University of Virginia Library

THE LAST WAGER,
OR THE GAMESTER OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

1. CHAPTER I.

Our story will be found to illustrate one of the current commonplaces
of the day. Ever since my Lord Byron, in that poem
of excellently expressed commonplaces, Don Juan, declared that
“truth was stranger than fiction,” every newspaper witling rings
the changes upon the theme, until there is no relief to its dull-toned
dissonance. That truth should frequently be found to be
much stranger than any fiction, is neither so strange nor out of
the course of things; but is just in accordance, if we bestow any
thought upon the matter, with the deliberate convictions of every
reasoning mind. For, what is fiction, but the nice adaptation,
by an artist, of certain ordinary occurrences in life, to a natural
and probable conclusion? It is not the policy of a good artist to
deal much in the merely extravagant. His real success, and the
true secret of it, is to be found in the naturalness of his story, its
general seemliness, and the close resemblance of its events to
those which may or must take place in all instances of individuals
subjected to like influences with those who figure in his narrative.
The naturalness must be that of life as it is, or with life as it is
shown in such picturesque situations as are probable—seemingly
real—and such as harmonize equally with the laws of nature,
and such as the artist has chosen for his guide. Except in stories
of broad extravagance—ghost stories for example—in which

the one purpose of the romancer—that of exciting wonder—is declared
at the outset—except in such stories, or in others of the
broad grin—such as are common and extravagant enough among
the frontier raconteurs of the West, it were the very worst policy
in the world for a writer of fiction to deal much in the marvellous.
He would soon wear out the patience of the reader, who would
turn away, with a dissatisfaction almost amounting to disgust, from
any author who should be found too frequently to employ what is
merely possible in human progress. We require as close reasoning,
and deductions as logically drawn, in tale and novel, as
in a case at law or in equity; much more close, indeed, than is
often found to be the case in a Congressional harangue, and a far
more tenacious regard to the interest of the reader than is shown
in the report of a modern secretary. Probability, unstrained,
must be made apparent at every step; and if the merely possible
be used at all, it must be so used only, as, in looking like the
probable, it is made to lose all its ambiguous characteristics.
What we show must not only be the truth, but it must also seem
like the truth; for, as the skill of the artist can sometimes enable
him to make what is false appear true, so it is equally the case,
that a want of skill may transmute the most unquestionable truth
into something that nine persons in ten shall say, when they behold
it, “it looks monstrous like a lie!”

That we are not at liberty to use too freely what is merely possible
in the material brought before us, is a fact more particularly
known to painters, who have often felt the danger of any attempt
to paint the sky as it sometimes appears to them. They dread to
offend the suspicious incredulity of the cold and unobserving citizen.
They see, with equal amazement and delight—but without
daring to delineate—those intenser hues and exquisite gradations
of light and shadow, those elaborate and graceful shapes of cloud,
born of the rainbow—carnation, green and purple, which the sun
sometimes, in fantastic mood, and as if in equal mockery of human
faith and art, makes upon the lovely background of the sky
which he leaves at setting. The beautiful vision gone from sight,
who would believe the poor artist, whatever his accuracy and felicity
of touch and taste, who had endeavoured to transfer, before
it faded, the vanishing glory to his canvass? Who could suppose,

and how admit, that there had ever been such a panorama, of
such super-artistical splendour, displayed before his eyes, without
commanding his admiration and fixing his attention? The very
attempt to impose such an exhibition upon him as natural, would
be something of a sarcasm, and a commentary upon the dull eye
and drowsy mind which had failed to discern it for themselves.
Nay, though the artist grappled the dull citizen by the arm at the
very instant, and compelled his gaze upon the glorious vision ere it
melted into the thin gray haze of evening, would he not be apt to
say, “How strange! how very unnatural!” Certainly, it would
be a nature and a truth infinitely more strange than the most
audacious fiction that ever grew up at the touch of the most fantastic
votary of art.

2. CHAPTER II.

The sketch which I propose will scarcely justify this long digression;
and its character will be still less likely to correspond with
the somewhat poetic texture of the introduction. It is simply a
strange narrative of frontier life; one of those narratives in which
a fact will appear very doubtful, unless the artist shall exhibit
such sufficient skill in his elaborations, as to keep its rude points
from offending too greatly the suspicious judgment of the reader.
This is the task before me. The circumstances were picked up,
when, a lad of eighteen, I first wandered over the then dreary and
dangerous wastes of the Mississippi border. Noble, indeed, though
wild and savage, was the aspect of that green forest country, as
yet only slightly smitten by the sharp edges of the ranger's axe.
I travelled along the great Yazoo wilderness, in frequent proximity
with the Choctaw warriors. Most frequently I rode alone.
Sometimes, a wayfarer from the East, solitary with myself, turned
his horse's head, for a few days' space, on the same track with
mine; but, in most cases, my only companion was some sullen
Choctaw, or some still more sullen half-breed, who, emerging suddenly
from some little foot-path, would leave me half in doubt
whether his introduction would be made first with the tomahawk
or the tongue. Very few white men were then settled in the
country; still fewer were stationary. I rode forty and fifty miles
without sign of human habitation, and found my bed and supper
at night most generally in the cabin of the half-breed. But there
was one, and that a remarkable exception to this universal necessity;
and in this exception my story takes its rise. I had at
length reached the borders of the nation, and the turbid waters
of the Mississippi, at no great distance, flowed down towards the
Gulf. The appearances of the white settler, some doubtful
glimmerings of a more civilized region, were beginning to display
themselves. Evening was at hand. The sun was fast waning
along the mellow heights of heaven; and my heart was beginning

to sink with the natural sense of loneliness which such a
setting is apt to inspire in the bosom of the youthful wanderer.
It was also a question with me, where I should find my pillow for
the night. My host of the night before, a low, dark-looking white
squatter, either was, or professed to be, too ignorant to give me
any information on this head, which would render the matter one
of reasonable certainty. In this doubtful and somewhat desolate
state of mind, I began to prick my steed forward at a more rapid
pace, to cast my eyes up more frequently to the fading light
among the tree-tops, and, occasionally, to send a furtive glance on
either hand, not altogether assured that my road was as safe as it
was lonely. The question “where shall I find my bed to-night?”
was beginning to be one of serious uncertainty, when I
suddenly caught a glimpse of an opening on my right, a sort of
wagon-path, avenue like, and which reminded me of those dear,
dim passages in my own Carolina, which always promised the
traveller a hot supper and happy conclusion to his wanderings of
the day. Warmed with the notion, and without a farther doubt
or thought, I wheeled my sorrel into the passage, and pressed him
forward with a keener spur. A cheery blast of the horn ahead,
and the dull heavy stroke of an axe immediately after, were so
many urgent entreaties to proceed; and now the bellow of a cow,
and next the smoke above the cottage roof-trees, assured me that
my apprehensions were at an end. In a few seconds I stood before
one of the snuggest little habitations which ever kindled
hope and satisfied hunger.

This was one of those small log-cabins which are common to
the country. Beyond its snug, trim and tidy appearance, there
was nothing about it to distinguish it from its class. The clearing
was small, just sufficient, perhaps, for a full supply of corn
and provisions. But the area in front of the dwelling was cleanly
swept, and the trees were trimmed, and those which had been
left were evergreens, and so like favourite domestics, with such
an air of grace, and good-nature, and venerableness about them,
that one's heart warmed to see them, as at sight of one of “the
old familiar faces.” The aspect of the dwelling within consisted
happily with that without. Every thing was so neat, and snug,
and comfortable.

The windows were sashed and glassed, and hung with the
whitest curtains of cotton, with fringes fully a foot deep. The
floors were neatly sanded, the hearth was freshly brightened with
the red ochrous clay of the country, and chairs and tables,
though made of the plainest stuffs, and by a very rude mechanic,
were yet so clean, neat and well-arranged, that the eye involuntarily
surveyed them again and again with a very pleased sensation.
Nor was this all in the shape of unwonted comforts. Some
other matters were considered in this cottage, which are scarcely
even dreamed of in the great majority. In one corner of the
hall stood a hat-stand; in another there were pins for cloaks;
above the fire-place hung a formidable rifle, suspended upon
tenter-hooks made of three monstrous antlers, probably those of
gigantic bucks which had fallen beneath the weapon which they
were now made to sustain. Directly under this instrument, and
the only object beside which had been honoured with a place so
conspicuous, was a pack of ordinary playing cards—not hung or
suspended against the wall, but nailed to it;—driven through and
through with a tenpenny nail, and so fastened to the solid log, the
black head of the nail showing with particular prominence in
contrast with the red spot of the ace of hearts, through which it
had been driven. Of this hereafter. On this pack of cards
hangs my story. It is enough, in this place, to add, that it was
only after supper was fairly over, that my eyes were drawn to
this very unusual sort of chimney decoration.

At the door of the cottage sat a very venerable old man, between
seventy and eighty. His hair was all white, but still thick,
betraying the strength of his constitution and the excellence of
his health. His skin was florid, glowing through his white beard,
which might have been three days old, and his face bore the burden
of very few wrinkles. He had a lively, clear blue eye, and
good-humour played about his mouth in every movement of his
lips. He was evidently one of those fortunate men, whose winters,
if frosty, had always proved kindly. A strong man in his
youth, he was now but little bent with years; and when he stood
up, I was quite ashamed to find he was rather more erect than
myself, and quite as tall. This was the patriarch of the family,
which consisted of three members besides himself. The first of

these was his only son, a man thirty-eight or forty years of age,
of whom it will be quite explicit enough to say, that the old man,
in his youth, must very nearly have resembled him. Then, there
was the wife of the son, and her son, a lad now ten years old, a
smart-looking lad enough, but in no wise resembling his male
parent. Instead of the lively, twinkling blue eye of his father, he
had the dark, deep, oriental sad ones of the mother; and his
cheeks were rather pale than rosy, rather thin than full; and his
hair was long, black and silky, in all respects the counterpart of
his mother's. A brief description of this lady may assist us in
our effort to awaken the interest of the reader.

