Besides, the tale is in manuscript, and I should not be able, relying
on memory, to do it justice."

"You shall read it to me this evening, where you cannot make such
excuses," she replied, taking again his arm, and resuming their walk,
"by the light of candles, and near the parlor fire, where we may hear,
and not feel the wind."

"But where would be the accompaniments of the tale? The framing I fear
would spoil the picture."

"You will have the benefit of contrast, which every great painter
desires."

"I am only too happy to please you," he said, with a sigh.

"My almost brother, William, I knew you would not refuse me the
favor."

Conversing in this manner, they had reached a turn in the road, which
led back to the village by a route different from that they had come,
when they saw Esther approaching, with her son. The boy walked in
advance of his mother, who seemed to tread in his steps, while that
unfailing companion of the semi-civilized red man, a dog, lounged by
his side.

Quadaquina was a handsome child, of thirteen or fourteen years of age,
with a perfectly oval face, and eyes deep set and keen, that glittered
like a snake's, resembling his mother, from whom he inherited his
beauty. His dress differed not from that of white boys, except
that there was thrown round his shoulders a piece of coarse blue
broadcloth, disposed like a shawl. Esther had on her head a dark
colored felt hat, such as is worn by laborers, from beneath which long
black hair fell down upon her shoulders. A shawl, like the boy's, was
thrown over her, a skirt, of the same material, extended half way down
between the knee and ankle, and crimson leggins completed the dress.

As they came up, Faith and Bernard stopped to speak to them, and
inquire after Holden. She had been apprised of his escape, and of the
visit of Pownal and Anne, but had refrained from going to his retreat
in consequence of its being thought advisable to attract as little
attention to it as possible. To her inquiries Esther returned the most
satisfactory answers. Holden appeared quite contented, and was engaged
in preaching to the Indians, and teaching them the principles of the
Christian faith.

"Do the Indians listen to what he says?" inquired Bernard.

"They listen; Indian always listen," said Esther, "and the wind blow
the words through the ears."

"I suppose so," said the young man, laughing. "Holden may now
truly call himself the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and a
wilderness it is likely to remain."

There was something both in the manner and language that jarred the
feelings of Faith, and she said:

"I will never give up the hope that these poor people may be
Christianized. Do you not think, Esther, that there has been an
improvement in the habits of the tribe within a few years?"

Esther hung down her head, and only answered, "Indian will be Indian."

"I will not despair," said Faith. "Be sure, Esther, you come to the
house before you return. I have something for you, and a message for
Father Holden.

"I can conceive of no character," said Faith, after they had parted
from Esther, "more noble than that of the Christian missionary. He is
the true redresser of wrongs, the only real knight that ever lived.
You smile," she said, looking at Bernard. "Do you not think so?"

"I think with you," he replied. "There can be no nobler man than he
who submits to privation, and exposes his life to danger through love
to his fellow man. It is God-like. But I smiled at the association of
ideas, and not at the sentiment. Think of Holden as a knight."

"To me there is nothing ludicrous in the thought. When I look at him,
I see not the coarse unusual dress, but the heroic soul, that would
have battled valiantly by the side of Godfrey for the holy sepulchre."

"I am afraid he will meet with only disappointment in his efforts to
reform the Indians."

"We cannot know the result of any labor. We will do our duty, and
leave the rest to God."

"They have not the degree of cultivation necessary to the reception of
a religion so refined and spiritual as the Christian. They must first
be educated up to it."

"But you would not, meanwhile, neglect the very thing for which they
are educated. Religious instruction must be a part of the education,
and it brings refinement with it."

"Certainly, if it can be received; but therein consists the
difficulty. I am afraid it is as reasonable to expect a savage to
apprehend the exalted truths of Christianity, as one unaquainted with
geometry, the forty-ninth proposition of the first book of Euclid."

"The comparison is not just. Science demands pure intellect; but
religion, both intellect and feeling, perhaps most of the latter.
The mind is susceptible of high cultivation, the heart feels
instinctively, and that of a peasant may throb with purer feeling than
a philosopher's and for that reason be more ready to receive religious
truth. And who may limit the grace of God?"

"You have thought deeper on this subject than I, Faith. But how
hard must it be for the rays of divine truth to pierce through the
blackness of that degradation which civilization has entailed on them!
The conversion of the North American Indian was easier at the landing
of the Pilgrims than now."

"The greater our duty," exclaimed Faith, clasping her hands, "to atone
for the wrongs we have inflicted. But, William, some good has been
done. Look at my dear, good Esther."

"Esther deserves your praise, I am sure, because you say it. But it is
you that have made her good. She could not be with you, without being
benefited."

"You are very kind, but no merit attaches to me. They were the
precepts of Christianity that softened her heart, though she was
always gentle."

"It was the sweetness of religion she heard in your voice, its
kindness she read in your eyes, and its loveliness illustrated in your
life, that attracted and improved Esther"

"Were I to admit what you say, the credit would, after all, belong to
religion."

The sun had nearly reached his meridian, as the young couple
approached the house of Mr. Armstrong. What a change had been produced
in a few hours! The warm sunshine, while it glorified the landscape
had robbed it of its sparkling beauty. The trees no longer wore their
silver armor; the branches, relieved of the unusual weight, had
lost the graceful curves and resumed their original positions; white
blossoms no longer bedecked the evergreens; and all around,
large drops were falling, as if lamenting the passing away of the
short-lived magnificence.

On parting from Bernard, at her father's door, Faith reminded him of
his promise, and invited him and Anne to tea with her in the evening.
Bernard accepted the invitation for himself, and conditionally for his
sister.

CHAPTER XXII.

  "O nymph, with loosely flowing hair,
  With buskined leg, and bosom bare,
  Thy waist with myrtle girdle bound,
  Thy brow with Indian feathers crowned,
  Waving in thy snowy hand
  An all-commanding magic wand
  Of power, to bid fresh gardens blow,
  Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow!"

  JOSEPH WARTON.

Bernard and his sister, on their arrival, found only Mr. Armstrong
and his daughter, but were joined, in the course of the evening, by
Pownal, at whose arrival all expressed pleasure. The whole company
united with Miss Armstrong in requesting Bernard to read the legend,
who, at last, produced the manuscript from his pocket.

"I must entreat your indulgence," he said, "for the defects of which
the piece is full. The author is an inexperienced writer, and
unable, like an accomplished hand, to atone by elegance of style for
improbability or poverty of incident. You will expect no more than
that he should observe the proprieties of his subject, nor require him
to introduce into a tale of the children of Nature the refinement
of language or delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in the modern
romance. The stories of an uncivilized people must be rude, even
approaching in simplicity tales designed for children."

"The writer could not have an audience more ready to be pleased," said
Mr. Armstrong; "and are we not all children of various growths?"

"I do not believe any excuses are necessary," said Faith, "and am
expecting a great deal of pleasure."

"The more extravagant, the better," cried Anne. "What can equal the
Arabian Nights Entertainment?"

"We are all attention," said Pownal; "so whistle your apprehensions,
Bernard, to the wind."

Thus encouraged, the young man opened his manuscript, and commenced
reading.

  THE LEGEND OF MAGISAUNIKWA AND LEELINAU.

Where the clear Sakimau mingles its waters with the great salt lake,
which would be too salt, but for the innumerable rivers that pour
themselves into its bosom, the mighty Aishkwagon-ai-bee, whose name,
rendered into the language of the pale faces, is the 'Feather of
Honor,' had erected his lodge. He was the war-chief of a tribe whose
name is lost in the mists of antiquity. He boasted his descent from
the great Ojeeg, of whom it is related that he opened a hole in the
blue sky and let out the soft, warm air of Paradise, so that it
poured down upon the earth, and bestowed summer upon a region before
condemned to perpetual cold. He also liberated the singing-birds
from the mocucks, or basket-cages, where they were confined, which,
descending through the aperture, have since enlivened the woods and
fields with their melodies. He was unable to return to this world, and
may still be seen in the heavens, being changed into the stars called
Ojeeg Annung, known to the wise men among the pale faces as the
Constellation of the Plough.

Nor was Aishkwagon-ai-bee unworthy of his noble descent. The grandeur
of his thoughts and the boldness of his achievements proved the
purity of his blood. A skillful hunter, a successful warrior, equally
renowned for wisdom in council and bravery in action, he enjoyed the
highest consideration, not only in his own tribe, but as far as the
great lakes to the North, and the river Delaware to the South. When he
pointed to the beautiful scalps that adorned the sides of his wigwam,
he could with truth say, there was not one of them but had graced the
head of a warrior.

The Sachem had several children, sons and daughters, and among the
latter, the lovely Leelinau was the darling of his heart. The maiden
had attained the age of eighteen, and was the admiration of the youth
for many days' journey round. Her cheeks were the color of the
wild honey-suckle, her lips like strawberries, and the juice of the
milk-weed was not whiter than her teeth. Her form was lith as the
willow, her eyes sparkled like the morning star, her step was that of
a bounding fawn, and her fingers were skilful in weaving the quills of
the porcupine. What wonder if hearts both young and old beat quicker
at her approach?

Many, it may well be supposed, were the offers of marriage made to the
beautiful Leelinau. Innumerable were the legs of venison, and
choice pieces of bear's meat, which the mothers of the young hunters
presented for acceptance at her lodge, being careful to mention whose
skill in the chase procured them, but in vain did they look for the
bowl of succatash or embroidered moccasins--the products of woman's
labor--in token that their gifts were pleasing to the coy beauty.
In vain, when the shades of evening fell, the softly breathed flute
lamented in melancholy tones her cruelty. In vain, with tasteful
hand, the sighing lover painted his face and person to heighten his
attractions and draw attention. The insensible Leelinau relished not
the venison or bear's meat, nor would she listen to the flute, or look
often at the painted suitors.

Among her admirers none was more deeply smitten by the power of her
charms nor cherished a truer love than Magisaunikwa or Wampum-hair,
so called from the gentleness of his disposition and love of peace.
He was only a few years the senior of the maiden, and of an obscure
family compared with that of the famous Aishkwagon-ai-bee. But love
levels all distinctions, and, impelled by an influence he could not
withstand, he dared to aspire to the hand of Leelinau. Besides, there
was one superiority he enjoyed which made the claim less presumptuous.
Young as he was no hunter of the tribe could be compared with him in
skill or daring. Other lodges might be destitute, but there was always
abundance of meat in that of Magisaunikwa and those of his friends.
Happy, thought most of the girls, would she be who should lie in the
bosom of the young hunter, and cook his food.

But notwithstanding his devotion, Leelinau would not accept his gifts.
Still he fancied he had made some impression. She would listen to
his conversation by the light of the evening star, though whenever he
hinted at his passion, she would hastily retire; and twice or
thrice he had caught her eyes fixed on him, when she thought herself
unobserved. Hope lives on scanty aliment, and the young man did not
despair.

Aishkwagon-ai-bee had noticed the liking of Magisaunikwa for his
daughter, and was not displeased. The noble youth had found favor in
his eyes, and he did not disdain his alliance. There was only a single
cause of hesitation in his mind. Wampum-hair had never been on a
war-path, and had always shown a disinclination to shed human blood.
Yet his courage was undoubted. None encountered with more audacity the
panther and the bear, and several were the lives he had saved at the
hazard of his own. A successful war expedition only was necessary to
complete his claims to the highest honors. Save the bloody scalp, no
ornament was lacking in his wigwam.

"Magisaunikwa," said the Sachem, "the fire of your eyes melts not the
snow around the heart of Leelinau, and it is because she looks upon
your hands and sees they were never painted with the blood of an
enemy."

"Can Leelinau be happier." asked the young hunter, "because another is
made miserable? Were I to kill a warrior for her sake, would not her
dreams be disturbed by the groans of his mother?"

The eyes of the Sachem flashed when he heard such language.

"Go," he said, "if thou art a dove, seek not to mate with the hawk."

But the resolution of Wampum-hair was not to be shaken by threats or
reproaches, nor weakened by the seductions of love. In the long and
final fast which revealed to him his guardian spirit, twelve days
with unshaken fortitude, to the wonder of the tribe, had he remained
without food before the vision came. He then beheld a child white as
the water-lily leading a little animal unknown to the country. It was
the size of the beaver, and covered all over with long white hair
that curled closely to its body. Its eyes were mild and sweet, and the
expression of its face gentler than anything ever seen on earth.
The child laid his hand on the heart of the fainting youth, and an
influence soft as the breath of the south wind streamed through his
frame, and he was strengthened, and stood upon his feet and partook
of food. Since then the war-song had been hateful to the ears of
Wampum-hair, and he loathed the vauntings of the braves. He preached
peace to his people, and endeavored to convince them of the folly of
killing their fellow men. But prejudices old as the mountains were not
to be removed by the exhortations or arguments of an obscure youth;
and although the old men listened, and some few approved, yet the
young men scoffed and burned to distinguish themselves after the
manner of their ancestors. It was fortunate for the young man that
opportunities had occurred to test his courage, and that he had never
hesitated when others flinched. His tribe therefore ascribed his
conduct to no want of bravery, but to a delusion sent by his guardian
genius. Hence, though his influence was impaired, it was not entirely
destroyed.

Thus things continued for some time, till one day the Sachem again
addressed Wampum-hair.

"Does the heart of Magisaunikwa still beat softly, like the heart of a
deer!"

