University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Fieteen years had flown on rapid wing since Alice became
an inmate of the old red house among the mountains.
As yet she had no suspicion that she was other
than the child of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly. Under
their guardianship, and the watchful supervision of Mrs.
Seymour, she had grown into a tall, beautiful girl of fifteen.
The childish predilection which she had early
shown for Frank, had now ripened into a stronger feeling,
and, although she would scarcely acknowledge it, even to
herself, there was not, in all the wide world, an individual
who possessed so much influence over the shrinking,
timid mountain girl, as did Frank, who was now verging
on to eighteen.

Some changes have taken place since we last looked
upon the boy and girl, but we will again introduce them
to our readers, at the respective ages of eighteen and fifteen.
It was a mild September afternoon. The long line
of mountain tops was enveloped by a blue, hazy mist,
while the dense green of the towering forest trees was
interspersed here and there by leaflets of a brighter hue,
betokening the gradual but sure approach of nature's sad
decay.

In the little vine-wreathed portico of Uncle Amos'
house, are seated our old friends, Frank and Alice. He
has changed much since we last saw him, and were it not
for the same roguish twinkle of his hazel eyes, we should
hardly recognize the mischievous school-boy, Frank, in
the tall, handsome youth before us. During the last year
he has been in college, but his vacations have all been

spent at home, and as his mother half reprovingly said,
“three-fourths of his time was devoted to Alice.”

The afternoon of which we are speaking had been spent
by them alone, for Aunt Polly was visiting in the village.
Frank was just wishing she would delay her coming until
nine o'clock, when she was seen hurrying toward the
house at an astonishingly rapid rate for her, for she was
rather asthmatic.

As soon as she had reached home, and found breath to
speak, she said, “Alice, did you know your—did you know
Squire Herndon's son Ira had come home from the Indies?”

“Yes, I heard so to-day,” said Alice quietly, “and I'm
glad, too, for 'twill cheer up his father, who is sick, and
seems very lonely and unhappy.”

“He ought to be lonely,” said Frank. “In my opinion
he is a hard old customer; and yet I always speak to
the old gentleman when I meet him, for he is very respectful
to me. But is n't it queer, mother will never let
me say a word against the old squire. I sometimes tease
her by saying that she evidently intends, sometime, to
become Mrs. Herndon. If she does, you and I, Alice,
will be Herndons too.”

Alice was about to reply, when Aunt Polly prevented
her by saying, “I can tell you, Mr. Seymour, that Alice
will be a Herndon before your mother is.”

Alice looked wonderingly at Aunt Polly, while Frank
said, “Which will she marry, the old squire, or the returned
Indian! Let me fix it. Alice marry the squire
—my mother marry his son, and then Alice will be my
grandmother?”

He was rattling on, when Aunt Polly stopped him, and
going up to Alice, she wound her arms about her, and in
trembling tones said, “Alice, my child, my darling, you

must forgive me for having deceived you so. You are
not my child!”

“Not your child!” said Alice, wildly.

“Not your child!” echoed Frank, starting up.
“Whose child is she, then? Speak; tell us quickly!”

“Her father is Ira Herndon, and her mother was my
half sister, Lucy,” answered Aunt Polly.

Heavily the yielding form of Alice sank into the arms
of Frank, who bore the fainting girl into the house, and
placed her upon the lounge. Then turning to Aunt Polly,
he said, “Is what you have told us true? and does Mr.
Herndon own his daughter?”

“It's all true as the gospel,” answered Mrs. Carey,
and Mr. Herndon is coming this night to see her.”

Frank pressed one kiss on Alice's white lips, and then
hurried away. Bitter thoughts were crowding upon him
and choking his utterance. Why was he so affected?
Was he sorry that Alice belonged to the proud race of
Herndons,—that wealth and family distinction were suddenly
placed before her? Yes, he was sorry, for now was
he fearful that his treasure would be snatched from him.
He understood the haughty pride of Squire Herndon,
and he feared that his son, too, might be like him, and
refuse his Alice to one so obscure as Frank fancied himself
to be.

On reaching home, he rushed into the little parlor in
which his mother was sitting, and throwing himself upon
the sofa, exclaimed passionately, “Mother, I do not wish
to return to college. It is of no use for me to try to be
anything, now.”

“Why, Frank,” said his mother, in much alarm, “what
has happened to disturb you?”

“Enough has happened,” answered Frank, “Alice is

rich,—an heiress; and, worse than all, she is old Squire
Herndon's grand-daughter!”

“Squire Herndon's grand-daughter!” repeated Mrs.
Seymour, “How can that be?”

“Why, she is Mr. Ira Herndon's daughter, and he has
come to claim her,” said Frank.

White as marble grew the cheek and forehead of Mrs.
Seymour, and her voice was thick and indistinct, as she
said, “Ira Herndon come home,—and Alice's father too?”

Frank darted to her side, exclaiming, “Why, mother,
what is the matter? You are as cold and white as Alice
was when they told her. Are you, too, Ira Herndon's
daughter?”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Seymour, “but I know Mr. Herndon
well. Do not ask me more now. Be satisfied when
I tell you that if he is the same man he used to be, you
need have no fears for Alice. Now leave me; I would
be alone.”

Frank obeyed, wondering much what had come over
his mother. Does the reader wonder, too? Have you
not suspected that Mrs. Seymour was the Mary Calvert,
who, years ago, gave her hand to one, while her heart
belonged to Ira Herndon? Her story is soon told. She
had respected her husband, and had struggled hard to
conquer her love for one whom it were a sin to think of
now. In a measure she succeeded, and when, four years
after her marriage, she stood by the open grave of her
husband, she was a sincere mourner, for now she was
alone in the world, her father having been dead some
time. He had died insolvent, and when her husband's
estate was settled, it was found that there was just
enough property left to support herself and son comfortably.

A few years after, she chanced to be traveling through

the western part of the state, and curiosity led her to
the village where she knew Squire Herndon resided.
She was pleased with the romantic situation of the place,
and learning that the neat, white cottage among the
mountains was for sale, she purchased it, and soon after
removed thither. This, then, was the history of the woman
whose frame shook with so much emotion at the mention
of Ira Herndon.