready for anything—out with it. I'm so glad Bill is better, I don't care what comes now; but look cheerful a little; do, I beg of you; I have dark looks enough at home. The old man is so cross about something or other lately, that he can't give me a civil word. I thought when I came along, what I would give just to live among you here. I tell you what, Hettie, I had rather live with you and your mother, and have nothing but bread and water, only to hear kind words;—well, you are queer—just now you was so pale, and now your face is red as a rose.'

Hettie felt the flush which David had noticed; he had never spoken quite so plainly to her before, and she began to fear what next might come; so she commenced the unpleasant task of making him acquainted with his father's conduct; but she did not give the account in the order that she received it, for she began at the catastrophe, and told the story as well as she could, without alluding to the main instigator of the plot.

'But what could have induced those men to commit such a deed? and what could they have wanted with the trunk without there was money in it?'

'There was no money in it, but there were papers of great consequence.'

'Papers? what could they know about papers? they can't read, not one of them; what good would papers do them?' said David; his countenance pale, and his lips trembling with emotion.

'There is something more in all this that you have not yet told me, Hettie; some one is at the bottom of it. Who is it?'

Hettie covered her face with her hands.

'Don't be afraid, Hettie; out with it—is it my father?'

Hettie burst into tears, and David sank to the earth, helpless as an infant. Seeing that he was greatly agitated, and that he seemed in need of help, she was about to go for her mother.

'Don't leave me, Hettie. Do you think that this is truth, and that William has his reason?'

'He seems to have it, perfectly; he has given a clear account of things from the first—I fear it is true.'

'Does any one know of this besides you and your brother?'

'No human being as yet.'

'Depend upon it, Hettie, if my father has instigated this act, he has been in some way thwarted in his design; for his temper, never very good, has been outrageous for some time past; so much so, that I have made up my mind to leave him and this region for ever. There is but one thing which keeps me; you and your mother are the only persons in the world that I care much about—and you I love as I do my life. If you will marry me, Hettie, I will get together all I have got; it will be enough to purchase us a place far away from here, and we will take your mother, and Bill, too, if he gets well; and how happy we shall be.'

Hettie was deeply affected, but she felt that she must deal plainly with him.

'You must not talk so, David; you and I can never be married.'

'You are ashamed of me already, Hettie. My father's disgrace, I see, is to be mine.'

'I shall never attach to you, David, any wrong your father has done—but let us say no more about this. You have ever been kind to me and my family; all that a sister can do for you, I will; beyond this, I hope you will not urge me. But there are some things to be thought of that must be done soon. Mr. Rutherford ought not to be kept ignorant of this matter. I have, out of kindness to you, told you what I have heard, and with a hope that you will make an effort to recover these papers, and thus in part frustrate an evil design, and perhaps save your father from a great calamity. William has told me that he has some faint recollection of feeling the trunk taken from his grasp, while he lay in that helpless condition. You think your father has not got it; probably then, it is in the hands of some person who does not realize the value of it, and may easily be induced to relinquish it.'

'I will do what I can, Hettie, to find out; but I caution you to let no person know a word of all this, at least not until I have failed in finding out some clue to it. Should Rutherford know what you do, and make attempts to search, or to expose matters, it would be the very way, as things are here, to have it put where no one can ever be the wiser for it. If my father has not got the trunk or the papers—and I don't believe he has, for the reason I have told you—it is probably in the hands of some one who has taken it from Bill, and is afraid to say any thing, for fear he would be charged with an attempt to murder.'

David's reasoning appeared so plausible, that Hettie coincided with him as to the propriety, at present, of saying nothing further on the subject to any one.

CHAPTER XXVII.

There were many things in the circumstances of Mr. Cross, in themselves not very desirable. He had, to be sure, injured Mr. Rutherford; he had destroyed his home; he had by his artifice, brought him to cruel suffering and mortification; and he had wrested from him an instrument of immense value to its rightful owner, although of very doubtful utility to himself. But this very instrument had fallen into the hands of one whom he hated and feared, and was now held over him as a rod of terror, to force him into compliance with just such measures as the dictator chose.

He had committed also a flagrant crime—one that rendered him liable to the severest penalty of the law; and the knowledge of what he had done was not confined to himself and his agents. One at least, besides, held the fatal secret; and although she was a lone widow, and very much under his power, still she might disclose it—perhaps she had already done so.

His situation was no enviable one. He walked by the crater of a volcano; he could see the fires and hear the rumbling beneath him; at any moment he might be engulfed.

The wicked make the toils which entangle and distress them, but they are not the less troublesome on that account. Cross saw that something must be done, and without delay. The first step was, to ascertain what amount of information Ned Saunders had communicated to the Widow Brown, and then by some means, fair or foul, stop it from going any further. There was also a mystery about the disaster which had befallen William Brown; somehow he believed it to be connected with the loss of the trunk and the injury to Saunders, in what way he could not unravel; but he firmly believed that William knew, if he could or would tell, more than any one else. Cross had visited him frequently during his illness, and kept a shrewd eye upon him, at the same time continuing acts of kindness towards the family, as well as encouraging the attentions of David.

He saw clearly, at length, that William was recovering his strength, and even guessed that he had more ability to converse than he felt willing should be known.

It may seem strange that a father could be willing to expose his baseness to a son; but when the heart becomes accustomed to iniquity, it loses the finer feelings, and becomes callous to all sense of shame, or even desire for the respect and love of its nearest kindred. Cross thought he saw how he might, through the influence of his son, keep a hold upon that family, and he scrupled not to make a confidant of him, even to the exposure of his own base purposes.

David had just returned from the cottage. It was at the closing of day; Cross was alone in his store, and sat pondering upon his plans and prospects, and the multitude of dangers surrounding him.

'Have you been at the Widow Brown's?'

'Just come from there.'

'How is Bill?'

'Better; pretty weak though yet.'

'Can he talk yet?'

'Not much.'

'Not much! Can he talk at all? if he can I want to know it. But where are you going now?'

'Not far; up north a short distance.'

'You can't go now; sit down—I want to talk to you.'

David obeyed without making any reply; he did not fancy his father's talks very much, but he feared to offend him.

'I've got into trouble, and you may as well know it: it has all been done to give you a lift, and make you something in the world; but things have gone wrong end foremost, and now we must make the best of them.'

Cross looked at his son and paused, seeming to expect an answer; but David either did not care how things went, or he wished to know more about them before venturing upon a reply.