"It beats like a man's," said the young hunter, "and not like that of
a vile wild beast. The Indian should imitate the Good Spirit in his
actions, and not destroy his brothers and sisters"

"Yes," said the Sachem, "his heart is a man's, though it is soft. Does
Wampum-hair still love Leelinau?"

"The breath of Thequan is not more welcome to the wood-flower which it
wakes up to life, or the song of the bird dearer to its mate, than the
sight of Leelinau to Magisaunikwa."

"What would Wampum-hair do to obtain her love?"

"He would climb the sky, or dive to the bottom of the salt lake; all
that the Great Spirit could ask would he do."

"A chief cannot compel the affection of his daughter, but he can
give his own consent, and the young bird listens to the voice of its
parent."

"Let the great chief say what he would have, and the arm of
Wampum-hair shall be strong to do his will. For the sake of Leelinau
he would please her father."

The Sachem paused, and gazed with pleasure on the kindling features
of the young man. He was a wise chief, and desired the good of his
people. In those days the panthers, driven from the north by a severe
winter, infested the country in great numbers, and threatened to
destroy the game, on which the Indians depended for subsistence.
Although many had been killed, there still remained enough to ravage
the land and do serious injury; and they had become so cunning by
being frequently hunted that they almost uniformly succeeded in
eluding the chase. It would be a public service, though a difficult
undertaking, to exterminate the ravenous animals. He therefore said:--

"Let Magisaunikwa bring me a conaus made of the scalps of panthers,
and another for Leelinau, and he shall have the strong word of a chief
to whisper commendations of the hunter in the ears of the maiden."

"It is well. The words of the great chief are pleasant, and my ears
drink them up as the thirsty sand the drops of rain. The feet of
Wampum-hair are swift; his arrows are true, and they shall pierce the
screaming panther."

That same day, so eager was the young hunter to commence the chase, he
started for those parts of the forest where the game was most likely
to be found. Many were the beasts destroyed by him, so that a little
child might wander in security ten days' journey, in every direction,
from the lodge of the Sachem, and narrow were the escapes from death
of the intrepid hunter, and yet scarcely scalps enough were obtained
to make a conaus or wrapper for the sloping shoulders of Leelinau. In
vain, the enamored youth extended his hunt still further, even twenty
days' journey from his starting point. Only at long intervals was a
beast discovered, but, finally, not one was to be found, and the youth
awoke to the conviction that he had been made a dupe to the cunning of
the Sachem.

After a fruitless chase he was musing one day sorrowfully over his
disappointed hopes, ashamed to go back to his village, to which he
had never returned without success before, when, suddenly, a man of
majestic presence stood before him. His nose was like the beak of an
eagle, and his eyes resembled fires in a dark night. Strange feathers,
of brilliant colors, were woven into his scalp-lock; a magnificent
robe of skins depended from his shoulders; and in his hand he held a
long spear, tipped with a pointed stone.

"My brother is sad," he said. "Let my brother give me the half of his
grief to bear."

Thus exhorted, Magisaunikwa disclosed the cause of his dejection to
his sympathizing friend.

"Is that all?" said the stranger. "Return, and thou shalt find the
conaus in thy lodge, and when thou beholdest them, remember they are
the gift of Manabozho. I am Manabozho."

He spoke, and before the astonished hunter had time to thank him,
vanished from his sight. Then the young man knew that he had conversed
with the capricious Manito, and with full faith and light heart, he
directed his steps homeward.

He found the two conaus in his wigwam, according to the promise of the
Manito. One he presented to the chief, and the other he offered to the
maiden, but she refused to accept the tribute of his devotion.

The astonishment of Aishkwagon-ai-bee, and of the whole tribe, is not
to be conceived, and the fame of Wampum-hair mounted to the stars. The
truthful chief spoke earnestly to his daughter, of the merits of
her lover, and proposed him for her husband, but Leelinau showed the
strongest aversion to the union. The haughty maiden inherited the
fierce temper of her father, without his wisdom, and she looked with
contempt on all not distinguished by high descent or bloody deeds,
nor in her soaring pride was there one of the young men of the tribe
worthy of her hand. Not that there were not youthful warriors who
could point to the evidences of their prowess, and whose names were
familiar to the song, but in every instance the difficult beauty had
found some objection, and turned away her head. The truth is, the west
wind, that entices the flowers from the ground in spring, and leads
the bird to its mate, had never breathed upon the heart of Leelinau.

But the time finally came when the maiden was constrained to make a
choice. Her family had become impatient of delay, and Leelinau yielded
to their remonstrances. It was only in appearance, however, that she
acquiesced in the wishes of her relatives. She determined to propose,
as the price of her hand, some enterprise too difficult to be
accomplished. She represented to her father that lightly won, was
lightly prized, and that the daughter of a great chief like him, was
not to be wooed like other maidens, and obtained from him, to whom her
voice was sweeter than the notes of the mocking-bird, his consent to
her scheme.

The conditions on which Leelinau consented to follow a husband to his
lodge were soon known. Only him would she acknowledge for her lord,
who should guide his canoe in safety from the head of the Falls of
the Yaupáae to the little islands below. The old men shook their heads
when they heard the terms, and the squaws said, her heart must be made
of stone, but the young men felt warm, and thought of trying their
fortunes.

The enterprise was more difficult than any Manabozho had undertaken.
When the river was low, it poured almost perpendicularly down, a
height of twenty feet, on rocks, thrusting sharp points into the air,
then bounded in sinuous windings through rifts and basins, made by the
constant beating of the water, and the attrition of stones, whirled
round in the cavities, to dash over a declivity of yet other rocks,
before it reached its calm welcome below. When swollen by rains the
rocks were all hidden, the perpendicular fall disappeared, it was as
if the Great Salt Lake were pouring down the side of the mountain,
and from top to bottom was all one vast mass of foam, lashing the
huge rock at the throat, around which the torrent turned with a sudden
bend. No canoe could live on such a cataract. It must be overturned
and engulfed long before reaching the bottom, or if those perils were,
by any wonderful chance, escaped, inevitable destruction awaited the
presumptuous adventurer, dashed against the rock at the bottom.

The lovers of Leelinau gazed at the Fall, but the more they considered
the less inclination they felt to encounter the danger. In a low stage
of the water the canoe would be overturned, and pierced by the sharp
rocks, while mangled limbs certainly, if not death, must be the doom
of the rash aspirant, and who would dare to brave the terrors of the
swollen river?

The eyes of Leelinau were bright, and her smile sweet, but there were
other maidens with bright eyes and sweet smiles, and less difficult to
please.

But not thus felt Magisaunikwa. The absorbing passion swallowed up
all considerations of prudence, and he resolved to undertake the
adventure. If he perished, the Great Spirit would be pleased with his
courage, and what was life without Leelinau? While thoughts like these
passed through his mind, he remembered Manabozho. He had assisted him
once, although in vain, why not a second time? He sought once more
the recesses of the forest, where he had met him, and called upon his
name, but no answer was returned. He kindled a fire and threw upon
it the fragrant tobacco, and called again, "Ho! Manabozho!" and the
majestic figure stood before him, but there was anger on his brow. To
his stern demand the hunter made known what had happened, and begged
his assistance. But the Manito showed no disposition to grant it. In
fact, the task was beyond his powers, but he was unwilling that it
should be known.

"Fool!" he said, "is a scornful squaw worth the hazard of death and
the shame that attends defeat? Seek thy lodge and blow away these
thoughts as the wind disperses the winged seeds of the stinging
nettle." It was evident Manabozho had never been in love, for then he
would not have thrown away his advice. He stayed not for a reply, but
with a gesture of disdain disappeared.

Wampum-hair sought his wigwam, melancholy but not discouraged. It
was, indeed, impossible to follow the counsel of the friendly Manito.
Sleeping or waking the image of Leelinau swam before his eyes, and
sometimes smiled as if to incite him to the enterprise.

He resolved to undertake a solemn fast. He therefore sought a retired
place and built a pointed lodge.

Six days and nights he fasted, lying on the ground, and on the seventh
day, at the rising of the sun, his guardian spirit, the child with
the white beaver, slowly descended from the sky. His face was kind and
gentle as at the first, but not as before did he lay his hand on the
heart of Wampum-hair. Now he pressed his palm upon the forehead of the
hunter, and strange thoughts and determinations, like rising storms,
passed through his mind: slowly, then, up through the pointed roof,
which opened for his passage, mounted the child till he disappeared in
the blue field.

Magisaunikwa arose from the ground, and a frown was upon his brow. He
ate and was refreshed, and returned to his lodge.

It was the last month of snows, and great rains had fallen, and the
torrents were shouting from the mountains, and the Yaupáae pouring out
a mightier flood than had ever been seen rushing through between
the cleft rocks. It was then Wampum-hair announced his intention to
undertake the adventure of the Falls, and invited the tribe to gather
together to witness its performance. It is said that the heart of
Leelinau, touched by so much constancy, was inclined to relent and
excuse her lover the terrible ordeal, but this is probably the dream
of some soft-hearted girl, and only indicates what she would have done
in like circumstances.

On the day selected, the tribe was collected at the outpouring of the
waters, to witness the achievement of Magisaunikwa, and lament his
death. In great numbers they lined the banks of the stream, seeking
those positions from which the best views could be obtained, while his
friends watched at the foot of the cataract in canoes to rescue the
body should it be thrown up by the raging water. Leelinau, too, was
there, unyielding, yet proud of a devotion unheard of in the annals
of her nation. She looked haughtily as on a spectacle devised in her
honor, of which she should be celebrated as the heroine, long after
her feet should have travelled the path that leads to the Spirit-land.
No regret for the destruction to which her lover was doomed appeared
to touch her heart, nor did pity moisten her eyes as she looked upon
the preparations for the sacrifice.

At length Magisaunikwa appeared, and never before had he attracted
such admiration. He moved like one returning from victory. No war
paint, such as warriors are accustomed to use when upon the war-path
in order to strike terror into the foe, or when commencing an
enterprise of great peril, stained his person. His dress was the
conaus of panther scalps, and he walked amid a company of young men of
his own age, above the tallest of whom he rose by a head.

Before commencing the adventure, he performed the customary ceremony
to propitiate the Great Spirit, pointing to the heavens, the earth,
and the four winds, and invoking with a loud voice the Master of Life
to smile upon the undertaking. This being done, he cast his eyes over
the assembled crowd, till they fell upon Leelinau. Long he gazed,
as if he desired to carry her image with him to the Spirit-land, nor
after that last look did he allow his glance to rest upon another
human being. Then, at a little distance above the head of the
cataract, he entered the canoe and grasped the paddle.

The motion of the frail bark was at first gentle, but only for a short
time: every moment its speed became accelerated, until, even before it
reached the plunge, it seemed to fly like the swallow. Calmly guiding
its fearful course sat the young man, his eyes fixed upon the narrow
opening between the rocks. And now the canoe is at the brink of the
Falls--it leaps like the salmon when he journeys up the stream--it is
gone!--the raging waters have devoured it--no, I see it again--the arm
of Magisaunikwa is strong, and the paddle unbroken. Help, Manito! he
is dashed against the rock at the throat--no, the canoe is whirled
round and darts away, and I behold it gliding with the youth over the
quiet water. The Great Spirit hath protected him.

A shout, rivalling the roar of the Falls, went up from the assembled
multitude, and they rose with songs such as welcome returned warriors
to greet the successful hero.

But Wampum-hair received their congratulations and their praises with
indifference. With eyes fixed on the ground, he suffered himself to be
borne in triumph to the spot, where, on a platform of rock, stood the
beautiful Leelinau. What were the thoughts that passed through her
mind? Was she proud of being the object of a love so true and daring,
or did she lament the necessity of accepting a lord? Wampum-hair
approached, and before his calm, sorrowing eyes, her own sunk to the
ground. Searching was his look, as if to descry the secrets of her
soul, and at last he spoke.

"Leelinau," he said, "the Great Spirit created thee loveliest among
the daughters of women; wherefore gave he thee not a heart?

"Leelinau, Wampum-hair will sigh no more for thee. Henceforth, thou
art to him only a flower or a painted bird.

"Leelinau, the waters of the Yaupáae have extinguished the fire that
burned here," and he laid his hand on his heart. He turned upon his
heel and left the assemblage.

Astonishment at the address of Magisaunikwa at first held all mute,
but presently a cry for revenge arose among the kinsmen of
the slighted maiden. But the commanding voice of the wise
Aishkwagon-ai-bee stilled the tumult.

"The blood of the mighty Ojeeg," he said, "cannot mingle with water.
The Great Spirit hath taken this way to release Leelinau from a
promise which He is displeased that she made."

Whatever might have been the vindictive feelings of the relations of
Leelinau, their resentment was never visited on the head of the young
hunter. Once, it is said, two brothers of the rejected maiden lay in
ambush to take his life; but as he passed unconsciously near them, and
the fatal arrows were drawn to the head against his bosom, Manabozho
appeared and forbade the deed.

