Such is the power of that sweet passion,
That it all sordid baseness doth expel,
And the refined mind doth newly fashion
Unto a fairer form, which now doth dwell
In his high thoughts, that would itself excel,
Which he, beholding still with constant sight,
Admires the mirror of so heavenly light. —Spenser.

But now lead on;
In me is no delay; with thee to go
Is to stay here; with thee here to stay
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me
Art all things under heaven. —Milton.

It was some time before Kate was able to undertake the fatigues of a return. At last, however, she set forth, supported by Major Gordon, who had, notwithstanding his wound, an arm uninjured to offer to her. When they had emerged from the denser part of the swamp, it was proposed to construct a litter for her, the road now allowing of her being transported in this way; but she declined the proffer, insisting that she was able to walk to the hut, at least.

For, as the way led back to within a mile of that place, Uncle Lawrence decided that it would be advisable to go there at once, because Kate could then obtain some repose, while a messenger, despatched to Sweetwater, might bring a carriage to transport her home, later in the day. As by this plan Mrs. Warren would obtain intelligence of her safety sooner than if they all pursued their way to the family mansion immediately, Kate pronounced in favor of it. Moreover, by this scheme, she would be able to bring away with her the orphan child, who had been so instrumental in her escape, and who, now that the reputed uncle was no more, would be willing, Kate reasoned, to accompany her to Sweetwater. To this desolate little girl our heroine felt her heart strangely drawn, even apart from the gratitude which filled her heart towards the child as the preserver of her life.

Accordingly, when they reached the main road, where Kate had taken the wrong turn, two of the patriots left the party, and hastened with all their speed to Sweetwater; while the remainder, striking into the byway that led to the cabin, advanced at a slower pace, accommodated to our heroine’s fatigue.

When the latter reached the clearing on the knoll of the swamp, they found that the child, already forced by circumstances to be a housekeeper, had removed the evidences of the last night’s debauch, and restored everything to order and comparative neatness. The table was set away; the chairs replaced in their positions; the floor swept and subsequently sanded, as was then the fashion. The child was sitting, trying to read with difficulty, when the party came up; and the book falling from her hands in her surprise, Uncle Lawrence took it up, and discovered, as he had suspected, that it was a Testament.

When she recognized Kate, the orphan stole immediately to her side, and, clasping the hands of our heroine between both her own little palms, said, gently,

“I’m so glad you’ve come back. Oh! how I wished, all the morning, that these good people would find you.”

“I’ve come back to take you away with me,” said Kate, stooping, and kissing the child. “You musn’t shake your head sadly. There’s nothing now to keep you here. That bad man, who called himself your uncle, is dead and gone.”

The orphan looked wonderingly at Kate; then at Uncle Lawrence; and, finally, around the entire group. Reading a confirmation of this truth in every eye, her little face assumed an awe-struck expression, and she burst into tears.

Kate tried to soothe her.

“He wasn’t your uncle at all, dear,” she said, taking the child in her lap, for they had now entered the house. “These gentlemen,” turning to Major Gordon and Uncle Lawrence, “say they know all about you. So you musn’t think of him, except as a bad, bad man, who has brought death on himself by his own wickedness.”

“It’s that that makes me cry,” said the child, looking up through her tears.

Uncle Lawrence, laying his hand on her head in his fatherly manner, said to the orphan,

“I’ve no doubt, my little one, that this lady here is nearer related to you than maybe you or she thinks. But more of that bye and bye,” he continued. “It’s to her house you’re to go, and you ought to thank the Lord, my child, that he’s given you such a friend.”

“Now,” said Kate, kissing her, “you can’t help being my little sister.”

“I’ll be so glad,” murmured the child, hiding her face on Kate’s shoulder, and closely entwining her arms around our heroine, who looked up, smiling through her tears, at Major Gordon and Uncle Lawrence.

Nearly four hours elapsed before the expected vehicle arrived from Sweetwater. During this interval, Kate was urged to snatch some repose, for it will be recollected that excepting the short period she slept by accident the night before, she had not closed her eyes for thirty-six hours, while, meantime, she had undergone the greatest fatigue of body and mind. But her nerves were still too excited from the agitating events which had followed her first capture, to permit her to compose herself to sleep; and besides, she shrank from re-entering the chamber where she had passed a night of such agonizing suspense.

Mrs. Warren’s joyful consternation, when she heard of Kate’s safety, it is almost impossible to describe. The effect of the news was completely paralyzing to her, as much so, for awhile, indeed, as if it had been intelligence the most disastrous.

For quite a minute the servants thought she was dying, and being, to use one of their own expressions, “a’most as flustered as herself,” they did all sorts of absurd things in the effort to help her. Pomp’s father seized a flower-vase, which Kate had arranged the preceding morning, and threw its contents into her face, plants and water alike. Dinah, his wife, attempted to cut the good lady’s stays with the back of a bread-knife, with which she had rushed in from the kitchen, being engaged in slicing a loaf when she heard the uproar. The maid screamed at the top of her lungs, and ran out of the room, with a vague design of seeking a vinaigrette bottle in one of the chambers; but she finally captured a phial of patent medicine, which Mrs. Warren patronized, as many excellent old dowagers will, and unconscious of her error, rushed back again, screaming as fast as ever, and popped the horrible compound under the dame’s nose. Between the application of Jim, and this of the maid, Mrs. Warren soon came to; and it was fortunate for her she did; for, as one of the news-bearers said, in rehearsing the tale afterwards,— “they’d have killed her next, seein’ that we was so frightened by the infernal screechin’ of that Frenchified gal, with the physic-bottle, that we thought the old ‘oman had gone for sartain.”

When Kate at length arrived at Sweetwater, the good dame had recovered her usual equanimity. Having improved the interval to repair the disorder of her attire, she now appeared in all her ordinary pomp of costume; her voluminous furbelowed gown sweeping half the room; her high, red-heeled shoes pattering, as she rushed down the porch; and the powder flying like snow from her tower-like head-dress, and perfuming the air around her, as if the wind blew from a spice-garden.

Extending her arms, into which Kate threw herself, she said,

“Bless us, my child, what trouble you’ve given me, and all from riding alone. I knew something terrible would happen from the first. But don’t think I blame you. I’m too glad to see you for that.”

In fact, Mrs. Warren, having discharged her conscience in the way of reproof, began to kiss her niece passionately, at the same time bursting into tears. Uncle Lawrence afterwards remarked, that he thought, that “next to fallin’ into the clutches of a baar, the most dangerous thing was bein’ hugged by Mrs. Warren, for she nigh a’most squeezed Katie to death.”

It was a long time before Kate recovered from the effects of that terrible day and night. Though she had borne up so heroically while the peril continued, she broke down completely after she found herself safely at home; and for nearly a week she was unable even to leave her chamber. By the end of that time, however, she appeared in the parlor, where, though still pale, she seemed to Major Gordon lovelier than ever.

Our hero, who had called daily to inquire after her progress, was almost transported beyond himself, when, one morning, on being shown as usual into the parlor, he saw Kate sitting there instead of her formal aunt. The young heiress rose immediately, and frankly advanced, extending her hand.