'You know Rutherford's house has been burned, and that Ned Saunders is dead; he was the one who did that job. He's gone out of the way, to be sure; but he has told a pack of lies to old Molly Brown, and if she should blab it about, we might get into a mess of trouble; but I suppose you know all about it—she has let it out to you, no doubt.'

But David made no signs of acknowledgment as to whether he did or did not know any thing about it.

'Are you dumb, all at once, that you cannot speak when you are spoken to?'

'You haven't asked me any question yet.'

'Yes, I have; has Molly Brown told you what Ned Saunders said?'

'She has not.'

'Has she talked about it that you know of?'

'Not that I know of.'

Cross sat silent for some time; at length making another effort, he disclosed his purpose.

'The fact is, the old woman knows too much for our good. She likes you well enough; you know that I suppose, and she has good reason to do so; you can stop her tongue if you will.'

'I should like to know how.'

'How? Why, by marrying Hettie; she can't hurt us then, without hurting her own child, and she won't be likely to do that. You shall have money enough: the barrens are pretty much all ours now, or they will be when this matter is once quashed.'

'How so?'

'Why, Rutherford's deed for them is burned up, and there is no record of it, and mine covers it all.'

'But suppose I should tell you that Rutherford's deed is not burnt?'

'How do you know it ain't?' and Cross arose from his seat in great excitement.

'Bill Brown has told all about it; he laid on the truck-bed under the counter the night you and old Foster were here together.'

Dave looked at his father for the first time since the commencement of the interview. The dim light that came in through the open door just enabled him to see the ashy paleness that had over-spread his features.

'Get me some gin;' and Cross nearly fell into his chair as Dave stepped up to him.

'Get me some gin, I say; quick!'

Dave immediately drew a tumbler of the clear liquor, and his father taking it with both hands, with difficulty put it to his mouth, so violent was his agitation; he accomplished it, however, and did not stop until the glass was empty. Drawing a long breath, he handed back the glass.

'Go sit down; I'll be better directly.' Some moments elapsed before he could resume the conversation.

'Who has Bill Brown told that lie to?'

'He has told it to his sister; whether it's a lie or not, I can't say. I shouldn't think he would be like to lie just now, with one foot in the grave.'

Cross saw too clearly that his villany was fully exposed; he sat apparently stunned by the perils which now hovered over him. David at last broke silence.

'The best thing to be done is, to give Rutherford back his deed.'

'That can't be done; I have not got it, nor has it ever been in my hands. There is only one thing that can be of any use now, and that is to stop the mouths of that family; you can easily do that by marrying the daughter.'

'It takes two to make such a bargain as that.'

'You don't suppose she would be fool enough to refuse you?'

'Fool or no fool, she has refused me this very day.'

Cross was again silent. It appeared that difficulties arose at every step; but when the end to be accomplished was so important, the means in his view were of no moment. A plan suggested itself to his mind, cruel and base to be sure; but he was in a strait, and what were the feelings of a gentle girl, even should her heart be broken, in comparison with his own selfish ends?

'That is easy to get along with—there ain't half the girls round here that ever give consent at all. Get her over to the old rendezvous; give the boys and girls a wink, as to what you want; have old Goble on the spot—he's used to it. She'll give in easy enough when you're once buckled together; a little kind treatment and plenty of money will soon settle everything; and when you are in the family, and they can't help themselves, all will go right enough; and then, if they try to hurt either of us, they will only be cutting their own heads off; they won't be for doing that.'

In order to the clear understanding of the plan which Cross had suggested, a little explanation will be necessary.

Among these rude people, the subject of marriage, and everything connected with it, was treated in a peculiar manner; from first to last, secrecy seemed to be the main ingredient in the whole business. The courtship was carried on clandestinely, and very seldom was the marriage ceremony completed—it could scarcely be said to be solemnized—without at least a show of resistance and reluctance on the part of the female; she being often fairly forced into the room by the main strength of her companions, and never did the minister expect a reply, or even the sign of assent to his questions from either party. Goble, the character by whom nearly all the matrimonial bonds in this region had been riveted for the last twenty years, was a nondescript minister, who had some good things in his composition, mixed with a great many others of a very doubtful kind. He could preach in a certain way, on any occasion to which he was called, but he was very seldom asked to perform any such duty, and was well content, so far as he himself was concerned, to do nothing at it; he worked for his living at a small trade, and that, with the trifling fees he received for some professional services, satisfied his humble desires.

David Cross listened to these suggestions of his father, outrageous as they were, with no little interest. He loved Hettie, or at least he thought he did; but brought up and educated as he had been, he could have no very correct idea of those pure and delicate feelings which constitute true love: he supposed that he could make her happy, and felt every disposition to do so. His interview with her the day before had not been as satisfactory as he had wished. He had never before doubted that she would willingly accept him, and had always looked upon her as appropriated to himself; to be thus disappointed, was not by any means grateful to his uncurbed will and unsubdued passions. It produced an unhappy effect upon his mind—a sort of determination to get her into his power; and he meant it in kindness too, for he was sure that he could make her happy.

As his father, therefore, unfolded to him a way that his wish could be accomplished, he eagerly caught at it, and even then resolved that she should be his.

The meeting between William Andrews and his mother was almost too much for the old lady; she ever had loved him dearly, even through all her harsh treatment of him. She had heard of his prosperity in his letters home; he had told her that he was doing well, and the supplies of money which he occasionally sent to her confirmed his statement. But she had not expected such a change in his appearance. His manners and style of dress, and the consideration which was paid to him, caused the old lady at times to feel almost sad as well as proud. William, however, was unchanged in his affection, and left nothing undone that could manifest to her his filial respect and love. The old house was refitted in the neatest manner, as she preferred living in that, she said, the rest of her days, to any new one that could be built. She would have been too happy, were it not that too many tokens of disease manifested themselves, for a mother's eye not to discern that there was a worm at the root of her gourd.

The health of William was not benefited by his native air; the languor which oppressed him became more and more distressing, and the sunken cheek and the hectic flush gave sad notice to the hearts that loved him of his fatal malady. But his spirits retained their elasticity, and the hope of returning health seemed to grow stronger in his own breast, as it grew fainter in the hearts of his friends. He thought he should he better soon; and thus from day to day he went about among the neighbours who were now clustered in his native village, and rejoiced in the magic change which every where met his eye. What hours of delightful converse he enjoyed with those whose enterprise had given the first start to all these new and pleasant scenes, and by whose aid he himself had broken the chains of idleness and vice, and arisen to respectability and independence.

