University of Virginia Library

3. PART III.
ON THE SLEEPY CREEK MOUNTAIN.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE TWO STRANGERS.

On a bright afternoon in the month of October, nearly
twenty years after the events we have just related, two
men got out of the cars at Martinsburg. The cars! this
single word will convey to the reader more completely
than a volume of description, the new scenes he is now
about to be introduced to. He has witnessed—if indeed,
he has followed us through the incidents of our brief
chronicle—the peculiar modes of life of the past in the
then border town: he has been present at a veritable
“running for the bottle,” he has found in the strongest
intellects, those traits of credulity and superstition which
advancing civilization, with its ever increasing radiance,
puts to rout.

The new age had inaugurated itself with literature for
its pass word, science for its battle-cry. Steam had revolutionized
the past: newspapers and journals were showered
down like a beneficent rain from heaven, on the long
parched earth: the land every where glowed and bloomed
with the new light and heat infused into its veins; in
one word (type of this great change), the cars had come,
arousing with their shrill scream, the long dormant echoes
of the quiet country side.

The two travelers we have mentioned, came from the
east; and standing on the platform of the dépôt now gazed
quietly at the long train as it sped on toward the west.

The first was a man of about forty, manly and pleasing
in face, form, and carriage. A dark auburn beard very
full but carefully trimmed, covered his cheeks and joined
his short hair of the same color. A high forehead, piercing
eyes, and firm lips gave to his countenance great
force and elegance; but a buoyant, well-pleased smile removed
all traces of student-character from this face, so suggestive
of reflection and profound mental toil. Thought
had paled the forehead, and closed the firm lips; but
health had made the thinker cheerful and full of life.

His companion was a contrast to himself, in every particular.
In the first place he was young: apparently not
more than eighteen or nineteen, and his figure had none
of that well-knit strength and activity in every movement,
which that of the elder possessed. His hair long and very
fair, fell around a face almost feminine in its delicacy;
blue eyes, thoughtful, and vailed by heavy lashes, completed
the contrast; for those eyes, like the whole face,
were full of sadness and quiet melancholy. The cheerful
manly countenance of the elder, attracted and invited all
who approached its possessor: the dreamy and retiring
thoughtfulness of the young man's face repelled. But
one idea seemed to possess his mind, to the exclusion of
all other objects and reflections. Now to be an agreeable
person in society, above all to be “popular,” it is absolutely
necessary to have more than one idea.

They were both clad in the ordinary manner of gentlemen
at the period—the young man somewhat more elegantly
than the elder, whose form was enveloped in a
brown surtout with frogged buttons.

While the young man was calmly looking round him,
his companion with all the presence of mind of an old
traveler, was attending to his baggage, which consisted
of a pile of enormous trunks, bound heavily with iron
bands, such as are made use of by those who travel on
the sea. Nothing was missing, and soon two or three bustling

porters were busy in removing them, to the “Globe.”
The Globe was now a hotel and had its porters.

“Come, Max,” said the elder traveler, cheerfully, “let
us get on. I am hungry, which is no doubt owing to the
fact that I have had no dinner.”

“So am I, sir,” said the young man, “I had very little
breakfast.”

“Eat heartily! eat heartily! it is a good rule, if not carried
too far. You are thin, I think, and don't look well.”

The young man sighed.

“I am very well though, sir,” he said.

“How are the spirits?”

“Excellent, sir,” said the young man, with a sad smile.

His companion shook his head; and looking at the
young man with great tenderness, sighed. Then taking
his arm, the traveler led the way on foot toward the hotel.

Every thing in Martinsburg had changed; the old
things had passed away, and all had become new. New
blood was in her veins, her streets were bustling; stores
gayly decked with rich carpets, and all descriptions of
bright-colored stuffs to attract the passer by, stood now
where once low dingy dwellings crouched, apathetic and
poverty stricken. The streets were thronged with wayfarers;
the bright October afternoon had, moreover,
brought forth the fairer portion of the community, and
the warm pleasant sunlight poured its joyful splendor
upon throngs of young girls and children, clad in a myriad
rainbow colors, and gamboling like variegated tulip blossoms,
shaken together by some merry summer's wind.

“Pretty,” said the elder traveler, “are they not, Max?”

“Yes, sir; I am fond of them.”

“Of what? The girls?”

“No, sir,” Max said, smiling gently, “of children.”

“Who is not? The man who dislikes them is worse
than the music-hater: and you know Shakspeare says
such are not to `be trusted.' Children—well behaved

ones—and flowers, and poetry, and music, are among the
purest and most innocent recreations we have, my boy
They are all recreations—when they are good!”

“I can't bear some music, sir.”

“How so?”

“It affects me too much; I mean, makes me nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“The association is so strong,” murmured the young
man, bending down his head.

His companion looked at him a second time with that
tender yet piercing glance we have described, but made
no reply.

“I know this is wrong, sir; but I can not help it,”
the young man added, “I am too weak.”

“In God's name my child,” said the elder, “banish
this haunting memory. It is too exaggerated, too unreasonable;
have I no cause like yourself? Come, come!
let us dismiss the subject of music which afflicts you so:
though every thing you touch is food for your irrational
melancholy. Here we are at the Globe—my good old
Globe.”

And smiling cheerfully, he entered.

2. CHAPTER II.
IMAGES AND VOICES OF THE PAST.

At supper, the elder of the two travelers seemed much
preoccupied; and this profound thought in one usually so
joyous and full of entertaining talk, excited the young
man's surprise. The traveler apparently heard nothing
of the conversation of those around him; the bustle, the
clatter, the thousand noises of a hotel meal, made no
impression on him, on his ears or mind. Sunk in a smiling,
wistful reverie, his eyes bent on the walls of the large
apartment, he seemed to have lost the consciousness of
any outer world, living for the moment in that brighter
universe—his memory.

