University of Virginia Library

THE REGICIDES

1. THE REGICIDES.
CHAPTER I.

It was a bitter afternoon in December, the
air was intensely keen and piercing, the snow
had indeed at length ceased falling, but the
heavens looked drear and wintry. The ponds
in the village of G—were all frozen, not with
that thin and glassy coating the first ray of
sunshine dissolves; a smooth and substantial surface
now bore the buoyant tread of the skaters.
A finer snow fall had not been known in the season,
the solid and beautiful substance lay in glittering
expanse, on gardens and meadows, hills
and dales, loading the trees with a new and feathery
foliage, and covering as with a mantle, every
deformity of the relentless season.

It was now four o'clock, as was evident from
the appearance of the common, in the centre of
the village, thronged with children who were
rushing delightedly from the walls of their literary
prison.

Education had not at that period reached its
present state of refinement; and the joyful groups
that now surrounded the school house, comprized
the whole juvenile population of the village,
without respect to the distinctions of age, rank,

or sex. A shout of eager merriment swelled in
the air as the boys surveyed for a moment the
brilliant expanse before them, and then plunged
recklessly into the cold and beautiful element,
dashing it about them, and venting in a thousand
joyous freaks the untamed sportiveness of their
spirits. But the feminine part of the company
still lingered around the door.

“Richard! Richard!” cried a rosy little damsel
on the platform, dressed in a green mantle
and hood, “Richard Leet, I would like to know
how Alice Weldon and myself are to walk home
through these drifts?”

“Ah! on your feet, to be sure,” replied the
courteous youth, at the same time saluting her
with a freshly molded ball. “Did you ever hear
of any other way of walking Susan?”

“I tell you, Richard,” continued the first impatiently,
“I shall freeze to death before we get
home, and as for poor little Alice she will perish
in the first drift. If Henry were only here,” she
added, gathering up a handful of snow, and vainly
seeking to revenge the insult, “I am sure he
would teach you to treat me more politely.”

“Oh there they are,” exclaimed a beautiful
child, who, clad in a scarlet coat with bonnet
and mittens of the same hue, stood gazing through
the window. “They have come at last.” And
with a spring of delight she appeared at the door,
her sweet and merry laugh still echoing through
the building.

`You will ride on my sled won't you Alice?”
shouted several voices at once, as a party of
them came running from an adjacent shed, dragging
their rude little vehicles swiftly after them.
These were quickly filled with their fair burthens,

but Alice still lingered on the step while the rest
continued in vain to urge her.

“Now you may as well hold your peace, every
one of you,” exclaimed a proud, fine looking lad,
who at that moment came up, his handsome features
glowing with exercise, “she will ride on my
sled, and I will snow-ball any one that interferes,
and bury him in the first drift. Say, Alice,” he
continued, softening his voice, “did you not promise
to ride with none but me?”

The little girl replied by springing on the sled,
and Henry after placing in her lap his Virgil and
dictionary, and exhorting her to hold fast, bounded
off over drift and pit, nor paused until they
had safely reached the gate of their home.

It was a large white building, about a quarter of
a mile distant from the common, surrounded with
trees now leafless and snow-clad, and presenting
an air of comfort and convenience unequaled in
the village. The smoke was curling warm and
blue from its chimneys; nevertheless the eyes of
our juvenile heroine and her knight, turned untempted
away;—to the warm and springing pulse
of childhood, there is many a merrier thing than
the sparkling of a winter's hearth.

The meadow on the opposite side of the street,
just in front of the well finished mansion before
which they now paused, was with the juvenile population,
at the present season of the year, a place of
extremely fashionable resort; and for two especial
reasons. The one, a hill that reared itself in the
center, and presented at this moment to the eyes
of the wistful gazers one unbroken and towering
mass of whiteness; the other, that broad and
famed expanse of water that stealing from the

adjacent wood now lay, stiff and glittering on the
plain.

“Oh, it would be such a triumph,” murmured
the proud boy to himself, “to have the first ride
on Briar hill. Better than the Latin premium itself.”
“Are you cold, Alice,” he continued,
turning hesitatingly to his little charge, “I mean
very cold.”

“Not very,” replied the child, but with a strong
accent on the qualifying word.

“Then we will have a beautiful ride,” continued
the other, darting impatiently across the way
just as the gay group he had left behind, appeared
slowly bringing up the rear.

An irritated and impatient shout burst from
them as they perceived the ambitious design.
“Don't let him beat us,” echoed in many an earnest
tone—but it was too late. Notwithstanding
his lovely little burthen, Henry Davenport toiled
rapidly up the precipitous ascent, arriving again
at the frozen pond just in time to welcome his
disappointed rivals.

A scene of the most exhilirating amusement
soon succeeded to the momentary chagrin. Sled
after sled, loaded to overflowing, descended
swiftly the steep declivity, bounding like things
of light over the frozen pond, and not unfrequently
landing its passengers in the high snow
drift beyond. Then was heard mingling with
the creaking snow, the loud and merry shout of
the spectators on the hill, and the laugh of the
fearless skaters, as they glided gracefully along
on their slippery footing.

But in the midst of this interval of exuberant
sport, there was a sudden pause.

“We never can have a moment's sliding,”

exclaimed Susan in a low vexed tone. “There
is some one coming from the house to warn us
in.”

“Don't be afraid,” answered Alice Weldon, as
she stood at the foot of the hill pulling the mittens
from her little rosy fingers and seeking to
relieve them from the intense cold by rubbing
them together. “It is no one but Margaret.”

“At all events, we'll have another slide,” muttered
the disappointed Richard. “Any body that
bears a message to me, can take the trouble to
come up the hill, I fancy.” The proposal seemed
to meet with universal approbation, and with
one accord the whole party scampered through the
snow till they had once more gained the summit.

The person whose appearance had excited so
much tumult, now rapidly approached. Judging
from the testimony of her extremely youthful
countenance, any one might have seen that she
herself had but recently emerged from an age,
when the amusement she was now contemplating,
would have been shared with enthusiastic pleasure.
As it was, a light and glad smile betokened
her sympathy. The complexion of the young
lady was exceedingly fair, a soft bloom gathered
over it as she toiled up the hill, light and clustering
curls lay on her forehead. The face was not
one of perfect beauty; and yet there was in the
light of her large blue eye, an expression of
feminine sweetness, which could not fail to render
that countenance lovely to those who met its
glance.

“Ah! you have come to take a ride with us,” exclaimed
Henry in a coaxing tone, as the young
lady joined the group.

“And in fine company, truly,” replied Miss
Weldon, laughing and shaking her head, though
her eye at the same moment, rested with a somewhat
wishful glance upon a party just then descending.
“A fine figure I should make, Henry,
sliding down hill with a party of truants like
yourself.

Susan Leet drew up her lip with scorn.

“Oh, but this once, Margaret, you cannot
think what beautiful sledding it is,” continued
Henry.

“Don't tease cousin,” whispered Susan maliciously.
“She is engaged to be married, you
know, and would not be seen riding down hill for
the world.

Miss Weldon reddened slightly. “I am invested
with authority to order you all from the
grounds,” she added in the same light and humorous
tone. “Come, gentlemen and ladies, you
are waited for at yonder mansion.”

“And we will give you a ride for your trouble,”
replied Henry, while Richard bounded down
the steep. “Do, do, Margaret,” he continued,
as the children crowded upon the sled.

“Ah, do, here is but just room enough for you
shouted several intreating voices; and the young
lady, after a hasty survey, perceiving no one in
sight, yielded at once to the natural gayety of
her heart, and they were instantly darting along
the declivity. After a short, almost precipitous
descent, the slope was long and gradual, and they
had leisure to survey the objects before them.

“Look, Margaret,” exclaimed Susan, at that
moment directing her eye to the road beneath.
“Do you not see that gentleman looking at us so
earnestly? Mr. Russel, as I live,” she continued,

with an uncontrollable burst of laughter at the
idea of her cousin's mortification, “and two more,
coming the other way. Oh, Margaret, what can
you say to the minister?”

“Stop the sled, Henry;—let me get off, I intreat
you,” rapidly articulated the young lady;
but a moment's reflection convinced her that
neither the one nor the other of these intreaties
could be complied with, without danger to the
limbs and lives of the whole party; and while the
provoking little Susan seemed to exult in her embarrassment,
laughing until her eyes streamed
with tears, she was compelled to go on unresistingly.

“Good evening to you, Miss Weldon,” exclaimed
a well dressed youth, who approached
the party just as the young lady had arisen from
the bank, and stood shaking the snow from her
dark mantle. The countenance of the young
student was interesting, and at this moment almost
handsome, for the sparkling flush of exercise
had gathered over its usual paleness.
“You must have had a charming ride, Miss
Weldon,” he continued, with an expressive smile.
There was something slightly satirical both in
the look and tone of the speaker, and Margaret
Weldon was not the one to be ridiculed with
impunity; but the keen retort that trembled on
her lips was interrupted by the appearance of
the other personages whose ill-timed appearance
had created so much embarrassment.

These were travelers, as their well muffled appearance
sufficiently indicated; and a second
glance was sufficient to convince her that they
were not only strangers, but persons of a far
different stamp of character from those with

whom she was wont to associate. They were
both youthful in appearance. The elder and
shorter of the two, was completely enveloped in
the folds of a huge coarse over-coat; he wore on
his head a bear-skin cap, and a pair of well furred
moccasons protected his feet. Two small and
twinkling eyes were the only portions of his features
visible, through the double and triple coils
of worsted that surrounded them.

The other was attired much more carefully in
the style of a fashionable cavalier, and a cloak of
costly and gay materials was his protection from
the cold.

But Margaret had scarce time to make these
observations, ere the latter gentleman hastily addressed
her.

“Prythee, my pretty damsel, have pity on a
couple of errant and half frozen knights, and tell
us if a certain gentleman of the name of Leet
resideth hereabouts. We should have reached
his house ere this, or our directions deceive us.”

The style of address was evidently not relished
by the young lady, she drew up her slight form
with an air of dignity, replying with an expression
of cold politeness, to the forward advances of the
stranger.

“My uncle, sirs, the Governor of the Colony,
resides in this dwelling; whether he be the person
you seek, or not, as strangers, you are welcome
to his hospitality.”

There was no need of a second invitation, and
the whole party now entered the large enclosure
that surrounded the house. The snow had been
thrown up on either side from the long straight
gravel walks which led to the portico in front of
the building. Miss Weldon now conducted

them across an angle of the spacious hall and
throwing open the door, at once introduced them
into the keeping room of her uncle's family. The
apartment was large, unostentatiously but comfortably
furnished. A well polished book-case
mounted on a chest of drawers, occupied one
corner of the room, and a mahogany cased clock
another; while that on the remote side from the
fire, was filled by an enormous cupboard, the
door of which was now thrown open, revealing
rare treasures of porcelain and silver. But the
apartment contained objects of far higher interest
to the cold and hungry travelers; a large round
table in the center of the room, spread with a
snow white cloth and covered with various dishes,
and on the hearth a huge blaze, that, roaring and
sparkling in the capacious chimney, diffused a light
and pleasant glow throughout the whole apartment.
Little Susan, at the moment of their entrance,
was engaged in throwing down the long
chintz curtains, and as the candles had not yet
made their appearance, the objects of the room
were only illuminated by the brilliant fire light.
The other children, having previously effected
their escape to the house, were now seated around
the hearth, engaged in satisfying their hunger,
each from a bowl of bread and milk.

There were no other persons present, and Miss
Weldon, after placing chairs for her guests near
the grateful blaze, and laying aside her hat and
cloak, was hastening to leave the apartment.

Just at this moment the door she was approaching
opened, and an elderly, pleasant-looking matron
made her appearance. The good lady paused
in considerable surprise at the sight of her unexpected
guests.

“Mr. Russel, aunt,” said Miss Weldon, in
rather an embarrassed tone, as she met her glance
of perplexed inquiry,” “and the strangers,” she
added in a still lower voice, “are strangers as
much to me as to yourself.”

The young student was received with an air
of the most cordial welcome, and from the character
of the smile which at that moment illumined
the benevolent countenance of Mrs. Leet, there
seemed some peculiar claim upon her kindness
and affection.

In reply to the urgent invitations of their hostess
the strangers assured her that their business
allowed of slight delay, and that they had yet
many miles to travel ere their journey was accomplished,
repeating also the request for an immediate
interview with the Governor of the Colony.

“He is coming,” exclaimed Richard, who now
re-appeared from the hall; and the next moment
the master of the house presented himself. His
figure was singularly erect, rather inclining to
corpulency, and the frosts of time had fallen
thickly on his head. The countenance, while it
was marked with a degree of shrewdness and
good humor, exhibited a certain unyielding look,
which perhaps formed its most striking characteristic.

He advanced slowly to the fire deigning only a
single glance towards his guests, and drawing the
shovel from its resting place in the corner, began
deliberately to separate from his boots the particles
of snow that still clung to them.

“Here is Mr. Russel, my dear,” exclaimed
Mrs. Leet reprovingly, “just come from New-Haven,
in spite of cold and snow.”

“Ah, ah, good evening to you, Mr. Russel,”
replied the old gentleman, casting another slight
glance upon him, and again resuming his employment.
“The blood must be younger in your
veins than in mine, Mr. Russel.”

“The supper has waited for you, some time,”
continued Mrs. Leet, in the same tone of gentle
admonition, “and these gentlemen are anxious
to see you on business.”

“Supper and business,” continued the governor,
directing, as he spoke, one of his keen and quick
glances upon the strangers. “We will take our
supper first, Mrs. Leet, and talk of business hereafter.
No objections, sirs, I hope,” he added, as
the knight of the blue cloak was about to attempt
a remonstrance. “I attend to no business until
we have taken our repast,” and he set down the
shovel with an emphatic air. “Come, gentlemen,
doff your cloaks,” he added in rather a more
gracious tone, as the smoking dishes made their
appearance, “sit down with us, and I am at your
service.”

The tone of decision was not to be resisted;
and without further preamble, the strangers prepared
to comply with the peremptory invitation.
The table presented, in a small space, a variety
of cheer seldom surpassed in more sumptuous
and costly entertainments; some alterations and
additions had indeed been made since the entrance
of the visiters, and the whole now exhibited
an assemblage of inviting fare, which it
would have been hard for the famished guests to
have refused. We grieve to say that these observations
were principally made by the strangers
during the Governor's fervent petition for a heavenly
blessing on their repast, which was in truth

protracted to an unusual length, though the whole
family joined in it with expressions of apparent
devotion. The quick and rather impatient Amen
which the young gentlemen uttered at its conclusion,
failed not to draw upon them the admiring
glances of the children by the fireside, and a
gentle expression of surprise from the fair damsel
who presided at the board. The attention of the
strangers, however, was too much absorbed by
the important occupation before them, to notice
any unfavorable impressions that might have
been made, and they now laid about them with
an air, that evinced a prudent determination to
make the best of their delay.

“You have had a long journey,” said Mrs.
Leet, in an inquiring tone, as she pressed upon
her guests the unnecessary invitation to make
themselves at home in her dwelling. “You must
have been out in the storm, I presume.”

“We were, madam,” replied the younger
stranger, pausing a moment in his employment,
“our journey has lasted since the early dawn,
and I fear is likely to last until another.”

“You are going further, then?” continued Mrs.
Leet, in whose gentle heart a slight sensation of
the curious began to awaken.

“We think of it madam,” replied the elder,
interrupting his companion's more courteous reply.
There was now another pause, and Mrs.
Leet seemed revolving in her mind, how it might
best be broken.

“We shall be sorry to see you go forth from the
shelter of our roof to night Mr.—Pardon me
Sir, I have forgotten your name.”

“Kellond, at your service, madam,—Thomas
Kellond, and my friend Mr. Kirk.”

“Ah! thank you—let me help you to a bit of
this cold chicken Mr. Kellond, you must have
found but poor accommodations on your route.
You dined at Middletown, I presume Sir,” continued
Mrs. Leet.

“We ate our last meal at Hartford, madam,”
replied Mr. Kellond, “and certainly had nothing
to complain of, for we were greeted with the best
cheer the Governor of the colony could afford.”

Governor Leet who had till this moment affected
perfect indifference to the communications of
the strangers, now lifted his large blue eyes, fixing
them alternately upon each of his unknown
guests, with a gaze of deep and fluctuating curiosity.
A conversation which he had previously
maintained with Mr. Russel, was however quickly
resumed, though from time to time an anxious
glance at the strangers, intimated a greater degree
of interest in their communications than he
chose to express.

The repast was at length completed, and, the
table having been removed to a less conspicuous
station, the family again encircled the fire. Meanwhile
every thing had been arranged according
to the well established rules of the household. A
fresh supply of fuel crackled on the neatly swept
hearth, the stand, the lights and the books, were
all in waiting. On the other side of the fire place,
the children surrounded a low round table, pursuing
their respective avocations with an air of
decorum, which contrasted strongly with the frolics
on the hill. Susan Leet sat with a demure
countenance, knitting a pair of woolen hose for
her brother, while the latter leaned, with frowning
brows, upon his slate, beside her, flourishing
his pencil with many a threatening manœuvre,

over the mysterious problems beneath. The youth
did indeed occasionally pause amid his mathematical
reveries, to examine into the conduct of
an intelligent kitten sporting beneath the table, at
that moment dextrously engaged with Susan's
ball, and amusing her fancy with the graceful undulations
of the long white thread, as it darted
across her way.

But no such trivial sport had power to arrest
the attention of Henry Davenport, as he bowed
his young head over the classic page. His hand
supported his forehead, straying among the dark
and beautiful locks that shaded it, and whenever
the eye of the youthful scholar was for a moment
lifted, there was that in its deep lustre that told
of a mind fitted to revel among the rich fountains
of ancient lore, gifted with the inspiration of exalted
fancy, and the energy of a daring spirit.

Alice Weldon, whose history is woven with our
tale, sat in a low chair beside him, in the first
bloom of infant thoughts and feelings, and with
the tints of cradle dreams still bright in her young
fancy. Her eyes seemed intent on the personages
who now surrounded the fire, their naturally
pensive expression often vanishing amid smiles
and dimples, as she met their glances in return.
Indeed there were others who now began to survey
the scene with much interest.