Conducted into the house by the son, and warmly welcomed by
the old man as well as himself, I was about to advance with the
bold dashing self-possession of a young cavalier, confident in his
course, and accustomed to win “golden opinions of all sorts of
people.” But my bold carriage and sanguine temper were suddenly
checked, not chilled, by the appearance of the lady in front
of whom I suddenly stood. She sat beside the fireplace, and was
so very different a looking person from any I had expected to see
in such a region, that the usual audacity of my temperament was
all at once abashed. In place of the good, cheerful, buxom, plain
country housewife whom I looked to see, mending Jacky's breeches,
or knitting the good-man's hose, I found myself confronted by
a dame whose aristocratic, high-bred, highly composed, easy and
placid demeanour, utterly confounded me. Her person was
small, her complexion darkly oriental, her eye flashing with all
the spiritual fires of that region; habitually bright and searching,
even while the expression of her features would have made her
seem utterly emotionless. Never did features, indeed, appear so
thoroughly inflexible. Her beauty,—for she was all beauty,—was
not, however, the result of any regularity of feature. Beauties of her
order, brunette and piquant, are most usually wanting in preciseness,
and mutual dependance and sympathy of outline. They
are beautiful in spite of irregularity, and in consequence of the
paramount exquisiteness of some particular feature. The charm
of the face before me grew out of the piercing, deep-set, and singularly
black eye, and the wonderful vitality about the lips. Never
was mouth so small, or so admirably delineated. There was

witchcraft enough in the web of it to make my own lips water.
But I speak like the boy I was then, and am no longer.

Let me not be understood to mean that there was any levity,
any lightness of character betrayed in the expression of those lips.
Very far otherwise. While soft, sweet, beautiful, and full of
life, they were the most sacred and sad-looking forms,—drooping
blossoms of beauty, mourning, as it would seem, because beauty
does not imply immortality; and this expression led me to observe
more closely the character of the eye, the glance of which,
at first, had only seemed to denote the brilliance of the diamond,
shining through an atmosphere of jet. I now discerned that its
intense blaze was not its only character. It was marked with the
weight of tears, that, freezing as they had birth, maintained their
place in defiance of the light to which they were constantly exposed.
It was the brightness of the ice palace, in the Northern
Saga, which, in reflecting the bright glances of Balder, the God
of Day, still gives defiance to the fervour of his beams.

But a truce to these frigid comparisons, which suit any age
but ours. Enough to say that the lady was of a rare and singular
beauty, with a character of face and feature not common
to our country, and with a deportment seldom found in the homely
cabin of the woodman or the squatter. The deep and unequivocal
sadness which marked her looks, intense as it was, did not
affect or impair the heightened aristocratic dignity of her subdued
and perfectly assured manner. To this manner did she seem to
have been born; and, being habitual, it is easy to understand that
she could not be divested of it, except in a very small degree, by
the pressure of any form of affliction. You could see that there
had been affliction, but its effect was simply to confirm that elevated
social tone, familiar to all mental superiority, which seems,
however it may feel, to regard the confession of its griefs as perhaps
something too merely human to be altogether becoming in a
confessedly superior caste. Whether the stream was only frozen
over, or most effectually crystallized, it does not suit our purpose
to inquire. It is, at all events, beyond my present ability to determine
the doubt.

She was introduced to me, by the husband, as Mrs. Rayner. I
afterwards discovered that her Christian name was Rachel; a

circumstance that tended to strengthen the impression in my mind
that she might be of Jewish parents. That she was a Christian
herself, I had reason to believe, from her joining freely and devoutly,
and on bended knee, in the devotions of the night. She
spoke seldom, yet looked intelligence throughout the conversation,
which was carried on freely between the old man, the husband,
and myself. When she spoke, her words and accents were
marked by the most singular propriety. There was nothing in
her utterance to lessen the conviction that she was familiar with
the most select circles of city life; and I could see that the husband
listened to her with a marked deference, and, though himself,
evidently, a rough honest backwoodsman, I detected him, in
one or two instances, checking the rude phrase upon his lips, and
substituting for it some other, more natural to the ear of civilization
and society. There was a touching something in the meekness
and quiet deportment of the boy who sat by his mother's
knee in silence, her fingers turning in his hair, while he diligently
pored over some little trophy of juvenile literature, looking
up timidly at moments, and smiling sadly, when he met the deep
earnest gaze of the mother's eyes, as she seemed to forget all
around in the glance at the one object. I need not say that there
was something in this family picture so entirely out of the common
run of my woodland experience in the Southwest, at that
early day, that I felt my curiosity equally excited with my pleasure.
I felt assured that there was something of a story to be
learned, which would amply recompense the listener. The old
patriarch was himself a study—the husband a very noble specimen
of the sturdy, frank, elastic frontier-man—a race too often
confounded with the miserable runagates by whom the first explorations
of the country are begun, but who seldom make the
real axe-marks of the wilderness. You could see at a glance
that he was just the man whom a friend could rely upon and a
foe most fear—frank, ardent, firm, resolute in endurance, patient,
perhaps, and slow to anger, as are all noble-minded persons who
have a just confidence in their own strength; but unyielding
when the field is to be fought, and as cheerful in the moment
of danger as he was good-humoured in that of peace. Every
thing in his look, language and bearing, answered to this description;
and I sat down at the supper table beside him that night, as
familiar and as much at my ease as if we had jumped together
from the first moment of existence.

I pass over much of the conversation preceding, and at the
evening repast; for, though interesting enough at the time, particularly
to me, it would only delay us still longer in the approach
to our story. It was after the table had been withdrawn, when
the family were all snugly huddled about the fireplace, and the
dialogue, which had been rather brisk before, had begun to flag,
that I casually looked up over the chimney-place, and discovered,
for the first time, the singular ornament of which I have already
spoken. Doubtful of what I saw, I rose to my feet, and
grasped the object with my fingers. I fancied that some eccentric
forest genius, choosing for his subject one of the great agents
of popular pastime in the West, might have succeeded in a delineation
sufficiently felicitous, as, at a short distance, to baffle
any vision. But, palpable, the real—I had almost said, the living—things
were there, unlike the dagger of Macbeth, as “sensible
to feeling as to sight.” A complete pack of cards, none of
the cleanest, driven through with a tenpenny nail, the ace of
hearts, as before said, being the top card, and very fairly covering
the retinue of its own and the three rival houses. The corners
of the cards were curled, and the ends smoked to partial
blackness. They had evidently been in that situation for several
years. I turned inquiringly to my hosts—

“You have a very singular ornament for your mantleplace,
Mr. Rayner;” was my natural remark, the expression of curiosity
in my face being coupled with an apologetic sort of smile.
But it met with no answering smiles from any of the family.
On the contrary, every face was grave to sadness, and in a moment
more Mrs. Rayner rose and left the room. As soon as she
was gone, her husband remarked as follows:

“Why, yes, sir, it is uncommon; but there's a reason why
it's there, which I'll explain to you after we've gone through prayers.”

By this time the wife had returned, bringing with her the family
Bible, which she now laid upon a stand beside the venerable
elder. He, good old man, with an action that seemed to be perfectly

habitual, drew forth the spectacles from the sacred pages,
where they seemed to have been left from the previous evening,
and commenced reading the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, beginning,
“Hear me, your father, O children! and do thereafter, that
ye may be safe.” Then, this being read, we all sunk devoutly
upon our knees, and the patriarch put up as sweet and fervent a
prayer as I should ever wish to listen to. The conceited whipster
of the school might have found his pronunciation vulgar, and
his sentences sometimes deficient in grammatical nicety; but the
thought was there, and the heart, and the ears of perfect wisdom
might well be satisfied with the good sense and the true morality
of all that was spoken. We rose refreshed, and, after a lapse of
a very few moments which were passed in silence, the wife, leading
the little boy by the hand, with a kind nod and courtesy took
her leave, and retired to her chamber. Sweetness and dignity were
most happily blended in her parting movements; but I fancied,
as I caught the glance of her eye, that there had been a freshening
and overflowing there of the deep and still gathering fountains.
Her departure was followed by that of the old man, and
the husband and myself were left alone. It was not long after
this, before he, himself, without waiting for any suggestion of mine,
brought up the subject of the cards, which had been so conspicuously
elevated into a mantel ornament.

3. CHAPTER III.

“Stranger,” said he, “there is a sort of history in those cards
which I am always happy to tell to any young man that's a beginner
in the world like yourself. I consider them as a sort of
Bible, for, when I look at them and remember all that I know
concerning them, I feel as if I was listening to some prime sermon,
or may be, hearing just such a chapter as the old man read
to us out of the good book to-night. It's quite a long history, and
I'll put on a fresh handful of lightwood before I begin.”

The interruption was brief, and soon overcome, and the narrative
of the husband ran as follows:

“It is now,” said he, “going on to twelve years since the circumstances
took place which belong to the story of those cards,
and I will have to carry you back to that time before you can
have a right knowledge of what I want to tell. I was then pretty
much such a looking person as you now see me, for I haven't
undergone much change. I was a little sprightlier, perhaps—
always famous for light-headedness and laughing—fond of fun
and frolic, but never doing any thing out of mischief and bad humour.
The old man, my father, too, was pretty much the same.
We lived here where you find us now, but not quite so snugly
off—not so well settled—rather poor, I may say, though still with
a plentiful supply to live on and keep warm and feel lively.
There was only us two, and we had but two workers, a man and
woman, and they had two children, who could do nothing for us
and precious little for themselves. But we were snug, and
worked steadily, and were comfortable. We didn't make much
money, but we always spent less than we made. We didn't have
very nice food, but we had no physic to take, and no doctor's bills
to pay. We had a great deal to make us happy, and still more
to be thankful for; and I trust in God we were thankful for all
of his blessings. I think we were, for he gave us other blessings;
and for these, stranger, we are trying to be thankful also.

