University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The soft sunset of April, of an April sky in Carolina,
lay beautifully over the scene that afternoon.
Imbowered in trees, with a gentle esplanade, running
down to the river, stood the pretty yet modest cottage,
in which lived the pastor of the settlement, John
Matthews, his wife, and daughter Elizabeth. The
dwelling was prettily enclosed with sheltering groves
—through which, at spots here and there, peered forth
its well whitewashed veranda. The river, a few hundred
yards in front, wound pleasantly along, making

a circuitous sweep just at that point, which left the
cottage upon something like an isthmus, and made it
a prominent object to the eye in an approach from
either end of the stream. The site had been felicitously
chosen; and the pains taken with it had sufficiently
improved the rude location to show how much
may be effected by art, when employed in arranging
the toilet, and in decorating the wild beauties
of her country cousin. The house itself was rude
enough—like those of the region generally, having
been built of logs, put together as closely as the material
would permit, and affording only a couple of rooms
in front, to which the additional shed contributed two
more, employed as sleeping apartments. Having
shared, however, something of the whitewash which
had been employed upon the veranda, the little fabric
wore a cheerful appearance, which proved that the
pains taken with it had not been entirely thrown away
upon the coarse material of which it had been constructed.
We should not forget to insist upon the
porch or portico of four columns, formed of slender
pines decapitated for the purpose, which, having its
distinct roof, formed the entrance through the piazza to
the humble cottage. The clustering vines, too, hanging
fantastically over the entrance, almost forbidding ingress,
furnished proof enough of the presence and
agency of that sweet taste, which, lovely of itself,
has yet an added attraction when coupled with the
beauty and the purity of woman.

Gabriel Harrison, as our new acquaintance has been
pleased to style himself, was now seen emerging from
the copse which grew alongside the river, and approaching
the cottage. Without scruple lifting the
wooden latch which secured the gate of the little
paling fence running around it, he slowly moved up
to the entrance. His approach, however, had not
been entirely unobserved. A bright pair of eyes,
and a laughing, young, even girlish face were peering
through the green leaves which almost covered it in.
As the glance met his own, the expression of sober

gravity and thoughtfulness departed from his countenance;
and he now seemed only the playful, wild,
thoughtless, and gentle-natured being she had been
heretofore accustomed to regard him.

“Ah, Bess; dear Bess—still the same, my beauty;
still the laughing, the lovely, the star-eyed—”

“Hush, hush, you noisy and wicked—not so loud;
mother is busily engaged in her evening nap, and
that long tongue of yours will not make it sounder.”

“A sweet warning, Bess—but what then—if we
talk not, we are like to have a dull time of it.”

“And if you do, and she wakes without having her
nap out, we are like to have a cross time of it; and
so, judge for yourself which you would best like.”

“I'm dumb,—speechless, my beauty, as a jay on a
visit; and see then what you'll lose.”

“What?”

“My fine speeches—your own praise—no more
dears, and loves, and beauties. My tongue and your
ears will entirely forget their old acquaintance; and
there will be but a single mode of keeping any of our
memories alive.”

“How is that—what mode?”

“An old song tells us—

“Will you never be quiet, Gabriel?”

“How can I, with so much that is disquieting
near me? Quiet, indeed,—why Bess, I never look
upon you—ay, for that matter, I never think of
you, but my heart beats, and my veins tingle, and
my pulses bound, and all is confusion in my
senses. You are my disquiet, far and near—and you
know not, dear Bess, how much I have longed, during
the last spell of absence, to be near, and again to see
you.”

“Oh, I heed not your flattery. Longed for me,
indeed, and so long away. Why, where have you

been all this while, and what is the craft, Gabriel,
which keeps you away?—am I never to know the
secret?”

“Not yet, not yet, sweetest; but a little while, my
most impatient beauty; but a little while, and you shall
know all and every thing.”

“Shall I? but, ah! how long have you told me
so—years, I'm sure—”

“Scarcely months, Bess—your heart is your bookkeeper.”

“Well, months—for months you have promised me
—but a little while, and you shall know all; and here
I've told you all my secrets, as if you had a right to
know them.”

“Have I not?—if my craft, Bess, were only my
secret—if much that belongs to others did not depend
upon it—if, indeed, success in its pursuit were not
greatly risked by its exposure, you should have heard
it with the same sentence which just told you how
dear you were to me. But only by secrecy can my
pursuit be successfully accomplished. Besides, Bess,
as it concerns others, the right to yield it, even to
such sweet custody as your own, is not with me.”