Jim and Ned were the brothers of his heart, and between the three there was an interchange of the most entire confidence: Sam only was wanting to have made the circle of his heart's desire complete.

Through the influence of William, Mr. Rutherford had been induced to hire a tenement for the present, not far from the abode of the Montjoys, until time should more clearly develop what course he ought to pursue for his future support.

To this family he daily resorted, there he found another home, and in their friendship he enjoyed a repose that seemed to him a paradise.

Hettie he often met, and treated her like a sister, so far as she would allow him, but he had said nothing to her about love. Perhaps his heart had been drawn far away, or the power of disease had so deadened his feelings, that he could not arouse himself to the effort of attempting to gain her affections, or perhaps he saw—for love is eagle-eyed—that there was one on whom Hettie looked with just such feelings as he would once fain have had her entertain towards himself.

Henry Tracy still retained his situation, and, of course, William and he were thrown together in the same home; a sincere friendship had commenced between them; the mild and social character of both seemed formed upon the same basis. Although there was a vast difference in their mental attainments, yet William had learned much from intercourse with the world, and could impart valuable knowledge of men and things in exchange for the intellectual stores which Henry had at his command, and thus was his spirit beguiled from those dark and depressing thoughts which often attend upon the sinking frame, and even hasten its decay. Friendship met him at every turn in some new form, and her smile cheered his sensitive spirit, and kept up a genial glow; quickening his languid pulse, and animating him with unnatural vigor.

He had been spending the evening at the Rutherford's, and had been more engaged in conversation than usual; it was near the time for retiring, when he was seized with a slight fit of coughing; and on Mrs. Rutherford's asking if he felt more unwell, as she noticed that he was unusually pale—

'I am in some pain;' and he placed his hand upon his chest. She stepped up to him, and found that the handkerchief which he had just taken from his mouth was stained with blood.

The physician was immediately called in, but his hopeless look, as he bent over the poor youth, gave sad presage of what the end would be. His mother and sister were likewise soon with him; but Mrs. Rutherford persuaded them to leave the care of him to her; and faithfully did that kind and gentle lady watch by his sick bed. She and Hettie moved about the apartment in that calm and unobtrusive manner so grateful to the weak and suffering. Every thing was kept in perfect order, and all tokens of a sick chamber were removed, save the chastened light that came in through the drawn curtains, and the noiseless tread of those who waited upon him. Their countenances, when around the bed, or bending over it to administer some food or cordial, wore no gloomy aspect, no anxious knitted brow, no look of sadness from the eye. He loved to gaze upon them both; angels they seemed to him—attendants from a better world, waiting on his frail body here, and soon to bear his soaring spirit to the bright abode which they had left. And when he talked of death, and told them he was going fast, and soon the struggle would be over; sweetly they would speak about the heaven that was beyond, of the pure white robes, and the golden harps, and the everlasting songs, and the bright meeting they would have when care and toil, and sin and death, were passed.

Mr. Rutherford was often by his side, and showed, in every word and look, how much he felt. He could not hide his aching heart beneath a smile; he loved too well the youthful sufferer. Obligations of the tenderest kind he hourly felt. Nor was this all; he could sympathize with him as a man; how full of ardent hopes, with prospects bright for future years, and all earth's winning smiles beaming on his path, and now to die so soon, was hard, he thought, even though an angel beckoned him away. And thus when he stood by that silent bed, and heard the short, hard heavings of his chest, and saw the daily inroads of disease upon that face, which had so lately beamed like hope's bright star upon his troubled way; he felt like one who looks into an open grave, and hears the clod fall heavy on the coffin-lid; 'twas dark, all dark.

And at that bed, by day and night, whenever he could snatch an hour from his varied duties, was Henry Tracy. His friendship had just begun to kindle into warmth, when he saw that it must soon be extinguished. William loved to have him near; he loved to hear him converse about those realities which now alone absorbed his spirit; and well did Henry know how to deal out the precious manna; so soft and clear, in tones that fell like heavenly music on the ear. He talked about the Saviour—for, to Henry, the name of Jesus was a name to quicken every pulse, and fill the heart with holy joy; and when he spoke of Him, it was as though he talked about a friend whose ardent sympathies beat in unison with his own; a friend who loved, who was now near at hand, feeling for all his woes, smoothing the dying pillow, taking away the sting of death, and preparing a triumphant passage for his soul into his own blest home.

William drank in his words until his spirit rejoiced within him, and longed to depart. He had a strange pleasure, too, in seeing Hettie stand by the side of Henry and listen to his voice, until her face would glow with the holy fire it kindled in his breast; he could read in her glistening eye, perhaps, what few others could. William loved her even in death, and now, more than he had done for years past. He loved, too, Henry Tracy. As he gazed on them by turns, he felt how well suited they were to one another. He murmured something; Henry heard them, but though Hettie caught but a word, the rich colour that spread over her pale face, proved that she understood them. He spoke their names together, and he blessed them.

Short were the hours after this that William struggled with the pains of life; around him were all the dear ones he had on earth; there was no violence of grief to trouble his departing spirit; hearts were bleeding silently, and as the last breath went to heaven, a moment all watched the still, sweet sleeper, and looked on silently while Mr. Rutherford closed his eyes, and then sat down and wept until their burdened spirits found relief.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

During all the period of Hettie's confinement around the sick bed of William Andrews, David saw nothing of her; he felt satisfied that she would not disclose what her brother had communicated to her. The efforts which, in the mean time, he was to make for the recovery of the lost document, were much relaxed by the interview with his father, as related in a former chapter. He saw now that his ultimate object might be gained, and suffered his selfish feelings to work their hateful purpose. He continued his attentions to William and his mother, and did much to supply to them the absence of Hettie.

Reports are easily set in motion, and, as every one is willing to keep them moving, it is not strange that they spread so fast. Thus it began to be whispered that Mr. Tracy and Hettie Brown were engaged to be married; and although no one had any license for saying so, nor was it actually the case, yet so it was said, and David among the rest listened to the story. It took him not altogether by surprise, and only confirmed him in his purpose to accomplish the plan proposed by his father.

The effort William had made to communicate the terrible secret which harassed his mind, enfeebled as it was by disease, had nearly proved fatal to him. The excitement produced by the thought of having the matter made public, with all its consequences to himself and others, together with the physical effort he was obliged to make in order to explain things fully to his sister, brought on a recurrence of his unfavorable symptoms, and as soon as Hettie could be spared from the dying room of William Andrews, she was again at her mother's home, although so exhausted in mind and body as to be able to do little else than watch by his bedside.