Governor Leet, after exchanging his boots for
slippers, had seated himself by the opposite stand;
the candles were snuffed, the spectacles wiped
and replaced, and he now seemed waiting with the
most comfortable composure, for any commmunications
that might be made. The silence of curious
expectation pervaded the whole apartment,
interrupted only by the slight and occasional

ringing of the China cups, as Mrs. Leet carefully
wiped and replaced them on the waiter.

Considerable hesitation seemed to exist with
the strangers, as to which of them should first open
their embassy; but at length the elder, who had
hitherto maintained an air of studied reserve, broke
silence.

“Governor Leet, the business with which we
are intrusted, is of an official and private nature;
it would be well that we had fewer witnesses.”

“No one here but my family, I believe,”
exclaimed the old gentleman, his eye passing
in rapid review over the circle, “unless, indeed,
we except this young friend of ours,” and
his eye rested on Mr. Russel. “But we reckon
him about as good as one of us,” he added,
with an expression of pleasantry, which brought
the blood in richer tides to Miss Weldon's cheek.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe we are all
to be trusted.”

“Nevertheless you must be aware, sir,” replied
Mr. Kirk, as he drew forth a large pocket book,
“that there are certain undertakings which need
to be executed with secrecy and despatch, in order
to insure them success.”

“Perfectly, sir,” rejoined the Governor quickly,
as the young gentleman, after carefully examining
the contents of the pocket book, presented
him with a folded paper. The Governor glanced
anxiously over it, and those who were watching
his countenance perceived that it became instantly
and strongly flushed. His natural composure
of aspect was however soon resumed, and he
began in a low whisper to examine its contents.

Miss Weldon was seated at the opposite side of
the stand on which her uncle leaned, and she became

instantly aware that the kind of humming
tone into which the whisper had gradually swelled,
was not the unconscious and unnecessary sound
it seemed. With the quickness of female penetration,
she at once perceived that there was
something in the contents of the paper, which her
uncle desired her to understand. The frill she
was working, dropped from her hand, and leaning
her head over the table she listened with breathless
interest to the voice of the reader. After a
short suspension, the low murinur again commenced,
but as yet, she caught nothing but a
confused mingling of words. Presently the
sounds became more distinct, and the words
“treason and rebellion,” were plainly distinguished.
Then was another pause, and then distinctly
followed, “And we do hereby authorize and appoint
our true and loyal subjects”—

“Governor Leet,” exclaimed Mr. Kirk hastily,
“you must be aware that the revealing of state
secrets, may be attended with serious consequences.”

“Aye, aye, true, Mr. Kirk,” replied the old
gentleman, with an air of provoking affability;
and he was silent for a few minutes. Then
as if unconsciously relapsing again into his former
tone, “And we do hereby command”—
“Governors and magistrates of said colonies”
—“all possible measures”—“imprisonment
of said regicides, and”—“denounce as rebels”
—“harbor and secrete said Whalley and Goff”
—“who in any wise seek to defeat said Thomas
Kirk and Thomas Kellond, in the accomplishment
of this our royal mandate.”

The voice again sunk into its inaudible murmur;
but Margaret Weldon had heard enough.

The Governor now re-folded the paper, and casting
a single glance at his niece, again placed it
in the hand of its owner.

“And what service is required of me?” he asked,
turning again to the English cavaliers who had
impatiently waited for his conclusion.

“Governor Leet,” rejoined Mr. Kirk, his formal
and moderate tones slightly quickened with
anger, “You must be aware that in compelling
us to hold our conversation in this public manner,
you debar us from any opportunity of making
those demands our occasions may require. It
cannot be expected that we should speak of our
embassy, without a due degree of precaution.”

“Richard, my son, tell Willy to build a fire in
the other room. Beg your pardon, gentlemen,
don't be uneasy, we shall soon be able to discuss
the matter privately.”

“It may be advisable for us to spare you this
trouble,” interrupted Mr. Kellond, as Richard
prepared to obey. “Our most important demand
is that horses may forthwith be procured for us
to proceed on our journey. The Governor of
Connecticut hath forwarded us thus far, and we
are dependent upon your good offices for the remainder
of the journey.” Several minutes' silence
succeeded this declaration.

“Governor Leet,” rejoined Mr. Kirk impatiently,
“it only remains for you to inform us,
whether you choose to furnish us with conveniences
for traveling.”

“As to that I cannot answer immediately,” replied
the Governor thoughtfully. “It must be
dangerous for man or beast to cross the West
Hollow to-night. How was it Mr. Russel?”

“The drifts had obstructed the way so completely,”

replied the student, “that had I not
been entirely familiar with it, I should inevitably
have lost the track.”

“I am sorry to inform you,” continued the Governor,
addressing the strangers, “that my best
horse is at this moment disabled, and the other
two have been at hard sledding all the day. They
are out of the question, that is if I expect to see
them alive again. Nay, Mr. Kirk, the road is a
wretched one, and I would be sorry to risk the
neck of the best conditioned horse in the Colony.”

“But, father, there is the sorrel colt,” cried
Richard, throwing down his pencil, and preparing
to enter with spirit into the merits of the
case.

“Please attend to your slate, Master Richard,”
replied the old gentleman, rather impatiently;
“but by the bye, the suggestion is not so bad,”
he continued with apparent hesitation. “The
sorrel colt—yes—it will do well—he is a vicious,
fractious thing, and the sooner his neck is broken
the better. That is, provided he breaks no neck
but his own.

“An excellent proviso, sir,” interrupted Mr.
Kellond, “but as it would be rather an untoward
circumstance that both Mr. Kirk and myself
should fall with him, I propose that my companion
here do mount the animal, while I proceed on
foot after him, and then in case of any ill-timed
display of temper, one of us at least would survive
to accomplish the embassy. Also, from
what you have mentioned concerning the disposition
of the beast, I should deem it extremely
unlikely that he would for a moment tolerate any

additional burthen to what my friend Mr. Kirk
would furnish.”

“Me!”—exclaimed Mr. Kirk, with an ill concealed
expression of disnay. “I do not know
whether you are in jes, Mr. Kellond,—if you
are not, I know of no reason why your neck
should be held in higher estimation than my
own.”

“But to cut the matter short,” continued the
Governor, “I propose that you remain under
this roof for the night, and in the morning, as
early as you please, you shall be furnished with
accommodations for traveling.” The gentlemen
glanced for a moment hesitatingly upon each
other.

“We accept of your hospitable invitation, sir,”
replied Mr. Kellond, “upon condition that you
despatch no one from your roof this night, with
intelligence of our errand.”

“Certainly, young man, I promise you that no
one leaves my roof this night, unless it be of his
own free will and accord; and moreover, I give
you my word that nothing concerning your embassy
shall be repeated by me to any one.

Miss Weldon's countenance at that moment
grew pale at the thought of the fearful responsibility
so suddenly devolved upon her; for she
was conscious that no other persons in the apartment
had overheard enough of their communications
to form any clue to the nature of their errand.
She felt that, to her exertions alone, her
uncle trusted, for conveying the intelligence of
this new warrant to the unfortunate exiles who
were its objects, and with the pride and heroism
of a young heart she resolved to endure any peril
rather than disappoint that confidence.

Of the present condition of the banished judges
she knew little. Their general history was indeed
familiar to all; that they had boldly stood
up for the rights of conscience and freedom
in their native land, even until the blood of a
royal martyr had stained their path; that they had
once ranked high in that proud army whose valor
had awed the nations, and were now driven helpless
and exiled, seeking succor amid men of the
same name and faith with themselves, and men
who professed the same high principles of action;
these were facts familiar to all. Neither
was she unaware that the regicides were at this
moment concealed in the village of New-Haven,
having been driven from their original place of
refuge, by the intelligence of an act of pardon
excluding them from its privileges, and a warrant
authorizing his majesty's subjects to apprehend
them wheresoever they might be. She was aware
also that the chief men of the colony favored their
concealment among them, affording them various
disguises; and she believed that in one of these
she herself had once seen them, though unconscious
of it, at the moment of their interview.

To communicate to the Rev. Mr. Davenport
the intelligence she had thus singularly acquired,
seemed the only method of averting their ruin.
This must also be effected before morning, and it
only remained that she should speedily resolve
upon a proper messenger. At first thought, the
embassy seemed of too delicate a nature to be entrusted
to a second person, and she determined
herself to brave the inclemency of the weather
and in spite of snow and cold, to obtain this night
an audience of Mr. Davenport. But a recollection
of the fearful drifts that impeded the way,

soon convinced her that this would be a mere
waste of life and courage. Margaret Weldon was
a betrothed bride; and her eye soon rested on
one who combined in her estimation, all the necessary
qualifications, for so difficult an undertaking.

The evening now wore slowly away. There
had been a considerable effort, on the part of the
governor to sustain a conversation with his
guests; but they now seemed to have exhausted
all peaceable topics and none appeared willing
to interrupt the awkward silence. In spite
of efforts at cordiality, mutual distrust and suspicion
evidently existed between them.

An appearance of the evening refreshment
consisting of nuts and apples did indeed restore a
slight degree of cheerfulness, and during the period
employed in partaking of it, Miss Weldon
left the apartment. Presently after, a light knock
was heard on the outer door.

“It is a person wishing to speak with Mr. Russel”
said the servant, who having but just entered
from the kitchen, hastened to obey the summons.

“Ask him to walk in then, Clara,” said the
governor, “and don't stand with the door open.”

“I have, sir,” replied the servant, “but Mr.
Russel is requested to step to the door.” The
gentleman thus called for, now taking a lamp
made his way to the hall, closing after him the
door of the parlour. A female figure well wrapped
in a mantle, with bonnet so large as entirely
to conceal her features, was standing in the portico.

“Samuel,” said the sweet voice of Margaret
Weldon, for it was none other than she, “Samuel
Russel, I pray you close the door, and listen to me;

I have much to tell you.” The youth could scarce
refrain from an exclamation of surprise, but he
immediately complied with her request.

“Margaret, you are wild, I am sure you are,”
he exclaimed in a subdued voice as he stepped
into the portico.

“I assure you, Samuel I could find no other way
of doing my errand; for the strangers were watching
every movement so suspiciously I dared not
to send for you. But there is no time for apologies.
The gentlemen in the parlour are those
despatched in search of Whalley and Goffe, the
papers they gave uncle Leet is the warrant for
their arrest, and unless we can communicate with
them this night, to-morrow the judges will fall into
their hands. Uncle Leet has, as you know,
given them his word that he will make no exertions
in their behalf, but Samuel, you and I are private
individuals, and we need not fear that our
conduct should draw upon the whole colony the
anger of the king.”

“You speak nobly, Margaret; I will proceed
immediately to New-Haven, and warn them of
their danger, but there are many things to be
considered. The strangers will be constantly on
the watch during the night and certainly will not
suffer any one to leave the enclosure unnoticed.
I doubt not their suspicions are all awake, and
even could I succeed in effecting my escape, my
absence in the morning would reveal the secret.”

“You must set out,” replied Margaret quickly,
“as soon as the gentlemen leave the parlour, and
before they have time to reconnoitre you will be
out upon the main road. And as for the morning,
I fancy the strangers will wait for a slice or two;
and you will be back to an early breakfast.”

“Nay, Margaret, but it is quite impossible,”
replied the young gentleman, almost shuddering
at the idea of the perils he had so recently escaped,
“it is quite impossible that I should return
again on foot, and as to horses, they seem totally
out of the question.”

“But the sorrel is not so bad,” continued Margaret,
repressing a smile, “I do think that uncle
has slandered him a little. But Samuel we are
talking too long. If you will go, the horse shall
be ready for you at the other door. The moment
they leave the parlor make your way into the kitchen,
and I will see that it is cleared of spectators.”
Mr. Russel had scarce time to assent to these propositions,
ere Margaret had vanished from the
steps, disappearing the next moment around the
corner of the mansion.

It was not until the hour of evening prayer that
Miss Weldon again made her appearance. There
was an expression of deep concern on her countenance;
and Mr. Russel saw that her hand trembled
slightly, as she leaned upon it while the
governor read aloud from the pages of the sacred
word. The portion selected was from the holy
melodies of the sweet singer of Israel, a lesson
beautifully appropriate to the state of the persecuted
exiles, and there was something in its
promises of heavenly protection that fell soft and
soothing on the troubled hearts of some who
heard it. Neither was the prayer that ensued
better calculated to allay the prejudices of the
strangers. It forgot not the afflicted, the banished,
the outcast; and there was a pathos, and even
sublimity of expression, in the fervent entreaty
that God would remember those, to whom man
had forgotten to be gracious.

Immediately after the conclusion of the evening
devotions, Margaret again left the apartment,
directing as she passed a slight and quick
glance towards the student.

The tedious evening had now drawn to a close;
and the governor with a heavy yawn failed not to
testify his pleasure at the signal for retirement.

The moment the door of the parlor had closed
upon the strangers, Mr. Russel hastened to fulfil
his appointment. As he entered the kitchen,
Miss Weldon was standing by the fire and his
coat and cloak hanging over the chair beside her.
There was no time for ceremony, and while the
young man was casing his feet in the warm double
socks that had been provided for him, Miss Weldon
hastily tied around his neck the fold of an
enormous worsted tippet, like what in these days,
would be styled a comforter. In addition to all
the other articles of clothing, she now essayed to
throw over him a huge drab cloak or rather blanket,
sufficiently ample in its dimensions to envelope
his whole person; but this last act of
her authority Mr. Russel prepared to resist with a
considerable degree of firmness.

“Margaret, it is unbeseeming my character;
it looks precisely like an Indian's blanket, indeed
I will not wear it.”

“But you must, Samuel,” replied the other in a
whisper. “I borrowed it of Indian Jack on purpose
for a disguise; and whoever meets you now
will never dream that it is not he,” but with all
her anxiety, the young lady could scarce refrain
from a smile at the awkward appearance of her
lover. But the occasion was too serious for the
indulgence of mirth, and throwing open the door
she pointed to the identical little sorrel, whose

unfortunate eccentricity of character had been
so faithfully portrayed by the Governor, tied to a
post of the shed and gazing indignantly around
him. The moon was partially obscured; but the
reflection from the snow rendered every object
visible.

“Speak gently to him—he will never bear to
be scolded,” said Margaret, in a suppressed whisper,
“and now, Samuel, heaven speed you.” In a
moment after the sorrel and his burthen moved
swiftly down the avenue; and Miss Weldon refered
to her apartment, without further communication
with the family.

2. CHAPTER II.

Notwithstanding the warning of an early
breakfast, the sun was shining high through
the windows of the parlor ere the guests of Gov.
Leet made their appearance.

“Eight o'clock, by Jupiter,” exclaimed Mr.
Kellond, as they entered the room, for though the
breakfast table was spread, it was apparently unoccupied.
“My word for it, Tom, that wily old
rascal means to outwit us.” But his exclamations
were, at that moment, interrupted by the sight of
an unexpected auditress. Miss Weldon was
standing in one of the recesses of the windows;
but, as her figure was partly hid with the drapery
of the curtain, her presence had, at first, been
totally unnoticed.

“Good morning to you, fair damsel,” continued
Mr. Kellond, with an air of undaunted effrontery;
and, approaching the window, he began to address
her in that free and careless manner which
had before been so displeasing. Miss Weldon,
after returning his salutations with a haughty
nod, continued still to gaze from the window.
Directly opposite was the hill from which she had
first seen them, now thronged with all the children
of the vicinity. Miss Weldon was apparently
gazing at their sports, though from time to
time an anxious glance down the road, might

have convinced a careful observer, that some
object of higher interest claimed her attention.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the kind
and soft voice of Mrs. Leet, who at this moment
entered the room. “Margaret, my dear, you
should have told me that the gentlemen were
waiting,” and the good lady hastened out again
to order her long delayed-breakfast.

“And where can Mr. Russel be so long, this
morning?” exclaimed Mrs. Leet as the family with
only this exception encircled the table. “Have
you called him, Willy?”

“His door is locked,” replied the servant, “perhaps
he has gone for a walk.” A shadow at that
moment fell upon the wall.

“And here he is,” cried Richard, who was
gazing from the window, while a deep and sudden
flush illumined the features of Miss Weldon.

“You have taken an early walk, sir,” said the
Governor, as the young gentleman with an animated
countenance now entered the apartment,
“but better late than never. Richard,
move your chair for Mr. Russel.” Margaret gazed
earnestly upon her uncle's countenance, but
with all her scrutiny she found it impossible to
discover whether his apparent indifference on this
occasion was real or assumed.

“Allow us again to remind you, sir,” exclaimed
Mr. Kirk, when the repast was nearly completed,
“that it will be necessary for us to set off on our
way immediately after breakfast, and we request
that horsos may be provided for that purpose
according to your promise last evening.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the old gentleman,

with an emphatic hem. “Margaret, my dear,”
he continued, turning to Miss Weldon, “you were
petitioning yesterday for a ride, and I dare say
Mr. Russel here, with all his love for pedestrian
excursions, would make no objections to a seat in
the sleigh. Well, I have business in town, this
morning, and here are a couple of dainty footed
travelers, ready to faint at the mention of a snow
drift. I believe we must e'en tackle up. Willy,
my man, tell Simon to get out the sleigh.”

“It is unnecessary to put you to this trouble,”
exclaimed Mr. Kirk, for they were now rising
from the breakfast table. “I can assure you,
Governor Leet, we must go on without further
delay. The horses referred to last evening must
surely be refreshed by this time, and we will
excuse the want of the vehicle you mention.”

“Aye, aye—much obliged to you, make yourselves
easy, gentlemen, I am an old man, and
like my own way pretty much;—sit down and
make yourselves easy,” and so saying the governor
quietly walked off to attend to the fulfilment
of his orders. Miss Weldon had left the room
to prepare herself for her ride; and the strangers
finding resistance vain, slowly equipped themselves
for their journey. A loud ringing of sleigh
bells, at the door, presently announced that the
vehicle was in readiness; but the Governor was
not to be hurried, and vain and fruitless were the
significant and angry glances of the strangers,
while he slowly and comfortably prepared to meet
the inclemencies of the weather. At length,
completely muffled from head to foot, the old
gentleman sallied forth, followed by the remainder
of the party. The kind “good morning,” from the
group at the door, mingled with the sound of the

cracking whip; and, with a loud and merry jingle,
the sleigh started forth on its journey. The horses
were fleet, and the road not so bad as they had
been led to fear, so that by the time they had
reached New-Haven green, the clock on the old
meeting house was only pointing the hour of
noon, and its clear tones were yet ringing through
the village, as they drove up to the door of the
parsonage.