“This is, indeed, a surprise,” cried Major Gordon, taking the delicate little palm between his two hands. “I had not hoped so much, after what Mrs. Warren said yesterday.”

“My good aunt,” replied Kate, with a smile and a blush, “always takes the worst view of things, you know.”

“Has she done censuring you for being the sole cause of your late peril, by riding out alone?” asked the Major, smiling also, as he led her to the sofa.

“She has it over a dozen times a day, and always ends by declaring she ‘knew something dreadful would happen;’ that’s her pet phrase. But come, we musn’t laugh at aunt’s foibles in this way; she’s an excellent creature; and, you know, you and she are to be the best of friends.”

From this opening of the conversation, and from the tone of the speakers, it was evident that they had come already to a perfect understanding. Major Gordon, in fact, had written a letter to Kate, when he found that she could not leave her chamber; for he deemed it due to both herself and him, that an explicit avowal of his feelings should be in her hands without delay. This letter was really the best medicine Kate could have had; for, by assuring her of his love, it removed what otherwise would have been a source of secret agitation to her.

The reader, indeed, must long since have suspected that Kate was as much in love with Major Gordon as he with her. The interview at the bridge, with our hero’s conduct afterwards, had first opened her eyes to the state of her heart. The letter of our hero afforded her at last an opportunity, consistent with maidenly propriety, to acknowledge her affection; and as she was too true-hearted and sincere to trifle with her correspondent, she wrote immediately such an answer as made the recipient nearly wild with joy, though the note itself was quite simple and even laconic.

We leave them together, on this first meeting since their betrothal, to exchange those questions as to when each first began to love, and renew those protestations, which made the pair happy beyond words, as such things have made many another pair, but which would be insipid enough if printed.

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart—
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth?
That can with studied, shy, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting truth?
Curse on his perjur’d arts! —Burns.

Naught so ill
As the betrayer’s sin! salvationless
Almost. —Bailey.

The intelligence of Aylesford’s death deeply affected both Kate and her aunt. The latter, who had lavished so much of her affection on him, was almost inconsolable. In charity to the dead, and from respect to Mrs. Warren’s feelings, Aylesford’s connection with Kate’s capture was concealed from her.

“Why tear open the wounds of the past?” said Major Gordon, when Uncle Lawrence, from what he thought justice to Kate, would have told the whole story. “He has gone to his account, bitterly repenting, before he died, this act at least. His aunt is childless, and had lavished the chief stock of her love upon him; and to destroy her idol now, will go near to breaking her heart. At least, wait until Miss Aylesford recovers, and can be consulted.”

These arguments prevailed. When Kate’s opinion was asked, she pronounced at once against informing her aunt. “It can do no good to the living, and can but harm the good name of the dead. I freely forgive him. Aunt would go pining all the rest of her days, if forced to believe the truth of my poor cousin.”

But this abnegation on the part of our heroine, cost her many a complaint from Mrs. Warren, who, ignorant of the true cause of Kate’s capture, continued to insist that her niece’s temerity, in riding out unattended, had led to all the perils which had followed. It is probable that the good dame, if she had known that Aylesford was in chase of the refugee boat, when shot, would have secretly laid his death at the door of her niece.

It was long before Mrs. Warren became reconciled to her nephew’s loss. She openly bewailed his death, as the extinction of the family name, “for,” said she, “when you marry, Kate, you know you’ll be an Aylesford no longer.” The cup out of which her “child,” as she now called him, had drunk at his last breakfast; the knife and fork which he had used; and a pair of gloves he had accidentally left on the hall table, were carefully preserved by the old lady, and were annually drawn from their receptacle, on the anniversary of his death, and regarded with tears. Let us not ridicule the fond illusion of the poor creature. She worshipped, in this sacred way, a visionary memory it is true; but the image was a reality in her eyes and therefore dear to her.

They were so careful of her feelings that they spared her even the knowledge of the parentage of the little girl, whom Kate had brought home and now publicly adopted as a sister. That the child had been instrumental in preserving our heroine’s life was the avowed reason of this adoption; and it satisfied Mrs. Warren, though she could not help saying, that “Kate was an odd girl, and often over, paid her debts.” But those, who knew the true history of the orphan, were aware that other considerations also had led to this solemn act.

The Testament, which Uncle Lawrence picked up, and which was subsequently handed to Kate by Mrs. Herman, contained the inscription, “Margaret Rowan, her book, A. D., 1769,” written in Aylesford’s handwriting. The volume was evidently, therefore, the gift of Kate’s cousin to the child’s mother, about the time when his acquaintance with the latter commenced, and before he had, by deserting her and her babe, brought on that broken heart of which she died. The book, as was frequently the fashion then, was carefully covered with cloth, between which and the original sheepskin binding Kate found a paper, the purport of which was that “Charles Aylesford and Margaret Rowan” were lawfully married “on the 10th of December, A. D., 1769.” On the back of this certificate was written, however, in a tremulous, unformed female hand, “I have proof that the within named clergyman was an impostor,” the words being signed, “Margaret Rowan, 1773.” The whole book, inside and out, was much thumbed and blotted with tears. It revealed to Kate, already possessed of other facts in relation to this early aberration of her cousin, a tale of youthful passion, deliberate perjury, and subsequent abandonment, which made her heart yearn to the innocent orphan more than ever.

From chance references made to her mother by the child, from what Kate had heard formerly, and from the results of inquiries she set on foot now, our heroine succeeded in finally filling up the outlines of this humble tragedy, which, if it could have had a Shakespeare to narrate it, might have moved nations and generations, instead of making but a faint echo in its little circle, and then dying away forever. Aylesford, when still a youth comparatively, had met and loved the reduced and orphan daughter of a British officer, who, dying in America, towards the close of the old French war, had left his child and wife penniless strangers in a foreign land. The mother had soon followed the father, and the daughter being left destitute, had sunk into a subordinate position. When Aylesford first met her she was only sixteen, innocent in every thought, and a mere child in her knowledge of life. Occupying the place of a seamstress, in the house of a wealthy female connexion of the Aylesfords, she was thrown in the way of the young man, and readily bestowed her affections on one so much superior in outward bearing to other persons of his age and sex whom she had met. Aylesford had but little difficulty in persuading her to give him a right to elevate her from her dependent position; but he brought forward the prejudices of his family as a reason for having the marriage secretly performed. He chose this method of betraying his victim, because he knew that a false priest could easily be procured, and because he was aware that in no other way could he carry out his base designs on this friendless girl. Accordingly Arrison, who had been the Mephistopheles of this tragedy all along, procured a tool to play the part of a clergyman; and the unsuspecting Margaret became a victim, where she fondly believed she was to be a wife.

More than a year, however, elapsed before she discovered the perfidy to which she had been sacrificed. But when, after the birth of her child, Aylesford’s passion began to cool, Arrison surprised her by insulting proposals, which, on her indignantly rejecting them, and adding that she would expose him to her husband, led to an avowal from the ruffian of the true position in which she stood. She lost no time in charging Aylesford with the deed; a violent altercation ensued, and the sated young man, not sorry for an excuse to quarrel, parted from her forever.