At last he roused himself and looking round, saw the
young man's eyes fixed inquiringly on him.

“Ah!” he said, smiling, “you have caught me in a
reverie, my boy; and I see from your eyes—I always
judge from the eyes of people's thoughts—that you are
curious to know what thoughts are chasing each other
through my mind. Ah, I have made a plunge far back
into the bright waters of the past, as some one says: and
I am refreshed by my plunge! Memory is a grand endowment,
and one of our purest earthly enjoyments—though
sometimes, it is true, very saddening.”

“But your memories were not, sir, to judge from your
smiling face.”

“No, no! you are right.”

“Happy memories—happy memories—they must be a
very great delight, sir,” murmured the young man.

“It lies in a great degree with the individual, independent
of the character of his past, to make them pleasant
or sombre, Max,” his companion said.

“How is that, sir?”

“I will tell you. You saw me just now, abstracted
from all this bustle, dead to all this confusion of clattering
cups, and plates, and more clattering conversation.
I was thus abstracted because in this very room, long
years ago, a scene took place which impresses me even
now with all the force of reality. Now, from that scene I
might have derived either bitter or pleasant thought. I
had the election, and chose the pleasant. Did you not
see me smiling?”

“Yes, sir; may I ask what was the scene you allude to?”

“Ah, one of the merry diversions of my youth. Enough!
that is all gone—gone with my youth. To rake in the cold
ashes for names and images and gayly-uttered words,” the
traveler said, sadly, a cloud passing across his fine forehead,
“would be lost labor. Let them rest; I have had
my moment's pleasant thought—I have heard again those
joyous and heart-moving words—I have caught again the
echoes of that merry laughter! Now let them die away
for me; those beautiful forms may disappear, for they
have performed their part. Come! let us go.”

And the traveler rose from the table, and, followed by
his young companion, left the room. Then leaving the
young man, who complained of fatigue, he took his way
down Queen Street, glancing thoughtfully around him.

Standing on the bridge, his eyes fixed upon a stone
house which crowned the slope beyond, the traveler mused
and sighed. Then, as if mastered by a sudden impulse,
he ascended the slope, the setting sun lighting up radiantly
his erect muscular form, and going to the door of
this house, knocked at it. A servant appeared and informed
the traveler that his master was absent; this
seemed, however, to be scarcely a disappointment to the

visitor: and a piece of money slipped into the negro's
hand speedily smoothed all obstacles to his entrance.

Standing in that fine apartment we have entered so
often in past times, the stranger looked around him with
his old thoughtful smile. There were the panels and
wainscoting and cornice, all elaborately carved with
flowers and birds and satyr-faces, those objects much
affected by our noble ancestors; there were the large
andirons with Minerva's head still stately on their tops;
there was the very vine around the window; and—yes!
for a wonder—the very harpsichord so well known in old
days, and eloquent of mincing minuets and merry maidens!

The stranger's eyes grew dreamy; and absorbed, apparently,
in other scenes and objects than those around
him, he stood motionless there in that room, whose very
atmosphere seemed to have steeped his senses in forgetfulness
of the real world; arousing for him, however,
all the long-dormant splendor, and gay utterances of the
golden past. The stranger really thought he saw there
before the harpsichord that stately form, upright and stiff,
but full of tender charity and affection, with the silk net
upon her deep black hair! And there upon her feet!—
The stranger uttered a slight laugh, which died away in
the dim sunset chamber. He really thought he heard
that gliding minuet again roll to him, freighted with all
the life and joy and freshness of his sparkling youth; he
thought he saw that young fair form, a star, a moonbeam,
something bright and rare, glide through the royal dance!
Did he only think he saw that young fair form? Cold
word to express the power of memory! There she was
plainly, courtesying with the merry smile, and shaking
her beautiful head at him till the curls rippled round her
child-face like bright April clouds! There were the white
jeweled hands, lost in the falling lace—yellow, in truth,
as then was the fashion, but yellower by the contrast!
There was the little slipper when she made the courtesy!

There plainly was, moreover, a young man who made
most graceful bows, who ambled, sidled, nearly touched
the floor when, pressing to his heart the hat with its broad
streaming ribbon, he inclined profoundly to his fairy
partner: there was that young man now again approaching
that bright child; there he was plainly with his
wicked smile—and in his hand!—there plainly!—

The stranger laughed aloud.

“Ah, what a dreamer I am becoming,” he said, “here
I have been guilty of just what I have berated Max for;
I have engaged in irrational melancholy musings about
things and scenes gone into the far past—which might as
well be gone into oblivion—`What's Hecuba to him or
he to Hecuba?' Come, come, I must not indulge this fit
of musing any longer; the sun has set.”

And the stranger left the house.

3. CHAPTER III.
THE STRANGER FINDS THE YOUNG MAN WHERE HE HAD EXPECTED
TO FIND HIM.

As he drew near the “Globe,” again the stranger cast
a mournful look down the long street leading to, or rather
running through the former “German quarter,” which,
edged with tall golden-foliaged trees—autumn was coming
fast—lost itself in the distance toward the western, sun-flushed
mountain. He stopped a moment evidently hesitating
whether he should bend his steps in that direction,
and so exhaust his memories with an exploration of those
long-loved and sorrowfully-remembered localities, as he
had just done in the old house upon the hill.