“Gentlemen,” said the venerable pastor of
New-Haven, after perusing the documents and
quietly listening to the representations of the
strangers, “you are probably not aware that neither
Governor Leet nor myself can furnish you
with any assistance in our official capacity, until
an assembly of the magistrates of the colony has
been convened, which will have full power to
consider your requests.”

“You forget, certainly, sir,” interrupted Mr.
Kirk, “that we are acting under the special exercise
of an authority, to which your assembly is
only a subordinate institution.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the governor
hastily, “the assembly is the supreme power of
this colony, and by no means a subordinate institution.
Without its sanctions we do not choose
to act in any emergency.”

“And pray, Reverend Sir,” answered Mr. Kellond,
a strong expression of contempt animating
his features, “will it please you to inform us, at
what time this high and honorable assembly,
to which the two houses of parliament are as nothing,
doth hold its sittings. We would grieve
to detract from the reverence due to so exalted a
tribunal; but, as I have before remarked to you,
our business requires despatch.”

“In the space of half an hour,” replied Mr. Davenport,
without at all noticing the evident irony
of the gentleman's address, “in half an hour,
the magistrates will be convened. It is impossible
that this should be effected sooner, meanwhile
let me intreat you to make yourselves at
home in my dwelling; we will signify to you our
conclusions as soon as possible.”

The tedious interval occupied by the assembly
in its deliberations, was principally employed by
the strangers, in surveying the appearance of the
flourishing little village which surrounded them.
They had, however, sometime ago returned from
their excursions, ere the governor and Mr. Davenport
made their appearance.

“You have been walking,” said the latter,
complacently, as he drew a chair to the hearth.

“We have,” replied Mr. Kirk, in an abrupt
and ungracious tone, “but the result of your
meeting, sir.”

“Aye truly,” exclaimed the governor recollecting
himself. “Then I must inform you, your
petition has been presented to the magistrates of
the colony.”

“And what then?”

“The subject was ably discussed by our reverend
friend here, Mr. Davenport, and deacon
Hezekiah Gilbert, also the worthy Mr. Norton
made some interesting remarks, on the subject of
our relation to the king, in connection with that
of your petition.”

“Your resolution, sir, your resolution, we will
spare the details.”

“And it was resolved,” continued the governor,
composedly, “that as a body of men intrusted
with the government of this colony, for the

suppression of vice and the preserving of order
among us, we have nothing to do with the arrest
of his Majesty's subjects, except in case of actual
transgressions of the laws by which we are governed.
Resolved, that the exiled judges, Whalley
and Goffe have not to our knowledge, in any
way incurred the penalties of said laws, therefore,
as magistrates, we are not authorized to arrest
them. Resolved, moreover, that we will not in
any wise hinder the accomplishment of your errand,
by secreting or harboring said judges.”

“Then,” replied Kirk, rising hastily, while his
whole countenance colored with indignation,
“by the authority of this paper, will I search every
house among you, until those rebels are dragged
forth to justice. At your peril refuse me. And
wo to the traitor who dares secret them.”

“High words—high words, young man,” said
the governor calmly, “but take care, that you
do not make it my painful duty to set your feet in
the stocks, for abuse of your elders. As to the
search you propose, we shall certainly make no
objections. Every house in this village is open
to your examination, only take a kindly warning
that our own laws are in full force, and our magistrates
in perfect readiness to see them executed.”

The threat which this reply contained, was not
entirely lost upon the person to whom it was addressed.
Indeed the idea of personal danger
seemed greatly to soften the asperity of his feelings.
A close examination of the village, was
indeed immediately commenced; but the rude
deportment previously displayed was now exchanged
for an air of decent civility.

It is not our intention to enter into the details

of this day's grievous intrusion upon the sanctity
of New-Haven housewifery. Not a house, not a
room, not a cupboard that did not undergo the
scrutinizing gaze of Messrs. Kirk and Kellond.
Wo to the untidy dame who had sought with an
outside exhibition of neatness, to cover the deformity
of her interior management, for now was
her deception manifest. And wo to the notable
matrons whose clean and quiet dwellings the
feet of Messrs. Kirk and Kellond that day invaded.
Not a chest escaped their Vandal touch;
and the contents of trunks and closets lay spread
on the floor in strange confusion, while their fair
proprietors in mingled dismay and wrath, surveyed
the scene. But it is not to be supposed that
a confederacy of intelligent females was to be
outwitted by a couple of unassisted strangers;
for, though the magistrates of the colony had refused
to furnish further concealment of the regicides,
the helpmates of said magistrates in the
true spirit of republicanism, secretly declared
that resolutions which they had no share in
forming, should not be considered as binding
upon themselves. The embassy of our worthy
travellers was consequently unsuccessful; and,
as our history informs us, they departed the next
morning from the colony threatening the wrath
of the king upon the guiltless magistrates; while
the matrons of New-Haven rejoiced in secret at
this triumph of their skill.

3. CHAPTER III.

The early superstitions of New-England were
of a peculiar nature. Not only the public institutions
of its settlers, bore the impress of the stern
faith they had adopted as their ruling principle,
but individual character, private affections, and
popular prejudices, were all shaped to the same
unyielding model; and thus in the development
of those mysterious emotions of supernatural
dread so common to our nature, we find traces of
the same principle. The genii of oriental fancy,
the malignant spirits of German forests, the wild
fabric of Scottish credulity have all figured on the
pages of romance; but it was on the broad shadows
of eternal truth that the weakness of human
fear had here fastened its illusions, and a superstition
more vast, and more awful hung over the
glens and forests of New-England. When the
maiden trod quickly, on the lonely path at twilight,
it was not that a being of her own creative
fancy haunted it. Something more fearful than
the vision of the sportive fancy paled her cheek.
The object of her dread was one real and mighty
being, whose power extended from the abodes of
unholy spirits, to the dwelling places of earth,
throwing his mysterious and sinful influence even
around the inmost recesses of her own heart.
He had once stood first in the ranks of seraphs,

and learned wisdom from the lips of the Eternal;
mighty too he was, for he had even waged war in
heaven; and all this wisdom, and all this might,
the voice of inspiration assured her, was enlisted
against her peace. It was not strange, therefore,
that those whom the puritans, in their credulity,
imagined in league with this Prince of darkness,
were regarded with sensations of unmingled horror.
And though this superstition had not, at the
date of this narrative, assumed that fearful aspect
which in after years spread such dismay
through the colonies, it was still openly encouraged
by the sanction of good and enlightened
men.

It was about six months after the incidents recorded
in the last chapter, that a strong excitement
of this description, began to make its appearance
in the colony of New-Haven. Tales of
fearful import were circulated through the village,
strange sights and unearthly voices had
been seen and heard at midnight, and a secret
and indefinable dread thrilled through the hearts
of those whom necessity compelled to a solitary
walk at evening. When the subtle spirit of popular
superstition is once aroused, it floats not long
in unsubstantial rumor; the airy nothing soon
finds a “local habitation and a name.” So it was
in the present instance. The mountain which rears
its head about two miles west of the village, was
at length declared a favorite haunt of the unearthly
visitant. The various fearful reports began
now to concentrate on one fair and wandering
spirit, who for some unknown cause, had taken up
her abode amid the habitations of the material
world; and many a fresh lip grew pale, as the
descriptions of that strange and beautiful being

were repeated every day, with a more intense interest.
It became, at last, generally reported and
believed, that just as the white mist began to
break away from the rock, a female form of exquisite,
but faded beauty might be seen standing
amid the wreathing vapor, and gradually vanishing
as it slowly curled from the mountain. Who
this fearful stranger might be, and what the cause
of her appearance, few dared to question; though
each heart cherished its own secret and terrible
suggestions. Meanwhile, witnesses to the truth
of the tale, gradually increased; and it began
ere long to be secretly whispered, that the lady
of the mist came not unsummoned to disturb
their peace, that there were those among them
who had dared to make a league with death, and
a covenant with the power of darkness. We
grieve to add, that among the objects on whom
these horrid suspicions at last rested, were the
orphan nieces of Governor Leet, Margaret Weldon,
and her fair young sister.

Mrs. Mary Wilmot a widowed lady of high
respectability, who had about three years since
emigrated from England, under the impulse of
religious motives, was now the only remaining
sister of their deceased father. Margaret Weldon
had accompanied her across the Atlantic,
and with her, had passed a large proportion of
her time since her arrival in America; but the
younger sister had now recently for the first time
come to reside beneath the roof of this affectionate
relative. Alice had only a few months
since arrived from England; and as it was generally
believed, the occasion of her mother's death,
though the strange and obstinate reserve with
which Mrs. Wilmot and Governor Leet had repulsed

every inquiry upon the subject, had naturally
given rise to many curious conjectures.
There was much too in the appearance of the
child herself to deepen their interest. Margaret
was pretty, but Alice Weldon was beautiful—
singularly beautiful. It was not the mere grace
of form and feature, nor the expression of infantile
sweetness, that constituted her chief charm.
It was a kind of gentle melancholy that lingered
always amid the beauty of her countenance,
stealing out in the light of her deep blue eyes,
when their snowy and drooping lids suddenly
lifted, softening the dimples of her gayest smile,
mellowing the tones of her rich voice even when
it trembled with laughter, and breathing over
the whole appearance a charm as indescribable
as facinating. And when the report once began
to circulate, that Margaret Weldon had been
seen in actual conference with the lady of the
mist, the suspicions that attached to her name,
were quickly and easily communicated to that of
her mysterious little sister.

It was just in this state of affairs that Henry
Davenport, who now resided beneath his father's
roof, one calm night in June, found himself suddenly
aroused from a profound slumber, at midnight.
The chamber in which he slept, was at
some distance from the sleeping apartments of
the family; and notwithstanding his usually daring
disposition, he found it impossible to suppress
a strong sensation of fear, as he found himself
thus singularly awakened without any visible
cause, and gazing earnestly around the apartment.
It was no human visitant that excited his apprehensions.

The mind of the youth had become tinctured

with the prevailing superstition, and though he
gave not actual credence to all the fearful rumors
to which he listened, there was something
in the very character of the ideas they produced,
well suited to the peculiarities of his disposition;
there was enjoyment even in the awe and horror
they excited. It was, therefore, with a feeling
of trembling expectation, that he now surveyed
the objects of the room. It was small, and a
bright moonlight streamed through the thin curtain,
as every object passed in quick review before
him, until his eye rested on a shadowy figure,
half concealed in the darkness. A low exclamation
of terror burst from his lips. Visions of the
Lady of the Mist, flitted rapidly across his mind;
and he buried his face in the bedclothes.

“Henry Davenport, is it you?” said a low voice,
which he instantly recognized to be that of Margaret
Weldon. “I pray your pardon for disturbing
your repose. I had thought that this was
your sister's apartment.”

“And what would you of Mary at this late
hour?” replied Henry, who was now hastily revolving
in his mind the reports concerning her,
and his voice gathered energy; “Margaret Weldon,
what would you?”

“Speak lower, Henry, and I will tell you,”
continued the same voice, and the boy felt a chill
at his heart, for her light footstep was now heard
approaching the bed. Unwilling, however, to
manifest any emotion, he slowly uncovered his
face and perceived the object of his terror, gently
parting away the curtains.

“Do not be alarmed, Henry, at this singular
visit; it was indeed intended for your sister, but
now I reflect upon it, I am sure you can keep the

secret as well, and do my errand far better.
Henry will you promise not to betray the trust I
am about to repose in you?”

“I will not betray you, Margaret, but,”—and
he paused, as if unwilling to express his meaning.

“I understand you, Henry,” continued Margaret,
“you do not desire my confidence; but surely
you are not the foolish and timid boy to fear one
like me. I know indeed all that you have heard,
and was about to show my confidence in your
courage, by imposing upon you the very task
which alone has procured for me this fearful suspicion.”
There was something in this declaration
which kindled at once the proud spirit of the
youth.

“What is it, Margaret? If there is nothing
but danger in the errand, I will not hesitate.”

“Then take this, Henry,” resumed the young
lady, after a moment's silence, in slow impressive
tones, and pointing as she spoke to a small wicker
basket which she held in her hand, “and when
the first ray of morning appears, carry it for me
to the haunted rock. Nay, Henry, do not be thus
daunted with a name. I believe you a daring
and fearless boy, or I had never trusted you with
the embassy. There is a large and moss grown
stone which lies half way up the acclivity—you
know it—these foolish stories have made it but
too famous. Well, it is there, Henry, that you
must deposit your burthen; and whatever you
find on that stone bring back to me. And yet, it
would not be well,” she added, after a moment's
pause, “that we should seem to communicate.
No, Henry, you may place it on the bench in the
garden, and every morning, that is, so long as you

will perform this embarrassing task, the basket
shall wait for you there.”

“And why?” exclaimed the youth, who could
not yet banish from his mind the suspicion of supernatural
agency. “Margaret, for whom shall
I do all this?”

“For me—for my sake, Henry,—I intreat you,
do not refuse me. I have pledged myself to perform
this task, and in spite of danger and suspicion
have long done it—but a circumstance has
now occurred which will render it for a few days,
at least, improper, nay, impossible.”

“And whom shall I see,” continued Henry, not
at all reassured by the mysterious language of the
young lady.

“No one that will harm you, Henry—the only
danger is in discovery. Curious eyes may watch
your steps. But you must leave the village by a
circuitous path, and do all that you can to elude
suspicion. Henry, I must go. Will you do this
errand?”

“I will,” replied the youth, in a voice which
seemed as though his whole soul had been summoned
for the effort. “Margaret Weldon, I will
do your bidding—but remember—if you are
wiling me away to some dark and unholy deed,
let the sin and the scathe rest on you.”

A smile flitted over the features of the fair visitant,
as, with all the energy of a desperate purpose,
he pronounced the reply; and then turning
with a light and noiseless step, she left the apartment.

But it is not to be supposed that Henry, at once
relapsed into that comfortable slumber which her
entrance had disturbed. A succession of fearful
reflections crowded rapidly upon his mind. The

light trains of association were all kindled. Every
faint dream, or half remembered apprehension of
evil, every supernatural legend, or wild tale of
witch or apparition, from the long forgotten song
of the nursery, to the recent reports concerning
the Lady of the Mist,—all seemed embodied, and
in living array, before him. He feared, and fancied,
and reasoned, until his brain grew sick with
thought, and every moment the cold and dewy
hand of the pale lady seemed ready to press his
brow. “I will go to my father,” he at length exclaimed,
rising hastily from his pillow, and unable
longer to endure his emotion. “It may not be
too late to retract this dreadful promise,”—but
the fear of ridicule at once arrested his purpose.
The moon was shining clear and bright through
his chamber, every object wore its wonted appearance,
and though his eye passed carefully
over every crevice and corner, no sights of horror
presented themselves. His head sunk again on
his pillow, and, wearied and exhausted, he soon
fell into a disturbed slumber.

The fearful visit of Margaret Weldon was now
repeated, with all the aggravated horrors an excited
imagination could furnish; but instead
of Margaret, the pale lady stood beside him,
her cold, ghastly countenance peering in
through the folds of his curtains, and commanding
him to follow. A resistless influence seemed
to compel his obedience, and while yet struggling
with its power, he awoke.

A faint streak in the east convinced him that it
was the break of day, and he hastily recalled to
his mind the events of the past night. But the
dominion of darkness was now over, and though
there mingled some slight apprehensions of evil

with the proud consciousness of the trust reposed
in him, he prepared, without a moment's hesitation,
to fulfil his promise.

Perfect stillness reigned throughout the village,
as he threw open the door of his father's dwelling.
His eye glanced instinctively across the way, upon
the quiet and beautiful little dwelling of Mrs.
Wilmot. For a moment he fancied he saw at one
of the upper windows the outline of a female
figure, but the fog which was rolling over the village
prevented any minute observations. He was
anxious also to avoid the scrutiny of any curious
spectators; and springing over a low hedge that
obstructed his way, he moved slowly across a
smooth meadow. The grass was loaded with a
thick vapor, and the sweet breath of the young
clover perfumed the air, as with a light and hasty
tread, the boy moved onward, brushing for
himself a path amid the wilderness of gems, and
crushing at every step the beauty of some bright
blossom. Now and then his eye turned anxiously
upon the little village he was leaving.

The prospect was not the same which the same
situation might at the present day command—
nay you might now look in vain for the flowery
meadow itself—the squares of the city have long
since spoiled its loveliness. The jail, the church,
and the school-house, now constituted the ornaments
of the public green; and these, with a few
scattered clusters of houses were all that then
appeared as the germ of that beautiful city which
now yields its shade to thousands. Nevertheless
there was in the uniformly neat appearance of
these dwellings, a slight development of the same
principle which at the present day renders New-Haven
an object of admiration. The small green

enclosures in front of each, surrounded with white
palings and filled with clustering roses, the luxuriant
woodbine and honeysuckle, that here and
there shadowed the windows with their rich curtaining,
together with the shaded gravel walks
running in various directions through the village,
all sufficiently evidenced that the power of appreciating
the beautiful, had not been banished
from the homes of the Puritans.

But the mind of Henry Davenport was occupied
with far more interesting reflections than
these, as, after a circuitous route, he at length
found himself beyond sight of the village, and
rapidly pursuing his way to the haunted rock.
He was about to prove the truth or falsity of that
strange tale, which had so long agitated the village,
and his young heart throbbed rapidly as he
descried the object of his destination, towering
bold and high through the dense atmosphere that
surrounded it. The pale moonlight, meanwhile,
had quite faded in the beams of morning; and as
he drew near the foot of the rock, the broad rays of
the level sun darted full upon it, struggling through
the floating masses of vapor, and kindling the
whole mountain with a living radiance.

Here our young hero paused, not merely for the
sake of the momentary rest, which the protracted
walk might certainly have excused, but for the
purpose of rallying his mental forces for the expected
encounter. He was now at a distance from the
habitations of men, and a few dim specks around
the distant spire was all that indicated the location
of the village. The chirping note of here
and there a solitary bird, came swelling from the
woods, and seemed only to increase the sense of
his loneliness, while the recollection of the spirit

whose precincts he was about to invade, rushed
painfully to his mind. His eye glanced at the
same moment upon his mysterious burthen—what
fearful spells might it not contain, what magic influence
might it not exert upon its bearer; and
he gazed and fancied, until Pandora's box itself
would scarce have seemed a more dreadful load;
and withal, as he recalled the conversation of the
preceding night, he distinctly remembered that
Margaret had failed to assure him that he should
not behold the object of his terror.