Magisaunikwa continued to cherish through a long life his love of
peace. He obtained a great influence over his own and the neighboring
tribes, and succeeded in spreading widely his pacific views. At the
time of his death, which happened at an advanced age, the calumet
of peace was everywhere smoked among the northern tribes, and their
numbers had greatly increased. Wampum-hair was universally honored,
and regarded as the cause of this felicity. But no wife ever cooked
the venison in his lodge. With the dream of his youth vanished all
predilection for the softer sex. He had loved and been disappointed.
Where he expected to meet gentleness he had found pride. He looked for
the yielding willow, and behold the inflexible oak!

But in Leelinau also a revolution had been effected. Her whole being
was transformed. What devoted love that anticipated every wish was
incapable of accomplishing, indifference achieved. Her soul from that
moment flew on the wings of desire after Magisaunikwa. At first she
thought his conduct caused by some temporary pique or resentment, and
trusted to the power of her fascinations to restore him to her
nets. As time, however, wore on, her hopes became fainter, until the
terrible conviction settled like a night upon her soul, that she had
trifled with the noblest heart of her nation and driven it for ever
away. Then it was she felt the desolation no language can express. A
settled melancholy took possession of her. Her eyes lost their fire,
her lip its smile, and her voice the song. She would wander alone,
far away into the recesses of the forest, speaking to herself in
low tones, and weeping at the remembrance of happy days. Her health
declined rapidly until she became too weak to leave without assistance
the couch, where day after day reclined her fading form. One soft
summer morning she begged two of her mates to support her to the
rock, whence she beheld the exploit of Wampum-hair. She sank down, and
removing, with her wasted hand, the long hair that had fallen over
her eyes, gazed sadly on the foaming river. With a wistful look she
followed the course of the cataract from top to bottom, probably
recalling at the moment her lover's danger for her sake and her own
repented scorn, then heavily sighed, and leaning her head on the bosom
of one of her companions, expired.

CHAPTER XXIII.

  Wide o'er the brim with many a torrent swelled,
  And the mixed ruin of its banks o'erspread,
  At last the roused up river pours along:
  Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes
  From the rude mountain and the mossy wild.

  THOMSON'S SEASONS.

The company expressed their acknowledgments to Bernard for the
entertainment he had furnished, although they all seemed to consider
the conduct of Wampum-hair inconsistent with his amiable character,
and to pity the fate of Leelinau.

"The writer must have had some suspicion of the inconsistency
himself," said Bernard, "to judge from his attempt to obviate
the difficulty, by ascribing a magic change in his hero, to the
application of the child's hand to the head, instead of as before,
to the heart. This part of the tale is slightly and unskillfully
developed."

"I cannot agree with you," said Faith, "and think you do your
friend injustice. The idea is, that the guardian genius exercised a
controlling influence over the destiny of the young man; and I see no
reason why if we concede the power to the genius to soften his nature,
we may not grant also the ability to harden it."

"Especially," observed Pownal, "as the object of the protecting spirit
would have been frustrated, had the lovers been united."

All looked inquiringly towards him for an explanation.

"I mean," said he, "that with such a fierce little squaw for a wife,
the gentleman with the unpronounceable name, would not have continued
a man of peace long. There certainly would have been war within the
wigwam, however dense the puffs of smoke from the calumet of peace
outside."

All laughed at the sally, but Anne intimated that she would have
preferred a different termination.

"At least," said Mr. Armstrong, who had listened in silence to the
criticisms of the young people, "it teaches a profitable lesson to you
girls."

"What is that, Mr. Armstrong?" inquired Anne.

"That young ladies should know their own minds."

"A most unreasonable expectation!" exclaimed Anne. "We should become
as stupid--as stupid as reasonable people."

"Besides," said Faith, coming to her friend's assistance, "the story
was intended for the benefit of Indian girls, and not for those who
read Shakspeare."

"I suspect," said Bernard, "that the writer was better acquainted with
the Shakspearean ladies, than with Indian girls."

"Why do you think so?" asked Faith.

"Do you not observe," answered Bernard, "that he confines himself to
generalities? Not a word does he venture to say about the toilette of
the beauty. A description of the dress of the heroine, has always been
considered indispensable in every tale."

"Poh, William!" said Anne, "what a savage critic you are. But,
probably, there was so little to describe, the author did not think it
worth his while."

"And," said Pownal, "is anything admissible in a picture which
distracts the attention and withdraws it from the principal figure?
Good taste excludes ear-rings and gold chains from portraits."

"Well," said Bernard, "I dare say you are right. It may be, too, that
the dress was indescribable."

"Who is this Manabozho, who comes in so opportunely, yet, without
effecting much after all?" inquired Anne. "I am charmed with his
appearance; particularly, his big eyes."

"He is a sort of Indian Hercules," replied Bernard, "who plays a
conspicuous part in many legends. He is a compound of wisdom and
folly, of benevolence and mischief, of strength and weakness, partly
Manitou and partly man, and is privileged to do anything, however
absurd and impossible, at one moment, while, at the next, he may be
shorn of his power, so as to be incapable of taking care of himself."

"A very convenient person indeed," said Anne.

"Loosing the knot of a difficulty by the intervention of such a Power,
shows but little ingenuity, I confess," said Bernard.

"There is classical authority for it, though," said Mr. Armstrong.
"Homer, himself, condescends to introduce a God, when he cannot
extricate himself from embarrassment without his help."

"Aye," said Bernard, "but the rule of Horace must not be forgotten,
nec Deus," &c.

"True," said Mr. Armstrong; "but how would you have accomplished the
feat, like one of the labors of Hercules, without some such means?"

"I do not pretend to be able to do it," answered Bernard, modestly;
"but, doubtless, one possessed of more imagination could have
accomplished it."

"You are but a cold advocate for your friend," said Faith. "You do not
allow him half the merit he deserves"

"He would not complain were he to hear me," said Bernard. "No one can
be more sensible than himself, of the defects of his work."

"And I say," said Anne, "that I like his story exceedingly; only,
he knows nothing about our sex. It may be all very well for a man to
praise that hard-hearted Wampum-head, and make poor Leelinau pine away
for his precious sake, but, I do not believe she was so silly as to
care much about him."

"If the truth were known," said Pownal, "I have no doubt that the girl
rejected him, because she liked some one else better."

"And her ungallant beau," said Anne, "made up the story, to cover his
confusion."

"I am satisfied with it as it is," said Faith. "We pity and love
Leelinau, now; her haughtiness and pride are forgotten in her
misfortunes, and we remember her as one faithful unto death."

"Your tale reminds me," said Pownal, addressing Bernard, "that there
is a tremendous freshet in the Wootúppocut, and that the waters are
increasing. Suppose, if the ladies consent, we make up a party, to
view it, to-morrow?"

The proposition was received with approbation by all, and it was
agreed, that they would meet at the house of Mr. Armstrong, as the
starting-point, on the afternoon of the next day. The evening being
now considerably advanced, Faith's friends took their leave.

The nine o'clock bell was ringing, as the young people passed through
the quiet streets. The custom of ringing a bell, at that hour, is one
which has fallen into desuetude, although, once, almost universal in
New England, and may be said to bear some relation to the vesper-bell,
in Roman Catholic countries. Its avowed object, indeed, was not, as
in the case of the latter, to call the people to prayers, but, its
effect, perhaps, was the same; for, it marked the hour at which the
population of the village were in the habit of retiring to rest; and,
in those days of simple faith, many were the families whose members
united together, before seeking their pillows, to return thanks
for the blessings of the day, and ask for protection during the
defenceless hours of the night. Luxury and dissipation have since
crept in, and parties assemble, now, at an hour when they formerly
broke up. We call ourselves more refined, but, it may admit of a
doubt, whether all our show and parade are not purchased at too dear a
rate, at the price of substantial comfort and happiness.

The shore was lined with spectators, when the little party approached
the scene of the freshet. We do not know that we have succeeded in
conveying a clear idea of the river we have attempted to describe. It
may be recollected, that it was spoken of as one of the tributaries of
the Severn, coming in from the East, and sweeping round that side of
the town. The banks, on the side opposite, were high and precipitous;
but, on the hither side--with the exception of the narrow passage
through which the river poured itself into the Severn, and for a
short distance above--the ground rose gently from the stream before
it reached the foot of the hill, interposing a piece of comparatively
level land. The road that ran on this flat spot, and connected the
eastern portion (which, from the extempore character of its buildings,
as well as from other causes we do not choose to mention, was called
Hasty-Pudding), with the rest of the town, was, usually, in very high
floods, overflowed. Such was the fact in the present instance, and
boats were busily engaged in transporting persons over the submerged
road. As you stood near the mouth of the river, and looked up the
current, a scene of considerable interest, and, even grandeur,
presented itself. At that time, the innumerable dams higher up the
stream, that have been since constructed, had not been built, nor had
the rocks, at the throat, been blasted to make a wider egress. The
ice, which then rushed down, as it were by agreement, simultaneously
and in huge blocks--but, now-a-days, at intervals, and broken up by
falling over the dams--unable to escape in the eager rivalry of the
cakes to pass each other, was jammed in the throat, and piled up high
in the air, looking like ice-bergs that had floated from the North
Pole. You saw the stream, at all times, rapid, and now, swollen vastly
beyond its ordinary proportions, rushing with ten-fold force, and
hurrying, in its channel, with hoarse sounds, the ice-cakes, which, in
the emulous race, grated against, and, sometimes, mutually destroyed
one another, to drive some under the icy barrier, thence to glide away
to the ocean, and to toss others high above the foaming torrent on the
collected masses, more gradually to find their way to the same bourne.
Looking away from the channel, one saw the cakes caught in the eddies,
whirled up against the banks, and, in some instances, forced into
smoother and shoaler water, where they grounded, or were floated into
little creeks and bays formed by the irregularities of the shores.
These quiet places were, of course, on the side nearest the town, the
opposite bank being too abrupt and the water too deep, for there
was the channel, and there the water tore along with the greatest
violence.

In one of these placid bays a party of school-boys were amusing
themselves with getting upon the loose blocks and pushing them about
like boats. The amusement appeared to be unattended with danger, the
place being so far from the current, and the water but two or
three feet deep. The children, therefore, were but little noticed,
especially as they were at quite a distance from where the multitude
of spectators was assembled, being considerably higher up and near the
flat-land, bearing the undignified name which only historical accuracy
compels us to introduce. After a time a cake, on which one of the boys
was standing, began slowly to slip away from the shore. So gradually
was this done that it was unobserved by the boys themselves until it
had quite separated itself from the neighborhood of the other cakes,
so that no assistance could be rendered, when one of his companions
cried out to the little fellow upon it, to push for the shore. This
he had already been attempting to do, but in spite of all exertions
he was unable to come nearer. On the contrary, it was evident he was
receding. The water had now become so deep that his pole could no
longer reach the bottom. The current had drawn in the cake, and was
sweeping it with its precious freight to destruction. The children set
up a cry of alarm, which was heard by the spectators below, and first
attracted their attention.

A thrill of horror ran through the crowd. Men drew in their breath
hard, and women shrieked, unable to turn away their eyes, fastened by
a terrible fascination on the peril. Horrid apprehensions invaded the
mind of many a parent. The doomed boy might be his own son. Despairing
glances were cast around in every direction for help. In vain: none
could be given. There was time for nothing: with every second the
child was swept more rapidly to destruction.

Meanwhile the brave little fellow, planted firmly on the centre of the
cake, was balancing himself with the pole, and intrepidly confronting
the danger he could not avoid. Not a cry escaped, nor did his
self-possession desert him. As the vexed and whirling water raised up
the one side or the other of his frail bark, he would incline his body
in this or that direction to preserve the equilibrium, now standing
upright and now cowering close to the surface of the uncertain
footing. And now the block approached the throat, where the torrent
ran the swiftest and was most turbulent. The child seemed to have
escaped thus far by miracle, but now it appeared impossible he would
be able to maintain his place. His head must become dizzy, his courage
fail in the awful confusion of so many threatening dangers; the
tormented waves must upset the block, or another must strike against
it and cast the boy into the water. And now the cake has reached the
icy barrier stretched across the stream. It strikes; it is sucked in
below and disappears.

The spell-bound spectators, their eyes fastened upon the danger of the
boy, had not noticed the figure of a man, who, descending the opposite
bank, and clambering at considerable risk over the masses of heaped
up ice, stood waiting for the approach of the child. So truly had he
judged the sweep of the current, that he had planted himself upon the
edge of the ice at the precise spot where the block struck. Reaching
out his arm at the moment when it slipped beneath, he seized the boy
by the collar of his jacket and drew him to the place on which he
stood. As soon as the crowd caught sight of the man, they saw that it
was Holden.

The position of the two was still one of danger. A false step, the
separating of the ice, the yielding of a cake might precipitate both
into the torrent. But the heart of the man had never felt the emotion
of fear. He cast his eyes deliberately round, and with a prompt
decision took his course. Raising the rescued child in his arms, he
started in the direction of the wharf, built just below the narrow
opening. Springing with great agility and strength over the blocks,
selecting for footing those cakes which seemed thickest and fastened
in firmest, he made his way over the barrier and bounded safely on
the land. The spectators, seeing the direction he was taking, had run
down, many of them, to the place, and were waiting to receive them.

"I vow," said our friend, Tom Gladding, who was among the first to
welcome Holden, "if it ain't little Jim Davenport. Why, Jim, you come
pretty nigh gitting a ducking."

"Yes," said the boy, carelessly, as if he had been engaged in a
frolic, "I wet my shoes some, and the lower part of my trousers."