We draw a veil over years that followed. The deserted, heart-broken creature, whom common rumor said had consented to marry Arrison, would not even see that person, but hiding herself from all eyes, sought to earn a humble livelihood by her needle. But the blow, which had ruined all her bright hopes, had undermined her health forever. She was not fitted, either physically or otherwise, to struggle with adversity. From the hour that she learned she was not a wife, she faded slowly but surely. After a few years of severe toil, rendered necessary to obtain food for herself and child, she found herself on the bed of death.

At this crisis, the pride, which had made her reject pecuniary assistance from Aylesford, gave way in view of the approaching destitution of her child. She penned a letter to her betrayer, which would have moved a heart of stone, and which induced him, though he had long since forgotten her, and though he had sworn, when she first declined his money, never to give her or her babe a farthing, to propose supporting the orphan. He would not consent, however, even to do this, unless the child should pass for Arrison’s niece. An annual stipend, promised to his uncle’s former servant, secured the co-operation of the latter. To these cruel terms the dying mother was compelled to accede. Deserted by all the world, she was fain to charge her child to remain with Arrison.

But trembling for the influences the orphan would be brought under, she besought the little one to remember what she had taught of God, and to read, at least once a day, the Testament, her only legacy, which she placed in the daughter’s hands. Perhaps the dying mother would have declined the proffered aid altogether, if it had not been for a secret hope that when Aylesford knew the child he would become interested in it. But this expectation was never realized. Aylesford studiously avoided seeing the friendless orphan, and only remembered her existence when called on to pay her annual stipend.

With these facts before her, no wonder that Kate loved that orphan so much. The mother’s wrongs, not less than the child’s sufferings, appealed to our heroine’s heart. “Little Maggy,” as she called her protege, repaid these feelings with a fervor that was beautiful to see. Never having had any one to love since she lost her mother, the child fairly worshipped our heroine.

Kate took pleasure in instructing the orphan, and in watching the rapid unfolding of this youthful intellect, which promised to be one of rare and precocious power. Yet often a sigh rose to our heroine’s lips, as she thought of the future destiny of her protege, for in that day, even more than in this, such children suffered for the parent’s sin; and Kate foresaw that the cruel sneer, the whispered remark, the cold avoidance, would be almost death to the sensitive nature of little Maggy.

Meanwhile the family at Sweetwater went into mourning for Aylesford, and the marriage of Kate, which otherwise would have taken place immediately, was postponed until the spring. There was a town house in Philadelphia, belonging to the family, and thither it was resolved that they should remove for the winter, partly because Kate wished her protege to have the benefit of teachers, who could not be obtained at Sweetwater, and partly for reasons connected with her large property.

In one particular, the arrangement was fortunate for the lovers, for, about this time, Major Gordon received an appointment in the metropolis.

While these events had been transacting, the British expedition, which burned the Neck, having found itself thwarted in the further measures it proposed, had returned to New York. Count Pulaski, though arriving too late to prevent the destruction of the prizes, succeeded in intimidating the enemy, who abandoned the field, being able to pluck no more laurels except the surprising of a picket, about thirty in number, whom they slaughtered in cold blood. In retiring, the man-of-war which accompanied the expedition grounded in the inlet, when the British, finding they could not get her off, set fire to her, lest she should fall into the hands of the Americans. It was amid the derisive cheers of the patriots, and the echoes of her guns, which went off as they became heated, that the royal troops finally stood out to sea, and took their way, crest-fallen, towards Sandy Hook. They had, indeed, burned a few store-houses, given some thirty dismantled prizes to the torch, and ravaged one or two inconsiderable patriot settlements; but they had failed of the great object of their undertaking, the seizure of the privateers, and had lost the most valuable ship of their flotilla. Taught by the result of this enterprise, they never again vexed the neighborhood, though it continued to be a thorn in their side to the very last month of the war.

This is the proper place to mention that one of the refugees who had escaped into the swamp, was captured the day subsequent to his flight, on his coming forth to seek some food; and that, it being proved that he had committed many atrocities, which brought him within the pale of the law, he was condemned to be hung. The sentence was executed at the Forks, and to this day, as a superstitious tradition goes, his ghost haunts the spot where he expiated his crimes.

Hark! through the dim woods sighing,
With a moan;
Faintly the winds are crying,
Summer’s gone. —Mrs. Norton.

Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. —Shakespeare.

When the leaves had fallen, the November rains set in, and the winds begun to rave and sob, alternately, around the mansion at Sweetwater, the family departed for Philadelphia.

The old church, amid its now verdureless grove of oaks, seemed, as they drove past, to look sadly on their departure; while the stream in its rear audibly lamented, and the ancient cedars sighed mournfully in the wind. Kate gazed at the dear objects, and then turned, just as the carriage was about to enter the forest, for a last glance down the pond, in the direction of the house. At that instant the sun, which had been obscured by the leaden-colored clouds, suddenly burst forth, kindling the whole landscape into life: the white mansion flashed out; the ruffled lake sparkled like silver; and a glory was flung over the whole western heaven, where the clouds lay piled like peaks and ridges in a mountain region.

When the travellers reached the cross-road, which led towards Uncle Lawrence’s farm, the old man was there waiting for them. He stood leaning on his gun, silently enjoying the beauty of the autumn-tinted sky, and inhaling the soft air, as one quaffs delicious wine. So profound was his abstraction, that he did not hear the approaching vehicle, until it was close at hand.

“Good morning, Uncle Lawrence,” said Kate, merrily. “Confess now that we have taken you by surprise; and surrender a prisoner at discretion. In other words, jump in and go to town; for we have a spare seat.”

The veteran smiled kindly.

“I own that I was off my guard,” he said, “but it was the sweet air and beautiful skies that made me forget myself. I was thinking, my child,” he continued, his eye kindling, and looking at Kate as if he knew she would appreciate him, “that the New Jerusalem must be as much more splendid than the clouds yonder, as they are than the common things of earth; and I said to myself, that if looking at ‘em made me so happy here, what would I be should I get to the heavenly Canaan; and so I prayed to the Lord to keep me steadfast to the end.”

Kate gazed at him almost reverently.

“But I’ve not been idle, either,” he said. “I’ve no doubt I was up before you, after all; for I had shot a deer two hours ago; he hangs out yonder, a mile away, where I left him for the boys to bring home. Remember, you’re to tell the Major that I’ll look out for him about the time he promised; and that we’ll have as great a hunt as ever was known in these parts. Now will you be honest in telling him?” he asked, with a sly twinkle, “for, if you won’t, I’ll get sister Maggy to do my errand instead.”

“Oh! I’ll tell him,” replied Kate, with a blush and a gay smile, answering in something of her old rattling style. “He’ll be getting tiresome, I’ve no doubt, before Christmas, so that it will be a happy deliverance to me to have him go away for awhile. But, meanwhile,” she added, “why not come to town with us, as I have proposed? You don’t know,” she continued, seriously, “how I shall miss you all.”

“It’s onpossible just now,” replied Uncle Lawrence, shaking his head. “But I reckon I’ll be there next spring,” he added, with a significant smile, “that is, if I’m alive, even though I have to walk all the way.”

Kate blushed crimson at the allusion, but rallying, answered promptly, while she extended her hand for a parting farewell,

“I shall be sure to expect you, and will take care that a carriage is sent for you. You must bring my old friend, Mrs. Herman.”