“But, Gabriel, I can surely keep it safely.”

“How can you, Bess—since, as a dutiful child, you
are bound to let your mother share in all your knowledge?
She knows of our love; does she not?”

“Yes, yes, and she is glad to know—she approves
of it. And so, Gabriel—forgive me, but I am very anxious—and
so you can't tell me what is the craft you
pursue?” and she looked very persuasive as she spoke.

“I fear me, Bess, if you once knew my craft, you
would discover that our love was all a mistake. You
would learn to unlove much faster than you ever
learned to love.”

“Nonsense, Gabriel—you know that is impossible.”

“A thousand thanks, Bess, for the assurance; but
are you sure—suppose now, I may be a pedler, doing
the same business with Granger, probably his partner
—only think.”

“That cannot be—I know better than that—I'm
certain it is not so.”

“And why not, Beautiful.”

“Be done,—and, Gabriel, cease calling me nicknames,
or I'll leave you. I won't suffer it. You make
quite too free.”

“Do I, Bess,—well, I'm very sorry—but I can't
help it, half the time, I assure you. It's my nature
—I was born so, and have been so from the cradle up.
The very first words I uttered, were so many nicknames,
and in calling my own papa, would you believe
it, I could never get farther than the pap.”

“Obstinate—incorrigible man!”

“Dear, delightful, mischievous woman.—But, Bess,
by what are you assured I am no trader?”

“By many things, Gabriel—by look, language,
gesture, manner—your face, your speech.—All satisfy
me that you are no trader, but a gentleman—like the
brave cavaliers that stood by King Charles.”

“A dangerous comparison, Bess, if your old Puritan
sire could hear it. What! the daughter of the
grave Pastor Matthews thinking well of the cavaliers
—why, Bess, let him but guess at such irreverence,
and he'll be down upon you, thirty thousand strong,
in scolds and sermons.”

“Hush—don't speak of papa after that fashion.
It's true, he talks hardly of the cavaliers—and I think
well of those he talks ill of—so much for your teaching,
Gabriel—you are to blame. But he loves me;
and that's enough to make me respect his opinions,
and to love him, in spite of them.”

“You think he loves you, Bess—and doubtlessly
he does, as who could otherwise—but, is it not strange
that he does not love you enough to desire your happiness?”

“Why, so he does.”

“How can that be, Bess, when he still refuses you
to me?”

“And are you so sure, Gabriel, that his consent
would have that effect?” inquired the maiden, slowly,

half pensively, half playfully, with a look nevertheless
downcast, and a cheek that wore a blush after the
prettiest manner. Harrison passed his arm about her
person, and with a tone and countenance something
graver than usual, but full of tenderness, replied:—

“You do not doubt it yourself, dearest. I'm sure
you do not. Be satisfied of it, so far as a warm affection,
and a thought studious to unite with your own,
can give happiness to mortal. If you are not assured
by this time, no word from me can make you more so.
True, Bess—I am wild—perhaps rash and frivolous
—foolish, and in some things, headstrong and obstinate
enough; but the love for you, Bess, which I have
always felt, I have felt as a serious and absorbing
concern, predominating over all other objects of my
existence. Let me be at the wildest—the waywardest—as
full of irregular impulse as I may be, and
your name, and the thought of you, bring me back to
myself, bind me down, and take all wilfulness from
my spirit. It is true, Bess, true, by the blessed
sunlight that gives us its smile and its promise while
passing from our sight—but this you knew before, and
only desired its re-assertion, because—”

“Because what, Gabriel?”

“Because the assurance is so sweet to your ears,
that you could not have it too often repeated.”

“Oh, abominable—thus it is, you destroy all the
grace of your pretty speeches. But, you mistake the
sex, if you suppose we care for your vows on this
subject—knowing, as we do, that you are compelled to
love us, we take the assurance for granted.”

“I grant you; but the case is yours also. Love is
a mutual necessity; and were it not that young hearts
are still old hypocrites, the general truth would have
long since been admitted; but—”

He was interrupted at this point of the dialogue,
which, in spite of all the warnings of the maiden, had
been carried on the warmth of its progress somewhat
more loudly than was absolutely necessary,
and brought back to a perception of the error by a

voice of inquiry from within, demanding of Bess with
whom she spoke.