Here a man came hastening through the crowd, for whom all made way. It
was Mr. Davenport. He had been, like the rest, a witness of the danger
and the rescue, but knew not that it was his own son who had made the
perilous passage. But a report, running as if by magic from one to
another, had reached his ears, and he was now hurrying to discover
its truth. It was, indeed, his son, and Holden was his preserver.
He advanced to the boy, and examined him from head to foot, as if
to assure himself of his safety before he spoke a word. Shaking with
agitation, he then turned to Holden, and grasping his hand, wrung it
convulsively.

"May God forget me, Mr. Holden," he stammered, in a broken voice,
"if I forget this service," and taking the boy by the hand he led him
home.

"Well," said Gladding, who had been looking on, "Jim don't mind it
much, but I guess it'll do old Davenport good."

Holden, according to his custom, seemed indisposed to enter into
conversation with those around him, or to accept the civilities
tendered, and started off as soon as possible, upon his solitary way.
As he emerged from the crowd, he caught sight of the advancing figures
of Faith and of her companions, who had more leisurely approached, and
stopped to greet them. From them he seemed to receive with pleasure
the congratulations showered upon him, though he disclaimed all merit
for himself.

"Be the praise," he said, devoutly, "given to Him who, according to
the purpose of his own will, maketh and destroyeth. The insensible
block of ice and I were only instruments in His hands." He turned
away, and walking rapidly was soon out of sight.

Constable Basset, who was present, had just sense enough to understand
that this was no occasion for his interference, and although he
followed the retreating figure of the Solitary with longing eyes,
while his hands clutched at the writ, ventured on no attempt to
exercise his authority.

CHAPTER XXIV.

  We talk of love and pleasure--but 'tis all
      A tale of falsehood. Life's made up of gloom:
  The fairest scenes are clad in ruin's pall,
      The loveliest pathway leads but to the tomb.

  PERCIVAL.

After the event just recorded, it may well be supposed that all
further legal proceedings against the Recluse were abandoned. They
had been commenced only to gratify the wounded pride of Davenport, and
since the preservation of the life of his son by Holden, the community
would have cried shame on him had the matter been pursued further. But
no such public sentiment was needed in order to induce Davenport to
give the justice and Basset a hint to do nothing more. He was really
grateful, though feeling no compunction for his conduct, easily
persuading himself that it had been prompted by a love of justice, and
a desire to protect the interests of religion.

Holden could, therefore, without fear of the consequences, resume
openly his usual visits to the village. Of late they had been more
than usually frequent at the house of Mr. Armstrong, by whom he seemed
almost as much attracted as by Faith. With the former the conversation
usually turned upon points of theology that every day appeared to
assume with Armstrong deeper importance, with the latter on the
effects produced by the teachings of Holden among the Indians. For
since his exile at the Patmos of the Indian village, a new subject had
engaged the attention of the Solitary, to which with characteristic
energy he had devoted the powers of his soul--the conversion of
the poor wretches who had kindly harbored and protected him. To
his sanguine expectations, expressed in the impassioned language of
Scripture he loved to use, the enthusiastic girl would listen,
with the warmest interest. Accustomed to assign every event to an
overruling Providence, she thought she now saw clearly the hand of a
superior Power in the occurrences which had compelled Holden, in
the first instance, to take up his temporary residence among them.
Temporary residence, we say, because the Solitary had since returned
to his hut, which was at the distance of only two or three miles from
the cabins of his former protectors. Solitude he found was necessary
in order to enable him the better to perform his new duties, and the
distance was too slight to interpose any serious obstacle, or even
inconvenience.

Such was the state of things, when some weeks after the freshet, Mr.
Armstrong acquainted his daughter, at the breakfast-table, with his
intention to visit Holden that day.

"It is a long time," he said (four days had elapsed), "since we have
seen him, and there are things upon my mind I would gladly speak
about."

A few months before, such a declaration from her father would have
suprised Faith, but now she regarded it as quite natural. The intimacy
between the family and the Recluse had become such, and the commanding
character of the latter had acquired so great an influence over
both its members, that neither of them saw anything strange in the
deference paid him. She, therefore, acquiesced with some common-place
remark in the proposal, begging to be remembered to the old man.

Accordingly, after breakfast, Mr. Armstrong walked down to the wharf,
thinking it probable he might find some boat going down the river, by
which he might be left at the island, intending, should he not
find the Solitary there, to go to the Indian settlement. Nor was he
disappointed. He found a fisherman making preparations to cast off
his boat, who cheerfully consented to convey him to the place of
destination. Mr. Armstrong jumped into the boat, and, the wind
favoring, they rapidly scudded down the stream.

The fisherman, a fine, frank fellow, of some thirty years of age, to
whom Mr. Armstrong was well known, at least, by reputation,
although the recognition was not mutual, endeavored to engage him
in conversation, but without effect. Although answering politely any
questions, he made no remarks in return, and the conversation soon
languished for want of material to support it. Poor Josiah Sill,
finding his social qualities not appreciated, soon himself relapsed
into silence, wondering what could induce his companion to seek
Holden, and connecting his reserve in some mysterious way with the
visit. Finding the silence not altogether agreeable, Josiah finally
burst out with "Yankee Doodle," which he amused himself with whistling
together with some other favorite tunes, until they reached the
island. As they approached they caught a glimpse of Holden entering
the house, and Josiah landed his passenger, promising to call for him
on his return in the afternoon, though Armstrong expressed a doubt
whether he should remain so long.

"If you ain't here, there won't be no harm done," said the
good-natured fellow, "and it won't take a minute to stop."

Mr. Armstrong having thanked him and wished him success, advanced to
the cabin.

He found Holden in the outer room, engaged in his usual employment,
when at home, of weaving baskets. A large quantity of prepared
saplings, split very thin, lay scattered around him, while bundles of
walnut poles, the crude material of his manufacture, were piled up
in the corners ready for use. With a quick and dexterous hand the
Solitary wove in the ribbon-like pieces, showing great familiarity
with the work. Without desisting from his labor, he expressed pleasure
at the visit of his friend, and requested him to be seated.

"I am honored," he said, "this day. To what shall I ascribe the notice
of the wealthy Mr. Armstrong?"

There was a slight tone of irony in the words. It probably was
observed by Mr. Armstrong, for, with some feeling, he replied:

"Speak to me not so coldly. And yet," he added, dejectedly, "I
deserve that all the world should reject me. Neither the happy nor the
miserable feel sympathy for me."

The wayward humor of Holden was evidently softened by the sadness of
the sweet, low voice.

"Each heart," he said, "knoweth best its own bitterness, and I repent
me of my rudeness. But when I saw thee here I could not but remember
that I had dwelt long years in this dwelling, and"--he hesitated, and
Armstrong finished the sentence:

"And you would say this is the first time I have darkened your door.
Well may it be called darkness where my unhappy shadow falls. But
forgive me: it is only lately that I learned to know you."

"Thou errest, James Armstrong," returned Holden, "if thou thinkest
thou knowest me, or will ever know me. Yet, after all," he added in
a gentler manner, "thou art right. Yes, know me as a fellow sinner,
journeying with thee to eternity."

"As my friend," replied Armstrong; "as the guide whose deeper
experience in heavenly things shall teach me the way to heaven, unless
by some inscrutable decree I am excluded."

"How has my heart been open, how has it longed for years to meet
thine! How gladly would I have poured out my grief into thy bosom as
into that of a brother!" cried Holden, his voice choked with emotion.

The countenance of Mr. Armstrong betrayed astonishment. "How is this?"
he said. "I never knew it. You have always been to me as a common
acquaintance."

A shade fell on the face of Holden. He misunderstood the meaning
of the other. He supposed the phrase applicable to the feelings of
Armstrong towards himself, and not as descriptive of his own conduct
to Armstrong. "For the sake of the little Faith," he said coldly, "who
is now a lovely woman, have I highly regarded thee."

"It is even so," said Armstrong, in a melancholy tone. "There are none
left to love me for my own sake. Yet why should I quarrel with my own
daughter? Let me rather be grateful that she has been the means of
attracting one being towards me. How can I show my friendship? How can
I make you my friend?"

"I _am_ thy friend," cried Holden, grasping his hand with another
revulsion of feeling. "Put me to any proof. I will not fail."

"If money could avail with a man like you," continued Armstrong, "it
should not be wanting. If ease or luxury could tempt--but you have
trampled them under foot, and what are they to one whose conversation
is in heaven?"

Holden, while he was speaking, had risen from his seat and strode
twice or thrice across the room. When Armstrong had finished speaking
he again approached him.

"It is not for naught," he exclaimed, "that the Lord hath conducted
thee this day unto me. Speak what he shall put into thy mouth to say."

"I would have your confidence," said Armstrong. "As the sick beast or
the hurt bird knows by an infallible instinct what herb or plant will
best promote its cure, so it seems to me does Providence direct me to
you. Repulse me not, but be my kind physician."

"How can the physician prescribe, if he knoweth not the complaint."

"You shall know if you have patience to listen. But I must go back
years to make myself intelligible."

"Speak, my brother," said Holden, gently, "not a word shall fall in
vain."

"Then listen," said Armstrong, "and learn what sorrows the outward
shows of prosperity may gild."

Holden resumed his seat, and Armstrong began his relation.

"My parents," he said, "had but two children, myself and my brother,
who was younger by two years. The tenderest affection existed between
us, and we were never separated until I went to college, where, after
a couple of years, I was joined by him, and where we remained together
until the close of my collegiate course. I then returned home, in
order to take my place in the mercantile business, in which our
father was engaged. My brother George was destined for one of the
professions. During the last year of his stay at college, his letters
to me were full of the praises of a young lady whose acquaintance he
had made, and in vacations he was never weary of talking of her beauty
and amiable qualities. I was present when he took his degree, and at
a party, given during my stay, in the town, he introduced me to
her. Alas! that introduction was the cause of the happiness and the
wretchedness of my life. It found me a wife, and lost me a brother. I
cannot describe the impression which the first sight of Frances made
upon me. Nor did she seem averse to my attentions. I offered myself,
and was accepted."

"And didst thou nothing to alienate her affections from thy brother?"
inquired Holden, in a hoarse voice.

"She never regarded him with more than a passing liking," returned
Armstrong, "nor do I believe she had an idea of the fervor of
his affection. God be my witness, I never spoke a word in his
disparagement. We were married, and shortly after George began to
exhibit indications of insanity. By the advice of physicians he was
taken to an asylum for the insane, where it was hoped, under proper
treatment, his reason might be restored. May God pardon me, who am the
cause of the horrid tragedy, but, by some negligence of his keeper,
he was permitted to escape--his body was found, after some days, in
a neighboring pond." Here Armstrong paused and covered his face with
both hands.

"The body was recognized as thy brother's?" inquired Holden.

"It had been in the water too long to be perfectly recognized, but
the height, and age, and color of the hair, and what there was left to
make it distinguishable, were sufficient to identify it as George's."

"There is no certainty then. Thy brother may be yet alive."

"There can be no doubt of his death. Thirty years have elapsed,
and were he in existence he must have been heard of. Twelve years
afterwards my Frances died, leaving me two children, a son and infant
daughter. God saw fit, in his providence, to take my boy, but left me
Faith, to lay my grey hairs in the grave. It will not be long before
she will do me that service."

Mr. Armstrong ceased speaking, and silence succeeded, which was at
last broken by the Solitary. He bent his brows with a keen, searching
glance upon his guest, and said:

"Thou wert false to thy brother."

"Yes, and his blood cries against me. Whither shall I turn to hide my
guilt?"

"Thou dost repent, then, of thy treachery?" inquired Holden, who
seemed determined to probe the wound to the bottom.

"Alas! restore to me the morning of life; place me in the same
circumstances, and I should fall again. I should be irresistibly
attracted by a heart that seemed made for mine."

"In _her_ arms thou didst forget the brother, whom thy cruelty had
doomed to the maniac's cell and chain?" said Holden.

"Never! his image is graven on my heart. I have never ceased to think
of him."

"Thou wouldst know him should he stand before thee?"

"Know him! aye, amidst ten thousand. No years could make such changes
as to hide him from me. But he is in his grave, while his murderer
lives."

"Thou didst find compensation for lamentation over the dead, in the
caresses of the living?"

"True, too true. While Frances lived, she was my heaven. It was
necessary that this idol should be torn from me. My son, too. Oh,
James, my son! my son!"

Holden, during the conversation, had been unable to keep his seat, but
with the restlessness of his nature had been walking across the room,
stopping occasionally before Armstrong. The last expression of feeling
evidently affected him. The rapidity of his steps diminished; his
motions became less abrupt; and presently he laid his hand upon the
shoulder of Mr. Armstrong.

"Thy tale," he said, "is one of sorrow and suffering. Thou didst
violate thy duty, and art punished. No wrong shall escape the avenger.
As it is written, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.'
But it is also written, 'He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger,
and of great kindness, and repenteth him of the evil.' Thou art after
all but an instrument in the hand of One mighty to do. Even out of
crime He works out the purposes of his will. Thou knowest not from
what sin and sorrow an early death may be the refuge. Commit thyself
to the hands of the Lord, nor grieve as one without hope. Thy brother
liveth, and thou shalt yet behold him."

"I know he lives, and at the Judgment shall I behold him," said
Armstrong, shuddering, "to upbraid me with his murder."