“Mother’s too much of a home body, to come,” replied the veteran. “Besides she’d be flustered so, she wouldn’t know what she was doin’, when she found herself among all the grand folk I spose will be there. I shouldn’t wonder now,” he added “if General Washington himself was to be present.”

“Oh! you must come and see,” laughed Kate.

“And that you’ll be married by your own preacher. I’ve heerd they wear black gowns, like we see in pictures. I reckon that’ll be more cur’us to me than a’most anything else.”

“You shall see all,” said Kate, “only come; and there’ll be no one more welcome.”

“Well, you may depend on me, as I said before; that is if I’m alive. The Lord bless you, my child,” he concluded, with great seriousness, “and make you as happy as you are good and beautiful.”

“Farewell,” said Kate, the tears coming into her eyes; and the carriage drove on.

The veteran remained standing, with his hat off, and his thin gray hairs stirring in the autumn breeze, until the coach had disappeared; when he turned to seek his dwelling, feeling as if he had parted with one of his own flesh and blood; and that night, when he led the family devotions, he prayed as fervently for Kate as for any member of his own household.

The Aylesford mansion, in Philadelphia, was an imposing, aristocratic looking edifice, standing back from the street, amid venerable trees, and surrounded by a spacious garden. Thirty years ago, more than one such stately relic of the ante-revolutionary times was still to be seen in our midst; but they have all been long since demolished, or have been so shorn of their surroundings, as to have lost most of their ancient dignity. The town-house of the Aylesfords was among the proudest of these old colonial mansions. It had been, in the preceding generation, the head-quarters of fashion in the city. In the grand, wainscotted room, every person of distinction, who had visited the metropolis, during a period of nearly twenty years, had been entertained. There beauty had rustled its silks, dazzled with its diamonds, conquered by the graceful use of the fan, and awed by the haughty carriage of its plumed and scornful head. There Washington, then a young man, had visited, on that memorable tour in which he lost his heart to the beautiful tory of New York. There royal governors and titled nobles, courted heiresses and worshiped belles, officers and statesmen, the proud Virginia planters and the wealthy Boston merchants, the chivalrous Carolinian and the princely manorial lords of the Hudson, had assembled to drink the rare wines of the host, dance the minuet, or exchange the stately courtesies of the time.

But for many years the mansion had been shut up. A solitary servant had been its sole tenant during all this time. The boys had been allowed, unchecked, to club down the English walnuts from the trees in the yard, and the towns-people had come to consider its desolate look as one of the characteristics of the street where it stood.

Consequently, when the shutters were seen thrown open, one fine November day, and the servant was observed to be carefully scrubbing the gray stone steps in front, everybody was agog with curiosity. The arrival of a travelling carriage, towards evening, collected quite a crowd, and when a tall and graceful girl alighted, followed by a child, and subsequently by a stately, dowager-like lady, the spectators spread the intelligence that the Aylesfords had actually come to town as if to stay, a fact which set half the teatables in the place speculating as to whether the family could be as great tories as rumor had said, or whether it was really true, as had begun to be whispered by those who ought to know, that the heiress was going to marry a patriot officer, high in the esteem of General Washington.

When Kate, the morning after her arrival, walked through the desolate-looking garden, she almost despaired of ever being able to restore it to order. The once clipped boxwood had grown into all sorts of fantastic shapes; the gravel walks were covered with grass; rank weeds had overrun the flower beds; and the grotto at the foot, which, in her childish days, she was accustomed to regard as the greatest wonder of the world, was damp with water, stripped of its shells, and covered with green, slimy moss.

Mrs. Warren, who, to do her justice, was as notable a housekeeper as she was a martinet in dress, walked through the mansion, meantime, absolutely beside herself with dismay. Panes of glass were cracked; spider-webs were everywhere; the wood work was almost black from damp and want of light; the roof leaked; and the whole place, she declared, smelt musty. The good dame exaggerated not a little; nevertheless, the house was in sad, almost dismal disarray, and as the instructions to have it renovated had been disregarded, maids were set to work immediately. For nearly a fortnight buckets and scrubbing brushes had it all their own way. Mrs. Warren, with the true spirit of an old-fashioned Philadelphia housekeeper, was so happy amid this turmoil, that she forgot to reflect on Kate for having ridden alone. Indeed, the excellent dame was never better pleased than when house-cleaning, unless, perhaps, when talking of her cousin, Lord Alvanley, or appearing in a new damask gown.

At last, however, the dowager pronounced “things fit to be seen;” and, ceasing to scold the maids, reassumed the great lady. To use her own phrase, she could now go about the house without “getting the fidgets.” We may amuse ourselves in this harmless way, with smiling at the excellent creature’s nervous abhorrence of illy-performed housework; but, perhaps, the dames of the present age would be none the worse if they imitated the habits of their great-grandmothers in personally supervising such labor more frequently than they do. The highest in the land, in the good old times, were not above ordering their households; and did not either delegate the duty to upper servants, or leave things to chance.

By the close of November, the Aylesford mansion was restored to all its pristine freshness, and to much of its former vivacity. There were no balls, it is true. But visitors came and went continually, for it was impossible for a family of such consideration to fix their abode in a city so small as the metropolis then was, without all the gentry calling upon them. A whisper of the approaching wedding, which, as we have seen, had got abroad, assisted to stimulate these civilities; for every one wished to be a guest at what, judging from the wealth and position of the bride, could not fail to be an unusually brilliant affair.

I cannot speak, tears so obstruct my words
And choke me with unutterable joy. —Olney.

With goddess-like demeanor forth she went,
Not unattended, for on her as queen
A pomp of winning graces waited still. —Milton.

That what she wills to do or say
Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best. —Milton.

The venerable edifice of Christ Church, the oldest house of worship of its denomination in Philadelphia, still retains the outward appearance it wore five and seventy years ago. But its stately front and exquisite steeple, instead of rising within view of the fashionable quarter of the town, as it did then, now overlooks a wilderness of shops, while its pavement is encumbered on market days with the eggs, chickens, and vegetables of farmers, who chaffer for a cent. The interior of the ancient edifice, however, has undergone great changes, not the least of which is the substitution of comfortable modern sittings for the stiff, high-backed pews in which Lady Washington and the elite of that day used to worship.

The appearance of the Aylesfords in their family pew at Christ Church attracted universal attention. The worthy rector lost no time in paying his respects to them, and was charmed with little Maggy as well as with Kate. He became a frequent visitor. He often seemed lost in thought, as he gazed on the child. At last, when Kate and he were alone together one day, he said,

“I have long wished, my dear young lady, to broach a delicate subject to you. I hope you will not think I wish to interfere impertinently in your family matters; but permit me to ask whether that beautiful child, who has just left the room, is really, as report declares, your cousin.”

“She is,” answered Kate. “But why this question?”

“The daughter of Mistress Margaret Rowan, so called?”

Kate inclined her head in assent.

“From what I know of you then, my dear young lady, and from the kind countenance I see you bestowing on the child, you will rejoice to hear that the fraud, so basely attempted on her mother, utterly failed.”

