University of Virginia Library

5. PART V.

John Bertyne.

With a timid, hesitating step, Biddy passed
through the door, which Frid held respectfully
open for her, and which he instantly
closed after her. She stood still a moment,
struck with a we and astonishment at the magnificence
of the library and every thing she
beheld around her. To her unsophisticated,
rustic mind she seemed to be suddenly transported
into a fairy palace. At length, half
affrighted at the splendor, she looked round
to see if she could see Mrs. Fitz Henry. Mr.
Fitz Henry Barton was seated in his arm-chair,
wrapped in his gorgeous Chinese dressing
gown, with a velvet cap ornamented with a
gold tassel on his head; but being in the shade
of the window curtain, he seemed to form a
part of the combination of gorgeous objects
that filled and constituted the library, and her
glance did not, at the first survey, rest upon
him; his eyes, however, instead of being
fixed on the book before him, were banqueting
on the sweet, mute loveliness that he
had so unexpectedly become the possessor of.
If Beal Tucker was struck at first sight with
her beauty, Mr. Fitz Henry Barton was enraptured.
Biddy advanced a step nearer.—
He starts! He can scarcely believe his own
eyes. Had he seen her before? Yes—it was
the pretty hay-maker in her very person. How
very beautiful she had become? What kind
fortune had sent him such a treasure! What
triumph he feels as he now thinks of his friend
Morris! He sat fixed in an attitude of surprise,
without the thought or power of speaking
or moving. His senses were all resolved
into vision. So profound was his astonishment
and delight that he could not even give
utterance to his usual exclamation, `demnition!'

Biddy now saw that the Chinese wrapper,
the brilliant dyes of which detained her eyes
for one instant, encased the person of a young

gentlemen, who gazed on her very earnestly
and very rapturously. She blushed, and her
timidity at the thought of soon being in the
presence of her new mistress, was changed
into beautifal confusion at seeing `her son'
instead; for, she thought instantly, at discovering
Mr. Fitz Henry Barton, that he must be
that son of Mrs. Fitz Henry alluded to by the
generous Intelligence office man. With this
idea, she courtesied very modestly and approached
him,

`If you please, sir, is Mrs. Fttz Henry at
home?'

Barton distinctly recollected her spirited
indignation at his conduct when her first met
her, and did not wish to be recognized by her,
lest all his plans should be defeated. As she
spoke, therefore, he drew his cap down over
his brows and placed on his nose a pair of gold
spectacles that had laid on the table near him.
He then looked up and said in a very courteous
and deferential tone,

`Ah, Mrs. Fitz Henry! a-a-no! But she
will be in! Take a seat, Miss—there upon
the ottchuman!' and rising, he offered his
hand to conduct he, to the seat.

`No, I thank you, sir,' said Biddy, withdrawing
a step and diffidently taking the seat
he had pointed her to on the ottoman.

Mr. Fitz Henry Barton then stood still in
trie middle of the floor and looked very much
perplexed for a moment. There sat Biddy
with her bundle on her knees and her eyes
modestly cast down. He remembered her
spirit, and he felt he had to proceed with caution
and art. He was very much gratified to
find she did not recognize him. But Mr. Fitz
Henry Barton, seen in a meadow in the country
in his fishing costume and a broad West
India hat shading his features, and the same
gentleman in his library, wrapped in his elegant
dressing robe, with a rich cap on his
head, looked like two very different persons,
especially to such an unpractised eye as Biddy's
There was, however, on the nether lip
of the gentleman in the library the same little
growth of hair that she had seen over the
mouth of the one in the country; and as Biddy
had never seen any body with a mustache
before, except her father when his beard, as
it often was, was a week old, this sign of manhood
on Mr. Fitz Henry Barton's lip had made
a deep and unpleasant impression upon Biddy's
memory. Therefore, though she did not
directly identify Mr. Barton with the young
man who had attempted to kiss her, she felt
that he belonged to the same genus. This reflection
made her feel uneasy, and she sat
with drooping eye-lids and a palpitating heart,
waiting for Mrs. Fitz Henry. Barton stood
looking at her with a puzzled and irresolute
countenance. He knew what kind of a spirit
he had to do with; he felt that he was more
than matched. Nevertheless his vanity led
him to believe (so long as she did not recognize
him) that he might yet be triumphant.
His passion and unbridled desires would not
permit him to resign, without a trial, the possession
of so much loveliness.