"Not to upbraid, but to forgive, and to imprint upon thy brow the seal
of reconciliation, as I now, by this token, vow to thee an everlasting
love." So saying, Holden bent down, and his lips touched the forehead
of Armstrong.

We do not know that we ought to be surprised at anything in the
conduct of this extraordinary man. The principles by which he
regulated himself, if he had any that were fixed and determinate, and
was not impelled to his actions by the impulse of the moment, were so
different from those of other men, that it is difficult to reduce them
to the same standard, or, indeed, to assign them to any standard. Be
it as it may, so accustomed was Mr. Armstrong to his ways, that so
singular a thing did not impress him as strange. He only looked up
with eyes dimmed with tears, and, in broken accents, thanked the
Solitary.

The rest of the time spent by Armstrong on the island, was passed in
conversation of very much the same description. It would seem from his
self-reproaches and confessions, that during the lives of his wife and
son, the melancholy death of his brother had made no great impression
upon him. Happy in a woman he adored, and who returned his affection;
with a blooming family around him; immersed in thoughts of business;
and in the enjoyment of a large fortune, there seemed nothing wanting
to complete his felicity. He remembered, too, that there had been an
instance of insanity in his family, some years before the birth of
himself, which had terminated fatally, the cause of which could not
be traced, and felt disposed, therefore, with the natural tendency to
self-exculpation of the happy, to find the reason for the tragical end
of his brother in hereditary infirmity, rather than attach any serious
blame to himself for securing the affections of a lady, whom he
was assured had never loved another. But when after a few years of
unclouded bliss, first his wife, and then his son, was taken away, all
things assumed an altered aspect. He found himself the last male of
his family, his name about to become extinct and forgotten, with only
one other being in the world in whose veins ran his blood, and for
whose life his paternal solicitude almost daily trembled. His mind
brooded day by day more and more over his misfortunes, which gradually
began to wear the form of judgments, the object and result of which
must be to erase his hated name from the earth. As Faith grew up, his
anxieties on her account diminished, but that only left him the
wider scope to dwell upon wild imaginations and make himself more the
subject of his thoughts. Of a grave and reflective cast of mind, he
had even from his early years respected the duties of religion, and
now he turned to it for consolation. But the very sources whence he
should have derived comfort and peace were fountains of disquiet. His
diseased mind seemed incapable of appropriating to itself the gentle
promises of pardon and acceptance, but trembled at the denunciations
of punishment. The universal Father came not to him with open arms,
as to welcome a returned prodigal, but frowned with the severity of
a Judge about to pronounce sentence. Whithersoever the unhappy man
turned, he saw no ray of light to gild the darkness, and he himself
sometimes feared lest reason should desert her throne. But his friends
felt no apprehensions of the kind. In their presence, though grave,
he was always reasonable and on his guard--for he shrunk with the
sensitiveness of a delicate mind from exposing its wounds--nor with
the exception of the minister, and now Holden, was there one who
suspected his condition, and they probably did not realize it fully.
These remarks may serve to abate, if not to remove entirely the
reader's surprise, that one with the education, and in the position of
Armstrong, should have sought counsel from Holden. But it may be, that
the condition of mind to which Armstrong was approaching--similar in
some respects to that of the Solitary--established a sort of relation
or elective affinity between them, operating like the influence of the
magnet, to attract one to the other. We have seen how fond Holden
was of visiting the house of Mr. Armstrong. Could it be that this
mysterious influence, all unconsciously to himself, led his steps
thither, and that afar off he dimly espied the talisman that should
establish a full community between them? Or was not this community
already established? How else account for the visit of Armstrong, the
strange conversation, the confessions, concluded by an act, tender,
and perhaps graceful, but only such as was to be expected from a
deranged man?

Josiah Sill, true to his promise, arrived while the two men were still
talking, heedless of the passage of time. Mr. Armstrong stepped on
board, and the boat resumed her course. The wind was drawing down the
river, remaining nearly in the same point from which it had blown in
the morning, and they were obliged in consequence to pursue a zig-zag
course, tackling from one shore to the other. It blew fresh, and the
little vessel, gunwale down, with the water sometimes pouring over the
lee side, flew like a bird. They had run two-thirds of the distance,
nor was the sun yet set, when the wind, which, till then, had blown
pretty steadily, began to intermit and come in flaws or puffs, now
driving the small craft with great rapidity, and now urging her gently
on. At an instant, when she was about to tack, having hardly head-way
sufficient to prevent missing stays, a sudden and violent puff, from a
gorge in the hills, struck the sail. Had it come at any other moment,
the catastrophe that followed could not have happened; but the boat
lying almost motionless, received all the force of the wind, and
instantly upset. Mr. Armstrong, unable to swim, and encumbered by his
clothes, sank, but was caught by the strong arm of Sill, and pulled
upon the keel. In a state of great discomfort, though of safety, there
both remained for some time, waiting for assistance. None arriving,
Sill, at last, became impatient, and as he was an excellent swimmer,
proposed to throw off the heavier part of his clothing, and swim to
land to hasten succor. As Mr. Armstrong made no objection, and the
danger appeared less than what was likely to proceed from a long
continuance on the boat, exposed in their wet clothes to the wind, the
shore being but a few rods distant, Sill, after divesting himself of a
part of his clothes, plunged into the water, and with vigorous strokes
swam towards the land. He had proceeded but a short way when, either
in consequence of becoming benumbed by the coldness of the water after
being chilled by exposure to the wind, or from being seized by cramp,
or from what other cause, the unfortunate man suddenly turning
his face towards Armstrong, and uttering a cry of alarm, sank and
disappeared from sight. Once more only was anything seen of him, when
brought near the surface, perhaps, by an eddy in the stream, a hand
emerged, and for an instant the fingers quivered in the air.

With a sort of desperate horror Armstrong gazed upon the appalling
spectacle. The expression of anguish on the face of the drowning
fisherman, as his distended eyes met his own, froze his blood, and
left a memory behind to last to his dying day. Fascinated, his
eyes dwelt on the spot where the fisherman sunk, and for a moment a
terrible temptation was whispered into his ear quietly, to drop into
the river, and accompany the spirit of the drowned man. But it lasted
only a moment, and the instinct of life resumed its power.

It was not long ere his condition was discovered from the shore, when
chilled and shivering he was taken off by a boat that put out to
his rescue. On arriving at his home, Faith, excessively alarmed,
immediately dispatched the faithful Felix for the doctor.

CHAPTER XXV.

  How sweetly could I lay my head
     Within the cold grave's silent breast,
  Where sorrow's tears no more are shed,
     No more the ills of life molest.

  MOORE

Mr. Armstrong escaped, to all appearance, with a cold, from the
accident. But although this seemed the only effect produced upon his
bodily health, his mind had suffered a severe shock which was not
equally obvious. Fancies, each gloomier than the preceding, took,
henceforth, more and more possession of his imagination. He seemed the
harbinger of misfortune to all connected with him. Frequently rose up
the image of his dead brother, mingling with his dreams and obtruding
itself even into his waking thoughts, at one time dripping with
water as when taken from the pond--ghastly pale--livid--with scarcely
distinguishable lineaments; at another wrapped in the dress of the
tomb, and pointing with bony finger to a new-made grave. Then his wife
would appear, holding their little son by the hand, and standing on
the opposite side of a river that rolled between, beckoning him to
cross. But whenever he made the attempt the waves would close over his
head, and he awoke with a sense of suffocation and gasping for breath.
At another time the scene of the drowning fisherman would be repeated,
but with innumerable variations. Sometimes, in some way or other,
Holden would be mixed up with it, sometimes Faith, and sometimes, most
horrible of all, he himself would be desperately struggling to hold
Sill under water, till finally the yielding body sunk, sunk into
depths no eye could fathom. But never till the face turned and
transfixed him with the despairing glare of those dreadful eyes.

But we are anticipating and rather describing the condition into
which his mind gradually fell, than its state immediately after his
interview with the Solitary. It took some time longer before the idea
that by an inexorable decree he was doomed to entail destruction
on all connected with him, became fixed. For awhile it floated
uncertainly and impalpably before him, and only slowly, like
an approaching spectre, took upon itself shape and presence. A
conversation between himself and his daughter on the second day after
the accident, and his conduct immediately thereafter, may give us some
apprehension of the current of his thoughts and feelings then.

"My dearest father," said Faith, throwing her arms around his neck,
and repeating what she had said more than once before, "oh, how
thankful ought I to be for the saving of your precious life!"

"We are often thankful in our ignorance," said her father, "for the
greatest misfortunes."

"Do you call it a misfortune to me," she cried, "that I am not left
alone in the world? Oh, father, what should I do without you?" And
in spite of her exertions to suppress them, the tears burst from her
eyes.

"Come to me, my child," said Armstrong, and he took the weeping girl
into his arms, and leaned her head gently upon his bosom. "Compose
yourself. Believe me, there are trials harder to be borne than the
loss of parents."

"None, none to me," sobbed Faith. "If it were right I would pray that
I might die the same moment with you."

"It is well for one like me to think often of death," said her father,
"nor should the young forget they are mortal. But many happy days, I
trust, are reserved for my darling."

"Happy, if you are to share them with me, father. But why do I weep,"
she said, raising up her head and smiling through her tears, "at
thinking of the possibility of a misfortune to myself, when my heart
is swelling with thankfulness for your preservation?" She arose from
her father's lap, drew a chair to his side, and as her custom was,
took one of his hands in both of hers.

"Such are the dispensations of Providence," said Armstrong. "The old
man, with white hair and bent body, creeps to his grave, while the
infant that has just learned to smile in its mother's face, is hurried
from her arms. Why was it that Sill, so strong, so happy, so young,
with a wife and children dependant on him for support, should be taken
and I left?"

"Why should we curiously inquire?" replied Faith. "If we could look
behind the curtain, no doubt we should see sufficient reasons for the
choice."

"When I look back upon my life," continued Armstrong, more distinctly
revealing the thought lurking in his mind, "it seems as if I were born
to be the cause of misfortune to others. Had any one else been in
the boat, the accident would not have happened, or certainly not
terminated fatally."

"Do not say so, dear father. Can you regulate the winds and waves?"

"No, Faith. Yet unmanly as it is, let me lament the fate that makes me
the instrument to execute the decrees of Heaven. I am a rod to
attract the fires that consume, while itself rises unscathed amid the
destruction."

It seemed to Faith natural that her father should be affected by the
death of the fisherman, who, after saving his life, had perished in
the attempt to bring rescue, although she thought his expressions
exaggerated. She felt pained at his self-reproaches, but doubted not
that soon the keenness of regret would lose its edge. In order the
sooner, therefore, to produce this result, she attempted to divert his
thoughts into another channel.

"You are unjust to yourself, father," she said. "How many are there to
bless you for charities known only to themselves and you?"

"Mention them not, Faith, crumbs from my superfluity, like those that
fell from the other rich man's table. Besides, of what avail will
any charities, as you call them, of mine be? They will serve only to
convey the curse that attaches itself to me. I tremble to think you
are my daughter."

"And I," said Faith, "can never be thankful enough for having such
a father. Ah, how happy we might be, if you would only banish these
fancies from your mind!"

"Thus it is," said Armstrong. "Did I not say right? Like an evil
spirit I scatter only gloom around one. I will remove a presence that
blasts whatever it meets."

So saying he rose, and in spite of the tearful entreaties of his
daughter, walked into the hall, and taking his great coat from the
hook that held it, put it on and passed into the street.

Faith, upon his departure, sunk into a chair, and allowed free
course to her tears. They brought relief, and after a few moments she
recovered composure. "This is very foolish," she said to herself, "to
cry like a child. My dear father is nervous, and I do not wonder, that
shocking accident agitates him. I am glad he is gone, for it is
better he should seek the society of his friends, than sit here making
himself melancholy with me. I must be cheerful to receive him when he
returns. At least, he shall see no trace of tears."

Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong walked down the street, but shunning
the sight of others, he turned at the first opportunity into an
unfrequented road. It led towards the Severn, and hardly knowing how
it happened, he crossed a bridge, and soon found himself in the woods
that skirt the left bank of that river. Unconsciously, and as if
attracted by some spell, he was directing his course towards the scene
of the late disaster. The walk and the solemn silence of the woods,
in which no sound was heard except the cawing of a watchful crow,
some sentinel placed to give notice of approaching danger to his
companions, gradually subdued the excitement of his feelings. His
pace, at first rapid, relaxed, the light began to play upon the clouds
that brooded on his spirits, and he wondered at his fancies and his
conduct.

"How could I," thought he, "be so cruel to my own Faith! Her life
ought to be all sunshine and gladness, and would be but for me, and I
must sadden and darken it with the baleful imaginings of a distempered
mind. I must struggle harder and pray oftener and more fervently to
be preserved from myself. And now my soul feels the need of communing
with the Infinite Spirit. What fitter place for adoration than the
stillness of these old woods? Here worldly interruptions cannot come,
and the veil between Him and His creature is withdrawn."