But at last with an impulse of the same high
spirit which had first induced him to accept the
embassy, he clasped his ill-omened burthen, and
began manfully to scramble up the rock. We
must confess, however, that his glances towards
the summit were “few and far between,” it was
enough for him that he descried in the distance
the projecting table like stone on which he was
to deposit his load, and he cared not to penetrate
too curiously into the secrets of the dense fog
which still wrapped the height above. He was
now within a short distance of the stones, when
directing his eye for a moment upwards it became
suddenly fixed by a fascination as strong
and dreadful as that which the serpent throws
over its victim. Was it the vision of a distempered
fancy, or a reality? Be this as it might,
he now surely discovered, descending from the
cliff above, what seemed the faint outline of a
human figure. Slowly and gradually, it became
more distinct and Henry ere long recognized the
white robe, the pale and beautiful features of the
lady of the mist. He would have turned and fled
for life, but no human help was nigh—he was alone
on the great rock, and he felt that it would be

vain to seek with mortal steps to escape the
grasp of the spirit. So he moved on with a kind
of desperate energy, his eye still fixed on the advancing
form of the lady. They were now within
a few yards of each other, and seemed about
to meet just at the haunted stone.

At that instant the mysterious stranger paused,
her bright and beautiful eyes rested on him for a
moment, and, had all the charms and spells he
had dreaded, been concentrated in that one
glance, the change produced on his feelings
could not have been more instantaneous. Fears
and doubts were all forgotten in an emotion of
unmingled surprise. There was something in his
innermost heart, which told him at once that
that soft glance, that look of inexpressible sweetness,
he had often met ere now, where or how
he knew not, whether in dreams or visions, but
the expression was as familiar as his own name.

After regarding him for a moment, the lady
turned slowly about, and by the path she had
descended, began to mount the acclivity. Henry
darted forward to the stone. A basket like the
one he bore, already occupied it. The exchange
was quickly made; and turning his way downward
he soon found himself standing safe at the
foot of the haunted rock.

When Henry Davenport, after depositing the
basket in the appointed place, arrived again at
his father's dwelling, he learned that the whole
village had been thrown into a state of strong
excitement, by the reappearance of the identical
travellers whose adventures have hitherto claimed
so large a share of our attention. It was rumored
that they had arrived the evening previous,
having pushed their journey only as far south as

the Dutch colony at Manhattan, and were now
prepared to institute a more thorough search,
being convinced that the objects of their pursuit
were yet concealed in the colony of New-Haven.

Early that day, the Rev. Mr. Davenport found
himself favored with a second visit from his Majesty's
commissioners, Messrs Kirk and Kellond.
During their interview, the amiable family of the
clergymen, were grieved to perceive that intercourse
with their southern neighbors, had by no
means improved the manners of their guests;
and though the good minister himself manifested
all possible forbearance, the conversation at last
ended with bitter and taunting words on the part
of the strangers. They were however assured
that the answer given them on the occasion of
their former visit, must be considered decisive
—no assistance could be furnished them by the
magistrates of the colony, though all authorized
commissioners were of course allowed full liberty
of searching their dwellings. They were informed,
however, that if the judges had, as they asserted,
secreted themselves in the colony, they
were bound to exercise their own wits according
to the tenor of their directions, in ascertaining the
place of concealment.

The ensuing day it was ascertained that the
commissioners had taken lodgings for a fortnight
at the village inn. And from that place daily irruptions
were made, into various parts of the
town and its vicinity, much to the annoyance of
the worthy inhabitants.

Meanwhile Henry Davenport continued his
visits to the seat of the mountain spirit; and every
morning with increasing fortitude encountered
the fearful vision of the white robed lady. After

the first morning, however, she had never approached
so near as before, standing at such a
distance, while he deposited his burthen, that
the dim outline of her figure alone was discernible.
But as he became familiar with the sight,
and every morning found himself returning from
his ramble alive and unharmed, curiosity began
to obtain the ascendancy over his fears, and he
cherished an irresistible desire to learn something
more concerning the lady of the mist. A circumstance
soon occurred which gave a keener edge
to this feeling, removing, at the same time, all
his most painful conjectures.

It was the fourth evening after his singular interview
with Miss Weldon, that Henry Davenport
was dispatched to Mrs. Wilmot, as the bearer
of a letter which had that day been received
from Boston, inclosed in a pacquet to his father.
He paused a moment at the gate. A rich flow
of music came swelling from the open window
of the little parlor; there was a mingling of sweet
voices within, and Henry lingered awhile at the
door, unnoticed, and unwilling to disturb the sacred
melody of their evening hymn.

Mrs. Wilmot was seated opposite the door, and
Miss Weldon beside her, while the lovely little
Alice reclined at her feet, leaning her fair young
head with all its beautiful and clustering curls,
upon her sister and a vivid beam of moonlight
from the window played full upon her countenance.
There was a pallid cast to her usually
blooming features, and with an emotion too
powerful for description, Henry at that moment
discovered a close and striking resemblance to
the strange face that gazed on him so fearfully,
through the mist of the haunted rock. The forehead,

the lip, the soft melancholy expression
which had seemed so strangely familiar in the
Lady of the Mist, were all in a moment recognized.
The agitation of this discovery, had absorbed
every faculty of the astonished youth, and when
at length amid a pause of the deep melody, the
eyes of the interesting group were directed towards
him, his confusion and embarrassment
were but too evident.

“I have a letter for Margaret,” he at length articulated,
suddenly recollecting his errand as he
advanced to the sofa.

“And whence comes it,” said Mrs. Wilmot,
as the young lady seized it with avidity, and,
breaking the seal, glanced her eye hastily over its
contents.

“From Boston,” replied Miss Weldon in a low
voice, her eye falling again instantly on the unread
page; and, notwithstanding his emotion,
Henry could not but perceive, that the tidings of
which he had been the unconcious bearer were
of a peculiarly interesting nature. The cheek of
the young lady became flushed, as she perused
the letter, and her countenance exhibited marks
of strong emotion, whether of joy or sorrow he
knew not. Indeed he was now completely occupied
with a plan he had formed since his entrance,
and as soon as the affability of Mrs. Wilmot
would permit, he hastened home to mature
his projects.

4. CHAPTER IV.

When Henry Davenport, the next morning,
again set out on his excursion, it was with a settled
determination, at all hazards, to pierce the
singular mystery which enveloped his intercourse
with the Lady of the Mist.

This resolution was not lightly adopted. He
had passed hours of the night in revolving within
himself its expediency, and had at length concluded,
that whether she vanished in thin air, or floated
away on the morning mist, or dropped from his
sight amid the depths of the mountain, he would
surely know from whence she came. For this purpose,
he had arisen half an hour earlier than the
usual time. At first a clear starlight was all that
illumined his path; and when at length he stood
at the foot of the rock, the morning only glimmered
in the east.

Full of his determination, after placing the
basket upon the stone he stretched himself
quietly beside it and directing his eyes above,
began, as well as the darkness would permit, to
watch the approach of the mountain lady. The
beams of the morning were rapidly gathering on
the cliff, when the boy at length discovered what
seemed a human form, winding around the remote
extremity of the rock, and he was not long
in identifying it with the object of his curiosity.

A projecting ledge formed the path by which she
approached; and Henry shuddered as he beheld
her gliding lightly over the dizzy height, apparently
without fear or impediment.

“Ah, she pauses not for cliff or break—the thin
air is firm enough for that light form—mortal beings
tread not with such a step”—he muttered, as
the object of his gaze drew nearer. He waited
only to be well convinced that the form he now
descried was indeed what he had imagined, and
then, turning hastily about, and following a path
parallel to the one she trod, proceeded as swiftly
as the nature of the footing would allow, in the
very direction from which she had just advanced.
It was only by clinging to the shrubs which grew
in the clefts of the stony surface, that he was enabled
to maintain his ground. Now and then,
he paused to recover breath, casting too, occasionally,
a longing glance at the little village
whose blue smokes were just beginning to curl in
the atmosphere. After persevering for some time
in this fatiguing exercise, he paused a moment to
watch for the reappearance of the mysterious
stranger. He waited not long in vain. The light
form he had so often descried in the distance, in
a few minutes more, again became visible, treading
with the same fearless rapidity along her airy
path. He gazed as for life—still she moved onward
and his aching eye followed her with persevering
earnestness.

At length near a formless pile of huge and rugged
rocks that seemed as if thrown together by
some primeval convulsion of nature, she paused
and as she turned full around, Henry perceived
that she bore in her hand the basket he had so
recently deposited on the other side of the rock.

At that moment, there appeared standing on the
cliff beside her, a dark and lofty figure, and the
next, the cliff and the nodding shrubs were all that
remained. It was in vain that Henry wiped the
mist from his eyes, and gazed and gazed again—
the objects they had before rested on were gone,
not a trace of them remained.

The spot from which they had thus mysteriously
vanished, was at some distance above the
point where he stood; and, with a determination
to examine it more closely, he began to climb
the sides of the rock by means of the strong
bushes which every where presented themselves.
As he continued to ascend, his eye still fixed
on the mysterious point where he had last beheld
the lady and her companion, he suddenly
perceived, to his inexpressible relief, a small
opening among the rocks, which the shadowing
bushes had hitherto concealed. To be at
once relieved from the dreadful certainty that
the being with whom he had been thus intimately
connected, was only a supernatural illusion,
certainly afforded a strong satisfaction to
his excited mind. The cave was sufficiently
large to contain human beings, and he doubted
not that those on whom his eyes had a few moments
before rested, were now concealed within
its walls. Here the youth paused to consider his
situation, and seating himself on a fragment of
rock, wiped away the heavy sweat which the fear
and toil had gathered on his young forehead.

Far below lay stretched in the distance, the
clear waters of the sound, a calm sea of liquid
brightness, rolling and glittering in the light of
morning, and winding far onward in its curved
shores of green, till it seemed in the long perspective

a faint blue stream, and at last a fading speck
on the distant horizon; while all before and
around lay a broad magnificent prospect of hill
and dale, pastures and meadows and waving woodlands,
all swelling in the rich luxuriance of June,
and glorious in the rising sunshine. The boy felt
his young heart revive, as the fresh breeze came
up from below, kissing his brow and burning
cheeck; he could not believe that in the sight of
so much purity and loveliness, the unholy spirits
he feared would ever have chosen their residence;
and he felt his courage renewed and his heart
strengthened to continue the pursuit.

But the promise of secresy which Margaret had
extorted from him, was not to be violated; and
though he cast many a wishful glance upon the
entrance of the cavern, the recollection of the
time which must have elapsed since he left the
village, at once checked his purpose. To attempt
any further investigation on the present occasion,
might draw upon him many curious inquiries, and
perhaps discover the secret of his morning rambles.
At that moment the sound of the distant
bell came faintly through the distance, and though
broken and scattered by the woods and rocks
which intervened, he soon ascertained that it was
tolling the hour of seven. Without further hesitation,
therefore he descended from the rock, and
proceeded with all speed on the road to the village.

5. CHAPTER V.

During all the avocations of the ensuing day,
the strange cavern of the rock occupied a preeminent
place in the mind of Henry Davenport.
Whether he wrote, or played, or studied, whether
his eye rested on the solemn visage of the pedagogue,
or the laughing faces of his school fellows,
or the beloved and familiar countenances of his
own household, one single absorbing idea filled
his mind. It was the cave—the high lone cave
of the haunted rock, which excluded every other
object from the vision of his “mind's eye.”

A singular report, which though at first faintly
whispered, was now every where gathering
strength in its march through the village, at
length arrested his attention. It was rumored
that the Rev. Samuel Russel had been recently
chosen the pastor of a small church, in a beautiful
village of the Massachusetts Colony, and that,
on the ensuing Thursday, Margaret Weldon
would accompany him thither as his bride.
But the strong interest which this communication
at first excited, was soon forgotten in the
higher interest of his intended excursion to the
mountain.

The sun was about an hour above the horizon,
and its clear light was playing full upon the western
side of the rock, when Henry again found

himself within sight of the entrance to the cave.
It is not to be supposed that his love for the wild
and romantic, had as yet entirely subdued the awe
which his possible vicinity to the dwelling of
some unearthly being was calculated to excite,
indeed, as he drew nearer the spot, his movements
became every moment slower, and he often
paused hesitating and afraid to proceed. One
effort more, and he would stand before the cave.
He looked for a moment downward. The idea
of being hurled from that dizzy height, as the
punishment of his temerity, rushed suddenly and
painfully to his mind. But it was too late to retreat,
and the next moment found him at the entrance
of the cave, gazing fearfully within.

Notwithstanding the strong yellow sunlight that
now beamed through the opening, the room within
was only in part illuminated. The walls of
the cave, were here and there hollowed into
deep recesses which partially excluded its beams.
Various articles of rude furniture presented themselves,
but the eye of Henry, unattracted by
these, wandered onward to a low moss couch,
resting at last with eager curiosity upon the
figure of a venerable stranger wrapped in a military
cloak and reposing quietly upon it. He
was asleep, and as Henry soon ascertained, the
only occupant of this rude apartment: The selfsame
basket which Henry had so often transported
to the rock, stood on a small table beside
him, and near it a cup containing a few delicate
wild flowers. He gazed, for a moment earnestly
around him, and then with a slow and
noiseless tread approached the couch of the mysterious
sleeper.

His face was uncovered, and a feeling of deep

awe stole over the ardent spirit of the youth, as
he gazed on the chastened sorrowful expression
of that noble countenance. Age and sorrow had
marked his forehead with wrinkles, and silvered
the few thin locks which lay on his temples, and
yet, in every line of those high features, there
gleamed a dignity, a grandeur of soul, which
Henry had often dreamed of in his high-wrought
fancies of Grecian and Roman heroes and of Hebrew
kings and warriors, but which, till this moment,
he had never witnessed.

A sound like that of approaching footsteps
among the loose stones of the rock at length
aroused him from his reverie. Henry gazed fearfully
around him; there was no retreat. A wide
plank which had evidently been used for the purpose
of guarding the entrance, now reclined in
a sloping direction against the wall. It was the
only possible concealment; and he had glided
behind it, just as a tall and dark shadow fell on
the floor of the cave. The next moment, a stately
step echoed within, and Henry ere long ventured
to look from his concealment. Another
stranger, comparatively young, of lofty mien and
countenance, had entered this strange dwelling.
His head bent thoughtfully down, and there was
something in the restless flashing of his eye,
which conveyed the idea of perplexity and
trouble.

The sleeping stranger was soon aroused, and,
rising from his couch, he slowly approached the
entrance of the cave.

“The sun is almost down,” he said, turning
anxiously to his companion. “Saw you nothing
of her?”

“Nothing, sir,” replied the other in a melancholy
tone. “That I have waited for her coming,

is enough of itself to prevent it. There is a
blight on all my hopes and wishes, on the very
lightest of them; and there was that in the look
and tone of the speaker, which showed that those
bitter words were wrung from the innermost
depths of a wounded spirit.

At that moment, the clear and silvery tones of
the old man, fell on the ear of Henry, and he perceived
that he had seated himself by the table
with an open book before him. His voice was
singularly melodious, and the effect of the holy
and beautiful words, thus solemnly repeated, was
striking, and intensely interesting.

“These are they which came out of great
tribulation, and have washed their robes, and
made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
Therefore are they before the throne of God and
serve him day and night in his temple. And he
that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them.
They shall hunger no more; neither thirst any
more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor
any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst
of the throne, shall feed them, and lead them to
living fountains of water; and God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes.”

He closed the book and there was a momentary
silence, interrupted only by the continued
tread of the other. “Few indeed, my son,” continued
the old man, “few and evil are the days
of our pilgrimage on earth; but let us not waste
these blessed trials, in bitter and vain repinings.
Rather praise Him, William, that he hath counted
us worthy to suffer for his name's sake. I know,
my son, that proud and restless spirit of thine,
will sometimes mount in spite of thy better reason;
but oh! let it not rise in murmurs against
the Lord that begot thee.”

“Heaven will forgive my crime,” exclaimed
the other, impatiently, “there is a boundary to
mortal endurance; and I am weary—nay I am
sick—very soul sick of hopes and exertions.
My father, life may be dear to you—to me it is
a weariness. I will give up the desperate struggle,
and go forth and die the death which heaven
hath doomed me.”

“And how hath it been doomed to you? My
son, your soul is blinded with a vain and foolish
sophistry. Because the edict of His weak and
foolish prince, hath said that we shall die, hath
Heaven doomed our death? And would you give
up life, and the service of God on earth, because it
is a weariness? Would you give up the conflict,
because your soul is sick? No, my son, God hath
not yet summoned us to our long rest—we have
not yet overcome, that we should be set as pillars
in the temple above. Patience hath not yet
had its perfect work, and long years of sorrow and
pain, may yet be in our path to heaven.”

“But you do not consider, sir,” rejoined the
other, “that we are perhaps drawing upon this
colony a cup of wrath, which the offering of our
blood might avert. Shall we look tamely on,
and behold the wild beast out of the word destroying
a vine of the Lord's own planting, for
the sake of the inglorious shelter it might yield
us? Heaven forbid.”

“But are you not wrong?” continued the elder.
“The magistrates of the colony have refused to
furnish any concealment; and the kindness of a
private individual, even if discovered, would never
bring ruin upon this people. And, William,” he
went on in a lower voice, while his tone trembled
slightly, “would you leave your wife a widow,

and your offspring fatherless, because you dared
not endure the suffering that joyfully and unmurmuringly
she has shared with you?”

A low groan was the only reply. “William,”
continued the old man burying his face in his
hands, “can you look on our noble hearted Isabella,
and say that life is a weariness? Would
you leave her alone in her sorrows, with none
to sooth her amid the blight that has darkened
all her young dreams; when she hath soothed
and loved us so tenderly, and followed us into
exile, drinking unmurmuringly of every bitter
cup which we have tasted, following us into the
dens and caves of the earth, that she might
brighten them with her smiles, and varying the
darkness of our destiny with an affection as intense
and devoted, nay a thousand times more so,
than any thing we ever dreamed of in the day
of our affluence. William, is there nothing in
love like this, to make life worth living for; or
is it because I am a doting father, that the sight
of such devotedness doth seem to breath around
this faded earth a kind of living fragrance?”