'I could not come as soon as I expected,' said David Cross as he entered the cottage of the Widow Brown; 'but we shall have time enough for a good ride yet.'

David looked very pale, and his voice trembled as he spoke, but Hettie did not notice it, for she was busy putting on her things. She had made an engagement with him that morning to take a drive; she felt that she needed the recreation, and as she supposed matters were well understood between them, hesitated not in accepting such an act of kindness.

'I think you had better not drive far, David, for it will soon be night, and William has not been so well to-day.'

'No, no, aunty, we shan't go far, or at least we shan't stay long, for Bony is in good spirits.'

Hettie sprang into the buggy, and Dave drove off at his usual rapid pace.

The rendezvous that Cross had spoken of in his conversation with his son, was situated in the midst of the thickest and least frequented part of the pines. It had once been used as a tavern, in days before Mr. Cross set up in his more public situation. Of late years, it became the haunt of all who wished to have a frolic as they called it—in other words, a low debauch; and scenes of riot were enacted there which even Cross himself did not approve. It was a lone place, and far from any settlement; of course no restraint was put upon those who wished thus to degrade themselves. It was also the chosen place for their marriage scenes; these seldom, if ever, taking place at the home of either party. Two old and miserable-looking beings kept the house, such as it was, and on occasion of an assemblage, gave matters up to the company to do as they pleased, their business being merely to deal out plenty of liquor from behind an old counter in one corner of the room.

'I think we have gone far enough, David; I fear William will begin to be restless.'

'I am only going as far as the house you see yonder. I must stop and water Bony, and as he is so restless, if you will step in and talk a moment to the old people, I will hurry all I can, and then we will be home in less than no time.'

As they drove up, Hettie knew that she had not seen the place before; but hesitated not to do as she was requested, although the house was very forbidding in its appearance.

'You've come airly,' said the old hag who sat just within the door, smoking a short black pipe. Hettie, not understanding her allusion, looked at her in some surprise, without making a reply.

'I say you've come rather airly; the folks ain't none on 'em got along yet.'

'What folks do you mean, granny?'

'Ay, ay, I see you're jist like the rest of the galls, you want to keep it secret as long as you can. We know all about it though; but you're goin' to have a smart un; Dave's a good feller.'

Hettie, supposing the old woman to be a little deranged, merely smiled, and walked into the room. David had driven his horse away, as she supposed, for the purpose of watering—Poor girl! she was in a trap, and soon her light and happy spirit would be writhing in agony.

'Are you ready, David? but where is the horse?' seeing that he had not driven to the door, but come into the room where she was, his countenance pale, and with an aspect that alarmed her. 'Has any thing happened, David? You are not well?'

'Come in the other room, Hettie.' She followed, but a strange foreboding of some evil flashed upon her mind, and so affected her in her then debilitated state, that she was glad to sit down on a long low bench, which ran along under the windows, at the same time fixing her penetrating eyes full on the young man. He took a seat beside her, and turning his head from her—

'I want to talk with you, Hettie, on that subject which you and I have had up between us lately.'

'What, David; about the trunk? have you heard of it?'

'No, there isn't much chance of doing any thing about that just now; but you know what I said to you some time ago about our being married.'

'That I supposed was all settled, David. I told you frankly when you first spoke to me, that it could never be; why should you bring it up again? I meant what I said, and I feel just as I did then.'

'But it is not all settled: I have been thinking of you all my life, Hettie, and you know how intimate we have been, and when I think of your marrying some one else, as it is said you are going to do, I can't stand it, Hettie, no how; and there is no use of talking about it.'

'But you surely would not wish to marry me if I did not love you, David; and that I tell you now, as I told you before, I do not as I expect to love the man whom I would give my hand to. You have been always very kind to me, and to my family, and we all think much of you, and would do any thing in our power for you, but on this subject I must beg of you to urge me no further, for it can never be.'

David now rose and stood up before her. He took one of her hands, at which she made no resistance, but he felt that it was cold as marble, and lay in his grasp like a lifeless thing. He saw also that the color had left her cheek, and that her lips were of a purple hue; the eyes alone retained their life, and gazed at him with an earnestness that he had never met from Hettie's eyes before.

'You must listen a moment to me, Hettie. I now ask you, once again, if you will marry me. I can take good care of you. My father has agreed to let me have money enough to purchase a handsome place, and we will go away from these dreary woods. Your mother and brother shall accompany us, if they will, and our home shall be theirs. I have invited the folks round, and the minister is sent for; in a short time they will be here. I want you to consent, and let it all go off smooth; but consent or not, Goble shall marry us when he comes, and then I should like to see the man that will separate you from me.'

Hettie was not prepared for this; she knew well what were the strange and uncouth customs in that region; but little had she dreamed that they could ever be brought thus to bear upon her. A thousand thoughts rushed into her mind of the most appalling nature. She feared that her conduct towards this young man had not been sufficiently guarded. She had mistaken his character, and now that she was in his power it was revealed to her in colors too glaring to be misunderstood. But her courage did not forsake her. She was well aware that resistance would be of no avail: she cast her thoughts to heaven, and prayed most earnestly that God would make a way for her out of this trouble, in comparison with which death itself would be a welcome messenger. She resolved that there should be no misunderstanding of her feelings. She withdrew her hand, and after a moment's pause, replied:—

'Your conduct, David, is as strange as it is ungenerous—unmanly. You have deceived me by coming to this place; you have taken me away from all help of friends. I am a woman, weak, and in your power; but I tell you now plainly, I despise you for your meanness. I shall protest most solemnly in the presence of your pretended minister, that I will never own you for a husband. No: I would sooner suffer the most excruciating torments, and die the bitterest death, than do one thing, by word or deed, that could give you a claim to me.'

David Cross writhed under this address; but Hettie could not have pursued a course more likely to confirm him in his purpose. He was cut to the heart, and resolved upon revenge. He cared not now for her love—she should be his slave.