Here, he reflected, was little food for merriment or
laughter, such as he had but now indulged in at the freaks
of his imagination in the old stone mansion yonder. Here
was no provocation to laughter, rather tears; no gay recollections,
only griefs. Why stir up those slowly dying
sparks—why blow upon that brand, and thus with a
breath, dispelling the white crumbling ashes, fan again
into a burning coal that gradually expiring ember? It
was well perhaps, to revisit again the scenes of joy and
merriment—the spirit was refreshed by those bright and
happy memories, which threw, even yet, some rays of
the old splendor on the path now sterile, once so full of
flowers and velvet-grasses. Would these other woeful
memories in the same manner revive again the brightness
of the past? No—much more all the sorrow of the past,
the agony, the yearning, the fond tears. Why visit scenes,
then, full of those influences? “No, no,” the stranger

muttered, “I must go and comfort one who already feels
too much of this.”

And he entered the “Globe.” The young man was
not there; he had gone out, they said; and, upon diligent
inquiry, the stranger discovered that the direction he
had taken was toward the German quarter. The traveler
sighed, and again putting on his hat, and drawing his surtout
around him, took his way toward the place indicated.

A walk of ten minutes brought him in front of a large
low dwelling, covering much ground, and overshadowed
by two enormous oaks, reddened by the near approach of
autumn. The house looked desolate and uninhabited;
moss grew upon the stones before the door, and upon the
low drooping eaves; the windows had more than one
broken pane, and the heavy shutters turned slowly in the
melancholy wind upon their rusty hinges.

The traveler's heavy-heeled boot rung on the flag
stones, arousing mournful echoes in the old walls, now
touched by the light of the rising moon. An old dog
chained to the door-post rose suddenly as if to bay, but as
suddenly commenced whining and wagging his tail. He
had plainly recognized a friend or an acquaintance in the
stranger, who caressed him mournfully, fearing almost
to enter the house, though the door stood ajar, ready to
yield to the slightest push.

The traveler entered and found himself, as he had feared,
in the presence of the young man who, however, did not
see him, so deeply was he moved, and so unconscious of
all now around him. Seated in a broad leathern chair,
his head lying on his arms, which were folded upon the
ponderous table, he seemed a prey to the most agonizing
grief. The moonlight streaming through the open window
revealed to the stranger this mournful figure, motionless
but for the suppressed agitation of the head with its
long fair hair, silent but for the passionate sobs which
from time to time shook the slight form, and forced their
way through the trembling lips.

The traveler seemed much moved, and for a few moments
stood looking at this sorrowful picture in silence.
Then he laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and
said, in a low tone,

“My child!”

The young man started with terror, and rose to his
feet, shuddering, his face pale, his eyes full of tears, his
lips agitated by a nervous tremor. Recognizing the stranger
he fell again in his seat, pressing one hand on his heart.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “you frightened me so, sir!”

“Frightened you, my child?”

“Yes, sir; I am nervous lately, and the time—this
place—oh, I have been so wretched here!”

And covering his face with his hands, the young man
burst into a passionate flood of tears.

The stranger standing calm and silent, looked at him,
making no effort as yet to check these tears. He was too
well acquainted with human nature and with physiology
not to know that they would somewhat relieve the full
heart and brain.

“Max,” he said, at length, “you have much distressed
me by again yielding to these feelings. I had hoped that
after my request, you would struggle against them, knowing
as you do know how much your affliction afflicts me—”

“Oh, sir—how could I—”

“How could you help it? You were going to say
that; were you not?”

“Yes, sir,” sobbed the young man.

“I will tell you. By following the advice I gave you;
do you not remember that advice my child? First, to
never seek occasions for such outbursts, and you have
sought such an occasion to-night; never to listen to
music which arouses memory; not to visit places which
revive again all those saddening recollections which
affect so powerfully your fragile constitution. I have
more than once impressed upon you the importance of
these things, and I am grieved to find that you have so

little confidence in my judgment; I will not say, pay so
little attention to my wishes, for I know you love me.”

“Oh, indeed I do, sir,” cried the young man, “God is
my witness!”

“Why then, have you caused me so much distress?
You know you are not well—you are as delicate as possible,
though not, strictly speaking, unhealthy, since
proper care will in a short time establish your health
firmly; and now, with all this delicacy of temperament
and constitution, ready to be turned into disease, or into
robust strength, you come to this melancholy place, where
every breath of air you draw is poison, where you feel the
oppressive sense of a death,” the stranger by a powerful
effort commanded his agitated voice, and spoke with
firmness, “you come here and I find you—in what state?
Why, God preserve me! so unmanned that you start and
shudder at my entrance, and sink down with your hand
upon your heart—a bad sign, very bad—saying you are
frightened! unnerved!”

“I was terrified, sir,” groaned the young man; “I have
done wrong in coming.”

“Why—why did you come, my child?” said the stranger,
gazing with profound love on the pale, wan face.

“I could not help it, sir,” murmured the young man.
“My feet moved here against my will; I could not resist
the influence which brought me. I was drawn both ways
—by the recollection of your commands, and my feelings.
My brain was heated, my heart cold. What could I do?
I hardly saw where I was going, through the mist before
my eyes—and the first thing I was conscious of was
Bugle's jumping up and licking my hand. I found the
door unlatched and no one was here, and so I sat down and
was thinking—and got nervous—and when you came in I
thought it was!—I always was superstitious!—I was—”

The young man stopped, powerfully agitated, and wiped
his eyes. The stranger took his hand tenderly.

“Enough, Max,” he said, “come, we will leave this
place, for you are really unwell. Come, come! my child,
you must never leave me again—I have but you.”

At the same moment a noise was heard on the steps at
the back of the house, and a stick hastily clashing on the
floor as the walker approached, seemed to indicate age.
An old negro woman, bent down with years entered, crying
in the cracked voice of extreme age: “Who's there?
who's there? who's in the house?”