“Make me not mad with my sufferings,” replied
the other. “I tell you my heart strings
are ready to burst, you must not touch them wantonly.
My father, if I had never loved our Isabella,
or even if had loved her only with such
love as yours, I would endure all suffering cheerfully
and joyfully to the end, if so I could in any
way soothe or comfort her. But to behold the
noble being that I wooed and won amid halls of
wealth wasting, and watching, and toiling away
her bright existence; and every day to behold
another and another shade fading from her cheek,
and every hour that light and beautiful form ripening

for the tomb—and all for me! She
might have been living in some fair home in her
native land with as fresh a bloom as when I gathered
her to adorn my own dark destiny. If she
would but weep and mourn over her altered
fate, I would nerve my soul and bear it—but
she smiles, and smiles on, when I know her heart
is bursting. O I would rather die a thousand
deaths, than see her thus blighted and withering,
because I have loved her,” in spite of his manliness
the cheek of the noble stranger was wet with
tears.

A light step was heard without the cavern and
Henry Davenport felt his heart throbbing so violently
he almost feared it would discover his presence,
as a slender female figure glided by the
place of his concealment. A dark bonnet and
mantle at first prevented his anxious gaze—but
these were soon thrown off and Henry at once
beheld without doubt or disguise, the pale white
robed lady of the mist the wife and daughter of
the exiled regicides—the good, noble, the beautiful
Isabella Goffe.

The sun was just setting as she entered the
cave, and its deep glow threw a kind of mellow
tint around the forward features of the lady, so
that a faint bloom lingered on the cheek that had
seemed so fearfully pale amid the mists of the
morning. She bore in her hand a boquet of wild
blossoms as with a light and languid tread she
advanced towards the bench on which the elder
of the strangers reclined.

“Isabella, my daughter you have been absent
long,” exclaimed the old man, as she reclined
herself on the stone and threw her arm kindly
around him. “Hath any evil befallen you, my

daughter,” he continued looking earnestly and
sorrowfully on her countenance.

“I have seen,” replied the lady, in a voice
whose clear and sweet tones sent a sudden thrill
through the heart of Henry, “I have seen the
cruel and blood-thirsty men who watch our steps,
and heard them declare that they would search
every wood and rock and cave ere they gave up
the pursuit. This rude dwelling will not long
be ours. We must seek some other home if we
would not perish.”

“And where,” rejoined he whom Henry now
know to be Goffe, “if the dens and caves of the
mountain are not ours where on earth have we
a dwelling place? My father, my lovely Isabella,”
he added, slowly approaching, and seating himself
beside them, “the time has surely come for
us to die, aud why should we any longer resist
the will of Heaven. Let us go boldly forth, and
yield up this load of bitterness.” There was a
short and breathless silence.

“My son,” replied the old man, “I have read
of a higher and better being than ourselves, who
once had not where to lay his head. It is enough
for the disciple that he be as his master and the
servant as his Lord.”

“William, dear William,” repeated the lady,
as she parted the dark locks away from his high
pale brow, and gazed wistfully on his features,
“do not grieve so bitterly. In our father's house
there are many mansions, and I doubt not that we
shall ere long share their blessedness. I know,”
she added in gentle and soothing tones, “that
your lot has been a bitter one. I will not speak
of mine. It would have been happy, happy beyond
all comparison, could I have soothed the

anguish of yours, or lightened one sorrow from
my father's heart. But one effort more remains
for me. And yet,” she added, her eye glancing
for a moment around the cave, “it is a bitter
thing to leave you thus amid perils and death.”

“What mean you, Isabella?” exclaimed the
old man, while the husband gazed earnestly upon
her. “Would you take away the only earthly
joy that Heaven has left us? Isabella, did I hear
you aright?”

“Yes, father, I must leave you, I am going
over the waters back to my native land. I will
no longer waste my days in vain repinings while
a chance of happiness remains untried. The
king's heart is in the hand of the Lord; and he
can turn it as the rivers of water are turned. I
will kneel at the foot of his throne, and weary
him with tears and prayers till he grants me your
pardon. Nay, William, do not urge me. I have
made my resolution, and must and will fulfil it.
Two days from this, I sail for England. Heaven
grant, that if I see your faces again on earth, it
may be in peace.” Her voice trembled, she
paused, and leaned her pale cheek upon his
shoulder, while audible sobs interrupted the
stillness.

Meanwhile Henry Davenport had listened in
painful suspense to this singular conversation,
dreading every moment lest some wandering
glance should detect the place of his concealment.
As he saw that the sunset glow was fast
fading from the cavern, he trembled lest his continued
absence should excite the alarm of the
family, and thus discover the retreat of the exiles.
The present moment seemed the most favorable
for effecting an unnoticed retreat; for the inmates

of the cave were, evidently, completely
absorbed in their own bitter emotions. There
was only a step from his concealment, to the entrance;
and with a suppressed breath the boy at
length stole out unregarded, joyfully remembering,
as he glanced once more upon the clear
heaven, that instead of ministering to the spirits
of evil, he had unconsciously relieved the wants
of those devoted exiles.

Animated with this idea, he was the next morning
setting out on his accustomed errand, when
he perceived with surprise two gentlemen, arm
in arm, coming hastily down the street. This surprise,
was exchanged for strong apprehension,
when, as they drew nearer, he recognized the
forms of the well known and hated commissioners.

“And where now so early, my little fellow?”
said Kellond, pausing before the gate. “The
ghosts and goblins must still be all awake, and
how dare you venture without bible and psalm
book?”

“Let me beg you, sir, not to concern yourself
on my account,” replied the youth, whose excited
feelings led him strongly to resent the unceremonious
address, “I have only set out for a
little ramble, and do not know that I am in any
particular need of your sympathy.”

“You are going for a little ramble, are you?
and so are we. Perhaps we may as well proceed
together. Hark'ee my boy,” continued Mr. Kellond
bending his eyes earnestly on his features,
“Dids't ever hear of the Lady of the Mist, a capricious
and handsome little spirit who seems to
have taken up her residence on one of these mountains
hereabouts. Did'st ever hear of her?”

The boy felt the rapidly changing hues of his

countenance, but he looked boldly in their faces,
“hear of her!” he replied in a tone of surprise,
“aye, who has not heard of the pale Lady of the
Mist?”

“And thou hast seen her too, mayhap,” rejoined
Mr. Kirk, directing upon him a keen and
searching glance. “Will you please, young
gentleman, let me examine that little basket of
yours?”

“The basket is not mine,” replied Henry, indignantly,
“and if it were, sir, I assure you I
should allow no one to meddle with it. Have
you any commands, gentlemen,” he added, essaying
to open the gate on which they leaned.

“Why touching this same pale spirit,” said
Mr. Kellond, “whose very name doth turn thy
young cheek so white, my friend here, and myself,
have a particular desire to take a peep at
her ere we leave the village. Could you guide
us to her residence.”

“And would you brave the fury of the enemy,
for the sake of your curiosity?” replied the boy
in a tone of strong remonstrance. “If you would,
sir, indeed I dare not go with you.”

“Look here, my lad,” said the other, holding
up before him a silver coin, “we must see this
mountain lady, and if you will guide us, this shall
be yours.”

The boy seemed to hesitate and looked earnestly
around him. “Do you assure me?” he
at length replied, with a strong effort, “shall the
money surely be mine, if I will guide you to the
haunted rock?”

“My word of honor for it, it shall surely be
yours. Only show us the pale lady.”

“Then wait a moment for me,” replied the

youth, with an appearance of agitation, “I must
carry this basket to its owner Miss Margaret Weldon
and will return to you presently.” So saying
he darted across the way, and began to knock
impatiently at the door of Mrs. Wilmot's dwelling.
Ere long it was gently opened, and Margaret
herself stood behind it.

“Come in—what would you, Henry?” she inquired
with an air of deep emotion, and she hastily
closed the door. “Tell me, I beseech you, Henry,
what do yonder gentlemen desire of you?”

“That I would guide them to the dwelling
of the pale lady, of whom they have heard so
much; and believe me, Margaret, they suspect
the truth. They are waiting for me—what shall
I do?”

Without inquiring concerning the manner in
which he had made himself acquainted with the
secret of the cave, she now stood for a moment
absorbed in silent and intense thought. “Henry,
are you sure” she at length said, “that they
are ignorant of the locality of the haunted rock?”

“If I may judge from their inquiries, they
know nothing about it.”

“Then hear me, and remember that the lives
of great and good men, depend on your actions.
You must lead these strangers astray. By the
most circuitous route you can take, guide them to
the East rock—make all possible delays on the road
—any thing to amuse them and gain time for their
victims. Conduct them to the remote side of the
rock, and thence around the whole.”

“And when they at length discover that I have
deceived them,” interrupted Henry.

“Fear them not—they dare not harm you—
only delay it as long as possible. Go Henry, they

are waiting for you, but remember and detain
them.”

“I will—trust me, Margaret, I will,” and setting
down the basket, he darted forth to meet his
impatient companions.

Miss Weldon waited only until the forms of the
strangers and their young guide were no longer
visible, and then quickly arranging herself, she
hastened down the steps through the little yard,
and with a boldness which only the desperation
of the case would have prompted, she proceeded
by the most public path, directly across the village,
towards the haunted rock. Fear lent
strange speed to her steps, and in less than an
hour from the time that Henry had first made his
appearance she was at the mouth of the cavern.
Isabella Goffe had discovered her approach, and
stood without, waiting to receive her.”

“Your father, your husband, dear lady,” exclaimed
Margaret leaning half breathless against
the entrance.

“And what evil awaits them, say it quickly,
Margaret, nay, be it what it may, I am prepared.”

“Then I must tell you,” continued the agitated
girl, recovering breath and moving hastily
into the cave, “that the king's officers are at this
moment searching for you, and for this cave.
They have heard the reports concerning the Lady
of the Mist, and are not credulous enough to
believe them. If life is dear to you, you must fly
with all speed.”

“And where are they now,” said Isabella, with
a look of sudden calmness while her cheek became
white as the fresh fallen snow, “Margaret,
if they are already on the rock, it is too late
to fly.”

“No, no,” replied the young lady, “Henry Davenport
has led them astray, and they are at this
moment searching the East rock, in the mistaken
idea that it contains this cave.”

Isabella Goffe had meanwhile approached her
husband who still sat in a recess, his brow leaning
thoughtfully on his hand, and manifesting an
appearance of perfect indifference, while Margaret
pronounced her fearful intelligence.

“Do you hear her?” said the lady, twining her
arm around him, and looking earnestly in his
countenance.

“Nay, Isabella,” replied the outcast, shaking
his head and regarding her with a smile of sorrowful
affection, “it is vain to attempt it. None
dare to harbor us, and even if they did, it would
only serve to draw on them the fearful blight that
rests on me and mine.”

“William,” continued the lady solemnly, a
shade of agony darkening her features, “will
you perish without an effort?”

“Efforts are vain, my precious Isabella. It is
the will of heaven that we should die; and surely
it is a light thing for us who have no hopes here,”
and he still leaned motionless against the rock.

“Now hear me, William Goffe,” exclaimed the
lady, in clear and unfaultering tones, “if you love
me, if you have ever loved me; nay if you have
not, by my own love for you, I beseech you cast
not madly away the life which God hath given
you,” and a smile of intense intreaty wreathed the
lip of the suppliant.

“Any thing, my blessed Isabella,” said her
husband, rising hastily up while his strong tones
trembled with emotion, “I will do and suffer
all things for your sake, even though it were to

live ages of these bitter moments,” and they now
approached the entrance of the cave.

Margaret Weldon was leaning against it, her
face deeply flushed; and the old man stood near
her, listening to her words.

“Do you hear, my son,” exclaimed the latter
as they approached, “do you see the path which
Providence has prepared for us. This kind young
lady offereth us a home and shelter so long as it
shall please Heaven to spare our existence.”

“Where, and how?” said the other in surprise.

“You shall hear it William, but there is no
time for explanation now. We must hasten our
retreat ere the pursuers discover their mistake.
Heaven reward you noble girl,” he added placing
his hand on the head of Margaret, “for that in
the home of your happiness you have not forgotten
the sorrowful; and the blessing of him that
was ready to perish shall surely come upon you.”

Meanwhile, Isabella Goffe with that look of
beautiful composure she so well knew how to assume,
was hastening the escape of her devoted
relatives. A forced smile still played on her
countenance, and, save its deathlike paleness,
there was no expression of the intense agony
which wrung the heart of the heroic wife.

“Farewell, my father,” she cried, throwing her
arm around the old man, as he lingered a moment
on the threshold. “It will be long ere we
meet again—we may never meet again,” she
added solemnly, and with a strong effort subduing
the sobs of her anguish. “Bless me, Oh, my
father,” and she fell upon his neck, while the old
man breathed forth a fervent petition that the
God of heaven would be to his cherished one as
a hiding place from the wrath of that fearful tempest.

Then turning away and leaning upon his
staff he moved rapidly downward.

But William Goffe still lingered at the door of
the cave. “You must not stay,” exclaimed the
lady, fervently. “Farewell, William. Long and
bright days may yet be in store for us, even on
earth; and if we see each other's faces no more
here, we will so live that we may meet in heaven.”
He folded her in his arms, his stern lip trembled,
and his eye grew dim with tears.

“Farewell, thou best and loveliest—thou art
indeed more meet to bloom amid the inheritance
of saints in light, than here—farewell, my own
precious Isabella, fare thee well,”—and wrapping
the mantle around his noble form, he turned abruptly
from the cave.

Margaret and the high souled Isabella were
still standing at the entrance, and gazing earnestly
upon the fast receding forms of the judges,
when the sound of a loud trampling in the path
beneath, arrested their attention. Two well
dressed cavaliers, whom they instantly recognized
as the royal pursuivants, were ascending the steep
acclivity. Near the foot of the mountain, the
quick eye of Isabella, familiar with every avenue
to the place of refuge, discovered their horses under
the shade of a large tree, awaiting their return.
As the cavaliers approached the summit,
their glances were directed frequently and earnestly
in various drections, resting at last on the
form of Isabella, for Margaret had retreated within
the cave. Mingled surprise and admiration
were visible on their countenances, as they now
obtained a nearer survey of the beautiful inhabitant
of the cliff; and as if they had expected to
find the Lady of the Mist, only the disguised

form of one of the regicides, they were evidently
confounded. The lady herself, with a reserved
and graceful dignity, seemed waiting their message.

“We are seeking,” said Kirk, as they paused a
few steps from the place she occupied, “we are
seeking to obey the mandate of his Majesty, by
arresting two condemned criminals, the regicides
Whalley and Goffe.”

“Then let me assure you, sir,” replied the lady,
in tones which, in spite of all efforts, betrayed
her emotion, “your excursion here is fruitless, I
am the sole inhabitant of the cave, and you must
seek elsewhere for your victims.”

“And how long,” inquired Kellond, who perceived
at once, by the manner of the lady, that
their conjectures were not groundless, “how long
since the said criminals effected their escape from
hence?—Shall we search the cave?” he continued,
turning to his companion, for Isabella Goffe now
maintained a haughty silence.

“It is in vain searching the cage, when the
bird has flown,” replied Kirk, following at the
same moment the direction of the lady's eye, as
she cast a troubled and involuntary glance upon
the distant road. “Tom Kellond, look ye there!”
he exclaimed, suddenly and eagerly pointing his
companion, as he spoke, to a point in the road
where it wound round a green and shaded hill,
on the side of which the forms of the fugitives
were at that moment distinctly visible.

“Can you tell us, madam,” rejoined Mr. Kellond
hastily, “if the persons you are gazing after
so earnestly, have anything to do with the objects
of our pursuit? Methinks they answer well the description.”
A flash of unutterable agony for a

moment lighted the beautiful eye of Isabella;
the next indeed a careless and haughty smile appeared
on her features, but it was too late—they
had read the meaning of her first glance, and
now without waiting for further inquiries, moved
swiftly down the rock.

“There is no hope for them, Margaret,—
they will surely perish,” exclaimed Isabella, as
Miss Weldon issued from the cave,—“they will
surely perish,”—and she folded her arms, and
gazed in silent and hopeless agony upon the distant
and beloved forms of the unconscious victims.

“But remember,” replied the young lady, “it
is only our superior height which enables us to
see them. Some time must elapse, ere they again
become visible to the pursuers; and perhaps they
may first be warned of their approach.”

“Ah, how slow—how slow ye move,” muttered
the lady, unconsciously addressing the objects of
her solicitude. “Would to heaven that my voice
were the thunder or the whirlwind, so it might
reach your ear. My father—William—my own
William,—fly—fly—I conjure you,”—and her
voice was choked with a burst of agony, too wild
for control. “Ha! Margaret, as I live, they are
waiting for their enemy,” she continued, after a
moment's pause; and Margaret perceived, with a
sensation of mingled astonishment and horror,
that the forms of the distant travelers were now
indeed apparently stationary.

The road at a short distance before them was
intersected by a small but rapid stream, over which
a bridge had been recently erected; and after
gazing, for a few moments, in every direction

around them, the persecuted judges again moved
onward.

“Where are they, Margaret,” said Isabella,
who having turned for a moment to watch the
progress of the pursuers, now looked in vain for
the forms of her husband and father—but neither
could her companion at all account for their sudden
disappearance. “Ah, I comprehend it now,”
continued the lady with a sudden burst of delight,
—“they are concealed beneath the bridge,—do
not doubt it—did you mark how suddenly they
vanished?” and in a delirium of fear and hope,
she leaned to watch the approaching crisis. In
descending the hill, the horsemen gradually
changed the quick gallop with which they had
first appeared, into a slower movement, occasionally
pausing and gazing earnestly around them.
They were evidently astonished to perceive that
the objects of their search were still no where in
sight, and, as Margaret had feared, unwilling to
believe that they could possibly have proceeded
with sufficient velocity to become invisible in the
distance.

“Merciful God! deliver them,” exclaimed the
lady, as Margaret essayed to support her sinking
form in her arms. The pursuers had at this moment
paused in the midst of the bridge, and were apparently
scrutinizing with much interest, the fair
and quiet landscape around them. “You cannot
bear it—dear Isabella,” said Margaret, “trust
them with heaven, and come into the cave.”