“Well, as I was saying, about twelve years ago, one hot day
in August, I rode out a little piece towards the river bluff to see
if any goods had been left for us at the landing. We had heard
the steamboat gun the night before, or something like it, and that,
you know, is the signal to tell us when to look after our plunder.
When I got there I found a lot of things, some for us, and some
for other people. There was a bag of coffee, a keg of sugar,
three sacks of salt, and a box of odds and ends for us. But the
chaps on board the steamboat—which was gone—had thrown
down the stuff any where, and some of the salt was half melted
in a puddle of water. I turned in, and hauled it out of the water,
and piled it up in a dry place. What was wet belonged
chiefly to our neighbours, and the whole of it might have been
lost if I had not got there in season. This kept me a good hour,
and as I had no help, and some of the sacks were large and heavy,
I was pretty nigh tired out when the work was done. So I
took a rest of half an hour more in the shade. The heat was
powerful, and I had pretty nigh been caught by sleep—I don't
know but I did sleep, for in midsummer one's not always sure of
himself in a drowsy moment—when I was suddenly roused up
by a noise most like the halloo of a person in distress. I took the
saddle on the spur, and went off in the quarter that the sound
came from. It so happened that my route homeward lay the
same way, and on the river road, the only public road in the settlement;
and I had only gone two hundred yards or thereabout,
when, in turning an elbow of the path, I came plump upon a
stranger, who happened to be the person whom I heard calling.
He was most certainly in distress. His horse was flat upon his
side, groaning powerfully, and the man was on his knees, rubbing
the creature's legs with a pretty hard hand. A little way behind
him lay a dead rattlesnake, one of the largest I ever did see,
counting twenty-one rattles besides the button; and the sight of
the snake told me the whole story. I jumped down to see what
I could do in the way of help, but I soon discovered that the nag
had the spasms, and was swelled up to her loins. I however cut
into her leg with my knife, just where she was bitten, and when
I had dug out the poisoned flesh, as much as I thought was reasonable,
I got on my horse and rode back to the salt bags at full

speed, and brought away a double handful of the salt. I rubbed
it into the animal's wound, I really believe, a few minutes after
she had groaned her last and stiffened out, but I wasn't rubbing
very long. She was about the soonest killed of any creature
that I ever saw snakebit before.

“It was only after I was done with the mare, that I got a fair
look at her owner. He was a small and rather oldish man, with
a great stoop of the shoulders, with a thin face, glossy black
hair, and eyes black too, but shining as bright, I reckon, as those
of the rattlesnake he had killed. They had a most strange and
troublesome brightness, that made me look at them whether
I would or not. His face was very pale, and the wrinkles were
deep, like so many seams, and, as I have said, he was what I
would call a rather oldish man; but still he was very nicely
dressed, and wore a span-new velvet vest, a real English broad-cloth
coat, gold watch with gold seals; and every now and then
he pulled out a snuff-box made like a horn, with a curl at the
end of it, which was also set with a gold rim, and had a cap
of the same precious stuff upon it. He was taking snuff every
moment while I was doctoring his mare, and when the creature
went dead, he offered it to me; but I had always thought it work
enough to feed my mouth, and had no notion of making another
mouth of my nose, so I refused him civilly.

“He didn't seem to be much worried by the death of his
creature, and when I told him how sorry I was on his account,
he answered quickly,

“ `Oh! no matter; you have a good horse; you will let me
have him; you look like a good fellow.'

“I was a little surprised, you may reckon. I looked at the old
man, and then at my creature. He was a good creature; and
as prime an animal as ever stepped in traces; good at any thing,
plough, wagon, or saddle; as easy-going as a girl of sixteen, and
not half so skittish. I had no notion of giving him up to a stranger,
you may be sure, and didn't half like the cool, easy, impudent
manner with which the old man spoke to me. I had no
fears—I didn't think of his taking my nag from me by force—
but, of a sudden, I almost begun to think he might be a wizard,
as we read in Scripture, and hear of from the old people, or

mou't be, the old devil himself, and then I didn't well know what
I had to expect. But he soon made the matter clear to me. Perhaps
he saw that I was a little beflustered.

“ `Young man,' says he, `your horse is a fine one. Will you
sell him? I am willing to pay you a fair price—give you his
full value.'

“There was something to consider in that. When did you ever
find a Western man unwilling for a horse-barter? Besides, though
the creature was a really first-rate nag, he was one more than I
wanted. One for the plough, and one for the saddle—as the old
man didn't ride often—was enough for us; and we had three.
But Rainbow—that was his name—was so sleek an animal! He
could a'most do any thing that you'd tell him. I didn't want to
sell him, but I didn't want to keep a mouth too many. You know
a horse that you don't want begins by gnawing through your
pockets, and ends by eating off his own head. That's the say,
at least. But I raised Rainbow, fed him with my own hands,
curried him night and morning myself, and looked upon him as a
sort of younger brother. I hated powerful bad to part with him;
but then there was no reason to keep him when he was of no use.
'Twas a satisfaction, to be sure, to have such a creature; and
'twas a pleasure to cross him, and streak it away, at a brushing
canter, of a bright morning, for a good five miles at a stretch;
but poor people can't afford such pleasures and satisfactions; and
when I thought of the new wagon that we wanted, and such a
smart chance of other things about the farm, I looked at the old
man and thought better of his offer. I said to him, though a little
slowly,

“ `It's a famous fine horse this, stranger.'

“ `I know it,' said he; `I never saw one that better pleased my
eyes. I'll pay you a famous fine price for him.'

“ `What'll you give?' said I.

“ `Pshaw!' said he, `speak out like a man. I'm no baby,
and you are old enough to know better. What's your price?'

“ `He's low,' said I, `at one hundred and seventy dollars.'

“ `He is,' said he, `he's worth more—will you take that?'

“ `Yes.'

“ `You shall have it,' he answered, `and I'll throw the dead
horse into the bargain; she was a famous fine animal too, in
her day, and her skin's worth stuffing as a keepsake. You can
stuff it and put it up in your stables, as an example to your other
horses.'

4. CHAPTER IV.

“All the time he was talking, he was counting out the money,
which was almost all in gold. I was a little dub'ous that it
wasn't good money; but I smelt it, and it had no smell of brass,
and I was a leetle ashamed to let on that I didn't know good
money from bad; besides, there was a something about the old
gentleman so much like a gentleman, so easy, and so commanding,
that I couldn't find the heart to doubt or to dispute any thing
he said. And then, every thing about him looked like a gentleman:
his clothes, his hat, the watch he wore, the very dead
horse and her coverings, saddle, bridle, and so forth, all convinced
me that there was nothing of make-believe.

“ `There,' said he, `my good fellow,' putting the money in my
hand, `I reckon you never handled so much gold in your life before.'

“ `No,' said I, `to tell you the truth, though I've hearn a good
deal of gold, and know it when I see it by what I've hearn, I
never set eyes on a single piece till now.'

“ `May it do your eyes good now, then,' said he; `you look
like a good fellow. Your horse is sound?'

“ `Yes,' said I, `I can answer better for him than I can for
your gold.'

“ `That's good.'

“ `Well!' said I, `I'm not sure that I've dealt fairly with you,
stranger. I've asked you a little more than I've been asking other
people. My price on Rainbow has been only one hundred and
fifty dollars, before.'

“ `And your conscience troubles you. You are an honest fellow,'
said he, `but never mind, my lad, I'll show you a way to
relieve it.'

“With these words he pulled out a buckskin roll from his
pocket, and out of this he tumbled a pack of cards; the very
cards which you see nailed above my fireplace.

“ `We'll play for that twenty dollars,' said he, throwing down
two gold pieces on the body of the dead mare, and beginning to
shuffle the cards immediately. Somehow, I did as he did. I put
down two ten dollar pieces along with his. I couldn't help myself.
He seemed to command me. I felt scared—I felt that I
was doing wrong; but he seemed to take every thing so much
as a matter of course, that I hadn't the courage to say `no' to
any thing he did or said.

“ `What do you play?' said he, and he named some twenty
games of cards, some in French, I believe, and some in Spanish,
but no one of which did I know any thing about. He seemed
beflustered.

“ `Do you play any thing at all?' he asked.

“ `Yes—a little of old sledge—that's all.'

“ `Oh! that will do. A common game enough. I wonder I
should have omitted it. Here! you may shuffle them, and we'll
cut for deal.'

“I didn't shuffle, but cut at once. He cut after me, and the
deal fell to him. He took up and then put the cards down again
—put his hand into his pocket, and drew out a little silver box,
about the size of a small snuff-box,—that had in it a good many
little pills of a dark gray gummy look. One of these he swallowed,
then began to deal, his eye growing brighter every moment,
and looking into mine till I felt quite dazzled and strange.
Our table was the belly of the dead horse. He sat on one of the
thighs. I knelt down upon the grass on the opposite side, and
though it pained me, I couldn't take my eyes from him to save
my life. He asked me a great many questions while he was
throwing out the cards—how old I was—what was my name—
what family I had—how far I lived—where I came from—every
thing, indeed, about me, and my way of life, and what I had and
what I knew:—and all this in no time—as fast as I tell it to you.
Then he said, `You are an honest fellow, take up your cards,
and let us see if you are as lucky as you are honest.' It seemed
as if I was, for I beat him. I played a pretty stiff game of old
sledge, or as he called it, `all fours,' for I used to play, as long
as I could remember, with the old man, my father, every night.
Old people like these plays, and it's good for them to play. It

keeps 'em lively, keeps them from sleeping too much, and from
drinking. It's good for them, so long as it makes their own fireside
sweet to them. Well! I was lucky. I won the game, and
it worried me mightily when I did so. I didn't touch the money.