“With Gabriel—with Captain Harrison,—mother.”

“Well, why don't you bring him in? Have you forgotten
your manners, Betsy?”

“No, mother, but—come in, Gabriel, come in:” and
as she spoke she extended her hand, which he passionately
carried to his lips, and resolutely maintained
there, in spite of all her resistance, while passing into
the entrance and before reaching the apartment. The
good old dame, a tidy, well-natured antique, received
the visiter with regard and kindness, and though evidently
but half recovered from a sound nap, proceeded
to chatter with him and at him with all the garrulous
unscrupulosity of age. Harrison, with that playful
frankness which formed so large a portion of his manner,
and without any effort, had contrived long since to
make himself a friend in the mother of his sweet-heart;
and knowing her foible, he now contented himself with
provoking the conversation, prompting the choice of
material, and leaving the tongue of the old lady at her
own pleasure to pursue it: he, in the meanwhile, contriving
that sort of chat, through the medium of looks
and glances with the daughter, so grateful in all similar
cases to young people, and which at the same time
offered no manner of obstruction to the employment of
the mother. It was not long before Mr. Matthews,
the pastor himself, made his appearance, and the courtesies
of his reception were duly extended by him to
the guest of his wife and daughter; but there seemed
a something of backwardness, a chilly repulsiveness
in the manner of the old gentleman, quite repugnant to
the habits of the country, and not less so to the feelings
of Harrison, which, for a brief period, had the
effect of freezing not a little even of the frank exuberance
of that personage himself. The old man was an
ascetic—a stern Presbyterian—one of the ultra-nonconformists—and
not a little annoyed at that period,
and in the new country, by the course of government,
and plan of legislation pursued by the proprietary

lor of the province, which, in the end, brought about
a revolution in Carolina resulting in the transfer
of their colonial right and the restoration of their charter
to the crown. The leading proprietary lords were
generally of the church of England, and with all the
bigotry of the zealot, forgetting, and in violation of their
strict pledges, given at the settlement of the colony,
and through which they made the acquisition of a
large body of their most valuable population, not to interfere
in the popular religion—they proceeded, soon
after the colony began to flourish, to the establishment
of a regular church, and, from step to step, had at
length gone so far as actually to exclude from all
representation in the colonial assemblies, such portions
of the country as were chiefly settled by other
sects. The region in which we find our story, shared
in this exclusion; and with a man like Matthews, a
stern, sour stickler—a good man enough, but not an
overwise one—wedded to old habits and prejudices,
and perhaps like a very extensive class, one, who, preserving
forms, might with little difficulty be persuaded
to throw aside principles—with such a man, the native
acerbity of his sect might be readily supposed to
undergo vast increase and exercise, from the political
disabilities thus warring with his religious professions.
He was a bigot himself, and with the power, would
doubtless have tyrannised after a similar fashion. The
world with him was what he could take in with his
eye, or control within the sound of his voice. He could
not be brought to understand, that climates and conditions
should be various, and that the popular good, in a
strict reference to the mind of man, demanded that
people should everywhere differ in manner and opinion.
He wore clothes after a different fashion from
those who ruled, and the difference was vital; but he
perfectly agreed with those in power that there should
be a prescribed standard by which the opinions of all
persons should be regulated; and such a point as this
forms the faith for which, forgetful all the while of propriety,
not less than of truth, so many thousands are
ready for the stake and the sacrifice. But though as
great a bigot as any of his neighbours, Matthews yet
felt how very uncomfortable it was to be in a minority;
and the persecutions to which his sect had been exposed
in Carolina, where they had been taught to look
for every form of indulgence, had made him not less
hostile towards the government than bitter in his feelings
and relationship to society. To him, the manners
of Harrison,—his dashing, free, unrestrainable carriage,
as it was directly in the teeth of Puritan usage, was
particularly offensive; and at this moment some newly
proposed exactions of the proprietors in England, having
for their object something more of religious reform,
had almost determined many of the Puritans to remove
from the colony, and place themselves under the more
gentle and inviting rule of Penn, then beginning to attract
all eyes to the singularly pacific and wonderfully
successful government of his establishment. Having
this character, and perplexed with these thoughts, old
Matthews was in no mood to look favourably upon the
suit of Harrison. For a little while after his entrance
the dialogue was strained and chilling, and Harrison
himself grew dull under its influence, while Bess looked
every now and then doubtfully, now to her father and
now to her lover, not a little heedful of the increased
sternness which lowered upon the features of the old
man. Some family duties at length demanding the
absence of the old lady, Bess took occasion to follow;
and the circumstance seemed to afford the pastor a
chance for the conversation which he desired.