“What!” cried our heroine, with sparkling eyes, clasping her hands in joy. “Can it be possible?”

“Never was there wife, if that poor girl, whose father I knew in England, was not legally wedded to the late Charles Aylesford, Esquire.”

“Thank God!” ejaculated Kate, fervently.

“Yes! we may well thank the Almighty one,” reverently replied the clergyman; “for out of evil counsel he brought good. But I must explain. It happened in this way.”

The rector then proceeded to state that, a few months before the Aylesfords arrived in Philadelphia, he had been summoned, one evening, to the bedside of a dying man in one of the miserable taverns then, and still existing, by the water-side. The invalid was undergoing the most terrible agonies of remorse, having, on his own confession, lived a life of the greatest depravity for many preceding years. He had been, he said, originally a clergyman of the Church of England, had been left a small fortune, and had graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge. But, having fallen into evil courses, through his fondness for company and wine, he had gradually been excluded from the society he was born for, and, finally, had been obliged to fly to America to escape the vengeance of the law. In the colonies he had met Arrison, had become a confederate in his villainies, and had consented to be the tool of Aylesford and him in the clandestine marriage of Miss Rowan. Neither of his employers, however, were aware of his true clerical character; but supposed his assumption of the robes was only a cleverly managed disguise. Nor was this all. Abandoned as he was, the fallen clergyman had still some conscience left, so that he secretly procured the documents necessary to render the marriage a valid one, in all respects. Subsequently he had left Philadelphia, and had remained absent for years, having only returned, in the last stage of a consumption, a few weeks before sending for the rector. A principal object of his coming back, he confessed, was the desire to make reparation for the great wrong he had done Mistress Rowan. Nothing in his whole career, though he acknowledged to being stained with the blackest crimes, had ever affected him, he said, like his share in that treacherous transaction. He had just succeeded in tracing the poor victim, in discovering that she had been abandoned by her husband, and in ascertaining that she died after a few years of toil and shame, when his disease assumed so violent a character that he was unable to prosecute further inquiries. What had become of the child, whether it was dead or living, he had been unable to ascertain. In this extremity, tormented by restless anguish, he had sent for the rector of Christ Church, and placing in the good clergyman’s hands the proofs of the legality of the marriage, enjoined him to endeavor to discover the fate of the orphan. Having done this, he seemed more at ease, and expired the same night, shortly after the rector had departed.

“As soon as you came to town, and I saw your little cousin in your pew, I felt that the lost child was discovered,” continued the clergyman. “But it was not until I had more certainly ascertained that she was really your blood-connection, that I ventured to take the present liberty.”

It now became necessary to acquaint Mrs. Warren with Maggy’s real parentage, and consequently with one of those transactions in her nephew’s life which had been studiously concealed from her. It was, at first, a terrible shock to the poor creature. But after awhile she became more reconciled to it, finding those excuses which simple, loving hearts like hers always will. It had the beneficial effect, in the end, of making her almost worship little Maggy, whom heretofore she had treated, as we have seen, with comparative indifference. The orphan now came in for the love that had been lavished on Aylesford, and Mrs. Warren entered eagerly into all Kate’s plans for the instruction of Maggy; but especially did the good lady interest herself in what she called the “domestic” education of the child, saying naively to her protege; “my dear, as every woman’s proper destiny is to be a wife, and to be happy as a wife, it is indispensable that you should know how to prepare a good table for your husband, as all men like good eating, and can indeed be best kept in humor by tickling their palates.” This remark was the nearest approach to wit which the dowager ever made; and was slyly quoted to Major Gordon by Kate, as a commentary on his sex.

No one could have progressed with greater rapidity in her studies than did Maggy. Perhaps it is a mistake, into which modern times have fallen, that they put children to school too soon; for, if the young intellect was left unvexed awhile longer, it would probably learn all the quicker when once it began. Certainly, little Maggy, who, at ten years old, could read with difficulty, made the most astonishing progress, so that, by the time she was fourteen, no young lady of her age could boast of so many acquirements. The superior education which Kate herself had received was doubtless of benefit to the child, because it enabled our heroine to impart much instruction not then taught in American schools. In music Maggy had an exquisite ear, while her voice was one of great promise. To hear her sing the simple ballads, then so popular, often brought tears into the eyes of the listeners. It is a strange sight to see such effects produced in our days; but it would be heretical nevertheless to say that we ought to give up opera music in parlors, and return to the artless, plaintive song; for of course we are wiser in this, as in other things, than our ancestors; and it is quite absurd to think that there can be music unless the windows shake, the piano shudders as if in an ague fit, and the dear, sweet performer, opens her month as if she was about to swallow music sheets, instruments and all.

Among those who shed tears, at hearing Maggy’s ballads, were several French noblemen, officers in the army of his most Christian Majesty Louis the Sixteenth, at that time the good ally of the confederated States of America. These members of the most artificial and luxurious court in Europe, the principal part of whom had joined the expedition to reinforce Washington out of sheer ennui, having long ago exhausted every phase of life that even Paris presented, were delighted beyond measure at the artless singing of this innocent child of nature. It was not mere highbred courtesy either, which induced them to extol her simple ballads, though never were men more polished in manner than the French nobility of that day. But, as we have said, the unbidden tears started into their eyes as they listened, and there was an earnestness in their tones, that carried the conviction of truth with them, when they told Major Gordon that they had never heard such singing from the gay Marchionesses of Versailles, or even the stars of the opera.

For it was with Major Gordon that these visitors always came. Whenever a French officer brought letters of introduction to the city, our hero was one of the first he called upon; and the latter took his guest to the Aylesfords, as a matter of course. Indeed, had he not done so, he would have constantly been besieged for an introduction to our heroine, as the Duc de Lauzun, who had met her early in the winter, went back to camp enthusiastic in her praise. “La belle Americaine,” as he called her, had, he said, the grace and refinement of a Marchioness, with a freshness and originality that was perfectly bewitching. It was said of him, by his intimates, that he had really lost his heart; and it is certain that, years after, when he had became le Duc de Biron, he would talk of the fair Philadelphian; and once he was heard to declare, with a sigh, that he had seen, in America, “the sprightliness and beauty of Marie Antoinette, combined with the innocence and truthfulness of St. Pierre’s Virginia;” and it was to our heroine that he referred.

If Mrs. Warren worshipped Maggy, the orphan adored her cousin. It was beautiful, indeed, to see the constant evidences which the child gave of her affection for Kate. When the latter spoke even the most trivial words, Maggy listened eagerly, and seemed by her looks to appeal to others to hear also. On one occasion, when our heroine was sick for a few days with cold and fever, the orphan went almost distracted. She always waylaid Dr. Rush on his retiring, in order to receive the assurance from himself, that Kate was really only triflingly indisposed. When her cousin recovered sufficiently to come down again to dinner, Maggy was nearly beside herself for joy, dancing and skipping about the convalescent, bursting into snatches of song, and continually catching Kate’s hand and kissing it.

This slight indisposition reminded our heroine of an unfulfilled intention regarding Maggy. Kate had early resolved to dower the orphan with a portion of her own wealth, and now, as soon as she had recovered, she sent for her attorney and directed him to make out a deed of gift, in favor of the child, as well as to prepare other law papers for her.