“Oh, hush—hush,” whispered Isabella, regarding
her a moment with that fearful smile with
which love had taught her to veil her wildest
agony, “I can bear any thing, Margaret,—do not
doubt me,” and again her eye rested upon the

pursuers. They were at that moment dismounting
from their horses, and after carefully fastening
their bridles to the railing of the bridge, and
proceeding to the other side, they began swiftly
to descend towards the margin of the stream.

“Ah, they are lost! After all, they are lost,”
murmured Isabella faintly. “I was wrong, Margaret,
I can not—no—I can not endure it,” and
with one long and agonizing sigh, her head drooped
motionless on her shoulder.

“They are gone—look up, my sweet friend, and
fear nothing,” said Miss Weldon, as she stood
with her arm around the lady, and fanning with
her light bonnet, her faded brow and cheek.
“They are going to search the wood beyond.
Ah! I knew they would never dream of such a
hiding place.” The pursuers were now indeed
winding their way along the margin of the stream
towards an extended wood, at no great distance,
whose thick and tangled underwood seemed
to present the most natural place of concealment.

A faint hue of life at this moment tinged the
cheek of the pale Isabella, and a joyful brightness
glistened in her eye, for now the beloved
beings, who had but just seemed lost to her forever,
suddenly appeared rising from the bank of
the stream. They passed swiftly over, and then
paused a moment, pointing to the horses which
their pursuers had tied to the bridge. After a
moment's consultation, the younger of the fugitives
turned again to the bridge, and loosening
the bridles, left the horses at liberty; and then
rapidly rejoined his companion. The steeds, as
if comprehending his wishes, quietly trotted

homeward, leaving their worthy riders to the free
employment of their respective powers of locomotion.
In what manner these were exercised,
doth not appear from our history; it is certain,
however, that the regicides pursued without discovery,
their northward journey.

6. CHAPTER VI.

It is impossible for the most vivid imagination,
to conceive the various reports which would probably
have originated from the events just described,
or rather from such fragments of those events
as might have found their way to the village, had
not the whole curiosity of the community been
suddenly diverted to a still more interesting subject.
It had been now for many hours, a matter
beyond doubt, that the wedding of Margaret Weldon
was that evening to be celebrated at the
dwelling of her aunt.

Preparations for the approaching festival, the
inquiry who were invited, who had failed of an
invitation, the probable dress and appearance of
the bride,—were all subjects too painfully and
engrossingly interesting to allow of any long digressions.

At an early hour a large party were assembled
in Mrs. Wilmot's best room, awaiting with anxious
glances, the entrance of the bride. The
room had been arranged in a style of taste and
rural elegance becoming so joyful an occasion; its
walls were hung with festooned wreaths of flowers,
and several large and beautiful bouquets
adorned the mantel-piece—opposite this was an
arched recess, profusely adorned, and as yet unoccupied.

Mrs. Wilmot had a few minutes since welcomed
her last guest, and all was now anxious and silent
expectation, interrupted indeed by an occasional
whispered conjecture of some of the
younger females of the party. All surmises and
queries, however, were now speedily silenced by
the entrance of the bridal train, and the ceremony
and prayers, much longer and more particular
than in these degenerate days, were performed
without interruption or embarrassment. Some
there were, indeed, who hinted at the excessive
paleness of the young bride, kindly hoping that her
choice had not so soon been repented; but our
readers who are acquainted with the circumstances
of her morning ramble, will certainly place
upon it a more charitable construction. We will
pass over the details of the merriment, that now
echoed through the apartment; and indeed the
whole wedding might have been consigned to a
similar oblivion, but for the sake of a singular
circumstance which occurred during its celebration,
forming a theme for fireside meditation for
months and even years afterwards.

In the midst of a confused hum of conversation
and as nearly as could be recollected, just after
the performance of the ceremony, it was suddenly
perceived by some of the less loquacious, that
there was in the company a stranger to whom not
one had been introduced. In a retired corner of
the room sat a female whose appearance was peculiar.
The entire want of ornament in her dress,
while it attracted the attention of some, was to
others the least striking peculiarity in her appearance;
for when her face, at first downcast as if
in mental absence, was raised, they saw a countenance
of strange and indescribable beauty, but

pale and sorrowful, as if the light of young hopes
had gone out there forever, leaving in its stead
high thoughts and holy purposes, but nought of
earth save its deep and tender affections. Such
as were most curious in noticing her dress, discovered,
as the breeze from the window slightly
disarranged the drapery which covered her neck,
that she wore a rich golden necklace. This circumstance
might have been forgotten had not
other incidents afterwards kept it in remembrance.

The low interrogations that now passed from
group to group, instead of satisfying only excited
to a higher point, the prevalent feeling of curiosity.
None could tell who the stranger was, or
whence she came. The curiosity of the company
was gradually tinged with superstition and heightened
to fear. And when some one, in a whisper,
at last interrogated the mistress of the mansion,
her evident evasion of the question by some indefinite
and purposely ambiguous reply, gave no
satisfaction. There was a slight check on the
merriment of the company. The tones of laughter
if no less loud than at first, were less free and
careless, and many a sidelong glance was directed
to the corner occupied by the stranger.

Indeed those who first discovered her presence,
afterwards asserted that at the first glance some
indescribable sensation struck to their hearts;
and it was said that those whose attention was
directed thither, if ever so gay at the moment,
became gradually reserved and gloomy.

At length, the eye of the stranger was lifted
with a new expression. Alice Weldon had just
entered the room, and the illuminated glance of
the lady followed her, as she glided among the

guests in the exuberance of childish happiness.
The thoughts of the more imaginative and nervous
among the observers, testified that there was
surely something mysteriously fascinating in the
smile, with which the object of so much curiosity,
watched every movement of the child, as
if anxious to catch her notice. Presently the
eye of the little one turned towards the corner,
where the stranger sat alone. That gaze
of delight arrested her attention; and, in a
moment, an answering smile played upon her
lip.

It was in vain that the lady who happened
to be nearest the child, sought with a violent
effort to engage her in something else. The
attempt was for a moment successful, but that
strangely winning smile seemed to attract her
with an irresistible influence. With a quick
movement she withdrew her hand from the
grasp that confined it, and in spite of the efforts
made to divert her attention, moved slowly
across the room. The smile deepened on
the lip of the stranger, as the lovely child now
hesitatingly approached her.

“You are a beautiful lady,” said the little
one, pausing at a short distance from her, as if
afraid to advance; “you are the prettiest lady
I have seen to night—shall I come and sit with
you?”

“Ah, come, come, sweet one,” replied the lady,
in a rich and trembling tone, while every feature
kindled with a look of intreaty.

Alice stood for a moment with her hand
in hers, and looked silently upwards on her
countenance. “Are you like Margaret?” she
at last said, with an air of perplexity, turning

at the same moment towards the bride, as if
seeking to institute a comparison between them.
“No, no, it is not Margaret,” she added looking
again at her new friend,—“Who are you
like?”

The stranger replied only by bending to press
the lips of the little girl to hers.

“You must love me as well as Margaret,”
she at length added, in the same subdued
and thrilling tone, “will you not, my precious
one?”

“Shall I love you better?” replied the child,
climbing suddenly into her embrance, and twining
her soft little arms around her, “shall I love you
better than Margaret, a thousand times better?”
and she pressed her lips to those of her new
found friend, until the lady seemed unable to repress
her emotion.

This was the last that was noticed of them.
The entrance of refreshments for a few moments
absorbed the attention, and when curious
eyes were again turned to the corner,
neither Alice nor the mysterious stranger, were
visible. The former, however, soon re-appeared
from a door which opened to the hall, and it
was at once percieved, that she wore on her
fair and rounded neck, the golden chain which
had before been discovered on the neck of the
stranger lady. It was also percieved that, on
her return, she manifested an appearance of
deep melancholy, and seating herself in the
place which the stranger had occupied, scarcely
smiled or spoke during the remainder of the
evening.

The influence of the stranger over the little
orphan, was not confined to the present occasion.

It was thought that a seriousness and unusual
pensiveness of disposition, was ever after discoverable
in her character.

The next morning the good ship Beaver sailed
for Liverpool, and from that time forth, nothing
more was seen or heard of “the Lady of
the Mist.”

7. CHAPTER VII.

The course of our history requires us to pass
over the fifteen ensuing years, without any particular
notice. During that time important changes
had taken place as well in the scene of this
story, as in the persons who are its actors. The
village was gradually becoming a large and flourishing
town, and many of the families which had
before occupied its chief places were no longer
to be found. Their heads had gone down to the
land of forgetfulness, their various members were
widely scattered, while another household gathered
around the hearth which had once been sacred
to their joys.

Mrs. Mary Wilmot, however, still lived, and in
the same place as at the close of the last chapter.
Time had not much altered its appearance. The
house was as white, and the gravel walks as clean,
and the flowers as blooming, as when fifteen years
ago, the fair Margaret had left the place for her
husband's residence. Another hand, indeed, now
taught the woodbine to climb in its wonted place,
and propped and trimmed the sweet-briar and
roses that adorned the court;—but they had lost
nothing by the exchange, that hand was as fair
and gentle, and the taste which arranged them,
as exquisite, as any that ever culled a blossom,

since the first fair tender of flowers brightened
the first garden with her beauty. Mrs. Wilmot
had not been deserted in her declining years. A
lovely and accomplished young lady, whom she
had reared from her early childhood, was now
her constant companion; and though there were
some who hesitated not to pronounce her a singular
and unaccountable being, the old lady found
in her all that was gentle, and patient, and lovely.
The charge, however, was not wholly groundless.

Alice Weldon had indeed exhibited on many
occasions, what had seemed wildness and eccentricity
of character, to those who had no clue to
the secret springs of her noble nature. A romantic
imagination, a set of ardent and enthusiastic
feelings, and a certain pure and fearless independence
of soul, together formed a character
which all might not love, and which only the few
with spirits like hers, could truly appreciate.
Alice Weldon had never exhibited to her companions,
or even cherished in her secret heart, any
selfish emotions of pride; on the contrary, a peculiar
sweetness of deportment on her part, had
ever marked their intercourse. But there was a
kind of unconscious superiority in the curl of her
rosy lip; she seemed to live in a world of fancy
and feeling, to them inaccessible; she was
more beautiful, more graceful, more intellectual
than her companions; and though not in
fact haughty or capricious, it was not strange
that as the character of the child became gradually
merged in that of the elegant, high spirited
and romantic young lady, these epithets began
freely to attach themselves to her name.

These evil dispositions were, in part, attributed

to that defective system of education which Mrs.
Wilmot had adopted with her niece. Alice Weldon
had ever been allowed the indulgence of all
her innocent tastes and feelings, without opposition
or restraint. Her love for the romantic had been
encouraged by frequent and lonely rambles
among the beautiful scenery in the outskirts of
the village. An exquisite taste for drawing, had
been improved by the lessons of a teacher who
had chanced to reside a few months in the colony.
Her thirst for poetry had been gratified by
a perusal of the best authors. The native melody
of her voice, untaught save by an occasional
attendance at the village singing school, was
warbled forth in a thousand plaintive airs; and
one could scarce ever pass the door of Mrs. Wilmot's
house at twilight, without listening to her
sweet and bird-like tones.

But by far the most important source of Alice
Weldon's singularities, was supposed by some to
lie in the rich golden chain that ever adorned her
person. The strange manner in which it had
been acquired, was not yet forgetten; and it was
still supposed to exert a mysterious influence
over all her thoughts and feelings. Indeed it
did appear as if some melancholy spell had been
secretly breathed over the heart of its possessor.
A brilliant gaiety of spirit was sometimes seen
bursting forth in every tone and look, like a rich
gleam of sunshine among clouds, and then again
retreating, as if at the bidding of that hidden influence.

It was pleasant June twilight, and Alice Weldon
was standing by the parlour window, her
head bowed down earnestly to catch the last
beams of daylight that lingered on the page.

But the shadows fell fast, and raising her eye to
the window, she perceived that she was the object
of an earnest and protracted gaze from a gentleman
who was at that moment slowly passing.
The stranger, for such he seemed, was tall, well
dressed, and prepossessing in his appearance. He
smiled, and as Alice imagined, bowed slightly
just as she averted his countenance. The circumstance
was surely a singular one, so much so,
that the young lady still continued by the window
absorbed in a profound reverie, until the voice
of Mrs. Wilmot summoned her to the table. Not
that the casual passing of a stranger, or even a
curious and protracted glance of the window,
were by any means unparalleled occurrences; nor
was the expression of admiration with which he
evidently surveyed her, altogether a thing unprecedented.
The stranger had indeed seemed peculiarly
gifted with those attractions of person,
which are usually counted upon as best suited to
win the heart of a young and romantic female;
but we will do our heroine the justice to say, that
for all this, the memory of the youth might have
passed away from her mind, as his manly form
faded from her vision. But that momentary
glance had aroused the sweet and thrilling
memories of childhood; there was something in
that smiling countenance, to remind her of one
whom she had once known and loved; and every
time that the image of the youthful stranger returned
to her fancy, there came with it, the dark
locks, the clear eye, and the sunny brow, of him
who had been the companion of her infancy.

The next day it became a well authenticated
piece of intelligence that Mr. Henry Davenport,
son of the former venerable pastor of the town

had come from Boston to take up his residence
in New-Haven having become the possessor of
the property left by the deceased patriarch in the
colony which had first numbered him among its
pillars. The addition of an educated and accomplished
young man to the society of the place
was a much more unfrequent and important event
than at the present day, and while none received
the intelligence with indifference, it cannot be
denied that to the minds of some, at least among
the young and fair, the event thus announced
was one of special interest. Many were anxious
to renew their acquaintance with the rich and
honored young man, whom they remembered only
as the active, high-spirited and amiable boy. It
was not strange that thus for a few weeks he was
fast becoming an object of some interest to the
fair ones of the village. A sudden check was
however put to any indiscreet admiration that
might have been lavished upon him by the intelligence
that Alice Weldon, amid the unobtrusive
seclusion of her aunt's dwelling, in the loveliness
of her youth and beauty, had won, irretrievably
won, the heart of the accomplished young Davenport.

It was a bright, bland, summer evening when
Henry Davenport first openly declared the history
of a long and devoted attachment. But there
is something in the development of the first love
of a young heart, altogether too sacred for the
leaves of a printed volume; and we have ever felt
that there was a kind of sacrilege done, when the
recesses of such a soul have been broken open,
and those sweet and holy affections which would
fain shrink even from their own consciousness or
are at best revealed to one alone, have been poured

out in passionate expressions for the gaze of the
many—the cold hearted, perhaps, the rude and
the curious. The incidents of the tale however
and the development of its characters, require
the introduction of the present scene, and we
must plead the above mentioned scruples, together
with some slight inexperience of our own, as
an apology for the blank in its description.

* * * * * * * * *

The blush had faded from the neck and brow
of the fair girl, but her head leaned on her hand,
and its living damask still glowed through the
slender fingers and the bright hair that fell over
them. There had been a few low and broken
words, but these were past, and now her voice
was clear and calm.

“Henry, they have told you that I was a romantic
and singular being, that my actions were
all guided by the influence of a mysterious and
secret charm. I am about to prove that these
things are true. To all that I may have said in
an unguarded moment, there is one unyielding
condition. You may think me unjust and capricious—but”—

“Name it,” interrupted the youth hastily,
“Alice, if it is a deed for mortal arm, you have
but to name your condition.”

The young lady slowly unclasped the beautiful
ornament that adorned her neck, and placed it
in his hand. “Reveal to me the fate of the being
who gave me this.”

“Nay, Alice, you are trifling with my feelings,
he answered, gazing with surprise upon the costly
trinket, “this is unkind—you cannot be serious.”

“I am serious, Henry,” replied the lady. He

who would win my hand, must first penetrate, for
me, the mystery which involves the history of her
who gave this necklace,” and as she spoke she
pointed to a small and rudely inscribed motto
beneath the clasp.

“N' oubliez pas ta mere,” murmured the young
gentleman, holding it near the light. “What
means it Alice? I had thought that this was the
chain given you when a child by the strange lady
at your sister's wedding.”

“It is, Henry Davenport, it is the very same;
and I doubt not that lady was my mother. Nay
hear me, Henry. You call me Alice Weldon,
and you think me the sister of Margaret Russel,
and the niece of Mrs. Wilmot; but when I tell
you that in thus doing you are mistaking me for
another, perhaps you will credit my assertion:
The stranger who clasped this chain around my
neck, was, without doubt, my mother.”

“Explain yourself, Alice,” rejoined the other
in a tone of surprise and agitation. “You certainly
cannot expect me to comprehend your
meaning.”

“You doubtless remember,” continued the
young lady, the “circumstances of her mysterious
appearance.”

“They have often been related to me; but
until this moment, I had always believed it the
exaggeration of ungratified curiosity, which attached
such importance to the gift. Indeed I
had reason to imagine, that it was only presented
from motives of affection to your sister. Go
on Alice—your words are strange, and yet methinks
they tally well with some wild thoughts of
my own, many years ago.”

“I was but four years old,” continued Miss

Weldon, “when this singular occurrence took
place; but the impressions it produced, are still
vivid in my recollection. Ah, I can never forget
the thrilling ideas that rushed upon my mind, when
I first surveyed the stranger, as she sat in yonder
recess. But she was no stranger to me.”

“And you had seen her then before,” interrupted
her auditor.

“I am almost certain that I had, and yet I cannot
remember the occasion, but I well know it
was no new face to me. It seemed rather like
one of those beautiful countenances that had
often looked down and smiled upon me in my
dreams, and my heart sprang forth to meet her,
impelled by some unaccountable influence. And
when she bade me farewell—we stood in the
porch together, and she folded me to her bosom
with such a passionate embrace, and wept over me
with such an agony of tenderness, calling me her
own precious and cherished one, and charging
me to remember and love her so long as I should
live in the world, that, were I to live for ages, I
could never forget her. Henry, I have remembered
her, and, in all her beauty and sorrowful
tenderness, her image is at this moment as fresh
before me as when she stood among the ivy, weeping
over me that last farewell. And yet, perhaps,
this beautiful memorial, which never for a
moment suffered the bright picture to grow dim,
contributed much to strengthen these impressions.
Thenceforth she was the idol of my fancy,
the bright spirit of my waking and slumbering
visions. I do not mean that, at that time, I had
even for a moment conjectured the relation which
subsists between us. The being that I then loved
was the creature of my imagination and dear to

me as furnishing an object to those mysterious
and secret yearnings, that had ever haunted my
solitude.”

“And did you never feel your curiosity excited
concerning her?”