As evening gathered over them, groups of females began to gather in the room; and as she cast her eye over them, not one countenance did she recognize as having ever seen before. They were arrayed in all sorts of fanciful styles; their dark complexions set off by pink, blue, yellow, and green dresses, according to the taste of the owner. Their untamed characters were too clearly visible in their rude behavior; and as they gathered around the suffering girl, the only sense they manifested of feeling was a hard, unmeaning smile, and a wink at each other, signifying that there was sport at hand. In the outer room, also, began to be heard the boisterous laugh of men, and the rattling of glasses on the counter, mingled with the harsh sounds of a violin, scraped by a negro, who had grown grey in the service, attending upon all the orgies of the country round. Little did Hettie, until that moment, ever think that there could be grouped within a few miles of her mother's dwelling a scene so nearly allied in her mind to the doings of the bottomless pit; and as the merriment increased with the exciting potions that were dealing out, her trembling spirit could only hang its hope on an unseen hand. She had made up her mind as to the course she intended to pursue. Resistance would be in vain; nor would an apparent opposition or repugnance to the performance of the ceremony avail any thing. She should therefore do as requested until the pretended ceremony began, and then would most solemnly protest against the violence done to her, and warn all present that her friends would prosecute to the utmost all who had a hand in the wickedness.

As the groups were coming in, she anxiously looked among them for a face that she knew, and at length espied one that was familiar, dressed in rather poorer garments than the rest; a young woman whom she had in some measure befriended. She soon caught her eye, and beckoned to her—

'Sally, will you get me a drink of cold water?' The young woman flew with alacrity to do her bidding. As she came near with the cup of water, Hettie spoke kindly to her, made a few inquiries, and then whispered in a very guarded manner a few words. The girl appeared much astonished, looked full at Hettie, and then towards David Cross, who was busily engaged at another part of the room. She then carried away the cup, and left the house.

Inquiries now began to be made after the minister.

'Goble ain't so hungry for his job as he is sometimes; he ought to have been here half an hour ago.'

'He's getting old, Joe; he can't move as he once did. He'll be along, though, by and by—no fear of Goble.'

The old negro, after a while, being pretty well warmed up with the liquor, kept up an incessant jingle on his crazy instrument, bobbing his old grey head about, and occasionally stamping violently with his foot, as he became excited by his own melody. In different parts of the room a couple might be seen shuffling away rapidly with their feet, tossing their arms up and down as they held each other's hands, swaying their bodies in all directions, and performing all sorts of uncouth gestures; until, exhausted by the exercise, they would slap their feet hard on the floor, let go of hands, swing round, and with a loud shout which was echoed by an uproarious laugh throughout the room, mingle again with the crowd.

How long these scenes continued, Hettie could not tell, nor did she heed them much; her mind was too painfully oppressed in anticipation of what she might yet be called to go through.

Henry Tracy had just returned from a visit to some of his charge, and was quietly seated in his study, when the Widow Andrews, putting her head carefully around the casement of the open door, said in a very low voice,

'There's two of the Sheldrakes out here; they want to see the minister.'

'Two what, Mrs. Andrews?'

'Sheldrakes—there's two on 'em, and they're round the corner by the big tree; they won't come in, but they say they want to see the minister.'

Henry stepped to the window, expecting to see he hardly knew what; there were, indeed, two uncouth looking figures, but he recognised them at once as inhabitants of the barrens.

'Are those two men the persons you allude to, Mrs. Andrews.'

'Yes, there they are—there's two on 'em; they're the real Sheldrakes, the critters are.'

Without waiting to inquire into the peculiar meaning of the term, he went out immediately to them, and asked in his pleasant manner.

'Were you inquiring for me?'

'We's wanting to see the minister; there's a little job to be done up our way, and as the regular hand is sick we've come to git you.'

Henry had become quite familiar with these rude sons of the forest, and therefore their appearance and manners were not at all surprising to him.

'What kind of a job is it you have on hand, my friends?'

'Oh, it's a little weddin' job; a couple of young un's want hitchin together; and Dave sent us for Goble, but the old crittur's got the rhumatiz, so he can't go no how; and as we thought it warn't no matter who does it, so as it's done, we've come arter you.'

'What David? David Cross! He is not going to be married, is he?'

'But you won't speak of it; so if you will be about dusk at the corner of the north road, we'll be there and show you the way.'

'I will be there; but you must not lose me in your wild country;' smiling as he said it.

'Never fear, sir, we'll take you safe and bring you back safe, and there shan't be a hair o' your head hurt; only you must'nt mind if the boys is noisy a little; but when they see it ain't Goble that's among 'em they'll behave more decenter, for they set store by you, minister, all over.'

At the appointed time Henry was on the spot; a thick fog had settled around as evening approached, and the two guides were obliged very soon to light their pine knots. As Henry followed on through the thick woods, had it not been that he was somewhat accustomed to scenes of the kind, he might have felt no little uneasiness; for the men were wild looking figures, their long streaming hair, rude garments, dark, Indian countenances, together with the flaming brands throwing their pitchy glare upon the huge trunks of the giant pines through which they threaded their way, while all beyond the little circle of light in which they walked was a wilderness of darkness—the whole scene required no little confidence for one to be quite at ease. The men followed no beaten road, but were guided in their course by marks known only to themselves.

The sound of the violin and the hum of voices were at length heard, and lights were seen close at hand.

'Have you got him, Harry?'

'Aye, aye; but tell 'em to stop their noise.' And the tidings could be heard flying from mouth to mouth; the violin ceased, and all was hushed.

The room in which the ceremony was to be performed was spacious enough to contain a large assembly. It was nearly filled; the men and women standing promiscously in a dense mass, occupied about two-thirds of the apartment, leaving a clear space sufficiently large for those more immediately connected with the performance; within this stood a number of the younger females with their arms locked, and forming a complete ring encircling those who were intended to be the bride and groom.

Hettie had followed, as she had been requested, on the announcement of the ministers approach; but the excitement under which she labored was so great, that it required her utmost energy to sustain herself without assistance, and she would have died before she would have sought it from him who stood beside her; to have lost her physical or mental powers at such a time, she knew would have been the end of hope for her. She stood with her face covered, as the only way she could command herself, and her agonized spirit poured out its terrible necessities to Him, who she believed could alone help her. As Henry Tracy entered the room, a buzz of astonishment ran through the assembly; the circle of girls opened and extended itself, so as to permit him to be immediately before the couple. He smiled, as he looked at David Cross, but casting his eye quickly to her who stood beside him, the smile flew away, and a deadly sickness came over him. He saw not her face, for it was still covered, but those raven locks, and that lovely form, he had seen too often not to recognise at once. For a moment he stood petrified with amazement, unable to utter a syllable, or do any thing but gaze, almost with horror, upon the terrible apparition which had thus risen before him.