“ `I suppose,' said the stranger, `that I must cover those
pieces,' and before I could guess what he was about, he flung
down four other gold pieces, making forty dollars, in the pile
with mine, and began again shuffling the cards. If I was scared
and unhappy before, I was twice as much so now. I could
scarcely breathe, and why, I can't say exactly. It wasn't from
any anxiety about the winning or the losing, for I preferred not
to have the stranger's money: but it was his very indifference
and unconcern that worried and distressed me. It seemed so
unnatural, that I half the time thought that I was dealing with
nothing human: and though I could shuffle, and cut, and play,
yet it seemed to me as if I did it without altogether knowing
why, or how. As luck would have it, I won the second time;
and the third time he pulled out his purse and put down as many
more pieces as lay there. I looked at the growing heap with a
heart that seemed ready to burst. There was eighty dollars before
me, and I felt my face grow red when I caught his eye looking
steadily at mine. I began to feel sort o' desperate, and flung
about the cards like a person in liquor. The old man laughed,
a low chuckle like, that made my blood crawl in my veins, half
frozen, as it were. But, neither his skill and coolness, nor my
fright, altered the luck at all. I again won, and trembled all over,
to see the pile, and to see him take out his purse, and empty every
thing upon it.

“ `Stranger,' said I, `don't think of it; keep your money, and
let me go home.'

“ `Pshaw! said he, `you're a good fellow, and as lucky as you
are good. Why shouldn't you be my heir? I prefer that a good
fellow should win my money if any body. It'll do your sight
good.'

“ `But not my heart, I'm afraid,' was my answer.

“ `That's precisely as you use it,' said he; `money's a good
creature, like every other good creature that God gives us. It's
a good thing to be rich, for a rich man's always able to do good,

when a poor man can only wish to do it. Get money, my lad,
and be wise with it; wiser, I trust, than I have been.'

“With these words, he took out his silver box, swallowed another
of the pills, and was busy dealing out the cards in another
moment. I, somehow, was better pleased with him for what he
said. The mention of God convinced me that he wasn't the
devil, and what he said seemed very sensible. But I didn't feel
any more right and happy than before. I only wanted the
strength to refuse him. I couldn't refuse him. I took up the
cards as he threw them, and it did seem to me that I scarcely
saw to make out the spots when I played them. I hardly knew
how the game was played; I didn't count; I couldn't tell what
I made. I only heard him say at the close of the second hand,

“ `The money's yours. You are a lucky fellow.'

“With these words he pushed the gold heap to me, and threw
me the empty purse.

“ `There's something to put it in.'

“ `No!' said I; `no, stranger—I can't take this money.'

“ `Why, pray?'

“ `It's not right. It don't seem to me to be got honestly. I
haven't worked for it.'

“ `Worked, indeed! If nobody used money but those who
worked for it, many a precious fellow would gnaw his finger ends
for a dinner. Put up your money!'

“I pushed it to him, all but the two eagles which I begun
with; but he pushed it back. I got up without touching it.
`Stay,' said he, `you are a good fellow! Sit down again; sit
down.' I sat down. `I can't take that money,' said he, `for it
is yours. According to my way of thinking, it is yours—it is
none of mine. There is only one way in which it may become
mine; only one way in which I could take it or make use of it,
and that is by winning it back. That may be done. I will put
the horse against the gold.'

5. CHAPTER V.

My heart beat quicker than ever when he pointed to Rainbow.
Not that I expected or wished to win him back, for I would only
have taken him back by giving up all the money, or all except
the hundred and fifty dollars; but it now seemed to me as
if I looked on the old man with such feelings as would have made
me consent to almost any thing he wished. I had a strange sort
of pity for him. I considered him a sort of kind-hearted, rich old
madman. I said, `Very well;' and he took another pill out of
his box, and begun again at the cards.

“ `You are a very fortunate fellow,' said he, `and seem a very
good one. I really see no reason why you should not be my heir.
You say you are not married.'

“ `No.'

“ `But you have your sweetheart, I suppose. A lad of twenty-five,
which I suppose is much about your age, is seldom without
one.'

“ `It's not the case with me,' said I. `In these parts we have
mighty few folks and fewer women, and I don't know the girl
among them that's ever seemed to me exactly the one that I should
be willing to make my wife.'

“ `Why, you're not conceited, I hope? You don't think yourself
too fine a fellow for a poor girl, do you?'

“ `No, by no means, stranger; but there's a sort of liking
that one must have before he can think of a wife, and I haven't
seen the woman yet to touch me in the right way.'

“ `You are hard to please, and properly. Marriage is easier
found than lost. A man is too noble an animal to be kept in a
mouse-trap. But there are women—'

“He stopped short. I waited for him to say something more,
but by this time the cards had been distributed, and he was sorting
his hand.

“ `There are women!' he said again, though as if he was

talking to himself. There he stopt for a minute, then looking
up, and fixing his bright eyes upon mine, he continued:

“ `Come, Rayner,' said he, good-humouredly. `The cards are
in your hands, and remember to play your best, for that famous
fine horse may become your own again. I warn you, I have a
good hand. What do you do?'

“ `Good or not,' said I, something more boldly, `I will stand
on mine.'

“I had a most excellent hand, being sure of high and low,
with a strong leading hand for game.

“ `Play then!' he answered; and at the word, I clapped down
the ace of hearts, the very ace you see atop of the pack over the
chimney now.

“ `You are a lucky fellow, Rayner,' said he, as he flung down
the Jack upon it, the only heart he held in his hand. The game
ended; I was owner of horse and money. But I jumped to my
feet instantly.

“ `Stranger,' said I, `don't think I'm going to rob you of your
horse or money. I don't exactly know why I played with you
so long, unless it be because you insisted upon it, and I did'nt
wish to disoblige an old gentleman like yourself. Take your
money, and give me my horse; or, if you want the horse, leave
me the hundred and fifty, which is a fair price for him, and put
the rest in your own pocket. I wont't touch a copper more of it.'

“ `You are a good fellow, Rayner, but, with some persons,
younger and rasher persons than myself, your words would be
answered with a bullet. Nay, were I the boy I have been, it would
be dangerous for you to speak, even to me, in such a manner.
Among gentlemen, the obligation to pay up what is lost by cards
is sacred. The loser must deliver, and the winner must receive.
There is your money, and that is your horse again; but I am
not yet done with you. As I said before, you are a good fellow,
and most certainly a lucky one. I like you, though your principles
are scarcely fixed yet—not certain! Still, I like you;
and there's some chance that you will be my heir yet. A few
more trials at the cards must determine that. I suppose you are
not unwilling to give me a chance to win back my losses?'

“I caught at the suggestion.

“ `Surely not,' I replied.

“ `Very good,' says he. `Don't suppose that, because you've
emptied my purse, you've cleaned me out quite. I have a diamond
ring and a diamond breastpin yet to stake. They are
worth something more than your horse and your heap of money.
We will place them against your eagles and horse.'

“ `No!' said I quickly. `I'm willing to put down all the
eagles, but not the horse; or I'll put down the horse and all the
money, except the hundred and fifty.'

“ `As you please,' said he, `but, my good fellow, you must
take my word for the ring and breastpin. I do not carry them
with me. I know it's rather awkward to talk of playing a
promised stake against one that we see, but I give you the honour
of a gentleman that the diamonds shall be forthcoming if I
lose.'

“I began to think that what he said was only a sort of comeoff—but
I didn't want his money, and was quite willing that he
should win it back. If he had said, `I'll stake my toothpick
against the money,' I'd have been just as willing, for all that I
now aimed at was to secure my horse or the price of him. I
felt very miserable at the thought of winning the man's money
—such a heap of it! I had never played cards for money in all
my life before, and there's something in the feeling of winning
money, for the first time, that's almost like thieving. As I tell
you, if he had said his toothpick, or any worthless thing, instead
of his diamonds, I'd have been willing. I didn't say so, however,
and I thought his offer to stake diamonds that he couldn't show,
was pretty much like a come-off. But I was willing enough, for
the money seemed to scald my eyes to look upon. He took out
a pencil, the case of which I saw was gold also, and wrote on a
slip of paper, `Good for two brilliants, one a ring, the other a
breastpin, the latter in form of a Maltese cross, both set in gold,
with an inner rim of silver, valued at seven hundred dollars.'
This was signed with two letters only, the initials of his name.
I have the paper now. He bade me read it, and when I did so,
I thought him madder than a March hare; but if I thought so
then, I was more than ever convinced of it, when, a moment
after, and when we were about to play, he spoke to this effect:

“ `There's one thing, Rayner. There's a little incumbrance
on these jewels.'

“ `Well, sir,' I said.

“I didn't care a fig for the incumbrance, for I didn't believe a
word of the jewels.

“ `If you win them, you win a woman along with them. You
win a wife.'

“I laughed outright.

“ `Don't laugh,' said he; `you don't see me laugh. I'm serious;
never more so. You are unmarried. You need a wife.
Don't you want one?'

“ `Yes! if I could get a good one—one to my liking.'

“ `You are a good fellow. You deserve a good wife, Rayner;
and such is the very one I propose to give you.'

“ `Ay, ay,' said I; `but will she be to my liking?'

“ `I hope so; I believe so. She has all the qualities which
should command the liking of a sensible and worthy young man.
She, too, is sensible; she is intelligent; she has knowledge; she
has read books; she has accomplishments; she sings like an angel;
plays on several instruments—piano and guitar!'

“ `Piano and guitar!' said I.

“I didn't know what they were. I felt sure that the old fellow
was mad, just out of a hospital, perhaps; but then where did he
get the money and the gold things? I began to think more suspiciously
of him than ever.