At length, tired waiting and feeling anxious
and intimidated by the novelty of her situation,
Biddy raised her eyes, and they encountered
those of the young gentleman. She instantly
drew her veil over her features, for her
instinctive delicacy felt itself wounded by his
hold gaze. She now began to experieace certain
undefined yet unpleasant sensations of
she scarcely knew what—fear, suspicion, and
mistrsut, at being left alone with such an impudent
young man, even though he might be
Mrs. Fitz Henry's son. The act of drawing
her veil over her face, his ready mind, actively
occupied in devising some way to approach
her, seized upon as a point d'appui upon which
to base his attack. With a light, foppish
tread he advanced to the ottoman and said, in
a tone of gallant badinage. while he gently
lifted one corner of her veil,

`Nay, pretty one, I beg you will not draw
this curious veil over those charming features.
I have not beheld such a demnition handsome
ace this five years.'

`I prefer wearing my veil,' said Biddy,
holding it down and moving from him, and so
unintentionally leaving place for him to sit
beside her.

`Nay, nay, my sweet rustic,' he said, seating
himself by her side and taking her hand,
which she instantly withdrew; `you are too
beautiful to withhold yourself from the eyes
of one so great an admirer of feminine charms
as I am. Pray let me put your veil aside!'
And he disengaged her hand with some degree
of force and threw the veil up over the top
of her hat. Biddy sprung from the ottoman,
and would have fled towards the door but he
caught her by the hand.

`Nay, my pretty rural, I did not mean to
offend you, 'pon honor,' he said, dropping on
his knee and feigning a look of mortification
and regret; `I thought you might indulge
me with a little flirtation.'

`I am not accustomed to such flirtations,'
said Biddy with spirit, and not knowing whether
she ought to be angry with her mistress'
son.

`Nothing more than a mere flirtation, I assure
you,' he said; `you are from the country,
I suppose, and don't know how they do things
in the city. All the gearls here practice flirtation
like rehearsals before the play comes.
Do be seated!'

`No, sir, I prefer standing. Will your
mother be in soon, sir?' she asked trembling
with fear and misgiving.

`My mother? Oh, yes—my mother! yes
I—I have a mother!'

`So Mr. Tucker told me sir—a dress-maker.'

`My mother a dress-maker. Demnition!'
added the aristocratic and long descended Mr.
Fitz Henry Barton, speaking to himself; `does
she think I am a dress-maker's son? Ah! I
see into it! Beal has told her some tale to
blind her! Oh—Yes—Msis, my mother is a
—yes—she is—a—'

`Dress-maker,' said Biddy artlessly.

`Yes—yes—a dress-maker! Demnition.'

`Will she be in soon!'

`Oh, yes—yes—quite soon! Do sit down.'

`I wish I could see her, sir,' said Biddy,

earnestly, only intent on her object in view;
`Mr. Tucker said he had spoken to her and
she had agreed to engage me on trial.'

`Oh, yes—all right! You had best sit down
till she comes in.'

`No; I do not like to be treated rudely,'
said Biddy.

`Rudely! pretty innocent! Why, you don't
know much of life. I can kiss half the pretty
gearls in New York; put my arm around
their waists! tell them they are demnition angels,
and all that sort o'thing, you know.'

`No, I do not know, sir,' answered Biddy
with spirit; `and I assure you if you think
to take such freedoms with me if I live with
your mother, I shall not allow it.

`Demnition! Not even to look at your
diamonds of eyes, my pretty rural!'