“If anything should happen to me,” she said, “I wish my affianced husband to inherit the principal part of my estate; but I wish, as much, that Maggy shall not be unprovided for; and I desire also to leave a competence to my aunt.”

These generous wishes were accordingly fulfilled. The Major, when he heard of the intentions of his betrothed with respect to himself, would have remonstrated; but Kate silenced him by the gravity of her reply, declaring that, “if he was not worthy to be entrusted with her fortune, in case of her decease, he surely was not with her happiness, if she lived.”

Thus the winter passed on. March, with its blustering winds, succeeded; April, fickle as ever, followed; and May, blushing and beautiful, came in. The appointed time of the wedding had nearly arrived, and every body was on the qui vive for an event which promised to be so dazzling.

Her gentle spirit,
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king. —Shakespeare.

To cheer thy sickness, watch thy health,
Partake, but never waste thy wealth,
Or stand with smile unmurmuring by,
And lighten half thy poverty. —Byron.

She is mine own;
And I as rich in having such a jewel,
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. —Shakespeare.

Expectation was more than realized when the ceremony actually came off. All that was distinguished in rank, talent, wealth, beauty, fashion, or social position in Philadelphia, assembled on the eventful evening at the Aylesford mansion. The commander-in-chief, who happened to be in the metropolis, conferring with the Congress, honored the occasion by his presence, and gave away the bride; while the French ambassador, with a large number of officers of his most Christian Majesty’s army, also attended; in fact, it was universally conceded that so brilliant a social assembly had never before been gathered together in Philadelphia.

That city, it must be remembered, was not only the political capital of the country at that period, but was also the first in the nation in respect to wealth, intelligence, scientific attainments, and social influence. A few years before, John Adams, on coming up to Philadelphia to attend the first Congress, had written home to his wife, in terms of amazement at what he styled the princely luxury in which the richer citizens lived, and to which, he declared, he had seen no parallel in Boston. Since that period there had been no decline, but rather an increase, in this splendid hospitality. There were fortunes, at that day, which, considering the difference in the value of money, would put even some of the colossal ones of a more modern period to the blush; while the example of the mother country, and the characteristic ostentation of the age, led to a far grander style of living than the taste of the present generation favors. The pompous coach and four; the crowd of liveried footmen; and the gold brocade dress, which a whole year’s expenses of a modern toilet would scarcely purchase; these have long been things of the past.

The front of the Aylesford mansion was a blaze of light, on the evening in question. The uproar of carriages, arriving and depositing their precious freights, was almost deafening at times. Between lanes of servants the guests passed up to the imposing doorway, and entering the carved and wainscoted hall, which was now fairly dazzling with light, were shown up the wide staircase to the chambers set aside for dressing rooms. It was a splendid spectacle to see the proud dames, attended by their lovely daughters, come pouring down the ample, heavily balustraded steps, and flock towards the drawing rooms like stately birds. The rustle of stiff brocades, and the fluttering sound of fans, were mingled with a rich, low murmur of animated conversations, carried on in whispers, that was like a soft undertone to a gay piece of music. Nor were the cavaliers less aristocratic looking than the swan-like creatures, before whom they bowed, offering the tip of their gloved fingers to their partners, in the ceremonious but lofty gallantry of the time. The age of dark and sober hues had not yet wholly usurped that of gay colors and silken fabrics for gentlemen’s wear; and the petit maitre of the day thought himself unfit for female society, if his ruffles were not of the choicest lace, his coat and waistcoat elaborately embroidered, and his white hands sparkling with jewels. All was a blaze of light and grandeur, therefore. Swords jingled; diamond shoe-buckles flashed; necklaces sparkled till they rivaled the fair wearer’s eyes; and the air was fragrant everywhere with the exquisite perfumes of the powder shaken from dozens of lovely heads whenever they moved. From a military band, stationed close by in the garden, came bursts of proud music continually, that made many a charming little foot move impatiently, and stirred the blood even of the old.

It would be impossible for us to describe half the superb dresses that made their debut on that occasion; but our fair readers would never forgive us if we omitted those of Mrs. Warren and the bride. The former wore a petticoat of crimson satin, thick as a board, the very sight of which would drive a modern belle crazy with envy. Over this was a skirt of rich, gold-flowered brocade; the boddice being made of the same material; and sleeves that, reaching to the elbow, were trimmed with deep, yellow, old lace, of almost fabulous value. But the head dress of Mrs. Warren was the crowning triumph of the good lady’s toilette. This coiffure was, in fact, the masterpiece of the French artist, whom Mrs. Warren had engaged three months before, and who had spent most of his leisure moments since in studying out this grand achievement of his genius. It rose nearly two feet in height, a perfect mass of interwoven ribbons, curls and jewels, almost rivaling that, which, a few years later, gave a European reputation to the celebrated Lemard, hair-dresser to Marie Antoinette, because he had consumed in it upwards of fourteen yards of gauze. It was, in short, a miniature tower of Babel, done in hair, pomatum and powder. The dowager was as proud of this chef d’oeuvre as her artist, and had but one drawback indeed on her satisfaction, which was that her cousin, Lord Alvanley, could not behold this miracle of art, taste and beauty.

The bride’s dress followed the fashion of the hour less servilely, having been made subservient to her own excellent taste. Her hair was drawn back entirely from her face, as was the prevailing mode: a style that eminently suited her regular features; but instead of being raised into an enormous tower, it was simply combed over an ordinary cushion, a long curl or two being allowed to fall behind each ear. It was slightly powdered on this occasion, but with silver mareschale, which produced an indescribably brilliant effect against her fair complexion; and further ornamented by a wreath of delicate flowers placed on one side. On her snowy, swan-like neck, she wore a superb necklace of diamonds, which had belonged to her mother. Her petticoat was of rich white satin, the bottom being trimmed with wreaths of flowers; while her gown was of rose-colored brocade, wrought with silver flowers, and looped back from the under skirt with bunches of ribbons and flowers. Her stomacher was of costly lace, interspersed with diamonds. Her sleeves, like her aunt’s, were tight to the elbow, where they were trimmed with a double ruffle of lace, whose fabric of frost-work set off the taper and rounded arm, heightening even its statuesque beauty. Her shoes were of white satin, pointed at the toes, and with high, red heels, a fashion which showed to the greatest advantage a lady’s instep. She carried a Watteau fan, a gift from the French ambassador, worth almost its weight in gold.

Such was our heroine’s costume, and amid all that splendid circle, with its furbelows and flounces, its silken net work over fair bosoms, its white shoulders, its powdered coiffures, its diamonds, and its scores of beautiful forms, she was, beyond rivalry, the loveliest. Nor was the bridegroom, who appeared simply in the uniform of his rank, less conspicuous among the array of magnificently clad gentlemen, who, in silk stockings, embroidered coats, broad-flapped vests descending to the hips, and lace frills and ruffles, moved proudly about the rooms. His air of command and of manly dignity had, indeed, but one rival there; and that was in Washington himself, who then, as ever, “towered pre-eminent.” The grand, yet simple dignity of that heroic form; the quiet authority in the somewhat severe face; and the unaffected, yet awe-inspiring manner: ah! what pen can describe these, which contemporary painters confessed themselves unable to limn, and which the tongues of his most gifted compatriots fell short of depicting. But, though every eye turned first on the commander-in-chief, (even the eyes of those suspected of secretly wishing well to the royal arms,) the next object of admiration, at least among the ladies, was the bridegroom, as that of the gentlemen was the bride. Even the graceful, highbred, and splendidly clad French noblemen, who were present, altogether failed of attracting attention by the side of these.