“ `Yes, piano and guitar,' said he; `she draws and paints too,
the loveliest pictures—she can make these trees live on canvass;
ah! can she not? Money has not been spared, Rayner, to make
Rachel what she is.'

“ `Rachel—is that her name?' I asked.

“ `Yes, it is.'

“ `What's the other name?'

“ `You shall know, if you win the diamonds.'

“ `Yes—but how old is she? how does she look? is she young
and handsome? I wouldn't want an ugly wife because she happened
to be wise. I've heard that your wise women are generally
too ugly for any thing else than wisdom.'

“ `You are a fool, Rayner, though a good fellow. But Rachel

is beautiful and young—not more than seventeen—the proper age
for you. You, I think you say, are twenty-eight. In this climate
a man's wife should always be ten or twelve years younger
than himself—provided he be a sober and healthy man, and if he be
not, he has no business with a wife, nor a wife with him. You
are both sober and healthy. You are a good fellow—I see that. I
like you, Rayner, and for this reason I am willing to risk Rachel on
the cards, playing against you. My loss will probably be her gain,
and this makes me rather regardless how it ends. You shall be
my heir yet.'

“ `Thank you, old gentleman,' said I, beginning to feel a little
bold and saucy, for I now couldn't help thinking that the stranger
was no better than a good-natured madman who had got away
from his friends. `Thank you,' said I. `If Rachel's the girl you
make her out to be, you can't bring her along a day too soon.
But, may I ask, is she your daughter?'

“ `My daughter!' he answered sharply, and with something of
a frown on his face, `do I look like a man to have children?—to
be favoured with such a blessing as a daughter?—a daughter like
Rachel?'

“ `Now,' said I to myself, `his fit's coming on,' and I began to
look about me for a start.

“ `No, Rayner,' he continued, `she is no daughter of mine,
but she is the daughter of a good man and of honourable parents.
You shall have sufficient proof of that. Have you any more
questions?'

“ `No, sir.'

“ `And you will take Rachel as your wife? You have heard
my description of her. If she comes up to it, I ask you, will you
be willing to take her as your wife?'

“I looked at him queerly enough, I reckon. He fixed his
keen black eyes upon me, so that I couldn't look on him without
shutting my own. I didn't know whether to laugh or to run.
But, thinking that he was flighty in the upper story, I concluded
it was best to make a short business of it, and to agree with any
thing that he wished; so I told him freely `yes,' and he reached
out his hand to mine, which he squeezed nervously for a minute,
and then took out his box of pills, swallowed a couple of them,

and began dealing out the cards. I had the strangest luck—the
same sort of luck that had kept with me from the start. I won
the diamonds and won Rachel!

“ `Well,' said he, `I'm glad, Rayner, that you are the man-I've
been long looking for an heir to my diamonds. They are
yours—all is yours; and I shall have to be indebted to you for
the loan of the horse, in order to go and bring you your wife.'

“ `Ay,' said I, `stranger, the horse is at your service, and half
of the money too. I never thought to take them from you at the
first; I shouldn't have felt easy in my conscience to have used
the money that I got in this way.'

“ `Pshaw!' said he, gathering up the cards, and wrapping
them in the buckskin wallet from which he had taken them.
`Pshaw, you are a fool. I'll borrow your horse, and a few pieces
to pay my way.'

“ `Help yourself to the rest,' said I, taking, as I spoke, fifteen
of the eagles to myself, and leaving the rest on the dead body of
the horse, where they had been growing from our first commencing
to play.

“ `You are my heir,' he answered, `and behave yourself as
you should. Between persons so related there should be no paltry
money scruples;' and, while he said these words, he stooped
to take the money. I turned away that he shouldn't suppose I
watched him, but I couldn't help laughing at the strange sort of
cunning which he showed in his conceit. Says I to myself, `You
will take precious good care, old fellow, I see that, that I carry
off no more than my own poor hundred and fifty.' But he was
too quick in mounting and riding off to give me much time to
think about it or to change in my disposition. It was only after
he was off, out of sight, and in a full gallop, that, looking round
upon the dead horse, I saw the eagles still there, nearly all of them,
just as I had heaped them up. He had only taken two of them,
just enough, as he said, to bear his necessary expenses.

“I was a little surprised, and was now more sure than ever
that the stranger had lost his wits. I gathered up the money, and
walked home, mighty slowly, thinking all the way of what had
taken place. It seemed more like a strange dream than any thing
else. Was there any man? Had I played old sledge with a

stranger? I was almost inclined to doubt; but there was the
dead horse. I went back to look at it, and when I thrust my
hand down into my breeches pocket, I brought it up full of the
precious metal; but was it precious metal? I began to tremble
at this thought. It might be nothing better than brass or copper,
and my horse was gone—gone off at a smart canter. My heart
grew chilled within me at this reflection. I felt wild—scared
half out of my wits, and instead of regarding the old man as a
witless person escaped from his keepers, I now began to consider
him a cunning sharper, who had found one more witless than I
had fancied him.

6. CHAPTER VI.

But such reflections, even if well founded, came too late for
remedy. The old man was gone beyond present reach, and
when I reflected that he had taken two of the gold pieces for his
own expenses, I began to feel a little reassured on the subject of
their value. When I got home, I told my father of the sale of
the horse, and the price, though I took precious good care to say
nothing of the gambling. The old man, though he himself had
taught me to play cards, was mighty strict against all play for
money. I showed him only the fifteen pieces that I got for Rainbow,
and the rest I put away quietly, meaning to spend them by
degrees upon the farm, as chances offered, so as to prevent him
from ever getting at the real truth. I felt myself pretty safe with
regard to the strange gentleman. I never counted on his coming
back to blow me, though, sometimes, when I wasn't thinking, an
odd sort of fear would come over me, and I would feel myself
trembling with the notion that, after all, he might return. I had
heard of rich people having strange ways of throwing away their
money, and taking a liking for poor people like myself; and then,
there was a serious earnest about the strange gentleman, in spite
of all his curiousnesses, that made me a little apprehensive, whenever
the recollection of him came into my head.

“But regular work, day after day, is the best physic for mind
and body; and, after three days had gone by, I almost ceased to
bother myself with the affair. I passed the time so actively that
I didn't think much about any thing. I took a trip down the
river, some eighteen miles, to a wheelwright's, and bought a prime
two-horse wagon, for ninety-five dollars, which made a considerable
hole in the price of Rainbow; and, one thing with another,
the week went by almost without giving me time to count if the
right number of days was in it. Sunday followed, and then
Monday. That Monday I was precious busy. I was always an
industrious man—doing something or other—making this, or

mending that. To be doing nothing was always the hardest work
for me. But that Monday I out-worked myself, and I was really
glad when I saw the sun sink suddenly down behind the woods.
I threw down the broad-axe, for I had been hewing out some
door-facings for a new corn-crib and fodder-house, and went
towards the gallery (piazza) where the old man was sitting, and
threw myself, at full-length, along the entrance, just at his feet.
I was mighty tired. My jacket was off, my sleeves rolled up,
my neck open, and the perspiration standing thick on my breast
and forehead. At that very moment, while I was lying in this
condition, who should I see ride into the opening, but the strange
old gentleman. I knew him at a glance, and my heart jumped
up into my mouth as if it was trying to get out of it. Behind
him came another person riding upon a pretty little bay filly.
Though it was darkening fast, I could make out that this other
person was a woman, and I never felt so scared in all my life. I
looked up at my father, and he at me. He saw that I was frightened,
but he hadn't time to ask me a question, and I shouldn't
have had the strength to answer if he had. Up rode the strange
old gentleman, and close behind him came the lady. Though I
was mightily frightened, I looked curiously at her. I could make
out that she was a small and delicate-framed person, but her face
was covered with a thick veil. I could see that she carried
herself well, sat her horse upright like a sort of queen, and when
the old man offered to take her off, yielded herself to him with a
slow but graceful stateliness, not unlike that of a young cedar
bending to the wind.

“For my part, though I could see this, I was never more confounded
in my life. I was completely horror-struck. To see the
old gentleman again was a shocking surprise; but that he should
really bring the lady that I had won, and that she should catch
me in that condition,—my coat off, my breast open, my face
covered with dust and perspiration! If the work made me sweat
before, this surprise increased it. I got up, and made out to get
a few steps towards the strangers. I said something by way of
apology for being caught in that shabby fix; but the old gentleman
stopped me.

“ `Never mind, no apologies, Mr. Rayner. The proofs of

labour are always honourable, and if the heart can show that it
works as well as the body, then the labourer is a gentleman.
How are you, and—this is your father?'

“I introduced him to the old man as the person who had bought
Rainbow, and we conducted them into the house.

“ `My ward, Mr. Rayner,' said the stranger, when we had
entered, `this is the young friend of whom I spoke to you.'

“At these words the young lady threw up her veil. I staggered
back at the sight. I won't talk of her beauty, my friend,
for two reasons; one of which is, that I haven't got words to
say what I thought and felt—what I think and feel now. The
other—but I needn't speak of the other reason. This one is
sufficient. The old gentleman looked at me inquiringly, and
then he looked at my father. I could see that there was a little
doubt and anxiety upon his face, but they soon passed away as he
examined the face of my father. There was something so good,
so meek, so benevolent about the looks of the old man, that
nobody could mistrust that all was right in the bottom of his heart.
As for my heart, the strange gentleman seemed to see into it quite
as quickly as into that of my father. He was not so blunt and
abrupt now in his manner of speaking to me as he had been when
we first met. His manner was more dignified and reserved.
There was something very lofty and noble about it, and in speaking
to the lady his voice sunk almost into a whisper.

“ `Mr. Rayner,' said he, looking to my father, `I trust that
you will give my ward a chamber for the night. I have heard
of you, sir, and have made bold to presume on your known benevolence
of character in making this application.'