“I and Max, aunt Jenny,” said the stranger, taking
her hand, “we have come back.”

The old woman stood in great amazement for a moment,
her thin form lit up by the weird moonlight, then
burst into a flood of joyful exclamations which she inter-spersed
with tears.

“Massa Max come back 'gin; glory! The ole woman's
eyes is rejoice once more a-seein' of him: same face,
same eyes! and young massa Max—he's a handsome
chile, the Lord help me! and growed so tall, and look so
han'some! He's a han'some one, the Lord help me!
every body always say he was a han'some chile! young
missis eyes agin for all the world! How tall he is done
growed! I 'blige to look up when I'm a speakin' to him;
he's a han'some chile, yes he is. I always said he was a
pretty chile; and like his mother. A settin' one day
with him on my knee—he was playin' with his little brass
candlestick, you know, Massa Max, with the red flannel
rag aroun' it—and his mother—a blessed saint in the
glory of the Lord, my massa—says his mother, `what a
pretty chile he is, mammy,' a lookin' so beautiful and so
lovin' at the boy; and says I, `you right Miss Neeny, and
he's jest like you—for all the world.' That made her
laugh, you know, Massa Max, and she say, `no, no,' and
she tooked him and chucked him up, and he laughed too
—this very blessed young massa, now growed so tall, yes!
And he was a good chile—mighty han'some—`chuck,

chuck!' sez she, and he laughed, Massa Max—so you
did, young Massa Max—you laughed; and when she ask
you if you was much lovin' of her, and if you wasn't so
much more han'somer than she was, you stop laughin'
and nod your head jest so and say `um! um!'—the
Lord take me to glory! for all the worl' like you knowed
what she was a sayin'. Well he's a-growed so tall and
han'some—and the ole woman is goin' mighty fast—she
nussed him—he was a good chile—so was you, my
massa,” addressing the stranger, “but you was frolick-somer,
and mighty bad! for I nussed you too—yes I did!
Well the old woman's a-goin', but the blessed Lord done
let her see her massa once agin! Massa come to take
care of his own agin, I spose. Hard times when he ain't
here: is you got a little change for the ole woman for
to buy sugar and coffee? Mighty hard times! well
the Lord 'sarve you, Massa Max, and bless you! and my
pretty child done give the old woman somethin', too! I
'blige to pay that lazy good-for-nothin' Jake, who stays
'long with me here. He's growed so han'some! Yes he
laugh and say `um! um!' and then he was soon a-playin'
on the carpet. Missus is gone to glory—the Lord do so
to me also. She never see the pretty chile since he
growed so tall! But he look sorry, mighty sorry,” muttered
the old woman, wistfully; “why he's cryin'.”

“Come, my child,” said the agitated stranger, “too
much of this. Aunt Jenny, I have come back for good,
and don't fear not being taken care of: I never desert
my friends—I will come soon again—very soon. See
that all is closed after us.”

And taking the weeping young man by the arm, the
stranger led him from the house, himself silent and
gloomy. The effect of this last scene upon the young
man had shocked him profoundly—he began to have
something more than vague presentiments of evil.

On the next morning the stranger sallied forth at an

early hour, intent on procuring two horses. These he
found without difficulty, no further off than the stables
of the Globe itself: and they were soon ready for the
journey, which the stranger seemed to have determined
on for himself and his younger companion.

The young man came out, pale and worn with weeping,
and slowly mounted. The stranger threw upon him his
habitual look, piercing but tender, and then with one
vigorous movement got into his saddle.

“My baggage and my son's,” he said to the landlord,
“can remain I suppose, until I send for it. My name is
upon it—Doctor Maximilian Courtlandt.”

And with these words the stranger set forward toward
the west in the bright sunlight, followed by his son.

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE LOCK, AND WHO AWAITED THE TRAVELERS THERE.

The horses of the travelers were fine and spirited, and
they made such good speed that a little after noon, the
north mountain having been crossed some time before,
they came in sight of “The Lock”—so father Von Horn,
now gathered to his fathers, had named his mountain
farm, because the Sleepy Creek and Third Hill mountain
“locked” there. The travelers ascended the steep road,
and soon drew up before the door of the mansion. It
was one of those broad, wandering, stone-built houses
which the original German population of the region
scattered throughout the Virginia valley; wholly for use,
somewhat for defense against Indians, scarcely in any
particular constructed with an eye to ornament. The
porch in front was large, the windows small and well
secured by heavy oaken shutters, and those of the second
floor looked out immediately from beneath the eaves.

A servant ran to take their horses, overwhelmed, it
seemed, with joy to see his master come back to the old
house, and at the door Doctor Courtlandt was received by
no less a personage than Mrs. Courtlandt, the severe, the
stately “Aunt Courtlandt” of his youth. The gray-haired
old lady received her nephew with extreme delight, clasping
him in her arms and affectionately kissing him with
a thousand inquiries after his health and spirits—which
latter subject elderly ladies usually place much stress
upon—then she turned and welcomed the young man
with equal pleasure and affection.

Doctor Courtlandt and his son had been absent for a

long time; in fact they had left Virginia soon after Mrs.
Nina Courtlandt's death, which had taken place some
years before. The chief reason for this expatriation on
the part of Doctor Courtlandt and his son, will appear in
the course of our narrative. The old lady had willingly
acceded to her nephew's desire that she should keep his
house from rusting in his absence; and the doctor now
felt that he had gained more than he had expected.
Long tossed about among strangers—unknowing and unsympathizing—the
affectionate welcome of his aunt was
very pleasant to him. True, that stout heart was sufficient
in all things for itself, but this was far more pleasant
than the respectful greeting of the servants only.