Biddy could not help smiling at the seriousness
with which he spoke, and therefore Mr.
Fitz Henry Barton took courage and went
nearer to her. She retreated, still smiling,
yet with a resolution in her fine dark eyes
that promised to prove to him of a stranger
temper than the smile. He saw, however,
only the smile, and thinking himself invited
by it, advanced and suddenly seized her
around the waist. This act, precisely similar
to that he had perpetrated before when
Morris rescued her, would have betrayed to
her who he was, even without the further evidence
she instantly had before her eyes in
seeing his cap fall off and beholding him bare-headed,
as she had seen him in the meadow,
where his hat fell in a similar attempt.

Before he could ravish the kiss he attempted
to take she disengaged herself and fled to
the door. It was shut by a self-acting bolt,
and could be opened only from within by a
pass-key. She made one or two convulsive
efforts to open it, when finding her escape barred,
she flew past Barton and darted through
a side door into his bed chamber. On seeing
the nature of the place in which she had
sought shelter she would have retreated when
she discovered a door on the farther side, for
which she sprung. She flung it open with a
glad cry and found herself in a bath room.

We will now return to Edward Morris who,
it will be remembered, went to Charleston a
day or two after his apple-tree trysting with
lovely hay-maker, whose beauty, innocence,
and naturalness had then well nigh drawn him
into a declaration of love. The arguments
he made use of to protect his heart from being
further involved being based upon their different
conditions in life will also be remembered.
It was, therefore, with the determination
to forget the rustic beauty whose loveliness
had so seriously impressed his heart that
he accompanied his aunt on her southern excursion.
But absence did not conquer love!
He found his thoughts constantly reverting to
the meadow and the old apple tree, where he
had spent such a blissful hour with the pretty
hay-maker. He was strangely absent and
thoughtful amid all the gayeties of that refined
city, and insensible to the fascinations of
the lovely and gay girls who sought his admiration.
Often he was rallied on having his
heart in New York, and he could not but confess
to himself that he had left it in West
Chester. He found himself penning sonnets
to rural maidens, and writing verses on rural
life. Love grows with what it feeds upon;
and his scarcely confirmed love for the pretty
hay-maker having his thoughts for food, thrived
amazingly. At length he began to look
forward with impatience for his aunt's return,
and seeing his anxiety to hasten back she
shortened the period of her stay and prepared
to leave. A letter which he received the day
he was to sail, in some degree relieved certain
misgivings he had for some time felt of his
pretty hay-maker's safety. It did not, however,
cause him to delay his departure for
home any longer. The letter was as follows:

The steamer Neptune in which Edward
Morris and his aunt came passengers, landed
at the pier at four o'clock the afternoon previous
to Biddy's elopement. His aunt's carriage
was in waiting, and putting her into it
he let her proceed to her home in Bleecker
street alone, while he took a hack to his stables
where he kept his horses, that he might
at once drive to his father's country seat.—
Was this haste and anxiety to leave the city
without seeing any of his friends owing to
filial love? He had been absent from home
two months, to be sure; but young gentlemen
of Morris' age and experience are not
apt to hurry back to the paternal roof with
precisely such solicitude as he now evinced.
There was a stronger and more tender attraction
than his father that drew him!

`Quick! my horses, Jim!' he cried, jumping
from the hackney coach as it drew up at
the stables in Crosby street.

`Ah, your honor, and you're come back is
it ye ar,' said Jim, the ostler, with a broad
grin of welcome; `as' its the pretty bastes
ye ll find in good ordther. They have been
four weeks to grass and came in yesterday
as your honor writ to boss, and by the same
token I seed the lether.'

`Well, well, hurry, Jim,' interrupted Morris;
`I dare say that, an' twice over again,
an' it'll be no lie at all at all,' said Jim, going
to the stalls. `Is it one or the pair your honor
'll have?'

`The pair. Put them in at once!'

`It shall be done right to the fore, yer honor.
Och? wont the darlints feel their kapeing!
They'll kick the miles behind 'em like
paving stones!'