Hearing the movement around her, and supposing the ceremony was about to begin, Hettie sent one long, silent cry to heaven for aid, and then uncovered her face. Had an angel from that bright world appeared for her rescue, it could not have been more surprising to her than the sight of Henry Tracy. She clasped her hands together, fixed her eye full upon him, and uttering a scream of delight, flew towards him.

'Oh, save me! save me!'

'Where is she? where is she?' and a woman broke into the room. 'Where is my child?' And Henry Tracy laid the fainting girl in her mother's arms, and assisted in bearing her from the room into the open air.

When David Cross saw Henry Tracy enter the room, accompanied by the two men whom he had commissioned to procure the services of Mr. Goble, he know at once that his design was frustrated. His countenance was deadly pale, and he cast a glance of fury at the two men, but he durst not vent his anger either in words or actions there. The mighty spell which Henry's influence exerted, even in this waste region, was too evident in the perfect stillness which reigned the moment he entered the room, and the looks of reverence that beamed even from those wild and untamed countenances.

As Hettie darted from his side, he made his way through the crowd to an end door of the building, and with feelings which none might envy, was soon on his way towards his father's house. One by one the company slunk away, when they found that the proceedings were at an end, and in silence groped through the darkness towards their several homes.

When Hettie awoke to consciousness, Henry was bending over her, while her mother sat by her side, smoothing her beautiful forehead, and putting back the dark locks which kept falling over it.

All was still; she listened for those terrible sounds which had well nigh driven her reason; but no sound could she hear, except the sweet voice of Henry.

'You feel better now?'

'Oh, yes; but how has it all come about?'

'We must ask you that, my dear?' said her mother; 'it is all a mystery, a great mystery to us.'

'Sally went for you then, mother? I was fearful it would all be over before she could get there.'

'Yes, my dear, and she is now sitting with your brother until we get home.'

'Do let us go, then, for I am so anxious to get away from this terrible place—but there—what is that!' and Hettie darted a wild glance towards the door. Henry and her mother looked at each other.

'There is nothing here, Hettie—no one beside your dear mother and myself.'

'Oh—well—I am so glad!'

Henry said nothing of his fears; but a terrible thought came into his mind; which was more and more confirmed by an occasional wild glance of her eye. 'Her mind has been injured, or she is about to be visited with severe illness.'

The mother probably did not think as far as he did, although she felt that there was need for immediate departure.

'Are you able to walk, my dear? if so, we had better be going.'

'Oh yes, to be sure, mother.' And she quickly rose from the rude bed on which she had been laid; but no sooner did she attempt to stand, than her trembling limbs gave way. Henry caught her, and again laid her to rest: she was evidently ill already, and no time must be lost in getting away from that miserable abode.

The men who had accompanied Henry were still in waiting to conduct him home. By their aid a litter was constructed; and while the anxious mother bore the torch to light them through the gloom, Henry with his two guides carried the suffering girl.

It was a sad journey that for Henry Tracy. The wild and incoherent remarks which Hettie made, the deathly pallor of her countenance, and the quick flashing of her eye, which he discerned as the light occasionally fell upon her features, confirmed his worst fears.

By his persuasion, the widow consented that she should be taken to Mr. Rutherford's, her own humble home offering no suitable convenience for another invalid.

The ways of God appear unequal only to those who judge prematurely, or without taking into the account that this world is not the end. God sees as we do not: His design in all the dealings of His judgments and His mercies here towards those who love Him, is to make them trust in Him, and cast their thoughts, too prone to settle on this vale of tears and be content with earth, upwards, towards that better, purer home in heaven.

CHAPTER XXIX.

War is a name that carries in its dreadful meaning scenes of suffering and woe, little thought of, it is feared, by those who, at the helm of power, too easily proclaim the deadly feud.

The widow's tear, the orphan's helpless sigh, the agonizing groans of bleeding victims, the horrible necessities that wait upon the contest for supremacy where man forgets his nature, and hastes with tiger-thirst to seek the life-blood of his fellow man, are all forgotten or unheeded. A little land, not worth a single pang of one fond mother's heart; a little wrong that might by calm remonstrance be redressed, or even borne with, affords a pretext. The herald of defiance is sent forth, and misery, death, and desolation hover on his track.

The event which Commodore Trysail had predicted came to pass, although somewhat sooner than either he or many other shrewd calculators had anticipated. The Commodore, as we have seen, had no misgivings of conscience about the necessity of the measure: he only wished for a better preparation, before engaging in hostilities with the greatest nation on the globe.

As to his own private interests, a few months would have enabled him to place them on a better footing, yet, perhaps, he thought as little about that matter as most men; at any rate, he took a very decided stand for the government, and strongly upheld it in its declaration of war.

With Peter he still held long private talks on Peter's favorite topic; and every new incident of the war seemed interesting to the old sailor, only as it in some way might affect the safe return of Captain Sam. One morning, as Peter handed in the pack of papers at the door of the office, he looked very anxiously at the Commodore.

'There's three more on 'em come, your honor—'

'More what, Peter?'

'Of the blockaders, sir,—a brig and two schooners.'

'What will become of our young captain, now, Peter?'

Peter slipped the quid to the other side, and worked away at it awhile in good earnest.

'I'm a-thinking, your honor, it's a great pity he ain't in a regular man-o'-war's man.'

'What would he do then, Peter?'

'He'd make her talk, your honor, or I'm mistaken.'

'You don't think he'd fight, do you?'

'What for not, your honor?'

'Why, you know he has been dodging along shore here, Peter, all his life—he has hardly smelled gunpowder.'

'Asking your honor's pardon for the freedom, but I must haul off from your honor this time. Captain Sam may be ain't had much experience in the fightin' way as yet; but your honor knows, it's more what's in a man than what he larns—a brave man ashore will be a brave man at sea, that is, a'ter the sickness is over; but if Captain Sam don't face an enemy's bullet with the best on 'em, I'll cut off my pigtail and give it to the cats.' Peter could have made no stronger asseveration; for he highly valued the long appendage to his bushy head, and of all creatures he hated cats.

'Do you think, Peter, if he had a good ship and a dozen guns on board, with a fine crew, he would know what to do with them?'

'If he don't, your honor, I'll give up t'other leg, and go upon stumps the rest of my days.'

'Well, Peter, I believe you; and we think alike this time. You may take these papers, and show them to Lady Morris.'

'Ay, ay, your honor.'