He stopped. He looked up into the sky, and watched the clouds floating
in the blue. He glanced at the sun flaming in golden magnificence. His
eyes fell on the hoary stems of the giants of the forest. He saw
the trailing arbutus, the delicious herald of warmer suns and softer
winds, creeping to his feet, and raised his hands to heaven and
repeated the lines of Milton--

  These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good,
  Almighty, thine this universal frame,
  Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!
  Unspeakable, who sitt'st above the heavens,
  To us invisible, or dimly seen
  In these thy lowest works: yet these declare
  Thy goodness beyond thought and power divine.

He stooped down and picked a few bunches of the arbutus, and put them
in his bosom. "Faith loves flowers," he said, "and the sweetness and
whiteness of these are types of herself."

He was now quite calm, and realized fully where he was. It is strange,
he thought, how I came hither. I am like Philip, whom the Spirit
caught away.

He continued his walk, striving to drive away the gloomy ideas, which,
in spite of his resistance, threatened again to master him. With his
eyes bent upon the ground, he proceeded some distance, when a slight
noise attracted his attention. He raised his eyes, and discovered
the cause. Five or six men were approaching, bearing, between them,
something on some boards. Mr. Armstrong stopped, and, as they came
near, perceived, it was the body of the drowned fisherman.

"Fate," he murmured between his teeth, "has driven me here. It was
meet that the murderer should be confronted by his victim."

The men, when they had surmounted the steep river bank, tired with the
weight, put down the corpse near where Armstrong stood. He walked up
to it, and gazed upon the face. The men, solemnized by the mournful
task, and respecting the feelings of Armstrong, whom they all knew,
preserved silence.

There was no expression of pain upon the features. They wore the calm,
impassive look of marble. The eyes and mouth were wide open--efforts
to close them had been in vain--but, there was no speculation in the
former, and the soul played no more around the latter. The long brown
hair, from which the water dripped, hung in disorder over the forehead
and down the neck. Armstrong knelt on the withered leaves, by the side
of the corpse, and parted the hair with his fingers.

"The agony," he said, as if addressing the drowned man, "is over. The
curtain is lifted. The terrible secret is disclosed. You have heard
the summons we must all hear. You have trod the path we must all
tread. You know your doom. Poor fellow! how gladly would I give my
life for yours."

The bystanders were moved. Thus to behold the rich and prosperous
Mr. Armstrong, whose reserve was mistaken by some for haughtiness,
kneeling on the ground and lamenting over the obscure fisherman, was
something they had not expected.

"Sill was a good fellow and a ginerous," said Tom Gladding, wiping
away a tear, with the rough sleeve of his coat.

"He was a clever fellow, was Sill," added another.

"I've known him more than once," said Tom, "give half his fish away to
a poor family. Josiah tried to make everybody comfortable."

"When I was sick, a year ago," said one of the men, "and the neighbors
thought I was going to die, Josiah set up many a night with me, when
he had to work all the next day for his wife and children. I had no
notion, then, he'd have to go afore me."

"It's true what the primer says," said another--

  "Xerxes the great must die,
  And so must you and I."

"It don't need the primer or Xerxes either to tell us that," said Tom.
"Now, it looks kind o' hard to have a young man like Josiah go; but,
seeing as how he must die, sometime or other, I guess it don't much
consarn him whether it's to-day or to-morrow, when you think of
etarnity. Howsoever, it's no use standing here sniveling; so, let's
get on. Miss Sill will be glad the body's found, though it will 'most
kill her to see it."

Thereupon, Tom and his friends took up the corpse, and pursued their
way to the village.

Armstrong stood still, and looked after them till they were out of
sight. He then turned, descended the bank, and sat upon a rock on the
edge of the water.

He reviewed the events of the day before the yesterday. He had
repeatedly endeavored to divert his mind from such thoughts; but, in
spite of his wishes, they would force themselves back. Finding all
resistance vain, he had, finally, abandoned himself to their control.

They passed confusedly through his mind. It was difficult to arrange
them in the order of their succession. He began to be uncertain
whether his visit to Holden was made before or after the drowning of
Sill. He tried to recollect the purpose of his visit to the Solitary,
but could fix upon nothing definite. He seemed to remember that he had
made a confession of some sort, and that Holden had charged him with
the murder of his brother; and, at the same time, commended him for
removing George from the evil to come. His thoughts then reverted to
the upsetting of the boat. He knew that Sill had saved his life; but
why, when in safety on the boat, had he left it? He had a notion of
some conversation between them, and strove, till his brain burned, to
remember it. Had he not urged the unfortunate man to swim ashore? Was
it not most probable he had done so? Was not that most consistent with
his usual treatment of others? Was not that the means adopted by the
stern angel of fate, to accomplish the decree?

Such was the nature of the thoughts of the unhappy Armstrong. Do
what he might, he could not exclude them. They would give place to no
others. They were at home. They had a right to rule and to torture.
They were a foretaste of a never-ending punishment. His will did not
consent; but, a mightier will commanded, and the weaker must obey.
The sport of an irresistible necessity--with no power of choice--the
blind, unwilling instrument of a controlling force, he was,
notwithstanding, justly chargeable with every misfortune, and, like a
malefactor, must endure the consequences.

Long he sat thus absorbed in these wretched reflections. He stared
upon the water, but saw nothing: the tide rose and wet his feet, but
he felt it not; the wind blew chill, but he was not cold. He got up
at last from his seat, and was recalled to life. He felt stiff from
having been in one posture so long. He took out his watch, and found
it was twelve o'clock. He looked at the sun, and perceived it did not
contradict the watch, and turned his steps homeward.

The crow from the topmost bough of a withered tree eyed him as he
passed along quite near, and croaked once, but did not leave his
perch. Armstrong heard him not. Nor did he heed the blue-bird singing
in the noonday sun to the arbutus blossoms crushed by his unwitting
feet, or notice the petulant squirrel flinging down the shells of his
nuts, as if in mockery at the passing stranger. He was met by Primus
in the village street, who took off his cap, but to the salutation
of the negro he paid no regard. The General stopped as he passed, and
turned round, with a sorrowful surprise, to look after him, and shook
his head. It was the first time Mr. Armstrong had passed him without
notice and a kind word. The negroes are very superstitious, and great
observers of signs. He remarked that Mr. Armstrong's hat was pulled
over his eyes, in the same manner he wore it at the funeral of his
wife, and augured some impending calamity.

Mr. Armstrong entered his house, and threw himself into a seat, but
he sat only a moment. Something seemed to be wanting. A restless
impatience possessed him. He took up the tongs and begun to alter
the disposition of the sticks of wood. He could not suit himself, and
finally abandoned the fire to itself, after having filled the room
with smoke. He went to the bookcase, and took down a book, and
commenced reading. But presently his eyes wandered off, and fastened
themselves on the rug. He threw down the book, and rung the bell
violently. Felix instantly answered the summons.

"It seems to me you are very negligent in attending to the bell this
morning," said he. "It is unpleasant to be obliged to ring so often."

"You ring only once, Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, opening his eyes
wide with astonishment. "I in the kitchen at the time, and come
immediumtly. The tongue still jingle."

"You may well say your tongue jingles," said Mr. Armstrong, sharply.
"Let me trouble you not to contradict me. Where is Miss Faith?"

"Miss Faith went out an hour ago. I guess she is calling on some
ladies."

"Go, and find her, and request her to come home."

Felix retreated hastily into the kitchen, and seized his cap. But
before going out he thought it necessary to speak to Rosa.

"O, Rosa!" he said, "take care o' the boss while I'm gone. Something
dreadful is happened to him, and I'm 'fraid of the consequence. If you
hear the bell, Rosa, run for your life."

"How can I leave the dinner? It all spoil, Felix," said Rosa. "I send
Katy."

"Never mind two dinners," cried Felix. "Better burn the roast beef
than make _him_ feel worse. I never know him cross afore."

Felix was not obliged to go far. He had hardly got outside of the
gate, when he saw his young mistress coming down the street. Walking
rapidly, he soon met her, and communicated his errand. Faith quickened
her steps, and in a few moments stood by the side of her father.

She found him contemplating the sprigs of arbutus he had picked for
her. The sight and scent of the lovely flowers had carried him back to
the moment when he plucked them, and restored, in a measure, the
tone of mind that prevailed then. It was, therefore, with his usual
sweetness he addressed her, though there was something in his voice
that made the words drop like so many tears upon her heart.

"I have brought you some flowers, my darling," he said. "They are the
first nurslings of spring. Beautiful things! looking up all night and
day, with their starry eyes, to heaven, and drinking the dew of God's
grace. Happy things! they know no sin nor sorrow, and are remembered
only for their perfume and beauty. Take them, Faith. Sweets to
the sweet. Like these flowers, your soul exhales an atmosphere of
fragrance, and they belong to you."

The mutations of Mr. Armstrong's mind were like the changes of an
April day. The softer mood was now prevailing, and as Faith kissed the
flowers, before she put them in her bosom, she felt less unhappy than
in the morning.

CHAPTER XXVI.

  Whose part in all the pomp that fills,
  The circuit of the summer hills.
      Is that his grave is green.
  And deeply would their hearts rejoice,
  To hear again his living voice.

  BRYANT.

The funeral, with the usual celerity with which such things are done
in our country, was to take place on the next day. Too often the haste
appears indecent, and it may be that in some instances the body has
been buried before life deserted it. It would seem that the family
felt constrained by the presence of the corpse, and compelled to
exercise an irksome self-control, and, therefore, desired to hurry it
under ground, as if it would be less likely there to know how soon it
was forgotten.

But in the present case there was no reason why the body should be
longer kept. There could be no doubt that life was extinct. It had
lain too long in the water to admit a ray of hope to the contrary.
The sooner it was placed in its final earthly home the better for
poor Jane Sill, the widow. Her grief would the sooner be mitigated, by
withdrawing her thoughts from the dead to fix them on the necessity of
providing for the living. Until the burial the sympathizing neighbors
took upon themselves to perform the usual work of the household, such
as cooking the necessary food, &c., and one or another came in at
times to look after the children, to see that nothing was neglected
for their comfort, and to console the lone woman in her affliction.
But this could not last long. It was better it should not, but that
things should, as quickly as possible, resume their usual and natural
course.

When the hour for the ceremony arrived, Mr. Armstrong sent round his
carriage to convey the mourning family in the melancholy procession,
while he and Faith, as the distance was short, proceeded on foot to
the house. It was situated on a sandy beach, near the Wootúppocut, and
a considerable company had collected together before their arrival.
Poor Josiah's generosity and good-nature had made him a general
favorite, and his acquaintances had pretty generally turned out to
render to him the last testimony of affection it would ever be in
their power to pay. The house was too small to hold all present, so
that besides the relations, very few except females were admitted.
Faith entered, but her father, though courteously invited in, and in
consequence of his connection with the accident that caused the death,
considered in some wise a mourner, preferred to remain on the outside.
Meanwhile, during the preparations in the house, groups without were
scattered round, engaged, in low voices, in various conversation.
In some, expressions of condolence and pity were let fall for the
condition of the widow and her family; others descanted on the
good qualities of the deceased; others debated on what might be the
feelings of Armstrong, and wondered what he would give the widow. They
were all acquainted with his generosity, and doubted not of his desire
to repair, so far as he was able, the misfortune with which the more
ignorant would insist upon connecting him as in some sort, a cause.
For this reason, some of them stole sly glances, from time to time,
at his face, wishing not to be observed, as if they expected to read
therein his purposes. But Armstrong, his eyes fastened on the ground,
and absorbed in his own reflections, was unconscious of the attention
he attracted. So lost was he, indeed, in his own thoughts, as not to
observe many of the nods and greetings directed to him.

Presently low tones, as of one speaking, were heard issuing from the
house, and those standing outside gathered round the open door, to
listen to the prayer of the minister. It seems to be taken for granted
that on such occasions the prayer must occupy some considerable time,
whether because a short one would be irreverent to the Being to whom
it is addressed, or disrespectful to the sorrowing friends, or because
the mind cannot sooner be impressed with due solemnity. Hence it
follows that as these prayers are extempore, and the abilities and
taste of those who offer them of different degrees, they are of
various shades of merit. Seldom is one made in which the canons of
good taste are not violated, and some are not compelled to smile who
ought to weep. The reverend gentleman who conducted the services,
was not insensible to what was expected from him, and determined
"to improve" the mournful event to the benefit of the living. After
alluding to the gratitude his hearers ought to feel at not being thus
hurried, like poor Sill, without time for preparation, before the bar
of Judgment, who, however, he hoped, was prepared, and in order
to heighten the feeling of thankfulness, contrasting the light and
liberty of life with the darkness of the grave (as if the spirit were
confined there), he ran through the usual common places, speaking
with an assured conviction, as if the country beyond the grave were
as familiar to him as the streets of the town. With a tedious
particularity he then entreated the divine blessing upon the members
of the bereaved family, mentioning them by name, beginning with the
widow, to whom succeeded the children, two boys, one of four, and
the other of two years of age, followed by fathers, and mothers, and
brothers, and sisters to an indefinite extent, until the compliment
was duly paid to all who were supposed to have any claim to it. The
prayer was closed very much as it began, with a reference to the
suddenness of the death, which was treated as a warning sent for their
benefit, and a hope that it might be laid to heart, and induce sinners
to fly from the wrath to come. The usual time being now consumed, the
minister who had labored hard, and not without sundry hesitations
and coughings to accomplish his task, brought it to a conclusion, and
announced an appropriate hymn. There was something sadly sweet
and touching in the homely words and simple tune, sung in low and
suppressed tones, as if they were afraid of disturbing the slumbers of
the dead.