Morris smiled at Jim's encomiums upon his
horses, and in a few minutes afterwards was
seated in his buggy with the fawn colored
lines in his hands. Jim now gave the last
gentle rubbing down with the palm of his
hand to the beautiful neck of the right horse,
and stepping a pace aside from the line of the
wheels, pronounced `all right.'

Edward Morris did not wait for a second
notice, but drawing lightly on the reins so
that the horses could just feel the pressure,
he spoke a word to them and they started off
at a rapid and dashing pace. Turning down
Bleecker street into the Bowery he soon crossed
upon the avenue when he gave them rein.

`Come, my noble fellows,' he said as they
flew along the smooth course, `you must
make up this afternoon for your long idleness.
Trot! you know the road, I see, and are as
glad as I am to be on it once more.'

Away they flew with their impatient master;
and just as the sun was setting, two and
a half hours after leaving his stable, Edward
drew rein at the gate of the avenue that led to
his father's house. His own footman, who
had seen him descending a hill a mile distant
on the high-way, threw open the gate, and
the next instant he alighted from his buggy
at the door of his paternal home.

`My son!' exclaimed the old gentleman,
hastening to meet him and glancing inquiringly
at the reeking horses, `welcome, indeed!
but what has happened? Your aunt, I hope—

`All well, father. Aunt is at home in
Bleecker street.'

`Well, I am glad to see you, my dear boy.
You look finely—but how the devil you do
drive!' And the old merchant looked again
at the steeds whose breasts and nostrils were
white with foam, and shook his head.

`They have not been driven for some time,
sir,' said Edward, smiling at the secret cause
of his haste, which his father could not divine
and which indeed he would not frankly acknowledge
to himself.

`Perhaps so—perhaps so. John walk them
about in their harness half an hour, and when
you strip them rub them 'till they are dry,
and then blanket them closely. If they catch
cold Edward will lose them. Come in, my
boy, and tell us all about Charleston.'

Edward followed his kind father in, but ere
he did so he glanced unconsciously in the direction
of the Woodhull farm, and beckoned
John to him.

`John, has anything happened about here
since I have been absent?'

`Happened—no, sir.'

`Anybody dead—that is, anybody married?'

`No, sir, I believe not.'

`No news then, John? How do the farmers
about us get along?'

`'Bont as usual, sir.'

`Farmer Woodhull still lives up the meadow?'

`Yes, sir.'

`Sure there is no news, John.'

`Yes, sir, quite sure. If there was I'd
know it, as I've been here with the old gentleman
almost ever since you left.'

`Very well John. See that the horses are
carefully groomed.'

`Yes, sir,' said John, touching his hat as his
master entered the house.

Edward lingered over the tea table with as
much patience as his impatience to get away
would permit him to exercise. He related
all that could interest his father in reference
to his southern tour, and replied to the numerous
questions he put to him without any
outward signs of annoyance.

At length, when the clock struck nine he
managed to excuse himself with the plea of
looking after his horses, a plea which the old
gentleman very readily admitted. Edward,

however, merely glanced into the stable and
asked John how they were, and then continued
past it to a narrow gate which led into a
lane. It was a clear, starlight night, and, familiar
with the road, he walked rapidly
through the lane until be came to its extremity
near the creek. Here he struck into a
path beside the water, and following it for
some time, at length came to the very place
in the hedge over which he had sprung after
Barton, on first seeing Biddy in the meadow.
He again climbed over it and instinctively
hastened onward until he reached the old apple-tree
where he had parted from her. Here
he stopped and took off his hat with a sort
of tender reverence.

`Yes, this is the well remembered spot!—
Here is the old root on which we sat, side by
side, her hand in mine! How often have my
thoughts wandered back to this tree! How
often have I lived over again in memory the
happy hour I passed here with her—gentle,
guileless, and so fair! Ah, me! I am in love
and need no longer try to disguise it! My
presence on this spot at this hour should be
proof enough of it to my own mind. It is
either evidence of love or of madness! I have
ill kept my resolution not to see her again.
Yet here I am, and I am confident I shall not
go back `till I have an interview with her, if
not too late at night! Perhaps she may care
nothing for me—perhaps may have forgotten
me! But my heart tells me differently. I
could not think so much and tenderly of one
wholly indifferent to me herself. What if she
should have a rustic lover! I will go towards
the farm house and see how things appear: I
may possibly get a glimpse of her—perhaps
have an opportunity of speaking to her.'