The ceremony was impressively performed, the bridegroom making the responses in a firm voice, and the bride in one a little fluttered. After a proper interval had elapsed, the dancing began. But our fair readers must not suppose that those highbred dames permitted themselves, as their descendants do, to be taken familiarly about the waist by a comparative stranger, and whirled around the room in a schottish, or other waltz, as if the giddy pair were human spinning-tops. Nor must they imagine that the cavalier and his partner, with arms a-kimbo and faces alternately turned towards each other and averted, went stamping up and down the apartment, like wild Indians, in a polka. They must not even think that the gentlemen was at liberty to swing his partner till her wrists ached, whenever he approached her in a quadrille, for that now comparatively obsolete dance had not then yet come into fashion. The minuet was the only dance sufficiently courtly for that highbred age. It required something more than ordinary grace also to elicit admiration in that princely pastime; for it was performed in single couples, and with the eyes of the whole room watching for a blunder, or even for the slightest display of awkwardness. When the minuet, however, was danced to perfection, as it was more than once during this evening, it elicited that complete satisfaction in the beholder, which any finished work of art always produces. The gentleman, leading out his fair partner as ceremoniously as if she was a queen, bowed over her hand till he bent almost to her waist; while she curtsied in return, with lashes drooping on her cheek, the color rising into her face, and her damask-gown rustling as it sank to the floor; ah! this had a grace, a stateliness, and an air of chivalrous worship, such as, alas! we never see in a modern ball room. Then the exquisite ease with which the partners subsequently moved through the aristocratic dance, gliding to the slow, measured, stately music, the cavalier inclining his powdered head profoundly, with his hand on his heart, whenever he touched the hand of his companion, while she performed each evolution with a lightness of step, a tender coyness, and a formal grace, which seemed to be the poetical realization of that lordly and perhaps pompous, yet knightly age! When the bride executed the minuet, she carried off all plaudits, however, for notwithstanding others danced well, she danced surprisingly so.

Amid this brilliant assembly there was one personage who attracted no little attention. He was a man, apparently about sixty, dressed with great simplicity, yet with perfect neatness, in the plain garb of what was then called a yeoman. He was evidently unaccustomed to such assemblies, and consequently deficient in the conventional usages proper for the occasion; but no one could look upon his broad, square brow, or kindly eye, or observe his native ease of manner, without being satisfied that he was one of “nature’s noblemen.” The attention exhibited towards him by the Aylesford family, had already made the guests curious to know who he was; but when the commander-in-chief was observed to be conversing with him, eager inquiries began to pass around. When it was told that he had been an old field companion of the bride’s father, and that he was the same person who had saved her life in a moment of great extremity, the romantic story of which was well known in town, everybody, especially the ladies, was crazy to be made acquainted with him. Franklin, in his plain costume, was not a greater favorite among the beauties of the French court, than was Uncle Lawrence on this occasion. Indeed, if it had been at all allowable so to distinguish any one but the bride, it is probable the enthusiasm of the fair creatures would have crowned the veteran with a chaplet, after the manner in which the ambassador and philosopher was honored about the same time at Versailles.

The conversation of Washington with the old man lasted for a considerable time. The unassuming character of Uncle Lawrence; his plain, homely sense; his sincere, yet unaffected piety; and the bravery which, as the General knew, had been proved at more than one crisis, were exactly such qualities as the great hero could fully appreciate. Few could so readily discern, and so thoroughly honor, true manhood, as the Father of his Country. In the course of their conversation, the General alluded to his companion’s passion for the chase, which he declared he had once been as fond of as any man; asked several questions about the mode of hunting practised about Sweetwater; and on parting expressed his determination, if ever he visited that part of New Jersey, and had the leisure to spare from the cares of his office, to track a buck with the patriarch.

To say that Uncle Lawrence was not flattered by this mark of attention from the commander-in-chief, would be to misrepresent human nature. Yet he did not permit it to destroy his composure at the time, nor would his manner, a minute after, have betrayed the fact to an observer. He had too just an estimate of himself to be awed by the notice even of the General, though he looked up, and almost reverenced Washington, as possessor of a virtue nearly fabulous. He had also too strong a sense of the common brotherhood and inborn equality of all men, to feel dwarfed in the presence of any one, however high his rank or fortune.

“You have kept your promise. I am so glad,” said the bride, beckoning Uncle Lawrence to her, as the General left him. “How are they all at dear Sweetwater?”

“Very well, darling,” said the veteran, “or rather I should say,” he added, with a sly twinkle of the eye, emphasizing the name, “Mrs. Gordon.”

Kate blushed crimson. It was almost the first time she had been called by her new title. She understood the little touch of pleasantary on the part of the old man, however, and replied,

“No, call me darling still, I like it better from you. Though,” she added, archly, “the other is a pretty name enough, at least ‘my lord and master’ thinks so, I suppose.”

“He’ll have his hands full,” answered the old man, entering into this gay spirit, “if you begin in that fashion. I’m telling your bride, Major,” he said, as the bridegroom approached, “that you must begin at once breaking her in, or she’ll get the bit in her teeth, and runaway with you one of these days. When I was married, an old friend told me that the best way was to smash all the chaney, break the looking glass, and kick over the breakfast table, the very first day, and that arter that my wife would be so skeered that she’d never dare to have a will of her own.”

“But you didn’t do it,” answered Kate, laughingly, quick as ever at repartee, “or else you wouldn’t be afraid to go into the best room with your muddy boots on, which, you know, Uncle Lawrence,” she added, saucily, “is your great cross in life.”

“It’s no use talking, when you’re by,” replied the veteran, “you’ll have the last word always. If the Major here was to get druv half crazy, and drown you, as they did scolds in the old times, you’d snap your fingers at him, after your head was already under water.”

The bride turned fondly to her husband, and putting her hand on his arm, looked at Uncle Lawrence, merrily challenging his misrepresentation. The Major laughed, Kate blushed, and the veteran, shaking his head, said,

“Well, if I’m not called in till you quarrel, I reckon I’ll have an easy time of it.”

A perfect woman, nobly plann’d,
To warn, to comfort, and command,
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light. —Wordsworth

A good man, and an angel! there between,
How thin the barrier! What divides their fate?
Perhaps a moment, or perhaps a year. —Young.

The lives of Kate and Major Gordon were as happy as might have been foretold, from their mutual affection, their firm principles, their good sense, and the adaptability of their characters. They were not exempt from the ordinary mutations of life, having their disappointments and griefs like other people; but these sorrows were never of their own making, but mysterious dispensations from an all-wise Providence.