And Peter hobbled away, discharging the old quid as soon as he had fairly left the house; and treating himself to a new one, muttering as he did so, 'Captain Sam will show 'em—see if he don't.'

The Commodore, through the influence of Peter, had also become much interested in the Montjoys; all the story of their boyish days had been so often repeated that they seemed like old acquaintances; and although, for argument's sake, the old gentleman would appear to doubt the correctness of Peter's reasoning on the certainty of their doing well, yet he had great confidence in the young firm, and an earnest desire for their prosperity.

Old Sam Cutter, too, with whom the Commodore was very intimate, had not failed to make him acquainted with the mighty change which had been brought about through the instrumentality of these boys in this place, now so lovely in its appearance. He felt that they deserved his respect as a citizen, and treated them with a consideration which, for the disparity in years and circumstances, was very gratifying to them.

He was therefore a frequent visitor at their establishment—never hindering them at their work if he found them engaged; but bowing respectfully to the young men and those who might be in at the time, would walk straight through the store into the little back room, which was always in perfect order, and there seek for news among their papers which might not happen to be in his.

On this particular day of which we have been speaking, he had an object of some importance in his visit; and as he passed along to the usual place, he politely requested the favor of an interview with the elder partner, when he could be spared from his desk.

'In a short time, sir, I will wait upon you,' said James, who was making an entry in his book.

That morning, the brothers had been spending some time in consultation about business matters. They had, as we have seen, been very kindly treated by the bank, and in consequence were enabled to keep along and meet their difficulties; but the serious losses which they had met, affected them much more than they at first anticipated. They had never before known what it was to be cramped in their means for doing business, because they had only increased their transactions as they found themselves able to do so; but things could not very easily be brought back by the same process—they must either go on, or suspend altogether; and either alternative involved difficulties of no ordinary kind. To continue as they had, they must for years to come, so far as they could see, be constantly devising ways and means to meet engagements, involving anxiety, dependence, watchfulness, and untiring attention: to suspend their operations, would not only be a bitter humiliation to their sensitive spirits, but there would be a sacrifice of property that might leave them without the ability to pay many of their just debts. There was also a difficulty attending their situation which troubled them more than all else beside. They had been in the habit of receiving from many of their customers small sums of money which they wished to secure against a time of need; the unbounded confidence reposed in the young men brought all the loose money of those in moderate circumstances into their hands: they allowed an interest for it, and hitherto had been able to return any sum when suddenly called for. The amount thus accumulated was now about two thousand dollars; and it was due in sums of from ten to three hundred. With many of these depositors, it was the whole of their possession.

The idea of danger from thus receiving funds had never occurred to the brothers, until they found by experience the difficulties which attended the raising money on an emergency with their diminished capital—in fact, with no other capital than their credit. But now they clearly saw that it placed them over a volcano; it might explode at any time, lay their business and well-earned reputation in ruins together, and utterly disable them from giving back this money thus sacredly intrusted to their keeping. And it was on this particular point they had been consulting that morning; their fears were mutually expressed, and they came to the resolution that they would involve themselves in such difficulties no farther.

As soon as James could leave his desk, he repaired to the back-room. After some kind greetings on either side, the Commodore straightened himself in his chair, and resting one hand on his large gold-headed cane—

'I want to talk with you a little, Mr. Montjoy, about money this morning.'

James's heart beat quick; he could not help it, for the Commodore had placed five hundred dollars in his hands a short time previous, and requested him to keep it until he called for it.

'I put five hundred dollars in your hands lately, which I was to have, you know, when I should call for it.'

'Yes, sir, certainly by all means.' Poor James! he knew not where it was to come from, and he secretly wished that he had never owned a dollar, or that there was no such thing as money.

'Well, sir, I have just received advices from the city that certain sum of money, which I suppose—'

Ned stepped into the office, and requested the presence of his brother a moment. The Commodore bade him go, by all means, that he would wait his leisure.

The business for which James was required was to close a very advantageous bargain for some produce, but he was in no state of mind to do business—money, ready money, was the only idea he could cherish; it clung to his spirit like the nightmare; he could neither bargain nor calculate, so he waived the matter, and was back again to the little room; he merely whispered to Ned,

'The Commodore, I suppose, has come for his money.'

'What shall we do?'

'I don't know.'

And he entered the room again, and sat down.

'As I was saying, Mr. Montjoy, when your brother called you away, a certain sum of money, which I supposed had been invested, I learn by my advices to-day is still lying idle, and waiting my orders. These are ticklish times, Mr. Montjoy, and they will be worse before long. I am afraid of stocks at present, and have therefore concluded to draw for these funds, and place them in your hands; you can use them to advantage, no doubt.'

And the Commodore took a long pinch of snuff, which had been for some time in waiting between his thumb and forefinger.

James felt a load fall from his heart, and for a moment was silent.

'I thank you, sir, for your kind offer, and for the confidence reposed in us; but before I can give you an answer, allow me to confer with my brother.'

The character of these two young men had never been so severely tested before. An offer, unsolicited, had been made to them of that which they stood so much in need of, and which would relieve them from embarrassment. Ned clapped his hands, and rubbed them violently together in the ecstasy of his joy.

'But, my dear Ned, ought we to take it?'

'Why not?'

'Because, he doubtless supposes that we are well off, and has no idea of our losses; and I've been thinking that, under the circumstances, we ought not to touch a dollar of it.'

'That, to be sure, Jim;'—and Ned's countenance drooped; he hung his head, and began to kick the counter with his foot.

'We concluded, you know, Ned, that we would take no more money in this way.'

'Well, we had better stick to that, let what will come.'

'How would it answer to tell him just the situation of things with us, and the reasons why we cannot receive it.'

'If you tell him any thing, Jim, you had better tell the whole.'

James's heart was lighter, because he had resolved to act consistently with a sense of duty.

'I believe, sir, we must decline your generous offer.'

James saw that the Commodore seemed surprised.

'We do this, sir, not but that we need the funds—and they would at the present moment be of immense advantage to us—but we have no doubt, that you have made the offer under the impression that we are in very different circumstances from what, I am sorry to say, is the truth. But as you are a man of business, and can appreciate our motives for not having made a general exposition of our affairs, I will communicate to you our true situation.'

And James gave a clear account of their course of business, from its commencement to the time when such unexpected losses at one stroke swept off the hard-earned profits of their youthful enterprise. He also explained to him the unpleasant situation in which they felt themselves placed, by being made the depositaries of so many sums of money, which might be called for at any moment, and especially should the least surmise get abroad unfriendly to their standing.