“Master Harrison,” said he, gravely, “I have just
returned from a visit to Port Royal Island, and from
thence to Charlestown.”

“Indeed, sir—I was told you had been absent, but
knew not certainly where you had gone. How did
you travel?”

“By canoe, sir, to Port Royal, and then by Miller's
sloop to Charlestown.”

“Did you find all things well, sir, in that quarter,
and was there any thing from England?”

“All things were well, sir; there had been a vessel
with settlers from England.”

“What news, sir—what news?”

“The death of her late majesty, Queen Anne, whom
God receive—”

“Amen!—but the throne—” was the impatient inquiry.
“The succession?”

“The throne, sir, is filled by the Elector of Hanover—”

“Now, may I hear falsely, for I would not heed
this tale! What—was there no struggle for the Stuart—no
stroke?—now shame on the people so ready
for the chain;” and as Harrison spoke, he rose with a
brow deeply wrinkled with thought and indignation,
and paced hurriedly over the floor.

“You are fast, too fast, Master Harrison; there had
been strife, and a brief struggle, though, happily for the
nation, a successless one, to lift once more into the high
places of power that bloody and witless family—
the slayers and the persecutors of the saints. But
thanks be to the God who breathed upon the forces of
the foe, and shrunk up their sinews. The strife is at
rest there; but when, oh Lord, shall the persecutions
of thy servants cease here, even in thy own untrodden
places!”

The old man paused, while, without seeming to notice
well what he had last said, Harrison continued to
pace the floor in deep meditation. At length the pastor
again addressed him, though in a different tone and
upon a very different subject.

“Master Harrison,” said he, “I have told thee that
I have been to Charlestown—perhaps I should tell thee
that it would have been my pleasure to meet with
thee there.”

“I have been from Charlestown some weeks, sir,”
was the somewhat hurried reply. “I have had labours
upon the Ashe-poo, and even to the waters of the Savannah.”

“I doubt not—I doubt not, Master Harrison,” was
the sober response; “thy craft carries thee far, and

thy labours are manifold; but what is that craft, Master
Harrison? and, while I have it upon my lips, let me
say, that it was matter of strange surprise in my mind,
when I asked after thee in Charlestown, not to find any
wholesome citizen who could point out thy lodgings,
or to whom thy mere name was a thing familiar. Vainly
did I ask after thee—none said for thee, Master Harrison
is a good man and true, and his works are sound
and sightworthy.”

“Indeed—the savages”—spoke the person addressed
with a most provoking air of indifference—“and so,
Mr. Matthews, your curiosity went without profit in
either of those places?”

“Entirely, sir—and I would even have sought that
worthy gentleman, the Lord Craven, for his knowledge
of thee, if he had aught, but that he was gone forth
upon a journey;” replied the old gentleman, with an
air of much simplicity.

“That would have been going far for thy curiosity,
sir—very far—and it would be lifting a poor gentleman
like myself into undeserving notice, to have sought
for him at the hands of the Governor Craven.”

“Thou speakest lightly of my quest, Master Harrison,
as, indeed, it is too much thy wont to speak of
all other things,” was the grave response of Matthews;
“but the subject of my inquiry was too important
to the wellbeing of my family, to be indifferent to
me.”

“And so, sir, there were no Harrisons in Charlestown—none
in Port Royal?”

“Harrisons there were—”

“True, true, sir—” said Harrison, breaking in—
“true, true—Harrisons there were, but none of them
the true. There was no Gabriel among the saints of
those places.”

“Speak not so irreverently, sir,—if I may crave so
much from one who seems usually indifferent to my
desires, however regardful he may be at all times of
his own.”

“Not so seriously, Mr. Matthews,” replied the other,

now changing his tone to a business and straightforward
character. “Not so seriously, sir, if you
please; you are quite too grave in this matter, by half,
and allow nothing for the ways of one who, perhaps,
is not a jot more extravagant in his than you are in
yours. Permit me to say, sir, that a little more plain
confidence in Gabriel Harrison would have saved thee
the unnecessary and unprofitable trouble thou hast
given thyself in Charlestown. I knew well enough,
and should willingly have assured thee that thy search
after Gabriel Harrison in Charlestown would be as
wild as that of the old Spaniard among the barrens
of Florida for the waters of an eternal youth. He has
neither chick nor child, nor friend nor servant, either in
Charlestown or in Port Royal, and men there may not
well answer for one whom they do not often see unless
as the stranger. Gabriel Harrison lives not in
those places, Master Matthews.”