The old lady, having cried over Max, and given him
several very affectionate kisses and embraces which he returned
as affectionately, busied herself about their dinner.

“I got your letter from New York, nephew,” she said,
“saying that you had returned, but I did not expect you
so soon.”

“And have you not been troubled very much, aunt,
with my affairs? I thank you a thousand times.”

“They have troubled me somewhat, especially that
overseer you left. He almost insisted upon following his
own crop system instead of mine; now you know I have
always been a capital farmer, and I would not yield.
The consequence has been one-fourth more in the crop.”

The doctor laughed.

“I never should have stood out half an hour against
you,” he said.

“Your dinner will soon be ready.”

“Are you hungry, Max?” asked the doctor, “I think
you look better after your ride.”

“I do feel better, sir,” the young man said, sadly.

Mrs. Courtlandt, standing behind him, shook her head
at the doctor; who sighed wearily. Then he roused
himself and assuming a gay tone, said:

“Oh, you'll be as strong as an ox here in the mountains,
soon, my boy: what news, aunt? you wrote me
very lately that Barry and all were well. How singular
for Barry to turn minister. Does he preach regularly?”

“Yes; and they are all well. Alice and Caroline are
much improved; they are thought very pretty.”

“Why, they were children when we went to Europe.”

“But you have been gone a long time—a very long
time, nephew.”

“And is hunter John well?”

“Not so well; he is very old, you know. We are all
getting old—passing away.”

“Why, my dear aunt, you are younger than you were
ten years ago. Is she not, Max? Come, pay a compliment.”

Max smiled.

“You know I always thought aunt was young-look-ing,
sir,” he said.

“Well done, ma foi! aunt, you will find my boy very
much improved—an excellent scholar and an elegant
cavalier. It will be a pleasure to have him about you.”

“Max and myself were always great friends,” said
Mrs. Courtlandt, “and now dinner is ready.”

“I confess I am hungry,” said Doctor Courtlandt;
“come, Max.”

Max took scarcely any thing; the consequence was, the
doctor, spite of his manful declaration of hunger, could
swallow nothing. It was plain that all this gay bantering
was a mask which concealed some painful emotion.
They rose from the table and went out upon the porch,
where the pleasant October sun made the red forest
blaze. Far off, between the two mountains, stretched
Meadow Branch Valley, dotted now by more than one
white dwelling, from whose distant chimney light smoke
wreaths curled upward against the thick foliage. On the
slope of the eastern mountain, “Hunter John's,” cottage
was plainly visible.

“How!” cried the doctor, taking a seat in one of the
wicker chairs upon the portico, “is not there some change
down there, aunt?”

“What, nephew?”

“In hunter John's house.”

“It is newly plastered.”

“Possible?”

“I think it an improvement.”

“Oh, certainly; but he is such an old-fashioned
character, such a stickler too, for things of the olden
time.”

“True; he is. You must ask him, however, why he
has altered his house. You know, Mrs. Myers died some
years ago.”

“Yes, yes; just after I went away. You mentioned
it. And Barry and dear Sally live with the old man.”

“He is very proud of having a real minister in the
house.”

“Oh, I must go at once and see them! I can not rest.
Come, Max, my boy; again en route.”

The young man rose listlessly.

At the same moment, the hoof-strokes of a galloping
horse were heard, and a negro mounted on a powerful
black horse, from whose back it seemed no time had been
permitted him to remove the wagon harness, approached
the Lock at full speed. The main road over the mountain
led by the door.

“Ho! my friend,” cried the doctor, “why all this
hurry, pray?”

“Miss'is sick, sir.”

“Who is your mistress?”

“Miss Emberton, sir.”

“What! at the Glades”

“Yes, sir—I must go on into town for the doctor.”

“I am a doctor. Is your mistress very sick?”

“Mortal sick, sir.”

“I will then go myself,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “but
go on: do not turn back on that account. Go!”

The negro again pressed his horse into a gallop, and
went down the steep road at full speed.

“This interferes with our ride, Max,” said Doctor
Courtlandt: and raising his voice, “my horse!” he said.

A horse, fresh and spirited, was soon led to the door,
and Doctor Courtlandt, having rapidly but quietly filled
his valise with medicines, mounted and rode roundly in
the direction from which the servant had made his appearance.

He descended the western slope of the Sleepy Creek
Mountain, and in an hour of rapid riding arrived at the
Glades, whence he was destined to find not only a patient
but an old friend.

This was Josephine Emberton.

5. CHAPTER V.
THE DOCTOR PAYS A PROFESSIONAL VISIT TO AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

Doctor Courtlandt scarcely threw a glance on the
quiet, silent mansion, embowered in the many-colored foliage
of the bright fall. Yet that mansion had in its very
outward appearance and surroundings, much to indicate
to the quick, traveled eye of such a man as Doctor
Courtlandt, the character of its occupant. There was a
quiet elegance in every detail, in the neatly arranged yard
with its plats of autumn flowers—the marigold and late
primrose and wild-growing golden rod and aster—in the
tasteful garden with its gravel walks, in the white railing,
the vine-woven shutters, and plain wicker benches on the
portico. It was plain that this house was inhabited by a
woman or a man of extraordinary elegance and refinement.

The doctor rapidly approached the door, and let the
large bronze knocker fall upon the plate.

A servant came to the door.

“Miss Emberton,” said Doctor Courtlandt briefly, and
passing as he spoke into the drawing-room.

“She's sick, sir: she can't see any body.”

“Go and tell her that Doctor Courtlandt has come to
see her. I know your mistress is sick. Come, hasten!”