“Often, and most painfully, but my inquiries
were all in vain. Aunt Wilmot has ever assured
me of her entire ignorance respecting her fate.
Two years ago as I was one morning arranging
the drawers of an old fashioned escrutoire, that
stood in my aunt's apartment, my hand accidentally
touched a secret spring which discovered
a department of the case I had never before
seen. I was delighted at the occurrence, because,
this ancient piece of furniture had remained
in the family for several generations, and I fancied
I was about to discover the secrets of some
past age. The first letter I seized upon, bore
the fragments of a black seal; and on opening
it I perceived that it was addressed to my aunt.
Delicacy would of course prevent my perusing
it, but, as I was closing it, my eye glanced unintentionally
upon the first lines, and I trembled
with amazement. You may read it, Henry, if
you will, for I copied it ere I left the apartment.”

The young man seized with avidity the folded
paper, which was now presented to him. It contained
the following sentences. “This will inform
you, madam, of the death of Alice Weldon,
youngest daughter of your deceased sister, Mrs.
Margaret Weldon. We were preparing, as our
last informed you, to send her to America according
to the provisions of the will, and indeed
had made arrangements to forward her in charge
of the gentlemen who hands you this letter,
when she was suddenly attacked with a violent

disease which on the 24th inst. terminated her
existence.” Mr. Davenport rose hastily from his
seat as he finished its perusal and began to walk
with a hurried and unconscious step. A flush
had meanwhile gathered on his cheek; and an
expression of mingled astonishment and delight
animated his countenance.

“And was there aught else, Alice—Alice Weldon,
for so I must and will call you, did this curious
letter contain any further information?”

“Only some tedious details which convinced
me that its writer was the executor of Mrs.
Weldon's estate; but I had no heart to examine
further. The date was precisely the time at
which I was supposed to have arrived in America,
and I was at once convinced that I had,
all my life, usurped a name and station to which
I had no claim. Hitherto orphan though I was,
I had deemed myself surrounded with endeared
and affectionate relatives; but now the delusion
was over, I was alone in the world—an isolated
being, and my hopes all clouded.”

“And why so Alice? What if this discovery
should reveal to you relations far nearer than
those it has annihilated, and teach you to claim
a parentage that princes might glory in. Ah, I
see it all now. There is, there cannot be the
shadow of a doubt—Alice Weldon, did you never
suspect yourself to be the daughter of”—

“Of whom?” repeated the young lady in low
and hushed tones, for she had waited in vain for
the conclusion of the sentence—he was still silent,
and her cheek became colorless as the white
rose that lay in her hair.

“I have done wrong. Forgive me, my gentle
Alice,” he at length replied, checking his hurried

movements, and his kindled eye softening
as he spoke, “Mrs. Wilmot, as well as Governor
Leet must have been privy to this strange
secret, and you say that they never hinted any
thing to you concerning it.”

“Never!”

“And have you never revealed to them this
singular discovery?”

“No; the thought was agony—till this night
the secret has been buried in my own heart, and
but for you it might have died with me. It did
indeed double my inquiries concerning the mysterious
visit of the stranger, but they were always
evaded, and indeed, Mrs. Wilmot seemed pained
whenever it was mentioned. For as I had felt
my relations to the beings around me suddenly
severed, my thoughts had gradually fastened, with
a new and strange devotion, upon that beautiful
image of memory, which seemed to me to concentrate
all that was lovely in human tenderness.
I endeavored to reason calmly, to divest myself
of enthusiasm, I remembered every tone and
look, the gust of tears, the passionate embrace;
and I could not but feel that there was a link in
our destinies, something strong as the ties of natural
affection. The translation of the little motto
you see on the clasp was at length obtained,
“Forget not thy mother.” There was no longer
a doubt. Yes, Henry, it was my own mother
who fifteen years since went forth from this house
in such bitterness. Who knows but that she may
still live—alone—unprotected—in peril and sorrow,
while I whose duty it is to soothe and comfort
her, am wasting my hours in careless case,
unmindful of one who charged me to love and
remember her. No, Henry, I will enter into no

new relations until I can fulfil those first and sacred
obligations, of which this gift is an enduring
token. I cannot be happy and I will not
mar with my own dark fortunes the destiny of
another.”

“But she may be dead,” replied the youth in
agitation. “Say nothing rashly, Alice. Remember,
fifteen years have past since you saw her.”

“I do. And now hear me, Henry—hear the
condition of my plighted troth. Unravel this
mystery—I know you have already a clue you
do not choose to confide to me—but I will not
urge you. Uuravel this mystery. Reveal to me
the fate of this mysterious being, and oh, if living,
restore her to me.”

“And then?”

“I will deem it my highest happiness to love
and honor you forever.”

“The curfew now slowly announced the hour
of nine, and Henry Davenport ere long departed
for his lodgings.

8. CHAPTER VIII.

On a cold moonlight winter evening, some
eighteen months after the events recorded in
the last chapter, a small sleigh was seen
blithely jingling over the road which forms
the southern entrance to the village of H—
The back seat was occupied by two ladies completely
enveloped in the folds of a huge buffalo
skin, and that in front by a single gentleman in
the capacity of driver.

“Drive faster, Richard, for heaven's sake,” exclaimed
one of the ladies in an impatient tone,
as they slackened their pace at the slight ascent
before them. “I say, Richard, if you do not set
us down somewhere, and that speedily, I will take
the reins myself.” “If one of these drifts would
suit your ladyship,” replied the other, turning
with a threatening air to the roadside, “I can
easily accomplish your wishes. Will you alight?”

“Ah, Richard, you will not laugh when you
find me frozen to death under the buffalo skin.
I tell you my fingers are icicles already.”

“Then they must be strikingly improved in
complexion,” replied the other with an air of extreme
indifference, but at that moment a loud
and triumphant shaking of the bells announced
that the horse with his dignified and leisurely
tread had at length completed the ascent. “Ah!
and here we are,” shouted the driver, pointing at

the same moment, with his whip, to the prospect
which had just become visible.

On the plain beneath, at no great distance, a
comfortable cluster of brown, red and white
houses, now appeared interrupting the bold ext
panse of snow and moonlight, while the fires and
candles gleaming through the distant windows
seemed to diffuse a delicious glow through the
hearts of the half frozen travellers.

“But, Richard, we have been so often deceived
with these log houses, and jack-a-lanterns, I don't
believe it is the real village.”

“Not the village, Susan. Why then my precious
sister, open your eyes. Do you not see the
steeple as plain as daylight at the northern extremity,
and a little to the right, the sparks from
the blacksmith's forge, they told us of, and did
we not pass the “Three mile mill,” half an
hour ago?”

Meanwhile they were darting down the hill,
with sufficient rapidity to compensate for the tediousness
of the ascent.

“What a hill for a slide,” said the talkative
young lady, turning for a moment to survey it, just
as they reached the plain. “I declare, I would like
nothing better than to be a child for fifteen minutes,
if it were only to enjoy another frolic in the
snow—and, as it is, I would risk my dignity for
a single slide from yonder summit. Ah, Alice,
you need not smile so contemptuously,” she continued,
turning to the lady who sat silently by
her, “I have known graver and wiser ladies than
yourself guilty of similar indiscretions. Even
that revered matron we are about to visit, aye,
and the madam of a parish—I remember the
day when she sprung on the sled and rode down

as blithely as any of us. But, I fancy, she failed
not of some grave rebukes on the subject. Do
you remember it, Richard? It was the night the
English travellers came, and whom should we
meet at the foot of the hill, but the worthy Mr.
Russel himself. But I beg your pardon, Richard,
I remember you always chose to ride by yourself.
It was Henry Davenport that was guiding the
sled.”

“And do you know,” interrupted the young
man, without regarding her previous remark, that
young Davenport has returned from England?”

“Returned!” exclaimed the silent young lady,
in a tone of thrilling emphasis, and starting as if
electrified. Richard did I hear you aright?
Henry Davenport returned?”

“Aye; so they say,” replied her companion, I
found an old friend of ours at the last inn, who
says he met him three days ago in the streets of
Boston, and never saw him looking better.”

“And is he going to New-Haven?” continued
the young lady in the same tone of eager inquiry.
“What did he say, tell me I pray you, Richard.”

“Indeed, cousin Alice,” replied the other, “I
was always bad at guessing, and as I happened to
be driving you quietly over the Connecticut
hills, at the time of their interview, it is impossible
for me to decide what were his veritable
words.”

“Did you not know,” said Susan, leaning
across the seat and speaking in a loud whisper,
“that about a year and a half since, it was reported
that Henry Davenport was engaged to
Alice, and it was all broken off so suddenly? I
am sure, Dick, you might have spared her feelings.”

The conversation had gradually become interesting,
and, before they were aware of it, they
found themselves entering the principal street of
H—. It was only seven o'clock, and the village
presented an appearance of considerable
animation. Sleighs were moving merrily along,
and the pleasant sound of the bells, the lights
from the windows of the dwelling houses, and
above all the illumination which glared from the
little grocery, dry good, and hardware store, in
the midst, produced the idea of busy and cheerful
enjoyment. The snow had been thrown in
piles on either side of the way, and some of the
inhabitants were now enjoying the comfortable
foot-paths thus furnished, in sallying forth for the
social evening visit. Near the center of the village,
the principal street was intersected by another
from the east, and it was on one of the
angles thus formed that our party at length drew
up before the large square house which had been
pointed out to them as the dwelling of Mr. Russel.
It was one of the most ancient in the village,
and having never been painted, it had acquired
from long exposure, that tinge of sombre brown
so redolent with gloomy associations,—and there
was an air of loneliness and desertion about it,
with the large old barns in the rear, particularly
when seen, as now, with their long and quiet shadows
lying in the moonlight. Every object exhibited
an air of perfect stillness, there were no
lights in the windows, and not even a dog to bark
their welcome.

“There's no wonder they call it a haunted
house,” said Susan in a voice tremulous with
vexation, and turning to her companion in the
sleigh, while Richard knocked loudly at the door.

“I am quite sure I never saw a house look
more like it.”

“They are not at home, sir,” said a tidy looking
woman, who had at length made her appearance.
“They are gone to the meeting—the minister's
meeting—and wont return till to-morrow. Will
you walk in?”

“Ah! that we will, good woman, if you have
such a thing as a fire,” replied the young man,
hastening at the same moment to assist the ladies
in alighting.

“If Mr. and Mrs. Russel are absent, I would
not stay in this house to-night for the world,”
whispered Susan to her companion, as they
mounted the steps, “and indeed I should not
wonder if we were carried off bodily before
morning,” she continued, in a still lower tone, as
they followed their conductress through a long
and extremely narrow hall. “Stranger things
have happened here, if all tales are true.”

The door which terminated the passage, was
at length thrown open, and the travelers were
ushered into a bright and pleasant little parlor,
the social aspect of which seemed to remove
all cause of discontent. There was a fresh blaze
on the hearth, and the light and glow of the apartment
contrasted strongly with the cold, pale moonlight
without. The guests had been expected.
A small table was already spread for their refreshment,
and the good Mrs. Ramsay now hastily
arranged chairs for them around the fire.

“Ah, this seems more like a christian dwelling,”
whispered Susan, in a low voice, as the
good dame left the apartment, “but, Richard, I
confess I do not exactly like the idea of staying
in the haunted house alone, or at least with

strangers. I would rather the minister were at
home.”

Richard's sarcastic reply was interrupted by
the re-appearance of Mrs. Ramsay, who seemed
indeed to act in a much higher capacity than
that of an ordinary domestic.

“Mrs. Russel bade me tell you to make
yourselves at home, if you came during her
absence; that is, if you are her sister and
cousins.”

“I believe we can prove the fact to a demonstration,
good Mrs. Ramsay,” answered Richard,
gaily disencumbering himself of his superfluous
apparel, “and I for one shall make use of its privileges,
ghosts and goblins to the contrary notwithstanding.”

After a few meaning glances on the part of
Susan, the young ladies rose to follow his example,
thus presenting Mrs. Ramsay an opportunity
of more unobservedly satisfying her curiosity.
They were both expensively dressed; but the
discriminating eye of their observer, soon detected
a peculiar tastefulness in the apparel of the
younger. The mantle she had worn on her entrance,
had fallen from her shoulders, the dark
pelisse beneath revealing her light and graceful
figure. As she laid aside her veiled bonnet, the
waving curls beneath fell on a brow like marble,
high and fair, and darkly penciled; a gleam of
spiritual beauty looked out from her blue eyes,
softened and shaded with its drooping lashes;
while the melancholy cast of expression touching
every feature would have given interest, nay,
fascination, to a countenance of ordinary outline.
Nor was her companion destitute of personal attractions;
her form was graceful, a sparkling

bloom rested on her lip and cheek; and, in other
company, she might have been deemed beautiful.
But the light of genius and fancy, the bloom
of rich thoughts and feelings, will ever stamp on
the countenance of their possessor, a superior
and elevated loveliness.

Though the worthy Mrs. Ramsay had not arrived
at exactly the same conclusion, with that to
which we have conducted our readers, she was
evidently investigating the comparative merits of
the young ladies, with a spirit of determined
resolution. The result, however, appeared at first
satisfactory. “If I may make bold to say it,”
she at last said, turning to Susan with an air of
triumphant skill, “I expect you must be Madam
Russel's sister.”

“No; I have not that honor—only her cousin.”

“Then I will never trust a likeness again,”
muttered the other in a disappointed tone, turning
to the table to hide her vexation. “I am sure
the other young lady favors her no more than I
do. No body would dream of their being related.”
Guessing was certainly Mrs. Ramsay's
forte; and she now completed the arrangement
of the table, with an air which evinced her displeasure
at the failure.

Alice Weldon was the only one who seemed
not to relish the inviting repast. There was a
violent tremor in her whole frame, a strong and
visible excitement of feeling, and notwithstanding
her complaints of the effects of cold and weariness,
her gay companions ere long desired to know
its cause.

But at that moment, the wind moaned heavily
through a distant part of the building, and all

the unpleasant associations which the cheerful
appearance of the little parlor had for a time dispelled,
seemed to return with increased energy.
“It is nothing but the whistling of the wind,”
replied Mrs. Ramsay, as Susan rose suddenly
from her seat by the table, and earnestly demanded
its cause. “The shutters too are loose, and a
breeze from the north will always move them.”
But neither this explanation, nor the raillery of
her brother, had power to allay the excited fears
of the young lady. When the keen apprehension
of evil is once aroused, it needs no frightful
occurrence to continue and strengthen its influence.
The slightest sound, the most trivial
incident, is greedily converted into cause of alarm,
until the mind is wrought up to an intense and
perhaps intolerable pitch of emotion.

“If you had seen what I have seen,” said Mrs.
Ramsay, as the trio seated themselves by the fire,
“and if you had heard what I have heard, you
might well be afraid.” She paused as if for encouragement
to proceed.

“And prythee what have you seen?” replied
Richard, with a contemptuous smile, “be a little
more definite, I intreat you.”

“Why, to tell you the truth—to be plain with
you,” continued Mrs. Ramsay, approaching the
fireside, with a solemn and mysterious expression,
“you must know that this house, a certain part
of it I mean, is haunted. Those who find it for
their interest may deny it as they will, but I will
stand to it, the longest day I live—the house is a
haunted one.”

“What part of it, good Mrs. Ramsay?” cried
Susan, looking earnestly around the room, and

suppressing, for a moment, her quickened breathing.

“Do you see that door?” continued the other,
pointing to what seemed a small closet behind
Susan.

“What of it, Mrs. Ramsay?” exclaimed the
young lady, suddenly vacating her seat for one on
the opposite side of the fire.

“Nay, Susan,” interrupted Alice, now raising
her thoughtful and abstracted glance from the
embers. “You do wrong thus to agitate your
feelings. I cannot feel that there is cause for
your alarm.”

“Ah, you cannot,” replied the other with a
scornful smile. “Well, I will confess to you,
cousin Alice, my inferiority. I am not so much
wiser than the rest of this generation, as altogether
to defy supernatural beings. Perhaps if I were
as good as Richard and yourself, I might exhibit
more courage.”

“Perhaps you might, my dear,” replied the
youth calmly. “But as it is, we must intreat
Mrs. Ramsay to defer her frightful stories till
daylight.”

“Ah! and good reason,” retorted Susan, “you
dare not hear them.”

“Dare not?” repeated her brother contemptuously,
“You shall see. Good woman I will save
you the trouble of describing these apartments,”
and he moved with rapid steps towards the door
so mysteriously designated. But Richard was not
at heart ill-natured and the agonizing intreaties
of his siter at length prevailed. Perhaps too
some private misgivings of his own exerted their
due influence. Be this as it may, his character

was vindicated, and he now again approached the
fireside.

“And now, Mrs. Ramsay, do tell us all about
it,” continued Susan eagerly. “That mysterious
door. Where does it lead?”

“Heaven knows,” replied the old woman, devoutly
folding her eyelids. “Heaven knows—
not I. So long as I have lived in this house,
which is two years this coming Thanksgiving, I
have never lifted the latch, and heaven forbid I
ever should. But I have seen it opened. Aye,
with my own bodily eyes have I seen it—and that
too when the lock was turned and the key hanging
above the mantel-piece, as plain as it does
at this moment.” Mrs. Ramsay moved her chair
into the circle as she spoke, and Susan Leet drew
closer to her cousin.

“Did you see any one?” inquired the latter in a
faultering voice.

“Aye, as plainly as I see you at this moment.
I saw a face like the face of a human being,
but pale and ghastly, and the eyes were sunken”—

“Nay, Mrs. Ramsay,—tell me no more of these
things,” cried Susan, shuddering and turning to
Alice, who now indeed seemed herself to have
imbibed a portion of her own interest in the narration.
“Do, dear Alice, sing us a song, and let
us forget these horrible ideas.”

The request was immediately complied with,
and Miss Weldon rejoiced in an opportunity of
diverting her own attention from the fearfully
fascinating narrative. The song selected was
one calculated to arouse a far different train of
association, and Richard soon found means to introduce
subjects of conversation better suited to

his own mirthful spirit. The evening now wore
away without further recurrence to the subject of
their apprehensions; though an occasional glance
at the mysterious door, testified that Susan had
not entirely forgotten it.