After he had closed, the Commodore took out his gold snuff-box, and rapping it pretty hard, helped himself freely, and then very deliberately returned it to his pocket.

'Mr. Montjoy, what you tell me surprises me very much; but it shall go no further, I assure you. Can you favor me with pen and ink a moment?'

He then drew up to the table on which James had placed the required articles.

'I believe it is five hundred dollars exactly that I handed you lately?'

'Just five hundred, sir.'

'I have done it now,' thought Jim; 'he is afraid of us, and intends to draw it out; but my duty has been performed, let what will come.'

'Mr. Montjoy, I said that I was much surprised at the statement you have made, but I cannot say that I am sorry for the misfortune you have met with'—and the keen black eye of the Commodore was fixed upon James; he saw that his remark had affected him, for a deep blush mantled his fine countenance—'because, sir, it affords me an opportunity of expressing, as I could not otherwise do, my sense of your invaluable services to this your native place, and my approbation of your noble character. Here, sir, is my draft for five thousand dollars, which, with what you already have, I place in your hands, if you will merely sign this receipt for the amount, payable as you see in ten years, without interest. Don't say any thing, my dear sir'—seeing that James was about to say a great deal—'not a word, if you please; just sit down a moment, Mr. Montjoy; you say that it has been a cause of uneasiness to you, that you have money in your hands intrusted to you for keeping.'

'We shall now pay that off at once, sir; I will not keep it another day.'

'You must do no such thing, sir. It is a great benefit to these people to have their funds in the hands of an honest firm. This you must do; take two thousand dollars of this money, and invest it in a mortgage, on some good property; keep it as a resort, in case of the worst, and hold it sacred for these deposits; the balance use as you please! And now, sir, a good morning to you;' rising, at the same time, and shaking the hand of James very warmly.

'Your kindness, sir—'

'Not a word, Mr. Montjoy, not a word, if you please; good morning, and God bless you.'

The Commodore, walking through the store, saluted Edward, who stood behind the counter, attending upon customers, with a very long face.

As soon as Ned could be disengaged, he stepped up to his brother, who was working away again at his books—

'See here, Ned.'

'What does it mean, Jim?'

'It means that he has loaned it to us for ten years, free from interest, and with a full knowledge of our affairs.'

Ned was deeply affected with this sudden interposition in their favor; he looked full in his brother's face, and Jim, for the first time in many years, saw tears in his brother's eye.

'I hope we shall not forget this.'

'I hope not, Ned.'

The Commodore walked home with a very light heart that day. He must have felt that he had made a good investment, for his step was very elastic, and he gazed upon the pleasing prospect around him, and looked upon the signs of thrift that met his view on every side with so much complacency, that one would have supposed he had a new interest in it all, and felt that he was a partner in the great concern.

It had been a lovely morning, and nature appeared to be in perfect repose; not a cloud to dim the bright sun, nor a motion in the atmosphere to stir even the leaf of the aspen, if there had been any just then to stir, but it was not the season of leaves. A change, however, was about to take place, and the Commodore was sailor enough to guess that it was likely to be a violent one. Seeing Peter occupying his favorite seat (a large flat rock on the brow of the hill overhanging the shore), with the spy-glass in his hand, and perhaps a little curious to take a peep through it himself, he extended his walk to the edge of the hill.

'A sail in sight, Peter?'

The old man hopped down from his perch at the sound of the Commodore's voice, hastily clapped a quid into his mouth, which he had just cut off for that very purpose, doffed his hat, and laid hold of his crutches, all which ceremonies he went through with a celerity quite surprising.

'I was thinking, your honor, that there's goin' to be foul weather outside to-night; them clouds look squally, and they keep growing thicker and thicker.'

'It certainly looks threatening, Peter.'

'It looks very threatening, your honor; and I don't care, for one, how hard it comes, so it will only blow them ugly black craft that are laying off and on there, high and dry somewhere or another.'

'That, to be sure, Peter; they would have an uneasy berth of it in a heavy gale, where they now are.'

'They would, sir, you may depend on it; and I think they're a little uneasy a-ready, for the biggest on 'em have clawed off out of sight, and the others that were at anchor have hauled up, and are starting too. If your honor will look through the glass, you can see all their movements. They'll have a time on it—there, did you hear that, your honor?'

'A gun, Peter, and a heavy one, but at a great distance.'

'I've heard several on 'em, your honor, before; there's something to pay, out there; they wouldn't fire such metal as that for signals.'

'Well, I only wish they were out of the way for a few weeks, Peter. Captain Sam would stand but a poor chance if he should get among them.'

'There would be no chance at all, your honor, there's so many on 'em; I might as well try to run through that picket fence, crutches and all; and as to fightin' it out, your honor knows there's too much odds agin one—they'd blow him out of water.'

'Or sink him under it.'

'Or sink him under it, your honor.'

Peter's prophecy respecting the weather was too truly realized: the heavens, ere the night shut in, were covered with dark and ragged clouds, chasing each other like heaving surges wildly through the air: gusts of wind occasionally swept along, increasing in violence at each succeeding blast; while in the distance, the heavy roar of the ocean told plainly of the tumult that was going on there, and what might be expected when the strength of the tempest should break upon the land. The fitful gusts at length settled into one long-continued, furious blast, increasing gradually its terrible power, until the strongest dwellings rocked and trembled to their base, and even the stout-hearted turned their thoughts to Him whose will the winds obey, and before whose power man shrinks to nothing.

The family of Mr. Rutherford had been long in a state of painful anxiety, watching untiringly around the sick, and, to all human probability, the dying bed of Hettie. The scenes of trial which she had been passing through for several successive months, had imperceptibly weakened her frame; and the terrible ordeal of the mock-marriage proved just the stroke too much for her to bear. In the wildest delirium, her spirit tossed and agonized for weeks; and then, as her nature sunk, worn out with the wrestling of her troubled mind, it required the nicest care and most faithful attendance to stay up her feeble tenement.

Nothing was wanting that love could minister for her benefit; and hope again began to bless the spirits of friends. Her reason was restored, her strength gradually returned, and although confined still to her bed, the signs of recovery were so evident, that cheerfulness once more blessed the countenances of that much afflicted but still happy family.

Hettie had resolved to keep the secret with which she had been intrusted by her brother no longer than she could acquire strength to reveal it; and on this very day that we have been describing, she had told Mr. Rutherford all she knew.