The servant—a neatly dressed girl—went out and almost
immediately returned, and said that her mistress
would see Doctor Courtlandt. The doctor entered the
sick chamber, and approached his patient.

Josephine Emberton scarcely resembled in any particular,
the merry young girl we have seen in her school

days at Mrs. Courtlandt's. She was now more gentle,
more quiet, more feminine in all things, and her cheeks
had lost much of that healthful color which then ran riot
in them. True, this was no more than one might have
expected in a sick person, it may be said; but the patient
never wholly loses the characteristics of the same individual
when in health, and it was very plain that the gentle,
subdued woman who now lay wan and pale, but still
beautiful, before the physician, was not the little termagant
we have met with in her girlhood, full of mischief
and a very Beatrice with her tongue.

The messenger whom Doctor Courtlandt had stopped
riding post haste, had somewhat exaggerated his mistress's
sickness. It was not at all critical, but amply
sufficient to need the services of a physician. Doctor
Courtlandt very soon made his diagnosis of the malady,
and told Miss Emberton that she would be well in three
days.

She smiled faintly.

“You seem to be very confident, doctor. I confess I
was very much frightened,” she said, “but I was always
a coward on the sick bed; it is my great weakness.
When did you return, however? I had not heard of it.”

“To-day, madam,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “and I
had scarcely seen one of my friends when I heard of your
indisposition.”

“You were very kind—”

“To come and prescribe?”

“Yes.”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

“It is plain you do not comprehend our code, madam,”
he replied. “To meet a servant galloping at full speed
for medical assistance—to be told that a patient is lying
dangerously ill—after this for a physician to shake his
head and say, `'Tis none of my business, but Dr. Blank's'
—it would be infamous.”

“Jane frightened Cato very much, I suppose; she is a
good girl, and said what she thought, no doubt.”

“It would have been unpardonable in me to consult
my convenience at any time,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “if
you really needed me for any matter however slight. We
have been friends a long time. But you had better remain
quiet, madam. We may interchange our ideas very
well next week. Where is your brother? He should
not leave you.”

“He went to Bath last week. I have sent for him to
return, as I am alone here since my father's death, you
know.”

“Yes, madam, I was informed of it; your brother will
come back, then?”

“Yes; Robert loves me very much; and though he is
a great beau with the ladies—he is nineteen, nearly
twenty—he will hurry back, I know.”

“Well; I will now take my leave. Should you feel
nervous symptoms, take two spoonfuls of this—but only
until your physician comes. It will be for him then to
prescribe—different from myself, should it please him.”

And bowing, Doctor Courtlandt left the room, promising
to return on the next day.

He mounted his horse, and slowly took his way back
to the Lock, admiring the beautiful sunset and the splendid
autumn woods, which, like an army with a thousand
glittering spear points and many-colored banners, proudly
reared aloft, stood waiting for the wind's loud trumpet-blast—the
signal for dire conflict with old winter. Every
where the leaves had warped and reddened, and a few,
become deep brown now, whirled from time to time from
the boughs to the thick carpet underneath the trees. The
whole landscape was softened, and much beautified by the
light haze of autumn drooping like a rosy cloud above
the mountains, as above the lowland; and Doctor Courtlandt
gazed upon the fair scene with pensive admiration.

Then his thoughts, for a moment thrown back on his
past, returned to the patient he had just left.

“Ah,” he murmured, “what a wondrous thing is life!
how full of mysteries the simplest scene—the very lightest
matter! Men take no heed of the philosophic side of
life, lost as they are in a thousand absorbing pursuits of
love and glory, and mere money, very often—moreover
custom has staled all for them, but not for me! Yet I
may well doubt if this penetrating eye I arrogate to myself
is a blessing—any thing to felicitate myself upon!
Why should I curl my lip and say, `I am Sir Oracle'—
I am a profound thinker—you are only men? The lover
sighs and follows beauty like her shadow, and may well
be said to dream, since he is absorbed by his passion, and
lives in another world, above the earth—a grand empyrean
full of joy and splendor. He lives his life, though he
is a thousand times undone; though harshness, coldness,
and contempt remind him feelingly how much sad truth
those words, the `pangs of despised love' contain! He
lives his life, rapt for a time above the ground, in the
blue, joyful air of the mid-heaven—and though he falls,
and his poor heart is dashed to death upon the rocks of
hate—still he has all that glorious happy past! His heart
for a time has beat far faster than his race's—he has little
to complain of—there is in his woeful plight but little food
for philosophic scorn.

“And he too who rules, and breasts the flood of enmity
and eternal opposition in the high places of this world,
has little to complain of if the dark day comes, and he is
hurled from the full sunlight to oblivion. He has lived
his life; as he who toils for wealth, and satisfies his cravings,
and dies destitute after a long splendid glittering
career, has also in truth lived.

“They all have been absorbed in toil of the brain or
the heart, and have not slept a moment like the dull weed
which hugs itself at ease and slowly rots—contented, careless.

Why then should I despise these men, and arrogate
to myself so much more lofty a philosophy, a brain so
much more free from mist and passion? I boast a cool,
calculating brain—seeing through all things, love and
ambition and all human passions, unmoved by any of
them!”

The Doctor's head fell mournfully on his breast; his
memories had overwhelmed him for the moment.

“I,” he murmured, “who have loved so much, and—
though I put on dissimulation like a mask—so profoundly
always! I jest at love, when so many dear dead ones
have wrung tears from my heart long years, until I thought
the very fountains of my soul were dry! God forgive me,
I am weaker and more arrogant than a petted and bepraised
child, who knowing nothing, thinks he has exhausted
all human erudition! I laugh at men for yielding
to their passions with my thirst for love and glory—though
now my heart is growing very cold; yes, very, very cold!