Upon the conclusion of the hymn, the person who acted as master of
the ceremonies went to the door, and, addressing those gathered round,
said that all who desired might now have an opportunity to see
the corpse. Several accepted the invitation, and among others, Mr.
Armstrong.

The coffin was placed upon a table in the centre of the room, with
a part of the lid turned back on hinges, so as to leave the face
exposed. The former friends and acquaintances of the dead man, giving
place and succeeding to one another, came, looked, and passed out
again, moving lightly on tip-toe solemnized and subdued by the awful
mystery of death. As they came in and left the house, they could see
through an open door in an adjoining room the weeping widow in full
mourning, with her little boys on either side, and the relations
seated round in chairs.

All having gazed upon the corpse who wished, preparations now
commenced for screwing down the lid of the coffin. The sobs and sounds
of grief which had proceeded from the room where the mourners were
collected, and which had been, as by an effort, suppressed during the
prayer and hymn, now broke forth afresh.

"O, do not hinder me," poor Mrs. Sill was heard to say; "it's the only
chance I shall have in this world."

"I guess you'd better not," said a voice, trying to dissuade her.
"It's no use; and, then, before all them strangers."

"I will see Josiah," she exclaimed, rising from her seat, and putting
aside the well-meaning hand that strove to detain her. "Who has a
better right to take the last look than me?"

With these words, her crape veil thrown in disorder back upon her
shoulders, her eyes red and swollen with crying, and tears streaming
down her cheeks, she advanced towards the body, all respectfully
making room for her as she approached.

We are not a very demonstrative people. The inhabitants of New England
are taught, from an early age, the lesson of self-control. They do
not wear in their bosoms windows into which any eyes may look. It is
considered unmanly for men to exhibit excessive feeling, and perhaps
the sentiment has an influence even on the softer sex. The conduct of
Mrs. Sill was unusual, and excited surprise; but it is difficult to
stem strong passion and it had its way.

She moved quickly up to the table, and threw her arms around the
coffin, resting her cheek on that of her husband, while the hot tears
ran in large drops down its marble surface. One who thought he had a
right to interfere, whispered in her ear, and took hold of an arm to
draw her away, but she turned fiercely upon him.

"Who are you," she said, "to separate me from my husband? Go--I will
keep him as long as I please."

The person, seeing her determination, desisted; and all looked on in
mournful silence.

"O, Josiah," she sobbed, "who'd have thought it! The best, the kindest
husband a woman ever had. O! how sorry I am for every hard word I ever
spoke to you. And you so good--never to find fault when I scolded.
I was wicked--and yet all the time I loved you so. Did you know it,
Josiah? If you were back again, how different I would treat you! The
fire should always be burning bright, and the hearth clean, when you
came back cold from fishing, and you should never, never ask me a
second time for anything. But you don't hear me. What's the use
of crying and lamenting? Here," she said, raising herself up, and
addressing those next her, "take him, and put him in his grave."

She staggered and fainted, and would have fallen, had she not been
caught in the arms of sympathizing friends, who removed her into the
adjoining chamber, and applied the usual restoratives. This caused
some little delay, but, after a time, the person who had assumed upon
himself the arrangements of the funeral, entered, preceding the four
bearers, whose hats he took into his own hands, to restore them to the
owners when the coffin should be placed in the hearse--a plain black
wagon, with black cloth curtains--waiting at the door. The coffin was
taken up by them, and deposited accordingly; after which, they took
their places in front of the hearse, while the four pall-bearers
ranged themselves on each side. At a signal from the director of the
ceremony, the whole moved forward, leaving space for the carriages
to approach the door. Mr. Armstrong's carriage was driven up, and the
widow and children, with two or three females, were assisted in. Then
followed a few other vehicles, with the nearest relatives, after whom
came others, as they pleased to join. A large number of persons had
previously formed themselves into a procession before the hearse,
headed by the minister, who would have been accompanied by a
physician, had one assisted in making poor Sill's passage to the other
world easier.

The mournful cortége wound slowly up a hill to the burying-ground--a
piece of broken land on the top. At the time of which we write, the
resting-place of the departed of Hillsdale presented a different
appearance from what it does now. Wild, neglected, overgrown with
briers, it looked repulsive to the living, and unworthy of the dead.
The tender sentiment which associates beauty with the memory of
our friends, and loves to plant the evergreen and rose around their
graves, seemed then not to have touched the bosoms of our people. A
pleasing change has succeeded. The briars have been removed, trees
planted, and when necessary to be laid out, new burial-ground spots
have been selected remarkable for attractiveness and susceptibility
of improvement. The brook has been led in and conducted in tortuous
paths, as if to lull with a soft hymn the tired sleepers, and then
expanded into a fairy lake, around which the weeping willow lets fall
its graceful pendants. The white pine, the various species of firs,
the rhododendron, mixed with the maple, the elm, and the tulip tree,
have found their way into the sacred enclosure. The reproach of
Puritanic insensibility is wiped out. Europe may boast of prouder
monuments, but she has no burial-places so beautiful as some of ours.
Père la Chaise is splendid in marble and iron, but the loveliness of
nature is wanting. Sweet Auburn, and Greenwood, and Laurel Hill are
peerless in their mournful charms.

The coffin was lowered into the grave in silence. No solemn voice
pronounced the farewell "ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The ceremonies
were concluded. The minister took off his hat, and addressing the
bystanders, some of whom, respectfully imitating his example, raised
the coverings from their heads, thanked them in the name of the
afflicted family for this last tribute of regard. The procession
was formed again, and slowly returned to the house, leaving the
grave-digger to shovel in the gravel and complete his task.

As Mr. Armstrong and Faith walked home together, but few words were
exchanged between them. Each was absorbed in reflection upon the scene
just witnessed. In Faith's mind it was solemn, but devoid of gloom.
With the hopefulness of health and youth, gleams of sunshine played
over the grave. She looked beyond, and hoped and trusted.

But with her father it was different. Had it not been for him Sill
might have been alive and well. He had made the wife a widow and her
children orphans. He had introduced weeping and wailing into a happy
home. But this was a slight calamity, and hardly worthy of a thought
in comparison with another. The words of the minister, that the victim
had been hurried to his sentence without time for preparation recurred
with a feeling of horror. It was he through whose instrumentality Sill
had been thrust into tormenting but undestroying flames. Better that
he had never been born. Better that he had been strangled in the hour
of his birth.

With thoughts like these, this unhappy man, whose heart was the seat
of all the virtues, tormented himself. It seemed sometimes strange
that people did not point their fingers at him: that he was not
arrested for the murder: that he was permitted to walk abroad in the
sunshine. His mind, unknown to those about him, unknown to himself,
was hovering on the confines of insanity. Only a spark, perhaps, was
necessary to light a conflagration. Alas! that one so good, so noble,
should be a victim of destiny. But we forbear to intrude further into
reflections alike miserable and insane.

Mr. Armstrong felt more composed the next day, and in the afternoon,
accompanied by Faith, went to the dwelling of the widow. They found
her engaged in ordinary family affairs. The duties to the living must
be respected. To neither rich nor poor does sorrow furnish an excuse
for their neglect. Let the mind find something to occupy it, the
hand something to do. Thus do we become sooner reconciled to those
dispensations of Providence at which our weakness, and ignorance, and
presumption rebel.

The poor woman received them kindly, and offered chairs. Faith took
into her lap the younger child from the floor on which it was sitting,
gnawing a crust of brown bread, and began to talk to him. The round
eyes of the boy expressed his astonishment, but as he looked into the
loving face and heard more of the sweet voice, the alarm he at first
felt at the approach of the stranger subsided, and he smiled with the
confiding innocence which children return to the caresses of those who
are fond of them.

"Jimmy doesn't know what a loss he's had," said Mrs. Sill.

"Jimmy will grow up to take care of his mother bye and bye, and repay
her for some of her trouble, won't he?" said Faith, addressing the
boy.

"O, Josiah and Jimmy are my only comfort," said the widow--"now that
he's gone. I don't know what I should do without them, I'm sure."

Mr. Armstrong had called the elder boy, Josiah, to his side, and the
little fellow had quickly become familiar enough to play with his gold
watch-chain. Seeing it pleased the child, he took the watch and held
it to his ear, at which the countenance of the boy became radiant with
delight. "O, Jimmy," he cried, "it talks."

Mr. Armstrong released the watch into the hands of Josiah, who ran
with it to his brother.

"He will drop it," exclaimed Mrs. Sill, starting forward, taking the
watch from the hands of the disappointed boy, and offering it to Mr.
Armstrong.

"Keep it," he said, "for Josiah, to associate me, when he grows up,
with his father's death."

"You don't mean to give away your gold watch?" said Mrs. Sill, still
holding it out towards him.

"Yes, Mrs. Sill," said Mr. Armstrong, "I intended it for him: I would
give him all I have if I could thereby restore his father to life."

This observation renewed in full force the sorrow of the poor woman.
She sank back into a chair, and covering her face with her apron,
sobbed and wept bitterly.

Faith looked at her father with an expression which seemed to say--do
not refer to the cause of her grief. Armstrong understood the appeal,
but he had that in his mind which was unknown to his daughter, and
after a pause he proceeded.

"I have more property than I deserve, and what better use can I put
it to than give it to the deserving? You will find in that," he
continued, handing a paper to the widow, "what will entitle you to
a little income during your life. I hope it will enable you to take
better care of your children."

Mrs. Sill took the paper mechanically, and gazed upon without opening
it or imagining the extent of the gift. She kept turning it round and
round in her fingers, as if not knowing what to do with it.

"Everybody knows you're a kind man, and as generous as you're rich,
Mr. Armstrong;" at last she said, "But I guess I shant want anything
long in this world."

"I hope you may live long yet," said Mr. Armstrong, "for the sake of
the little boys."

This allusion recalled her more to herself, and without looking at
the paper she put it into her bosom. "I'm sure I thank you with all my
heart, and shall always try to do my duty by them," she said.

Here Mr. Armstrong rose, and Faith, putting down the child, that
seemed loth to leave her, spoke in a low tone some parting words of
consolation.

"I'm sure you're very good; I'm sure I'm very much obleeged to you,"
was all Mrs. Sill could say.

On their way home Faith spoke of the promising appearance of the
children, and of what the hopes of the mother must be on their
account.

"It is true they are all that are left to her," said Mr. Armstrong,
"and what hopes she has of earthly happiness must be built on them.
But who can look into to-morrow? A few days ago, never dreaming of
misfortune, she exulted in the enjoyment of her husband and little
boys. The first is taken away, and none know how soon the latter may
be. So joys and sorrows are mingled together. At this moment she is
more miserable for having been happy, and so great is the misery, it
outweighs all the happiness of former years. Such is the nature of
pain and pleasure. A pang of the former, an instant's acute agony, may
be equivalent to hours of what is called enjoyment. We are so made. We
may hope for happiness: we are certain of sorrow. We must seek
after the one: the other is sure to find us. When I look round, what
evidences of wretchedness do I see! Alas, it is indeed a fallen world,
and the ground is cursed for man's sake."

"You take a gloomy view, father," said Faith. "Look beyond. Are we not
promised a happier time when the bliss of Eden shall be renewed?"

"Yes, and the time will come. Not only prophets and apostles have
had it revealed to them, but grand souls among the heathen have dimly
descryed its dawning from afar. But what unimaginable scenes of horror
must first be? What doleful _misereres_ must first ascend to cloud
the brightness of the heavens and dim the joy of the blest! Long, long
before then, your and my remembrance, Faith, will have perished from
the earth. You will be then a seraph, and I--. If there be ever an
interval of pain, it will be when I think of your blessedness, and
you, if angels sometimes weep, will drop a tear to the memory of your
father, and it shall cool his torment."

What could the grieved and alarmed daughter say? She spoke in gentle
and loving tones. She combated by every possible argument these
miserable fancies. She entreated him for her sake as well as his own,
to cast them off. He listened to her without impatience, and as if
he loved to hear the sound of her voice. But he shook his head with
a mournful sadness, and his melancholy remained. As may well be
supposed, the dark cloud that had settled down upon his mind was not
thus to be dissipated. Faith, though troubled, did not despair. She
trusted the impression of the late calamity, to which she attributed
much of his unhappiness, would in time wear off. Meanwhile, she
commended him to the kind protection of that Gracious Being who is
loving to all his works.

CHAPTER XXVII.

  I cannot think of sorrow now: and doubt
  If e'er I felt it--'tis so dazzled from
  My memory by this oblivious transport.

  BYRON

"Here come that strange old man," said Felix, the next morning,
looking out of the kitchen window, which commanded a view of the road.
"I do believe he's bewitched the boss."

Rosa, to whom the remark was addressed, ran to the window, and saw the
Recluse coming up the street.

"I'm 'stonished," she said, "that Mr. Armstrong and Miss Faith give
so much encouragement to these low pussons. They always take so much
liberty."

"Give 'em an inch and they take two feet," said Felix. "I wish his
two feet take him away from this house for the last time," he added,
laughing.

"Ha, ha, ha, you so 'musing Felix," said Rosa. "There is something too
very genteel in your laugh."

"You do me proud, sweet Rosa," answered Felix, bowing with his hand
upon his breast.