With these lover like thoughts Edward
crossed the meadow, and at length reached
the yard enclosing the house. He noiselessty
crossed the bars and entered a little path
that led through a grove to the door. He
passed out from the covert of the trees, and
the humble house stood plain before him. All
was dark!

`They have gone to bed,' said he after surveying
the unilluminated mansion; `I might
have known if I had thought a moment of
the habits of farmers. I wonder which is
her room! Perhaps this low one with the
rose-tree beside it—perhaps that in the attic.
Whichever it be, heaven bless her, and angels
watch over her innocenc eand beauty!'

How happy Biddy would have been in her
little attic could she have known, while its
prisoner, that such a prayer, from such a
heart, was breathed so near for her. How
her heart would have bounded to know that
she had one devoted lover, and he the youth
whose image had occupied so much of her
thoughts since she first beheld him, and which
always formed a component of all her dreams
of coming happiness! Little would she have
thought of flying from home in the morning
if she had known the handsome young fisherman
was hovering around it.

Edward gazed a long while at the house,
walked all around it, and dwelt in imagina
tion upon the loveliness of her who might be
sleeping within its walls.

`Yes,' he at length said fervently, `I will
see her to-morrow, and if she is still worthy
and will marry me, I'll make her my wife.'

He turned to leave the spot, when Bruin,
now first conscious of the presence of an intruder,
sprung towards him with an angry
growl. He started back and then spoke to
him in a low but in an authoritative and fearless
tone. The dog's menacing approach was
instantly exchanged for one more friendly,
and coming slowly up to him he scented round
his feet and then stood still beside him.

`Noble fellow,' said Morris, who had checked
his fierceness by speaking to him in the
tone in which he was accustomed to address
his own dogs; `doubtless if you had speech
you would relieve many a doubt for me.—
Now, good night, sweet maiden!' he said,
looking towards the house: `to-morrow I will
see thee and thou shalt decide my destiny, for
thou alone hast it in thy keeping.'

With these words he turned and walked
away towards home. Bruin trotted gravely
at his side, as if to escort and see him quite
off the premises. At the bars the sagacious
dog stopped and watched him 'till he got
quite out of sight across the meadow, and
then turned and walked slowly back to the
house, wondering, no doubt, what that stranger
could have wanted about the farm house
at that time of night. About four or five
hours afterwards he saw Biddy herself appear
with her bundle, when doubtless, his sober
wonder was very much increased. His affection
for her, however, led him to follow
her away without making any remark about
thesingularity of the circumstance.

Edward safely reached home, and went to
bed to dream of apple-trees and haymaking-girls
in old straw hats. After breakfast the
next morning, he sauntered along the creek
and across the meadow, hoping he might fall
in with Biddy. Although as our caption has
it, `there be little sprites to aid lovers in extremity,'
none came to Edward's in the shape
of Biddy, and he finally came very near the
farm-house without seeing any one. There
seemed to be a good deal of bustle there, and
two or three neighbors were outside the door
talking loudly and earnestly with Mrs Woodhull
and her two daughters, who stood in it.
Approaching nearer with curiosity, he heard
one of the woman say, `Sarved you just
right, Mrs Woodhull! The way you've treated
her has been a public shame to the neighborhood.'

`Yes, indeed, it has,' echoed another one.

`She was a lazy trollope, and as sassing as
a lady,' said Mrs. Woodhull, lifting her voice
in defence of herself.

`She had city beaux, and thought herself
above common folks,' said Miss Euphrosia

`Yes, and I shouldn't wonder if she'd run
off with one on 'em, jiss for your treatin' her
so onnatural,' said the first speaker. `Biddy
was a good gal, and every body liked her.'