It was now ten o'clock. Richard had a few
minutes ago retired; and the young ladies
drew their chairs more closely around the fire,
to enjoy for a few moments its delicious glow,
ere they ventured to brave the cold of their sleeping
apartment. If there is one time when young
females are more prone to indulge in fanciful
reveries than another, it is certainly this, when
the ceaseless hum, the absorbing cares or pleasures,
of the day, are past, and they sit quietly
down to commune with their own wild and happy
thoughts, without fear or distraction. Ah, how
many lovely hopes have sprung up in the brightness
of the winter's hearth, how many airy castles
have arisen to the eyes of beauty, and crumbled
and faded away, in its glowing crimson. But we
cannot transcribe the thoughts which now kindled
the eye of our heroine. It is a time when the
loved and the absent are remembered; and Alice
Weldon would not have breathed, even to the
cousin whose arm was around her, the secret
hopes which her fancy then cherished.

But these reveries were now unexpectedly disturbed
by the re-appearance of Mrs. Ramsay.
She came into the room with a hurried movement,
and Alice could not but think that there was a
singular expression on her features; but as she
seated herself silently by the fire, she forbore to
notice it.

“Do you hear that noise?” exclaimed Susan,
after a few moment's silence, and directing as

she spoke, a surprised and terrified glance around
the apartment. “For several minutes I have
heard that strange sound. Say, Mrs. Ramsay,
can you tell me where it is?”

“Not I,”—replied the old woman, while her
eye reflected back the whole quantum of terror
which Susan's had communicated,—“Do you hear
it, Miss Weldon?”

In the interval of profound silence which now
ensued, Alice could indeed faintly distinguish a
sound like that of a human groan, as if echoing
along some distant passage. All eyes were now
fixed intently upon the mysterious door, until the
cheek of Alice Weldon became as pale as that of
her more timid companions. The low repeated
groan, seemed gradually to grow more distinct,
as the increased effort of attention rendered the
effect more powerful.

“Does Mr. Russel never enter these strange
apartments?” murmured Alice faintly.

“Ah, that he does; and the more the sin, and
the shame say I, for him, a christian minister.”

“And do you believe,” continued Alice, “that
so true and holy a man as your minister, would
have dealings with the spirits of evil? Hark!—
Again!—Listen, Susan, that surely is the voice of
human suffering.”

Susan had arisen in the extremity of her terror
and was now leaning, pale and almost breathless,
against the corner of the mantel-piece. Mrs.
Ramsay sat trembling beside her. “Are you
sure,” continued Alice, glancing at the latter,
“that yonder key will indeed unlock this door?”

“Quite sure;—I know it. But what would
you do with it, Miss Alice?” she added in an altered

tone, as the young lady calmly approached
and took it from its resting place.

“Alice, Alice Weldon, what would you do?”
cried Susan, casting on her cousin a look of agonized
inquiry, as she stood for a moment gazing
thoughtfully towards the door.

“If it were not too bold a deed for a single girl,
Susan, I would open at once that mysterious
door. Oh, those fearful tones!” she added as
still another groan was borne on the air,—“They
pierce my heart, I cannot stay here, when there
is a chance of relieving the sufferer. Say, Mrs.
Ramsay, does Margaret, does Madam Russel herself
ever enter those apartments?”

“So they say,” replied Mrs. Ramsay, reluctantly.

“Susan, I will never believe that Margaret
hath done aught beneath the character of a christian
woman.”

“Oh do not depend on that,” replied her cousin
intreatingly, “dearest Alice, I assure you that
strange suspicions rested on her name, many
years ago, even before she left our village.”

“But you forget Susan, that you are speaking
to her sister. Margaret is no more connected
with unearthly beings than I am at this moment.”

Susan had, in the ardor of her emotion, laid her
hand upon her cousin's arm as if to prevent her
daring purpose, but at that moment she suddenly
withdrew it, as though those words had conveyed
to her some strange and fearful meaning; and
after gazing at her for a moment with an expression
which Alice could by no means comprehend,
she turned shuddering away from her.

“How can you, how dare you go?” said Mrs.
Ramsay, as the young lady slowly approached

the door, for at that moment the sound of a distant
tread was clearly perceptible. Alice paused
for a moment, and then placing the key in the
lock, the next, the dreaded door was open before
her.

She now found herself standing at the head of
a rude staircase; and the light she held in her
hand, streamed upon it, sufficiently to make visible
the darkness of a narrow subterranean passage
beneath. The damp air from below sent a
sudden chill through her frame; she paused a
moment, and throwing over her shoulders the
rich mantle which hung beside her, again set out
on her fearful errand. The staircase was steep
and difficult of descent, but her foot at length
rested on the flooring of earth below and she
moved quickly forward. The passage through
which she was now treading, was extremely narnow.
A stone wall on either side bounded her
vision, and the fearful glances she directed
down the dimly lighted vault, were equally confined
by an abrupt angle in the path before her.
But the undaunted girl still moved on; and, in a
few moments more, she had reached the corner and
was rapidly turning it. At that instant there was
a sudden darkness. A gust of chill air from beyond
had extinguished her lamp. It was in vain
that she sought to rekindle the lingering spark, it
only expired the more readily and she now found
herself involved in total darkness. To return
from whence she came, and that with all possible
speed, was the first terrified impulse; but, in the
confusion of the moment, she had lost the direction
of the parlor, and had now no possible guide to
her steps. At that instant, there appeared a faint
light shining high in the aperture of a wall at

some distance before her, forming what seemed
the outline of a door; but whether this would
conduct her again to the parlor, or to the mysterious
object of her search, was only a matter of
fearful conjecture. After groping for some time
in perfect silence, for the groans had now
entirely ceased, she found herself ascending
the ladder which led to the lighted apartment
above. Now there came from within the sound
of a heavy tread, and the young adventurer
paused—but the life blood came back to her
heart again, and with it her dauntless purpose;
the next moment, and she stood on the thresh-hold
above. The lock rattled to her touch—
there was the sound of a turning key within, and
the door of the apartment opened wide before
her. Amid the sudden and painful rush of light,
a form of commanding grace stood before her,
and a dark and sorrowful eye rested sternly on
hers. She would have spoken, but the words
died on her lip; she leaned tremblingly upon
the wall, and at length there came a low and
brief apology; but the stranger still gazed as if
heedless of its import. If the idea of supernatural
agency had for a moment intruded while
groping through the darkness below, it all vanished
beneath that silent gaze. There was a
touch of earth and its sorrows, on every object of
that lonely room, and her very soul was hushed
and awed, at the recollection that she had dared
to intrude upon its sacredness.

It was only a momentary glimpse indeed which
Alice directed to the objects of the apartment.
It contained no windows, the faint light of the
mouldering fire flickered upon the walls, and the
lamp burned dimly in its socket. A case of

books stood near the door;—there was a low
table in the center of the apartment, and scattered
around it a few cushioned chairs with covers
of faded green. A couch stood near the fire,
of like ancient and worn materials, and here
indeed the quick glance of Alice rested. A wide
cloak fell carelessly over it, and its folds were
heaving to the low and quickened breathings of
human agony. It was no fancy then; that deep
groan had borne its own true and fearful meaning,
and there lay the suffering and dying one.
And yet the pity which had prompted the effort,
almost vanished amid the deep emotions
that now thrilled her heart. It was the face of
an old man, and very pale, the eyes were closed
as in slumber, and every feature was thin and
worn as if with long and bitter suffering. Yet
there was around those features the peaceful
beauty of holiness, a smile was on the thin and
faded lip, and in every furrow of that noble brow
were the records of the battle fought, the victory
won, and the diadem laid up above, incorruptible
and unfading; it seemed as if the
brightness of heaven were near, and the agony
of earth almost ended. But Alice was still conscious
that the other inmate of the apartment
had not ceased to regard her with fixed and painful
earnestness. He was indeed silent, but a
strong flush, mantling high even among the
dark locks that shaded his temples, betrayed no
trivial emotion.

“Forgive my intrusion, sir,” said Alice in low
and trembling tones, “it was not for idle curiosity—indeed,
sir, I will prove that it was not; only
tell me how I can in any way serve you, or”—

The stranger was evidently about to speak,

but at that moment a low and protracted groan
burst from the couch of the invalid. Though
the sound of heavy steps and opening doors, had
not aroused him from that deathlike lethargy;
the faint tones of that sweet and murmured voice,
seemed to have recalled him to the consciousness
of suffering—his eye roamed wildly over the
apartment. In a moment his companion was beside
him gently bathing his temples, and evidently
stifling his own deep sighs with words of consolation.
But there was no reply—for the eye
of the invalid now rested on the spot where the
beautiful young stranger was leaning, her face
bright with emotion, and the drapery of her scarlet
mantle streaming from her shoulders. There
was something irresistibly attractive in that beseeching
glance, and she almost unconsciously
drew near the couch.

“Now the blessing of the God of heaven be on
thee, my Isabel, my own lost and beautiful one,”
said the old man in slow but unfaultering tones,
as Alice Weldon advanced towards him. I knew
thou wouldst not forsake us altogether. I told
thee, William, she would come again to us,
though it were only to soothe our dying moments
Give me thy hand, my sweet daughter Isabel,
let these eyes look once more on thee. Ah, once
more, for surely there is nothing else on earth
that I would not now close them on joyfully and
forever.”

Alice cast upon the other a glance of anxious
inquiry, as she placed her fair hand in that of the
aged invalid. But there was nothing there, to
check her amazement; all that had appeared
strange and mysterious in the exclamations of
the sufferer, seemed more than confirmed in his

countenance. The old man still continued to
gaze wistfully upon her.

“Methinks the long years that have rolled so
wearily over us, have fallen but lightly on thee,
my noble daughter. I am old, and worn with
grief, and even William's dark locks are sprinkled
with snow; but thou dost seem more young, and
far more blooming, than when we left thee in the
cave of the mountain. Say, Isabel, is it that
thou hast wandered free and happy among the
fresh breezes of the earth, that thine eye is so
bright, and thy cheek so blooming? But no—no,
he added mournfully—it cannot be. They told
me that my Isabel lay in the dark prisons beyond
the ocean.” And he closed his eyes as if to
shut out the bewildering image.

A tear trembled in the eye of Alice, as, with a
look of earnest inquiry, she once more raised it
to the countenance of the stranger. “Tell me
your name, young maiden,” exclaimed the latter
in a voice of uncontrollable emotion, “and haply
I may read you his meaning.”

“They call me Alice Weldon,” replied the
trembling girl, while a strong rush of associations
overpowered her spirit.

“Then wonder not that visions of that beloved
one are kindled. Thy mother was his own
and only daughter, and thou art mine.” There
was a moment of doubt—of deep incredulous
wonder, and Alice gazed in silence. But the
springs of natural affection are hidden and mysterious;
and it was not long ere she threw her
arm around the neck of him whom but now
she had deemed a stranger, calling him her father,
and weeping over him with wild and passionate

tenderness, as if from her earliest childhood
she had loved his name.

The old man seemed only in part to have comprehended
the recognition that had taken place;
and his thoughts still wandered with painful earnnestness,
to the memory of that heroic being
whose living image seemed before him. “Oh
I had prayed that I might see her again,” he
murmured in weak and sunken tones,” and I had
forgotten that the illusions of earth are not yet
over.”

Only half an hour had elapsed since Alice had
departed on her mysterious expedition, when she
again found herself traversing the subterranean
passage. There seemed a perfect silence within
the little parlor as she ascended the staircase, only
the ticking of the clock was plainly perceptible.
Mrs. Ramsay was sitting precisely in the same
place as when she had left her, and close beside
her was Susan whose countenance exhibited the
same emotion as before, save that there was an
expression of even deeper terror in her eye as it
glanced upon the opening door. Alice instantly
perceived, that during her absence, the party
had received a singular addition. On the opposite
side of the fire sat a stranger, a tall and elegantly
proportioned female. She wore a pelisse
and bonnet of rich black velvet, and a ribbon
of the same hue, fastened around her throat with
a small diamond clasp. The lady had evidently
passed the noon of life; and here and there a
solitary line of silver mingled among the dark
hair that was parted on her forehead. Her face
seemed throughout of the pure and colorless tint
of marble; and so perfectly regular was the contour
of her features, that it seemed rather like

some exquisite production of the chisel, than
like a form of life and motion. A faint smile
lingered on her lip; and there was a certain
wildness and indescribable sweetness of expression
in the brilliancy of her soft dark eye, as it
beamed upon the admiring Alice.

The young lady waited a moment, as if for
some introduction to this stranger, but there was
an uninterrupted silence; and a meaning glance
at that moment interchanged between Mrs. Ramsay
and her cousin, suddenly convinced her that
she was to them an object of aversion and fear.
There were no inquiries as to the success of her
errand; and she now sat down, without attempting
to interrupt the awkward silence.

Several minutes had elapsed, and Alice was
still vainly endeavoring to account for the appearance
of the stranger at this untimely hour,
when a sudden and startling knock on the outer
door diffused a general thrill throughout the
company. Susan started up hastily, and seizing
a mantle from the chair beside her, stood resolutely,
as if prepared for any emergency.

“Where are you going?” said her cousin in
surprise.

“To take up my abode with christian people,
for the night, if indeed there are any such in the
vicinity. No, Alice, you need not urge me,”
continued the young lady with a flush of indignant
spirit, “I would not stay in this house another
hour, even if you would tie around my neck
that golden charm which gives you so much
courage. Do you see,” she added in a whisper
to Mrs. Ramsay, “how that strange being's eye
flashes at the very name of a charm.”

“Are you not going to the door, Mrs. Ramsay?”

continued Alice, without replying to her
cousin, for at that moment another loud and rapid
knock intimated the impatience of those
without.

“Not I, ma'am,” replied the resolute dame,
gathering courage. “Gentle or simple, they
must e'en wait till morning—we've queer comers
enough for the night already.” And she
cast a timid and suspicious glance upon the
stranger. “At least,” she added in an under
tone, “if worse comes to worse, there's a kind
of people that can e'en come through the key
hole.”

The stranger was evidently embarrassed, she
looked earnestly for a moment upon the young
ladies, upon each alternately, and seemed about
to speak; but a third knock, more violent than
either of the preceding, now rang through the
building.

“It is a bitter night, Mrs. Ramsay,” said Alice,
rising hastily and seizing a light from the shelf.
It would sound ill too, that a traveler had perished
at the minister's door for want of a hand to
open it,” and casting as she passed, a single and
earnest glance upon the dark eyed stranger, she proceeded
through the narrow hall to the outer door
of the dwelling. After some little embarrassment,
the bar was at length removed, the key
turned, and the door thrown open.

“For the love of mercy,” exclaimed a tall and
closely muffled traveler, who stood knocking his
boots against the stones, in the extremity of his
impatience, but the words died quickly away;
and the next moment, the hand of Alice Weldon
was grasped in his, a tone of joyful greeting rung
in her ear, and he who had dared for her the deep,

and the dangers of a foreign clime, and the pride
and grandeur of a princely court, was standing
once more beside her.

“And now do I claim my reward,” cried Henry
Davenport, as they entered the parlor together,
for Mrs. Ramsay and Susan had made good their
retreat; but the stranger still sat by the fire.

“The condition,” replied the young lady in a
low and agitated voice, her eye glancing upon
the stranger with a look of trembling interest.
A bright flush was kindling on that pale cheek,
and the wild and joyful meaning of that beaming
eye was no longer a mystery. The next
moment, Alice Weldon lay folded in that lady's
arms, the warm tears of a mother's love were
on her cheek, the rich music of a mother's voice
fell on her ear; and dreams, and fears, and wishes,
were all faded in one bright reality. The
tale of mystery was soon unravelled; and though
the kindness which had sought to shield her
from the misfortunes of her family was not unappreciated,
a tide of deeper pleasure filled her
spirit, when she learned that he who had that
night folded her in a father's embrace, was
none other than the noble outcast, whose story
of high devotion had so often kindled her
fancy.

Isabel Goffe had not in vain, sixteen years
since, summoned up the strength of woman's
courage, for a hopeless and almost desperate
effort. Her errand across the deep had not
been in vain. Long years had indeed been
wasted in the silence of her prison walls, until
the beautiful and smiling infant whose memory
had gladened its loneliness, could scarcely be recognized,
even by a mother's eye, in the elegant

and graceful being who now hung over her. But
it was not in vain. The eloquence of the wife and
daughter at last prevailed even at the foot of the
English throne; and she now came with an assurance
of secret pardon to the sorrowing exiles.
Was it then too late? Oh no—it was a moment
worth ages of the heartless existence of many whom
the world call happy, when the heroic Isabel
kneeled that night in the lone chamber of
death. And a nobler and costlier legacy than
the gold of Peru, was in those words of blessing,
with which the tried spirit of her father, at last
burst away free and happy to its home in heaven.

Three months after these occurrences, the
beautiful house and grounds of the deceased Mrs.
Wilmot, were purchased by an English gentleman
of fortune, recently arrived in the colony of
New-Haven. Walter Goldsmith, (for such was
the name of the new comer,) was a man of commanding
person and manners, much esteemed
among the inhabitants for his benevolence, the
high and pure morality of his life, and more than
all for those strong principles of holiness, which
evidently formed the springs of his existence. He
was however reserved, and somewhat unsocial in
his habits, and seemed almost exclusively devoted
to the happiness of an extremely amiable and
beautiful wife, who had accompanied him to his
new residence.

Little was known, among the colonists, of the
former condition of the emigrants. They were
supposed, however, to have been in some way
connected with the deceased Mrs. Wilmot, as
her favorite niece resided wholly in their family.
Alice Weldon indeed addressed them by the endearing
appellations of parents, and certainly

there are few stronger attachments than that
which was here mutually exhibited. It was also
noticed by some, that there was a striking similarity
of person between Miss Weldon and her
beautiful adopted mother. The mystery however
was never duly investigated; the extreme reserve
of Mrs. Goldsmith's manners on this and many
other subjects, prevented those communications
which might have been desired.

Henry Davenport obtained, the ensuing autumn,
the hand of the lovely Miss Weldon; but
as her new guardians refused to be separated from
the object of their affection, he concluded, at
their earnest solicitation, to establish himself beneath
the same roof.

It was not until many years after, when at the
close of a long and happy life, Walter Goldsmith
was laid by the grave of the regicide, and only
the simple initials, W. G. appeared on the rude
tombstone which marked his resting place, that a
secret report prevailed through the village, that
he was other than he had seemed, and that the
name of Goldsmith had long concealed among
them the family of the devoted and high souled
Goffe.