They had the misfortune to lose their first-born, a beautiful little girl, in her early childhood, just as her budding intellect and grateful tenderness were making her dearer than ever to the heart of her parents. But with this great sorrow, came also many mercies. Other children, good and beautiful daughters, brave and conscientious sons, grew up around them, filling their household with happy faces, sweet laughter and dutiful affection. As years rolled by, and the parents verged to middle age, they had the gratification to see these daughters married to worthy men, the choice of their own hearts, and to know that these sons had found partners, who were not mere playthings of the hour, but companions competent for all the varied duties of life. One of the sons-in-law was an eminent Senator, and his wife an acknowledged leader of society in Washington, who is still remembered for her grace, her goodness and her rare talents. A son distinguished himself greatly at Tripoli, and another rose to be a foreign ambassador. Our heroine, in her mature middle age, and when still a beautiful woman, could say, with the British matron, that all her daughters were virtuous and all her sons brave.

At first, part of the year was spent at Sweetwater, and part in Philadelphia, but finally the residence of the family became fixed in the city, except for the summer months. This was in consequence of the professional calls on Major Gordon, and the unwillingness of Kate to be separated from her husband; for the Major, after the close of the war, had resumed the practice of the law, declaring that he could not be an idle man, even if his fortune was ten times as great. He brought up his sons, in imitation of his own example, each to some particular pursuit. “Every man, who wishes to be either happy, or useful,” the Major was accustomed to say, “must have some business to follow; for otherwise the mind eats itself, and ennui and ill-health follow, even if idleness does not lead to evil courses.” Thus it happened, that while other rich men’s sons were bringing the gray hairs of their fathers prematurely to the grave, the children of our hero and heroine grew up to “honor their father and mother,” and call their names “blessed.”

But the Major, even to a late period in life, was always glad to escape to Sweetwater. Once a year, during the hunting season, he visited it for the purpose of bringing down a deer; and many an exciting day he and Uncle Lawrence had in the old forests round about. The veteran came at last to say that the “Major,” as he still called our hero, “was nigh about as good a shot as himself;” and many a tale was he accustomed to rehearse, with a low, triumphant chuckle, of their mutual success. Even Mullen often received a visit from our hero. The waterman, though dangerously wounded at the fight on the Neck, subsequently recovered, and settled down, at the close of hostilities, in the harmless pursuit of a fisherman. He knew where all the best places to catch the finny tribe were to be found, and religiously kept the fact to himself, only admitting Major Gordon to the knowledge of it, and this under strict promise of secrecy. But, at last, our hero, profiting by this information, became so successful, that he often excelled his teacher and patron. Mullen, now grown to be a hardy, weather-beaten old man, with a face the color of mahogany, and a form as wiry as if made of steel, was accustomed, after such defeats, to shake his head, saying, half in jest and half in earnest, “That such treatment was too bad, he had a despise for it; it was scandal-ous.”

Uncle Lawrence lived to a good old age. To the last he retained his fondness for the chase, as well as the physical vigor to endure its fatigues. In rain or shine he would set out, even when past the “three score and ten” allotted as the term of human life, with his gun on his shoulder, whistling as he went. At night his return would be announced by that low, monotonous whistle, long before his form could be discovered through the gloom or falling mist. His death was consistent with his life. One winter Sunday he walked to the old, dear church at Sweetwater; participated in the exercises with even more than his usual earnestness; answered the ordinary kind inquiries of his friends as to his health; and was told by the Major, who happened to be on a business visit to the place, that he had “never seen him looking better,” on which he answered, “the Lord is merciful to me, and I have long since tried, as much as poor, human flesh can, to set my house in order.” Returning home, he saw that the fire wanted some fresh wood, and his children being, by this time, grown up, and absent, he went out to get an arm-load. He had, however, scarcely laid it on the hand-irons, and was stretching out his palms to warm them, as the logs snapped and crackled into a merry blaze, when he suddenly fell over in his chair, and was dead before his wife could reach his side. The physician pronounced the cause of his sudden demise to be a disease of the heart. He was buried in the grave-yard at Sweetwater, in the spot he had mentioned to Major Gordon; and the leaves rustled, the birds sang, and the flowers blossomed over him, as he had desired. His farm passed long since into other hands. Lately it has been abandoned to the forest, which is growing up, wild and rank, on the fields where the patriarch tilled the soil, and close around the hearth where he offered his morning and evening prayers. Mother earth has claimed not only his own ashes, but even “the place that knew him.” His memory, however, still lives, and he is yet traditionally known, in his native region, as a mighty hunter, who left no successor.

Mrs. Warren and Maggy are the only persons of whom it remains to speak. The former was characteristic to the last, and died at a good old age, about the period that Louis the Sixteenth, to use her own phrase, “suffered.” In fact, the good lady never recovered from the blow, which the execution of that monarch inflicted on her heart. She had, originally, almost detested him, because he had taken sides against King George; for Mrs. Warren lived and died a tory. But when what she called “the canaille” obtained the ascendancy in Paris; when Lafayette carried the king and queen in triumph from Versailles; and when the monarchy itself fell on the fatal tenth of August, she became as violent a friend of the dethroned king as she had ever been his enemy. The trial and execution of the monarch smote her heart to its core. She could talk of nothing else. The bloody deed, in fact, brought second childhood upon her. And when, a few months after, Marie Antoinette herself was so brutally led to the scaffold, Mrs. Warren gave up the ghost, declaring that all order was lost, that birth was no more respected, and that the world was coming to an end; adding that “she had known it would happen all along, she had felt certain something dreadful would occur.” In her will, she left what little she had saved to be equally divided between Maggy and “her cousin, Lord Alvanley,” thus paying tithe of mint to affection and of cummin to rank.

Maggy grew up all that her friends could have desired, and finally made what everybody admitted was a brilliant match. It was, in truth, more lastingly brilliant than such unions generally are; for it was one of real esteem on both sides, and not a mere marriage of convenience. Her husband was a wealthy Virginia planter, who spent his time on his estates, devoting it to the improvement of his numerous servants: a man, who, though wealthy and well-born beyond most, considered it his duty to labor in his sphere for the interests of his race, and despise no man, however humble, poor, or degraded. In Maggy he found a help-meet, in the full sense of that good old Saxon word; a companion, a counsellor, and co-worker, who “smiled when he smiled, and wept when he wept.” If we had not already reached the limits of our story, or if we should ever again take up the pen, we should be tempted to describe the married life of Maggy, in order to show that all romance does not cease when the nuptial knot is tied, and that there is a bliss of domestic life as perfect as the raptures of an Amanda Malvina or a Lord Mortimer.

The whole of that section of New Jersey in which the events of our story occurred, has greatly changed since the period of which we write. Sweetwater itself is in decay; the Forks is in ruins; and vast portions of the original forest have fallen before the woodman’s axe. A railroad runs close to the place where the hut of the refugee stood; the scream of the locomotive is fast driving away the few deer left in the region. As we send these sheets to press, we notice that a land company is in operation in the neighborhood, and is issuing proposals to furnish “cheap homesteads,” according to the approved fashion of these modern associations. All things have changed. If the author has succeeded in describing, however faintly, a region, a society, and a state of manners already nearly eradicated, he will be content to let the genius of improvement complete the work of destruction, and forever remove all traces of the ruder, but more picturesque past.