`Yes,' said another neighbor, `and for my
part, I hopes, Mrs. Woodhull, she'll stay

away 'till you can learn to act like a human
mother towards her.'

`She'll bring shame and disgrace on the
family,' said Miss Euphrosia, weeping.

`Your treatment to her has brought shame
and disgrace on it already, miss,' said one of
the neighbors, sharply. `Come, folks, let's
go home, and not trouble ourselves no more
about the matter! I'm glad she's gone! You
may go to the other neighbors and hunt, as
well as to our houses, but I reckon she's better
looked out for herself than to let you lock
her up again very soon, as David Woodhull
says you did, all day yesterday, on bread and
water.'

`It's a lie,' shrieked Mrs. Woodhull after
them, as they turned away.

`Yes, father lies,' said the gentle Miss Euphrosia;
`we didn't lock her up; and Biddy
lies if she dare tell any body so?'

`What seems to be the difficulty, good women,'
said Edward, as the neighbors whose
Sally's account of Biddy's flight, on going in
search of her, had brought over to Mrs.
Woodhull's house, were passing the place
where he stood by the gate.

`Why, it's Mrs. Woodhull, our neighbor,
here, sir,' answered one of the most forward,
`who has always treated her daughter, Biddy,
a nice, pretty, and good girl as ever was, jist
like a slave! And, yesterday, because somebody
said how they saw, two months ago, a
city young gentleman sit and talk with her
under the old apple-tree in the meadow, when
old David was asleep beneath it, what must
she do but lock her up on bread and water.'

`The infernal hag,' exclaimed Edward,
with indignation.

`I'm sorry to hear you swear, sir, but it is a
pity to think how the poor thing has been
treated by her mother and sisters! and jist
because Biddy was so sweet and good natured
and pretty—and they knew themselves to be
so cross, sour and ugly.'

`But what became of her good woman?'
inquired Edward, with solicitous interest.

`Well, you see, her mother locked her up
in the attic there, yesterday morning, and
made her work all day like a niggar, and fed
her on bread and water; and she said she
should be locked up so a week, `till she told
who her handsome city bean was. Miss Sally
confessed this much to me, just now.'

`Did she tell?' asked Edward, coloring.

`No, she wouldn't nor couldn't, nor I
wouldn't if I could, if I'd been in Biddy's
place,' said another of the women.

`And is she there now, locked up?' asked
Edward, making a step towards the house.

`Lor' bless your soul, sir, no! That's what
the fuss is all about. She took the hinges off
the door as nice as you ever seen a smith do it,
and'so comin' down stairs, got off this morning
afore day!'

`Where is she now?' he asked, with breathless
interest.

`Dear knows, sir! Her mother, shame to
her, has been sending to the neighbors about
for her, but I'm thinking she's gone down to
York in the early stage. She know'd she
could get places enough there, and good treatment
at that, if 'twas among strangers. They
say old Bruin is missing too.'

`And this is all that is known, good woman;'
asked he, anxiously.

`Yes, and all I hope her mother and Miss
`Phrosy'll ever know about her, 'till they repents
their treatment on her. You seem to
take it to heart, young man?'

`No,no! I feel indignation at tyranny in any
shape, particularly when the victim is the
child of the tyrant, and, as you say young
and virtuous. What time does the stage pass
by on the road, mornings?'

`Why, about five o'clock, or little earlier,'
answered the woman, deliberating, after
thinking a moment.

`I thank you for your kindness, good woman;
if you learn any thing from the young
woman—Miss Biddy—I would be obliged to
you to send word to Woodburn.'

With these words, Edward hastened away,
and rapidly took the path by the creek, towards
his father's seat.

`Woodburn!' repeated one of the women.
`Why, that's Mr. Morris' place. I wonder
if that can be his son that's been in Europe?'

`I shouldn't wonder if he was,' answered
the other two in the same breath.

`What an interest he took in Biddy.'

`Didn't he?' repeated the others.