“It is not where he lives not, that I seek to know—
to this thou hast spoken only, Master Harrison—wilt
thou now condescend to say where he does live, where
his name and person may be known, where his dwelling
and his connexions may be found—what is his
craft, what his condition?”

“A different inquiry that, Mr. Matthews, and one
rather more difficult to answer—now, at least. I must
say to you, sir, as I did before, when first speaking
with you on the subject of your daughter, I am of
good family and connexions, drive no servile or dishonourable
craft, am one thou shalt not be ashamed of,
neither thou nor thy daughter; and though now engaged
in a pursuit which makes it necessary that much
of my own concerns be kept for a time in close secrecy,
yet the day will come, and I look for it to come ere
long, when all shall be known, and thou shalt have no
reason to regret thy confidence in the stranger. For
the present, I can tell thee no more.”

“This will not do for me, Master Harrison—it will
not serve a father. On a promise so imperfect, I cannot
risk the good name and the happiness of my child;

and, let me add to thee, Master Harrison, that there
are other objections which gather in my mind, hostile
to thy claim, even were these taken away.”

“Ha! what other objections, sir—speak.”

“Many, sir, nor the least of these, thy great levity
of speech and manner, which is unbecoming in one
having an immortal soul, and discreditable to one of
thy age.”

“My age, indeed, sir—my youth you will surely
phrase it upon suggestion, for I do not mark more than
thirty, and would have neither Bess nor yourself count
upon me for a greater supply of years.”

“It is unbecoming, sir, in any age, and in you shows
itself quite too frequently. Then, sir, your tone and
language, contemptuous of many things which the lover
of religion is taught to venerate, too greatly savour of
that ribald court and reign which made merry at the
work of the Creator, and the persecution of his creatures,
and drank from a rich cup where the wine of
drunkenness and the blood of the saints were mixed
together in most lavish profusion. You sing, sir, mirthful
songs, and sometimes, though, perhaps, not so often,
employ a profane oath, that your speech, in the silly
thought of the youthful, may have a strong sound and
a greater emphasis—”

“Enough, enough, good father of mine that is to be,
—you have said quite enough against me, and more,
rest you thankful, than I shall ever undertake to answer.
One reply, however, I am free to make you.”

“I shall be pleased to hear you, sir.”

“That is gracious; and now, sir, let me say, I admit
the sometime levity—the playfulness and the thoughtlessness,
perhaps. I shall undertake to reform these,
when you shall satisfy me that to laugh and sing, and
seek and afford amusement, are inconsistent with my
duties either to the Creator or the creature. On this
head, permit me to say that you are the criminal, not
me. It is you, sir, and your sect, that are the true
criminals. Denying, as you do, to the young, all those
natural forms of enjoyment and amusement which the

Deity, speaking through their own nature, designed
them, you cast a gloomy despondency over all things
around you. In this way, sir, you force them upon
the necessity of seeking for less obvious and more artificial
enjoyments, which are not often innocent, and
which are frequently ruinous and destructive. As for
my irreverence, and so forth—If it be so, it were a
grievous fault, and I am grievously sorry for it. But
I am free to say that I am not conscious of it. If
you make a saint out of a murderer, as the Yemassee
makes a God out of the devil, whom he
worships as frequently and with more fervour than he
does any other, I am not therefore irreverent when I
doubt and deny. I do not, however, pretend, sir, to
defend myself from the charge of many errors and
some vices perhaps. I wil try and cure these as I go
on. I am not more fond of them, I honestly think,
than the rest of my neighbours; and hope, some day,
to be a better and a wiser man than I am. That I
shall never be a Puritan, however, you may be assured,
if it be only to avoid giving to my face the expression
of a pine bur. That I shall never love Cromwell the
better for having been a hypocrite as well as a murderer,
you may equally take for granted; and, that
my dress, unlike your own, sir, shall be fashioned
always with a due reference to my personal becomingness,
you and I, both, may this day safely swear for.
These are matters, Mr. Matthews, upon which you
insist with too much solemnity. I look upon them,
sir, as so many trifles, not worthy the close consideration
of thinking men. I will convince you before
many days perhaps, that my levity does not unfit me
for business—never interferes with my duties. I wear
it as I do my doublet; when it suits me to do so, I
throw it aside, and proceed, soul and body, to the
necessity which calls for it. Such, sir, is Gabriel
Harrison—the person for whom you can find no
kindred—no sponsor—an objection, perfectly idle, sir,
when one thing is considered.”