“Well, this perhaps explains my musings upon the
mysteries of life. The heart of the poor son was chilled
by the unearthly visitor, before he gave up all the joys of
youth, and love, and station, to moralize upon the skull
of the dead jester! Life was the mystery only after he
had seen the ghost; his heart was cold then—reason took
her throne; though but a poor brainsick reason.”

The Doctor went on slowly, gazing listlessly at the grand
landscape.

“Now who could have imagined that this beautiful
and well-proportioned nature would so change—though I
am, perhaps, wrong in thinking that the change is for the
worse. Who could recognize in the gentle, somewhat
apathetic woman lying yonder calmly and thoughtfully,
the sparkling child I danced with in my boyhood, jested
with, and so often encountered in wit-combats, when she
always drove me from the field! Who would imagine
that this glittering star which sparkled so brightly above

my boyhood long ago, could have so changed! If I were
a poet,” the Doctor mused with a sad smile, “I might say
she shines upon the front of the fair past, like a bright
jewel on a lady's brow! What fire, what splendor,
what vivacity and wit! And now—it is most melancholy
—what an apathetic lip and eye and voice; so calm, so
spiritless, so changed in every thing.

“But all things change—a profound, but not an original
remark. All these leaves so gayly dancing in the
wind will soon be gone—they had their youth and ripeness;
now they grow old and change. Poor human nature—it
is melancholy! most melancholy! But one
word concludes and answers all,” the Doctor murmured,
“the word which has escaped with irresistible emphasis
from the lips of mightest conquerors, from the hearts of
the most subtle casuists when their last hour tolled in
their dull, hardened ears; the word which the poor dying
boaster and swash-buckler, overcome like his loftier
brothers, uttered, when dying he `babbled of green fields.'
One word elucidates the mystery, fixes the bourne of
thought—that word is `God!”'

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE DOCTOR SUGGESTS TO MAX AN OFFICIAL VISIT TO RICHMOND.

On the next morning Doctor Courtlandt descended to
breakfast buoyant and smiling, and gayly rubbing his
hands. He bade Mrs. Courtlandt and Max, who were
already down, a hearty and cheerful good-morrow.

“Why, Max!” he said, “you already show the mountain
air. Ah! 'tis almost indispensable to one who has
drawn it in with his first breath—been `brought up to
it,' as the phrase goes. The lowlands yonder don't get
the finest quality, as the merchants say. That is for us
the merry mountaineers. Come, excellent Mrs. Courtlandt,
some breakfast, if you please!”

Max received his father's congratulations on his good
looks with a listless smile, but replied, that he thought he
was quite well.

“You are somewhat delicate, my boy,” Doctor Courtlandt
cheerfully said, “but that is owing to our annoying
sea voyage. You can not imagine what horrible weather
we had, aunt,” he continued, turning to Mrs. Courtlandt
who was superintending the arrangement of the breakfast
table, “and as you never were at sea, I believe, you
can not form any idea of that most disagreeable rolling
of the vessel. Why, our cabin was half the time standing
on its head—nearly literally, for the vessel was on her
beam-ends, and it was hard to say which was the floor,
which the ceiling. See this pearl colored coat I have on:
it was the pride of a Parisian tailor—La Fère, rue Grenoble,
you recollect, Max—well, the water we shipped gave
it these pleasantly variegated tints: see on the shoulder.”

“Had you a storm?”

“Yes, yes, my dear aunt; and Max stood it like a hero
—a real hero—delicate as he is. I believe his heroic
bearing, though, was somewhat owing to the fact that he
had to keep up the spirits of a nice young lady he met
with on board.”

Max smiled sadly.

“He was a great beau on board, aunt,” the Doctor continued,
“but I see breakfast is ready; let us sit down—
come, my boy!”

“What a fine day it is,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, “you
have not ridden over the farm yet, nephew. But you
will have a fine morning for it now.”

“Man proposes but God disposes,” said the Doctor, “I
had intended to do so to-day, but must really go and see
Barry and the folks over there—since they won't come to
see me. Besides I must make another visit to Miss Emberton.”

“Is she dangerously indisposed?”

“Oh, no: very slightly.”

“An old friend of yours, nephew—long ago,” said Mrs.
Courtlandt.

“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “and I find her much
altered. Once she was all vivacity and merriment, you
recollect: now she is decidedly tame—tamed I suppose
is a politer word. Time! time! how it changes us all.”

“It has changed you little.”

“I am naturally buoyant—constitutionally, but I am
older, older, aunt; I begin to feel it.”

“Very little in temperament, nephew.”

“Much, much, my dear aunt.”

“You are as merry as ever.”

“All forced, aunt,” Doctor Courtlandt replied, sadly
smiling, with a covert glance at Max, “but speaking of
merriment, I am going to have a dinner—do you feel equal
to it?”

“A dinner, nephew?”

“Yes; I must formally announce my return. I have
fixed on next Friday, does that suit you.”

“Hum,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, “yes, nephew, certainly:
let me see; oh! yes, we can get ready very well by
that time.”

“You shall write the invitations—you are much better
acquainted than I am. Undertake all that for me, dear
aunt; but I will give you such names as occur to me.
Have you any friends, Max, you would like to see?
Indicate them.”

“I don't know that I have, sir,” said Max, “I was so
young when I went away, and lived so much at home
and in town, that—”

“Well, well; in future you will mix more with the
world. A man must not live `like his grandsire carved
in alabaster,' you know. I intend you to study law, be
a politician, run for the county—go to Richmond; the
family expects much of you, my youngster.”

Max smiled.

“I don't think I could ever make a speech, sir,” he
answered.