`I shouldn't wonder if he was the New-York
beau Miss 'Phrosy talks about?'

`I shouldn't wonder,' echoed the others;
`he is a nice young man, but too high for
Biddy to look up to in a honest way.'

`I have known stranger things happen,
though, in my day,' said one of the women.

`So have I. There's no knowin' what
may turn up, as I always says to my old man,
Joshua.'

`No, there's no knowin',' repeated the
other two; and the three went on their way
home, wondering at, and speculating upon the
events of the morning.

The intelligence Edward Morris had received,
gave impulse and energy to his active
spirit. Biddy had flown from persecution,
and he had heard her innocence and worth
borne witness to by those who had told him
of her paternal bondage and of her flight.

`How fortunate I arrived from Charleston
as I did. How unfortunate I had not gone
over earlier last evening?' he said to himself;
`I would have rescued her with my life? She
has fled, no one knows whither? It is now
nine o'clock, and the stage has gone by four
hours If she took it, she is in the city by
this time. A stranger there, and so young
and helpless! I pray that silly fellow, Barton,
may not see and recognize her! Ah! may he
not have had something to do with her flight!
But no, that cannot be! She has escaped because
she was imprisoned by her mother, and
without motive or end. I heard something
said about her getting some situation in town.
Perhaps her necessity may compel her to accept
of degrading service—perhaps too—but I
will not talk—I will act! She must be found
if she be living.'

He was hastening along the path by the
deep still water, when he spoke this, and he
shuddered with the idea as he looked upon
the dark flood, that she might possibly have
thrown herself into it. But he could not harbor
the thought of such a fearful voluntary
end to youth and beauty like her's, and banishing
it from his mind, he hastened onward
until he reached his house. John was at the
stables attending to his horses. He immediately
called to him, and bade him put them at
once to the buggy, and prepare to drive him
to town. He entered the house to explain to
his father the necessity there was of his suddenly
returning to New-York, and that he
might not be back that night. In a few
minutes the horses were at the door, and John
in his place, with the lines in his hands. Morris
sprung in, and they set off at a pace that
carried him soon out of hearing of the old
gentleman's reiterated admonition, not to
`drive too fast.'

Once on the highway, Edward let the
horses move at a rapid travelling trot, and in
half an hour reached the village of Fordham.
Drawing up suddenly at the little inn, he inquired,
without alighting, what time the Chester
stage had passed along.

`About half pasth sax, yer honor,' said the
ostler, spunging the horses' noses with a large
spunge dipped in cool pump water.

`Were there many passengers?'

`Four, yer honor.'

`Was one of them a young person'

`Yes, yer, honor,' said Pat, washing a nostril,
`a young gosson of a lad, wid his hat o'er
his eyes, and he asleep at dat.'

`No, no, a young woman.'

`Och, now, and it's thrue for you! there
was a young woman inside, an ould man!'

`Confound the old man!'

`Ay, and divil take him, too, if your honor
says the word,' said Pat, with a hearty will.

`What kind of a looking person was the
young woman?' asked Morris, impatiently.

`Och, wasn't she the darlin! She axed me
with the swatest musical voice in the world,
if I would'nt be so obleging as to be afther
givin her a glass o'wather! An' whin I axed
her if she would'nt prefar the drop o'whiskey
in praferance, she smiled out of her two diamond
black eyes, and spake from out her
red lips to me, as if I'd been a gintleman, and
she the Quane o' Ireland. `No, I thank you,
sir,' and so, yer honor, I gave her the water,
though I did'nt like to give the naked wather
to such a nice jewel of a lady at all, at all!
It's the illigant bastes yer honor's honor
drives!'

Edward, despairing of getting more accurate
information from the ostler, threw him
half a dollar and, dashed forward at full speed.
Though not wholly convinced, from Pat's relation,
that he was on the track of the fugitive,
yet his hopes whispered to him that this
person he described might be her; and with
this idea, which grew stronger each moment,
till it approached nearly to conviction in his
own mind, he pursued his rapid way, on the
road towards Harlem.