“ `Our home is a poor one, stranger,' said the old man; `but
such as it is, it is quite at the service of the young lady.'

“ `Good!' said the other; `you are the man after my own
heart. I am known,' he continued, `where men speak of me at
all, as Mr. Eckhardt. My ward is the daughter of a very near
and dear friend. Her name is Herder—Rachel Herder. So
much is necessary for convenience in conversation; and now, sir,
if you can tell Rachel where she is to find her chamber, so that
she may arrange her dress, and get rid of the dust of travel, she
will be very much obliged to you.'

“All this was soon arranged and attended to, and while the
lady disappeared in our best chamber, Mr. Eckhardt proceeded
to disburthen the horses, on both of which were saddle-bags that
were stuffed almost to bursting. These were brought into the
house, and sent to the chamber after the lady. Then the stranger
sat down with my father, the two old men chatting quite
briskly together, while I stripped the horses of their saddles, and
took them to the stable. When I returned to the house I found
them as free-spoken and good-humoured as if they had been intimate
from the first day of clearing in that country.

7. CHAPTER VII.

“You may suppose what my confusion must have been, for I
can't describe it to you. I can only say that I felt pretty much
like a drunken man. Every thing swum around me. I was
certain of nothing; didn't know what to believe, and half the
time really doubted whether I was asleep or awake. But there
were the horses—there was Rainbow. I couldn't mistake him,
and if I had, he didn't mistake me. When he heard my voice as
I led him to the stable, he whinnied with a sort of joy, and pricked
up his ears, and showed his feeling as plainly as if he had a
human voice to speak it in words. And I reckon, too, it was a
more true feeling than many of those that are spoken in words.
I threw my arms round the good creature's neck, and if it hadn't
been for thinking of Rachel Herder, I reckon I should have kissed
him, too, it did me so much good to see him again. But I hadn't
much time for this sort of fondness, and when I remembered the
whole affair between the strange old gentleman, Mr. Eckhardt,
and myself, I was too much worried to think any more of Rainbow.
I couldn't bring myself to believe it true about the diamonds and
the wife; and when I remembered the sight that I had caught,
though a glimpse only, and for a single moment, of the great
beauty of the young lady, I couldn't help thinking that the stranger
was only making merry with me—running his rigs upon a
poor, rough, backwoodsman. But this notion roused up my pride
and feeling. `Not so rough,' says I to myself; `poor it may be,
but not mean; not more rough than honest labour makes a man.
And poor as you please, and rough as you please, when the
heart's right, and the head's no fool's head, the man's man
enough for any woman, though she walks in satin!' With this I
considered that I ought, at least, to make myself rather decent
before I sat down to supper. My cheeks burned me when I
looked at myself and remembered how she had caught me. I
knew that good soft spring water, and my best suit, would turn

me into quite another sort of looking man; but here again was
difficulty. It was my chamber which my father had given up to
the young lady, and all my clothes were in it. My new coat
and blue pantaloons hung upon pegs behind the door; and all my
shirts were in an old chest of drawers on which the looking-glass
stood; and to get these things without her seeing was impossible.
But it had to be done; so I called up the old negro woman servant
we had, and told her what to do, and sent her for the clothes,
while I waited for them at the back of the house. When she
brought them, I hurried down to the branch (brooklet) and made
a rapid and plentiful use of the waters. I then got in among the
bushes, and made a thorough change in my dress, taking care to
hide the old clothes in the hollow of a gum. I combed my hair
smoothly over the branch, which answered me at the same time
for a looking-glass, and had the effect of making me much more
satisfied with my personal appearance. I needn't blush, my
friend, at my time of life, to say that I thought myself then, and
was, a tolerable comely fellow; and I couldn't help feeling a
sneaking secret notion that the young lady would think so too.
Well, I got in time enough for supper. Mr. Eckhardt looked at
me, as I thought, with real satisfaction. He and my father had
been keeping company all the time I was gone, and I could see,
among other things, that they were mightily pleased with one another.
By and by, supper was brought in, and Rachel Herder
came out of her chamber. If I thought her beautiful before, I
thought her now ten times more so. Once I caught her eyes fixed
upon me, but she turned them away without any flurry or
confusion, and I don't think that I saw her look at me in particular
once again that night. This worried me, I confess. It seemed
to show that she wasn't thinking of me; and, moreover, it
seemed to show that Mr. Eckhardt hadn't said a word to her
about the business; and this made me more ready to believe that
he had only been running his rigs upon me. Yet there was
something about his looks and in his words, whenever he spoke to
me—something so real, serious, earnest, that I couldn't help believing,
after all, that the affair wasn't altogether over. Nor was
it, as you will see directly.

“Supper went forward. You know what a country supper is,

out here in Mississippi, so it don't need to tell you that cornbread,
and a little eggs and bacon, and a smart bowl of milk, was pretty
much the amount of it. The young lady ate precious little;
took a little milk, I believe, and a corn biscuit. As for me,
I'm very sure I ate still less. My heart was too much in my
mouth to suffer me to put in any thing more; for, whichever
way I thought of the matter, I was worried half to death. If
the old gentleman was serious, it was still a mighty terrifying
thing to have a wife so suddenly forced upon a body,—a wife
that you never saw before and didn't know any thing about; and
if he wasn't serious, it was very hard to lose so lovely a creature,
just too after your heart had been tantalized and tempted by
the promise that she was all for yourself. As I tell you, my
friend, whichever way I could think of it, I was still worried
half to death.

“After supper, Mr. Eckhardt asked me to walk out with him;
so, leaving the young lady with my father,—who, by the way, had
already grown mightily pleased with her,—off we went into the
woods. We hadn't gone very far when the old gentleman spoke,
pretty abruptly:

“ `Well, Rayner, my lad, you've seen the lady whom I intend
as your wife. Does she suit you?'

“ `Why, sir, you're rather quick. I can answer for her beauty:
she's about the beautifullest creature I ever did see, but it's
not beauty altogether that makes a good wife, and I ha'n't had
time yet to judge whether she'll suit me.'

“ `How much time do you want?' said he shortly.

“ `Well, I can't say.'

“ `Will a week or ten days answer?'

“ `That's as it happens,' said I. `Some men you can understand
in an hour, just as if you had been with 'em all your life.
I'm pretty much such a person myself,—but with some you can't
get on so rapidly. You'll be with them a year, and know just
as little of their hearts at the end of it, as you did at the beginning.'

“ `Humph! and whose fault will that be but your own? There's
an eye to see, Rayner, as well as a thing to be seen. It depends
very much upon the seeker whether he shall ever find. But
enough. There's no need in this case for much philosophy.

You are easily read, and so is Rachel. A week will answer to
make you both acquainted, and I'll leave her with you for that
time.'

“ `But are you serious?' I asked.

“ `Serious! But your question is natural. I am a man of
few words, Rayner. You see something in my proceedings which
is extraordinary. As the world goes, and acts, and thinks, perhaps
it is; but nothing was ever more deliberate or well advised,
on my part, than this proceeding. Hear me, lad! this lady is a
ward of mine; the daughter of a very dear friend, who gave her
to my trust. I swore to do by her as a father. I am anxious to
do so; but I am an old man, not long for this world,—an erring
man, not always sure of doing right while I am in it. I wish to
find the child a protector,—a good man,—a kind man,—a man
whom I can trust. This has been my desire for some time. I
fancy I have found in you the very person I seek. I am a man
to look keenly, judge quickly, and act in the same manner. As
you yourself have remarked, you are a person easily understood.
I understood you in a little time, and was pleased with what I saw
of you. I have chosen you out as the husband of Rachel. She
knows nothing yet of my purpose. You, I see, have kept your
father in partial ignorance of our adventure. Perhaps you were
right in this case, though, as a general rule, such secrecy between
two persons placed as you are would have been an error. Well,
Rachel shall stay with you a week. I know her so well that I
fancy you will in that time become intimate and remain pleased
with each other—sufficiently pleased to make the rest easy.'

“There was some more talk between us, as we went toward the
house, but this was the substantial part of what was said. Once
I made some remark on the strangeness of such a preference
shown to me, when in the great cities he might have found so
many young men better suited by education for a young lady
whom he represented to be so accomplished; but he had his answer
for this also; and so quickly uttered, and with such a commanding
manner, that, even if I had not been satisfied, I should
still have been silenced.

“ `Your remark is natural. Half the world, having such a
child to dispose of, would have gone to the great city, and have

preferred a fashionable husband. But I know her heart. It is
her heart, and not her accomplishments, that I wish to provide for.
I want a man, not a dandy,—a frank, noble-hearted citizen, however
plain, not a selfish, sophisticated calculator, who looks for a
wife through the stock market. Enough, my good fellow; no
more words.'

8. CHAPTER VIII.

“That very night Mr. Eckhardt contrived, after the young
lady had gone to bed, to let my father know that he would be
pleased if his ward could be suffered to remain in his family for a
few days, until he should cross the river, in order to look after a
man on the west of the Misssisippi, who owed him money. He
was unwilling to carry her with him into so very wild a region.
He made every thing appear so natural to the old man, that he
consented out of hand, just as if it had been the most reasonable
arrangement in the world; and it was only after Mr. Eckhardt
had set out,—which he did by daylight the next morning,—that
my father said to me:

“ `It's very strange, William, now I come to think of it, that
Mr. Eckhardt should leave the young lady in a family where
there's none but men.'

“ `But she's just as safe here, father,' said I, `as if she had fifty
of her own sex about her.'

“ `That's true enough, William,' said the old man, `and if the
child feels herself at home, why there's nothing amiss. I'm
thinking she's about the sweetest-looking creature I ever laid
eyes on.'