“And pray, sir,” said the pastor, who had been

stricken dumb by what seemed the gross irreverence
of his companion's speech, “and pray, sir, what may
that be?”

“Why, simply sir, that your daughter is to marry
Gabriel Harrison himself, and not his kindred.”

“Let Gabriel Harrison rest assured, that my daughter
does no such thing.”

“Cha-no-selonee, as the Yemassees say. We shall
see. I don't believe that. Trust not your vow, Master
Matthews—Gabriel Harrison will marry your
daughter, and make her an excellent husband, sir, in
spite of you. More than that, sir, I will for once be a
prophet among the rest, and predict that you too shall
clasp hands on the bargain.”

“Indeed!”

“Ay, indeed, sir. Look not so sourly, old man, upon
the matter. I am bent on it. You shall not destroy
your daughter's chance of happiness in denying mine.
Pardon me if my phrase is something audacious. I
have been a rover, and my words come with my feelings—I
seldom stop to pick them. I love Bess, and
I'm sure I can make her happy. Believing this, and
believing too that you shall be satisfied after a time
with me, however you dislike my name, I shall not
suffer myself to be much troubled on the score of your
refusal. When the time comes—when I can see my
way through some few difficulties now before me, and
when I have safely performed other duties, I shall
come to possess myself of my bride—and, as I shall
then give you up my secret, I shall look to have her
at your hands.”

“We shall see, sir,” was all the response which the
bewildered pastor uttered to the wild visiter who had
thus addressed him. The character of the dialogue,
however, did not seem so greatly to surprise him,
as one might have expected. He appeared to be
rather familiar with some of the peculiarities of his
companion, and however he might object to his seeming
recklessness, he himself was not altogether insensible
to the manly fearlessness which marked Harrison's

conduct throughout. The conversation had
fairly terminated; and following his guest to the doorway,
the pastor heard his farewell with a half unconscious
spirit. But he was aroused by Harrison's return.
His expression of face, no longer laughing, was now
singularly changed to a reflective gravity.

“Mr. Matthews,” said he—“one thing—let me not
forget to counsel you. There is some mischief afoot
among the Yemassees. I have reason to believe that
it has been for some time in progress. We shall not
be long, I fear, without an explosion, and must be prepared.
The lower Block House would be your safest
retreat in case of time being allowed you for flight; but
I pray you reject no warning, and take the first Block
House if the warning be short. I shall probably be
nigh, however, in the event of danger, and though you
like not the name of Gabriel Harrison, its owner has
some ability, and wants none of the will to do you
service.”

The old man was struck, not less with the earnest
manner of the speaker, so unusual with him, than
with his language; and with something more of deference
in his own expression, begged to know the occasion
of his apprehensions.

“I cannot well tell you now,” said the other, “but
there are reasons enough to render caution advisable.
Your eye has probably before this beheld the vessel
in the river—she is a stranger, and I think an enemy.
But as we have not the means of contending with her,
we must watch her well, and do what we can by stratagem.
What we think, too, must be thought secretly;
but to you I may say, that I suspect an agent of the
Spaniard in that vessel, and will do my utmost to find
it out. I know that sundry of the Yemassees have
been for the first time to St. Augustine, and they have
come home burdened with gauds and gifts. These
are not given for nothing. But enough—be on your
watch—to give you more of my confidence, at this
moment, than is called for, is no part of my vocation.”

“In heaven's name who are you, sir?” was the
earnest exclamation of the old pastor.

“Gabriel Harrison, sir,” was the reply, with the
most profound gravity of expression, “the future husband
of Bess Matthews.”

Then, as he caught a glance of the maiden's eye
peering through a neighbouring window, he kissed his
hand to her twice and thrice, and with a hasty nod to
the wondering father, who now began to regard him
as a madman, he dashed forward through the gate, and
was soon upon the banks of the river.