Holden was no favorite of the black. The well-dressed and well-fed
servant of a wealthy family, with the feeling common to all who judge
from outside appearances, had at first been disposed to look down upon
the coarsely-dressed anchorite, who supported himself by so mean a
labor as the manufacture of baskets, and to consider him as little
better than a beggar-man. No sooner, however, did Holden detect the
feeling, and it was instantly, than he corrected it, so that it never
made its appearance again in his presence. In fact, a feeling of fear
superseded the impertinence of the negro. There was something in the
burning glare of Holden's eyes, and the deep tones of his voice, that
exerted an inexplicable power over Felix. Much he turned it over in
his mind, why, in spite of himself, he was obliged to be as civil
to Holden as to white gentlemen, and at last concluded, the Solitary
possessed some magic art, by which he controlled others. He the more
readily adopted the opinion because he considered his master and young
mistress under the spell of the same glamourie to which he himself had
succumbed.

When, therefore, Holden struck with the knocker on the door, the
obsequious Felix was at hand to open it, and show him into the parlor.

"Tell your master I am here," said Holden, entering.

"How does he know Mr. Armstrong is at home?" said Felix, to himself.
"But I'm a free man, and it is very onpolite to talk about my master."

"The Lord hath raised up a mighty salvation for us," was the address
of Holden, as Mr. Armstrong entered the room. "I come to bid thee
farewell for a time."

"Farewell!" repeated Mr. Armstrong, without comprehending the meaning
of the other.

"Sit thee down, dear friend, and listen to what will give thee joy for
my sake now, and thine own hereafter. My son, who was dead, is alive
again.".

Armstrong was at a loss to divine the meaning of his visitor. He took
it for some figurative form of expression, and, without making any
reply, passed his hand over his forehead, as if trying to recall some
idea.

Holden read his thoughts. "Thou dost not understand," he said. "Know
then that the child perished not with the mother."

"My friend," said Armstrong, who had now complete command of himself,
"you do not reflect that I cannot understand your allusions. Explain
to me, that I may participate in your joy."

"The child of my youth, he whom I lost, whom I mourned for so many
years as dead, is alive," exclaimed Holden, in tones of irrepressible
emotion.

"I give you joy," said Armstrong, grasping his hand. "But you never
mentioned you had a son. How have you lost, and how found him?"

"It is the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes," said
Holden. "Not long since thou didst tell of an unhappy man, round whom
afflictions had gathered. Now will I tell thee of another not less
wretched, the clouds of whose sorrow the setting sun is gilding. Be it
unto thee for a lesson of hope, for I tell thee, James, that assuredly
thou shalt be comforted."

We will endeavor to compress into a few words the more diffuse
narrative of the Recluse, confining ourselves to the substance.

It will be recollected that before Holden's constrained retirement
among the Indians, he had attached to him the squaw, Esther, by the
ties of both gratitude and respect. But it was only at a distance she
looked up to him whom she regarded as a sort of superior being. She
would not have ventured to speak to him of herself, for how could he
take an interest in so insignificant a creature? The nearer relations,
however, into which they were thrown, while he was an inmate of
her cabin, without diminishing her affection, abated her awe. The
teachings of Holden, and the strong interest he manifested for herself
and tribe so affected her, that one day she made to him a confession
of the events of her life. It is only necessary to recount those which
have a connection with this story. Some twenty years previous she had
accompanied her husband on a visit to a tribe in Kentucky, into which
some of her own relatives had been received. While there an expedition
had been undertaken by the Indians, which her husband joined, against
the white settlements, then inconsiderable, and exposed. After a few
days the warriors returned in triumph, bringing with them many
scalps, but no prisoner, except a little boy, saved by her husband,
Huttamoiden. He delivered the child to her, and having none herself,
she soon learned to love it as her own. Huttamoiden described to her
with that particularity which marks the description of natural objects
by an Indian, whose habits of life in the forest compel him to a close
observation, the situation of the log-hut from which the child was
taken, the hut itself before which leaped a mountain stream, the
appearance of the unfortunate woman who was murdered, and the
desperate resistance of the master of the cabin, who, at the time, was
supposed to have perished in the flames, but was afterwards known by
the name of Onontio--as the scourge and terror of the tribe which
had destroyed his family. She had shortly afterwards started with her
husband, taking with them the little boy, for the east, but they found
the innumerable questions and suspicions occasioned by the possession
of the white child so annoying, and dreaded so the inquiries and
investigation that would be made upon their return home, that they
determined to get rid of him upon the first opportunity. As their
route lay through New York, the streets of a populous city furnished
the very chance they desired. It was with great reluctance Esther
felt herself compelled to this course, and she was unwilling the child
should fall into unkind hands. While reflecting upon what was to be
done, she remembered a family which had come from that part of the
country whence she came, and whom she had known as worthy people,
and determined to entrust to them the boy. She dared not to do
this openly. So one night she placed the child on their door-step,
enjoining him not to stir until some one took him into the house,
while she herself watched close by, until she saw him taken in. Since
then, not daring to make inquiries, for fear of bringing on herself
some unknown punishment, she had not heard of the boy. She remembered
the name of the people with whom he was left, and also the street, and
the number, and gave them to Holden.

Upon this foundation it was the Recluse built up the hope that his son
was yet alive.

"I am Onontio," he said. "The Being who touched the heart of the
ferocious savage to spare the life of the child, hath preserved him.
Mine eyes shall yet behold him."

Armstrong was deeply touched, and in the contemplation of the
brightening prospects of his friend, he forgot the clouds that hung
around his own horizon. Perhaps he was not so sanguine of success
as Holden, whose eagle eyes seemed penetrating the future, but he
respected too deeply the high raised hopes and sacred feelings of the
father, to drop a word of doubt or discouragement.

"Myself, my purse," he said, "are at your service."

"Thomas Pownal goeth to the city to-morrow," replied Holden. "I will
speak unto him, and accompany him. Nor do I refuse thy assistance, but
freely as it is offered as freely do I accept it. They who are worthy
to be called my friends, regard gold and silver only as it ministers
to their own and others' wants."

He took the proffered bank-bills with quite as much an air of one
conferring, as one of receiving a favor, and, without even looking at
the amount, put them in his pocket.

It was so long since Holden had been in the great world, or mingled
in the ordinary pursuits of men--and his appearance and mode of speech
were so different from those of others--that Armstrong had some fears
respecting his researches. It was, perhaps, this latent apprehension
of his fitness to appear in the world--an apprehension, however,
only dimly cognizable by himself--that induced Holden to seek the
companionship of Pownal. With these feelings, and believing he might
be of advantage to this strange man, for whom this new development
awakened additional interest in his mind, Armstrong offered to be his
companion, in the search for his son; but, to his surprise, his offer
was hastily rejected.

"No," said Holden; "it befitteth not. Stay, to take care of Faith.
Stay, to welcome me when I shall return with a crown of rejoicing upon
my head."

Armstrong shrunk within himself at the repulse. He would not have
regarded or hardly noticed it once, but, his mind had become morbidly
sensitive. A word, a look, a tone had now power to inflict a wound.
He was like the Sybarite whose repose was disturbed by a wrinkled
rose-leaf; with this difference, that they were spiritual, not
material hurts he felt. Did the forecast of Holden penetrate the
future? Did he, as in a vision, behold the spectres of misfortune that
dogged Armstrong's steps? Was he afraid of a companionship that
might drag him down and entangle him in the meshes of a predestined
wretchedness? He is right, thought Armstrong. He sees the whirlpool
into which, if once drawn, there is no escape from destruction.

Holden succeeded better in communicating a portion of his confidence
to Pownal. In the morning of life, before experience has dimmed our
sky with clouds, we readily perceive the sun of joy. The bright eyes
of youth catch his rays on the mountain tops, before the drooping lids
of age are raised from the ground. The ardent temperament of the
young man entered with delight into the hopes of his elder. He even
anticipated the request Holden intended to make, and asked permission
to accompany him. With a very natural feeling he endeavored to effect
some change in the costume of the Recluse, but here he met with
decided opposition.

"I have nothing to do with the world or its follies," said Holden.
"Let it pass on its way as I will on mine. It will reck but little of
the garments of an unknown man."

It was more for the sake of his friend than himself that Pownal
proposed the change. Perceiving the feelings of the other, he forbore
to press a proposal further, which, after all, was of but little
consequence. A sloop was to sail the next day--the wind favoring--from
Hillsdale, and it was agreed between the two to take passage together.

We may judge of the feelings of Pownal at this time, from the fact
that the last evening he spent at Hillsdale, before he left for New
York, where, indeed, he expected to remain but a short time, found him
at the house of Judge Bernard. He was fortunate, whether beyond his
expectations or not we cannot say, in finding Miss Bernard alone. At
least it was a fortunate coincidence with his wishes, and might we
judge, from the raised color of the cheeks, and the smiles that played
round the lips of the beautiful girl, not displeasing to her. It is
wonderful, when we look back, how frequently these charming accidents
of youth occur.

It was unnecessary that Pownal should speak of his intended trip to
the commercial capital. He seemed to assume that Anne was already
acquainted with his purpose, but of Holden's discovery she had not
been informed.

"Beautiful!" cried Anne, clapping her hands. "We shall have a
_dénouément_ fit for a novel yet. Oh, I do hope he may find his son.
And," added she, with a warm quick feeling, "I can see now reason for
the strange habits of our poor dear prophet. Oh, to think of the long
years of lonesome misery he must have passed!"

"He seems to have no doubt," said Pownal, "of discovering his lost
son. I confess that when I heard him in his animated way tell his
story, with eyes raised in thankfulness to heaven, I was swept along
by his enthusiasm, and felt no more doubt than himself of his success;
but when I reflect more calmly on the circumstances the prospect is
not so brilliant."

"Do not doubt: the prospect _is_ brilliant: Jeremiah shall cease his
lamentations: our prophet shall be made happy. Ah, why anticipate
anything but good!"

"I accept the omen, dear Miss Bernard," said Pownal, looking with
admiration upon her beaming countenance, "Men arrive at conclusions,
how often false, by a fallible process of reasoning, while truth comes
to your more fortunate sex by a happy inspiration."

"And I accept the compliment, since you accept the inspiration. I hope
it is with more than the ordinary sincerity of those in the habit of
making compliments."

"I wish you could see into my heart."

"You would wish the window closed immediately. What do you suppose I
should see there?"

"Yourself."

"Then it is a looking-glass," said Anne, blushing. "A valuable piece
of furniture certainly, in which any lady may view her face!"

"No! a portrait more true to life than Stuart's, and which I prize
above everything."

"You must be mistaken in fancying it mine. Only old pictures are
prized. The moderns have no reputation."

"You will always jest. I assure you I am serious," said Pownal, who,
however, was obliged to smile.

"I see you are very serious. Oh, I hate seriousness ever since I was
frightened by the long face of Deacon Bigelow, when he discovered my
ignorance of the catechism. It was as long," she added, looking round
for something to compare it to, "as the tongs."

"Or as your lessons of a June day, when the sunshine and birds, and
flowers were inviting you to join them."

"Or as the time when I do not see Faith for twenty-four hours."

"Or as my absence will be to me in New York."

"I wonder how you," said Anne, "who are accustomed to the bustle and
excitement of a large city, can be contented with the quiet monotony
of a country town."

"I found something here not to be found in all country towns," said
Pownal. "Besides, the noise and confusion of a large place never were
agreeable to me, and when I return to them they lie like a weight upon
my spirits. Instead of a city I ought to have been born in a boundless
forest."

"You know I have said, I thought there was a wildness about you,"
replied Anne, laughing.

"Do you not consider the wild animal tamed?"

"Not entirely. It belongs to a species almost irreclaimable."

"He will never be tamed a second time."

"Then he must not be suffered to escape."

The words flew from the lips of the gay impulsive girl before she was
aware. The eloquent blood crimsoned her cheeks, and clapping both her
hands upon her face to conceal the blushes, she burst into a laugh as
musical as the song of the canary bird. Pownal's eyes sparkled with
delight, but before he could utter a word, she had sprung upon her
feet.

"It is too bad," she cried, "to compare you to a wild animal. Forgive
and forget my impertinence. I have been reading a novel," and as, she
said so she took a book from the table, "by an American author, which
interests me greatly. Have you seen it?"

Pownal took the book into his hands. It was one of Charles Brockden
Brown's.

"I read it some years ago," he said; "and I remember it made a great
impression upon me at the time. It appears to me to be written with
wonderful power of enchaining the attention. I could not lay it down
until it was finished."

"Exactly as I was affected," said Anne.

"Yet I wonder that one so lively and merry as Miss Bernard should
be pleased with such a book. The subjects of Brown's novels are all
gloomy. His imagination seems at home only in sombre scenes. His is
the fascination of horror."

"I wonder at it myself. But it shows the ability of the writer, in
being able to affect as thoughtless a person as I am."

"Not thoughtless. No one would say that of you but yourself. It is,
perhaps, because of your gaiety--on account of the contrast. The
sunshine loves to light up dark places."

"Very prettily expressed. Really, if you go on improving, we must
have you appointed valentine-manufacturer-general for the town of
Hillsdale."

"I suspect the valentines would all be addressed to one person."

"Then I shall oppose your appointment. But let that pass for the
present. You were telling me why I liked Brown's novels."