“I thought so too, but I said nothing, and followed the old man
into the house, with my feelings getting more and more strange
and worrisome at every moment. I was in the greatest whirl of
expectation—my cheeks a-burning,—my heart as cold as ice, and
leaping up and down, just as scarily as a rabbit's when he's finding
his way through the paling into a garden patch. I felt as if
the business now upon my hands was about the most serious and
trying I had ever undertaken; and it took all my thinking, I tell
you, to bring my courage to the right pitch, so as to steady my
eyes while I spoke to the young lady as she came out to the
breakfast-table. My father had a message to her from Mr. Eckhardt,
telling her of his absence; and though she looked a little

anxious when she heard that he was already gone, she soon seemed
to become quiet and at ease in her situation. Indeed, for that
matter, she was the most resigned and easy person I ever met in
my life. She seemed quite too gentle ever to complain, and I
may say now, with some certainty, that, whatever might be her
hurts of mind or body, she was the most patient to submit, and
the most easy to be pacified, of all human beings.

“Now, if you know any thing of a man of my description, if
you're any thing of a judge of human nature, you'll readily understand
that, if I was scary and bashful at first, in meeting with
a young and beautiful creature like her, and knowing what I did
know of what was before me, it didn't take very long for the fright
to wear off. The man whose feelings are very quick, gets mightily
confused at first, but give him time, don't hurry him, and he'll
come to his senses pretty soon, and they'll come to him, and they'll
be the sharper and the more steady, from the scare they had at first
—you can't scare them in the same manner a second time. Before
that day was well out, I could sit down and talk with Rachel,
and hear her talk, without growing blind, dumb, and deaf in an
instant. Her mildness gave me encouragement, and when I got
used to the sound of my own voice, just after hers, I then found
out, not only that I had a good deal to say, but that she listened
very patiently, and I think was pleased to hear it. I found her
so mild, so kind, and encouraging, she seemed to take so much
interest in every thing she saw, that I was for showing her every
thing. Our cows, the little dairy, the new wagon, even to
the fields of corn, cotton, and potatoes, were all subjects of examination
one after the other. Then, I could carry her along the
hill slopes, through as pretty a grove, too, as you would wish to
lay eyes on; and down along just such another, even to the river
banks; and we had odd things enough to show, here and there, to
keep up the spirits and have something to talk about. These
rambles we'd take either in the cool of the morning, or towards
sunset in the afternoon; and, sometimes the old man would go
along with us—but, as he couldn't go very far at one time, we
had pretty much the whole chance to ourselves; and what with
talking and walking with Rachel, and thinking about her when I
wasn't with her, I did precious little work that week. To shorten

a long story, my friend, I now began to think that there was
nothing wrong in my gambling with Mr. Eckhardt, and to agree
in his notion that the loser was always bound to pay, and the winner
to receive. Before he got back, which he did not until
ten days were fully over, I had pretty much concluded that I
should find it the most trying business in nature to have to give up
my winnings. I don't mean the diamonds; for them I had not
seen, and hadn't cared to see; but I mean the incumbrance that
came with them, which, by this time, was more than all the gold
or diamonds, in my sight, that the whole world could show.

9. CHAPTER IX.

“I was now as anxious to see Mr. Eckhardt as I had before
been afraid of his coming. He overstayed his time a little, being
nearer two weeks gone than one. He was a keen-sighted man.
His first words, when we were again alone together, were, `Well,
all's right on your part, Rayner. You are a good fellow—I see
that you will be my heir. You find that what I said of Rachel
is true; and nothing now remains but to see what she will say.
Have you been much together?'

“ `Pretty often. I reckon I've done little else than look after
her since you've been gone.'

“ `What! you hav'n't neglected your business, Rayner?'
said he, with a smile—`the cows, the horses?'

“ `They've had a sort of liberty,' says I.

“ `Bad signs for farming, however good for loving. You must
change your habits when you are married.'

“ `Ah! that's not yet,' said I, with a sigh. `I'm dub'ous, Mr.
Eckhardt, that Miss Rachel won't fancy me so soon as I do her!'

“He looked a little anxious, and didn't answer so quickly as
usual, and my heart felt as heavy then as if it was borne down
by a thousand pounds of lead. It wasn't much lightened when
he answered, with a sort of doubting,—

“ `Rachel,' said he, `has always heeded my counsel. She
knows my love for her—she has every confidence in my judgment.
You, Rayner, have some of those advantages which
young women are apt to admire. You are well made, youthful,
manly, and with a masculine grace and beauty which you owe
to the hunter life. These are qualities to recommend the young
of one sex to the young of the other. You have something more.
You are a sensible youth, with a native delicacy of feeling which,
more than any thing beside, will be apt to strike Rachel. It
struck me. I will not presume to say that you have won either
her eye or her heart—the eye of a woman is easy won at all

times, the heart slowly. Perhaps it may be safe to say that hearts
are not often won till after marriage. But, at all events, with
your personal claims, which I think considerable, and the docility
of Rachel, I have hopes that I can bring about an arrangement
which, I confess to you, I regard as greatly important to my
future purposes. We shall see.'

“At that moment I was quite too full of Rachel and my own
hopes, to consider the force of the remark which he last made.
I never troubled myself to ask what his purposes might be, beyond
the single one which we both had in view. When Mr.
Eckhardt met with Rachel, and, indeed, while he spoke with me,
I could observe that there was a gravity, like sadness, in his voice
and manner, which was not usual with him, or at least had not
shown itself in our previous meetings. He hesitated more frequently
in what he had to say. His eye was less settled, though
even brighter than before; and I noted the fact that he took his
pills three times as frequently as ever. Even when he spoke
with a show of jesting or playfulness, I noted that there was a
real sadness in what he looked, and even something of sadness
in what he said, or in his manner of saying it. Nothing but this
seriousness of look and manner kept me from thinking that he
was playing upon my backwoods ignorance, when he was speaking
my own good name and good qualities to my teeth. But
when I doubted and began to suspicion that he was running rigs
upon me, I had only to look into his face and see that he was
talking in the way of downright, matter-of-fact business.

“When he came, Rachel went to him and put her hand in his,
but she didn't speak. Nor did he at first. He only bent down
and kissed her forehead; and so he stood a while, holding her
hand in his, and talking to my father. It was a sight to see them
two. I couldn't stand it. There was something in it, I can't
tell you what, that looked so sadful. I went out and wiped the
water from my eyes. It seemed to me then, as if the old gentleman
was meditating something very distressing, and as if poor
Rachel was half dub'ous of it herself. After a little while, my
father came out and joined me, and we walked off together to the
stable.

“ `William,' says the old man, `these are strange people.

They seem very sweet, good people; at least the girl seems very
good, and is a very sweet girl; but there's something very
strange and very sorrowful about them.'

“I couldn't say any thing, for my heart was very full, and
the old man went forward.

“ `Now, what's more strange than for him to leave her here
with us? though, to be sure, we wouldn't see her harmed even
to the falling of a hair of her head—and I can answer for you,
Bill, as I can for myself; but it's not every body that will say
for us what we might feel for ourselves, and precious few fathers
would leave an only daughter here, in strange woods, with such
perfect strangers.'

“ `But she's not his daughter,' said I.

“ `It don't matter. It's very clear that he loves her as if she
was his daughter, and I reckon she's never known any other
father. Poor girl!—I'm sure I like her already so much that I
wish he'd leave her here altogether.'

“These last words of my father seemed to untie my tongue,
and I up and told him every syllable of what had taken place
between me and Mr. Eckhardt, from my first meeting with him
the day when I went to the river landing, up to the very moment
when we were talking. I didn't hide any thing, but told the
whole story of the cards, the gold, and the diamonds; and ended
by letting him know that if he should be so sorry to lose Rachel,
now that we both knew so much about her, it would go a mighty
deal harder with me. I told him all that Mr. Eckhardt had said
since his return, and what hopes I had that all would go as he
wished it. But the old man shook his head. He didn't like what
he heard about Mr. Eckhardt's gambling, and was very tight
upon me for letting myself be tempted to deal with him in the
same business. He didn't think the worse of Rachel, of course,
but he looked upon it as a sort of misfortune to be in any way
connected with a gambler.

“We hadn't much longer time for confabulating, for Mr.
Eckhardt now came from the house and joined us. He was a
man who always came jump to the business, whatever it was,
that he had in hand. But he wasn't a rough man, though a quick
one. He had a way of doing the bluntest things without roughing

the feelings. When he drew nigh, he took my father's arm
to lead him aside, speaking to me at the same time—`Rayner, go
to Rachel;—I have prepared her to see you. I will explain
every thing to your father, if you have not already done it; and
if you have, I still have something to say.'

“You may reckon I didn't stop to count the tracks after that.
I verily think that I made the door of the house in a hop-skip-and-jump
from the stable. Yet, when I got to the threshold, I stuck
—I stuck fast. I heard a low sweet sort of moaning from within,
and oh! how my heart smote me when I heard it. I thought to
myself, it's so cruel to force this poor girl's inclination. What
can she see in me? That was my question to myself, and it
made me mighty humble, I tell you, when I asked it. But that
very humbleness did me good, and gave me sort of strength. `If
she don't see any thing in me to favour,' was my thought, `at
least I'll show her that I'm not the mean-spirited creature to take
advantage of her necessity;' and when I thought in this manner, I
went forward with a bound, and stood before her. I took her
hand in mine, and said,—but Lord bless me, it's no use to try
and tell you what I said, for I don't know myself. The words
poured from me free enough. My heart was very full. I meant
to speak kindly and humbly, and do the thing generously, and I
reckon that, when the heart means what is right, and has a
straight purpose before it, the tongue can't go very far out of the
way. Nor did mine, if I am to judge of the effects which followed
it. It's enough for me to tell you, that, though the tears
wasn't altogether dried up in Rachel's eyes, her lips began to
smile; she let her hand rest in mine, and she said something, but
what it was, I can't tell you. It's enough to say that she let me
know that she thought that all that had been proposed by Mr.
Eckhardt was for her good and happiness, and she was willing to
consent to whatever he had said. He came in a little while after,
and seemed quite satisfied. He talked, as if he himself was
particularly pleased, but there was a very great earnestness in
his looks that awed and overpowered me. His eyes seemed very
much sunk, even in the short time he had been gone, the wrinkles
seemed to have doubled in number on his face; his form trembled
very much, and I could perceive that he took his pills from the little

box of silver twice as often as ever. He didn't give himself
or me much time to think over what was to happen, for he hadn't
been ten minutes returned to the house, after the matter was understood
all round, before he said to me in a whisper:

“ `Rayner, my lad, you are a good fellow; suppose you ride
off at once for your parson. You have one, your father tells me,
within a few miles. A smart gallop will bring him back with
you before sunset, and I would see you married to-night. I shall
have to leave you in the morning.'

“Ah! stranger, don't wonder if I made the dust fly after that!
That night we were married.

10. CHAPTER X.

“The next morning, just as breakfast was over, Mr. Eckhardt
rose and buttoned his coat.

“ `Rachel, my child,' said he, `I shall now leave you. It will
be perhaps some time before I see you again. For that matter, I
may never see you again. But I have fulfilled my promise to
your dear father. You are the wife of a good man—a gentle
and kind-hearted man. He will make you a good husband, I believe
and hope. You, I know, will make him a good wife. The
seeds of goodness and happiness are here in this cottage—may
they grow to fruits. Kiss me, my child! Kiss me! It may be
for the last time!'

“ `No!' said she; `oh, no!' and she caught and she clung to
him. It was a time to bring tears, stranger, not to talk. There
was a good many words said by all of us, but not much talking.
It was a cry and an exclamation like, with poor Rachel, and
then she sunk off in the arms of Mr. Eckhardt. I was monstrous
frightened; but he carried her into the room and laid her on the
bed. `She will soon get over it,' said he, `and in the mean time
I'll steal away. When she recovers follow me. You will find
me—' He told me where to find him—at the place where
we had played together on the dead horse—but the sentence he
finished in a whisper. Then he stooped and kissed her, gave her
one long look, and his lips moved as if he was speaking a blessing
over her. After this he turned from me hurriedly, as if to
conceal the tear in his eye. But I saw it. It couldn't be concealed.
It was about the largest tear I ever did see in the eye of
a man, but I reckon there was only that one. He was gone before
Rachel come to herself. Till that happened I was about the
most miserable creature on earth. When she opened her eyes
and found that he was already gone, her troubles somewhat softened;
and when I found that, I set off to follow Mr. Eckhardt,
as he had directed me. I found him at the place appointed, but

he had no horse and no cloak, and didn't appear to have made
any of the usual arrangements for travelling. I expressed my
surprise. `Where's your horse?' I demanded.—`I shall need
none. Besides, I have none. You seem to forget, Rayner, that
the horse is yours.'—`Mine!'—`Yes! you won him!'—`But
you can't mean, sir—' I was beginning to expostulate,
when he put his hand on my mouth. `Say no more, Rayner.
You are a good fellow. The horse is yours, whether you
have him by your skill or my generosity. Did I not tell you that
I intended to make you my heir?'

“I looked bewildered, and felt so, and said, `Well, you don't
intend to leave us then?'—`Yes I do.'—`How do you mean to
go—by water?' Remember, the river was pretty near us, and
though I didn't myself expect any steamboat, yet I thought it
likely he might have heard of one. `Very possible,' he answered,
with something of a smile upon his countenance. He
continued, after a short pause, `It is difficult to say by what conveyance
a man goes when he goes out of the world, Rayner.
The journey I propose to take is no other. Life is an uncertain
business, Rayner. Uncertain as it is, most people seem never to
have enough of it. I am of a different thinking. I have had
only too much. I am neither well in it, nor fit for it, and I shall
leave it. I have made all my arrangements, settled my concerns,
and, as I promised, you shall be my heir.' I began to speak and
expostulate with him, but he stopped me. `Rayner, you are a
good fellow, but you shouldn't interrupt me. As I have but little
time for talking, you should let me enjoy it all. You can
say what you have to say when I am gone, and I promise you I
shall never interrupt you then. You have heard me, you understand
my words.'

“ `I think I do,' was my answer; `you mean to take your
own life!'

“ `True, Rayner! but you speak as if it was yours I were
about to take!'

“I told him I felt almost as bad as if it was, and asked him
why he should think of such a deed.

“ `It's a long story, Rayner, and you would probably understand
it as thoroughly in ten words as in ten thousand. Perhaps

I should say enough in telling you that I am sick of life, and
that life sickens me. Every moment that I live humbles and degrades
me. I have been the master of three princely fortunes;
and now I have only the means to carry me on my last journey.
I have had the reputation of talents, wit, and wisdom in high
degree, but lack the strength to forbear the companionship of the
basest, and the wit to keep from being the victim of the vilest.
Had I been the only victim, Rayner! But that poor child, now
your wife—the child of a dear relative and friend—entrusted to
my guardianship in the confidence of love, which, at dying, demanded
of me no pledge, but that which it fancied was speaking
through my eyes—that child has been the victim also! Start
not! The child is pure as any angel. It was the robbery of
her fortune of which I speak. I squandered hers with my own.
I did not bring her to beggary, Rayner. No! But I have lived
in perpetual dread that I should do so! Now that she is yours,
I have no such fears. I know that she is safe—that she will do
well—that you will both do well. Do not fancy, my good fellow,
when I tell you this, that I have been seeking in vain for a husband
for the child. The thing is otherwise. Husbands have
sought for her. Men of rank and substance, for whose attentions
the mothers of most daughters would have worked their wits and
fingers to the bone. But if I squandered Rachel's fortune—mark
me—I was resolved that she should not be sacrificed. I resolved
that I would do her justice, at least in that one respect—that she
should never be yielded, if I could help it, to the shallow witling,
the profligate, or the brute—let their social rank and worldly
possessions be what they might. I knew her, and fancied I
could tell what sort of person would suit her. I have found
that person in you—so I believe—and my work is ended. The
labourer knocks off when his work is done, and so will I. There
is one thing, Rayner—'

“He took from his pocket the buckskin roll which contained
his pack of cards.

“ `Do you see these? I will not say that they have been my
bane. I were a fool to say so. My own weakness was my
bane. They were only the unconscious instruments in my
hands, as innocent as the dirk or pistol in the hands of the assassin.

But they have their dangers, Rayner; and I would
protect you against them. Take them; I promised you should
be my heir. Take them, but not to play them. Keep them in
your eyes as an omen. Show them to your children as a warning.
Tell them what I have told you; and while you familiarize their
eyes with their forms, familiarize their hearts with their dangers.
There! do not lose sight of them. Leave me now. Farewell!
You see I am at the bottom of my box.'

“He thrust the cards into my hands, and as he spoke, he drew
out his little silver box, and took from it the only pill which remained.
This he swallowed, and then handed me the box also.
I refused to take it. `Pshaw!' said he, `why not? your refusal
to take it can have no effect on my determination! Take it and
leave me!' But I still refused. He turned from me, saying:
`You're a foolish fellow, Rayner;' and walked down the road
leading to the river. I followed him closely. He turned half
round, once or twice, muttered and seemed discontented. I still
kept close with him, and began to expostulate. But he interrupted
me fiercely, and I now perceived that his eyes began to
glisten and to glare very wildly. It had not escaped my observation,
that the last pill which he had taken was greatly larger
than any he had used before; and I then remembered, that before
the marriage ceremony was performed, on the previous
night, he had opened the box more than once, in my presence,
and I noted that it contained a good many. By this time we
reached the banks of the river. He turned full upon me.
`Rayner,' said he, `you're a good fellow, but you must go home
to your wife.'—`It's impossible,' said I, `to leave you.'—`We'll,
see to that,' said he, and he turned towards the river. I took it for
certain he was going to plunge in, and I jumped forward to seize
him, but, just as my arms were extended to embrace him, he
wheeled about and clapped a pistol to my head. I started back,
quickly enough, as you may suppose; and he exclaimed—`Ah!
Rayner, you are a good fellow, but you cannot prevent the
journey. Farewell!' With these words he flung me the pistol,
which I afterwards found was unloaded, and, before I could speak
or think, he sprang from the bluff into the stream. It appeared
to me as if I heard the splash before I saw the motion. I ran up

the bluff where he had stood, as soon as I could recover myself,
and saw where the water-rings were spreading in great circles
where he had gone down. I didn't give myself a moment after
that. I could swim like a duck and dive like a serpent, and had
no fear of the water for myself; so in I jumped, and fished about
as long as I could stand it underneath; but I could find nothing
of him. He had given himself up to the currents so entirely,
that they whirled him out of sight in a minute. When I rose and
got to the shore, I saw his hat floating among some bushes on
the other shore. But as for poor Mr. Eckhardt, he was gone,
sure enough, upon his last journey!

“You see our little family. The boy is very much like him
in looks, and I reckon in understanding. He's very thoughtful
and smart. We are happy, stranger, and I don't believe that
Mr. Eckhardt was wrong in his notion that I would make Rachel
happy. She tells me she is, and it makes me happy to believe
her. It makes her sad to see the cards, and sad to hear of them,
but she thinks it best for our boy that he should hear the story
and learn it all by heart; and that makes her patient, and patience
brings a sort of peace along with it that's pretty much like
happiness. I could tell you more, my friend, but it's not needful,
and your eyes look as if they had kept open long enough for
one sitting. So come with me, and let me show you where you
are to lie down!”

These words roused me! I half suspect that I was drowsing
in my chair. I can hardly suppose, dear reader, that you could
be capable of an act of like forgetfulness.