“Not make a speech?”

“A political speech.”

“Why not? 'Tis the easiest thing in life! But half-a-dozen
ideas are necessary. `Resolutions of '98—crisis in
the affairs of the nation—the Proclamation—state rights
—strict construction,' there is your speech made up at
once!”

“I have no taste for politics, sir.”

“But still would you not like to go to Richmond—that
centre of civilization, that paragon of cities?”

“You are laughing, sir.”

“Did you not like Richmond?”

“Yes, sir—it is a pretty place; but I would rather live
here.”

“Here in the backwoods?”

“I like the backwoods better than Paris, sir,” said Max,
smiling.

“Ah! now I see your objections to Richmond. It is
too elegant, too brilliant. You fear its attractions; but
I ought not to laugh at our capital, which is after all a
fine place—and I have many good friends there. I think
you would enjoy yourself much if you represented us in
the Legislature there, my boy.”

“Why I am not nineteen, sir.”

“Quite old enough to rule the world—but there is time
enough for all that. To-day I do not ask you to devote
your thoughts to politics—but to society. What say you
—shall we go at once to see the folks at hunter John's?”

“Yes, sir—certainly.”

“Do you remember them?”

“Not very well, sir. I was too young.”

“Not even your nice little cousins, Alice and Caroline?”

“Very slightly, sir; we were all children, and I was
very unsocial.”

“Well, well; we will go at once—though I think they
should have called to see us. They must know we have
returned.”

And the Doctor rose from the breakfast table. At the
same moment the noise of wheels was heard on the hard
road, and going out into the portico, brilliantly illuminated
by the rosy sunlight of the beautiful October morning,
Doctor Courtlandt saw his brother getting out of his
small covered carriage.

The doctor ran down the steps, and in instant had his
brother pressed to his heart. The eyes of the two men
were full of joyful tears.

7. CHAPTER VII.
CAROLINE AND ALICE.

Before the Doctor could so much as ask his brother
how he was, a gay voice from the carriage exclaimed:

“Oh, uncle Max! oh, uncle Max! we're so glad to see
you!”

“Who's that, pray?” cried the Doctor, hurrying to the
carriage.

“Me, uncle; Caroline! Caroline and Alice.”

“Bless my heart!” cried Doctor Courtlandt, “have I
any nieces so tall and charming! Is it possible that my
bad little children have grown up such elegant damsels!”

“Yes—here are your bad little children,” said Caroline,
laughing and springing at one quick bound into the
arms that were opened to receive her, “I'm very bad yet,
uncle Max! but I am so, so glad to see you!”

With which words the girl threw her arms round his
neck and kissed him most enthusiastically.

“Why, how nice she is!” cried the Doctor, “a perfect
fairy! And where is my little Alice?”

“Here I am, uncle,” said a musical voice behind Caroline.
“I was on the wrong side you know, uncle, or I
would have had the first kiss.”

And Alice more quietly got out of the carriage, but
quite as affectionately greeted her uncle.

“What fairies!” cried the delighted Doctor, “did any
body ever—”

“No, never!” said Caroline, with a burst of merry
laughter. “And how stately you have begun to look,”
she added. “Oh, what a bear you are with that enormous
beard.”

“I won't eat you, Carry!”

“I'm not afraid.”

“And you are not, I know, Alice,” said Doctor Courtlandt.

“Oh, no! not of you, uncle,” said Alice, demurely, “no
body could be afraid of you.”

“What a little witch. Let's see, how old?”

“I'm seventeen, uncle,” Alice replied.

“And so am I!” cried Caroline. “Where's cousin Max?”

“There, on the porch; he will be delighted to see you.”

“But I won't kiss him,” said Caroline, pouting and
shaking her head, “I am too old now to kiss cousins.”

“Maybe he won't ask you,” said Doctor Courtlandt,
delighted, “but never mind, I will always kiss you, that
will console you. Come, Alice dear, there is your father
already shaking hands with Max.”

The two young women, each with an arm round Doctor
Courtlandt's waist, demurely drew near the group upon
the porch.

“Here are the girls, Max,” said the Doctor. “Caroline
—this is Caroline—says she will not kiss you.”

“Alice too!” cried Caroline. “I am not by myself.
You know we are growing too old.”

Max with a slight blush stepped forward gracefully,
and inclosed the two young girls in his arms.

“You know,” he said, smiling, “this is mere French
form; I could not assent to your being too old, cousin
Caroline—nor you, cousin Alice.”

With which words Max very calmly kissed both his
cousins.

“Bravo!” cried Doctor Courtlandt, laughing. “What
do you say now, Miss Caroline.”

Caroline submitted to the Doctor's raillery with a good
grace; Alice with some blushes.

“Go make Max's acquaintance, girls,” said the Doctor,
“you would find a walk out on the hill side, or mountain

rather, a much more pleasant pastime, than a chat here
with an old man of science like myself.”

“Oh, no!” said Caroline, coquettishly. “I prefer the
risen to the rising generation decidedly. I want you to
tell me all about your travels.”

“My travels?”

“Yes indeed, uncle. You have been away so long, oh
so long; mother says she never expected to see you again.”

“Why did she not come to-day? Is she unwell,
Barry?” asked the Doctor.

“Somewhat, brother,” said the Rev. Mr. Courtlandt in
his soft voice, “she was afraid of the ride in the cool air,
though she was longing to see you.”

“I will go over this very moment; I must see her.”

“Not before you have given us an account of your
travels,” said Caroline.

“Why, Max will do as much, niece; ask him.”

Max, with his hat in his hand, stood quietly aloof. All
his momentary vivacity had disappeared, and his face had
fallen back, so to speak, into its old, sad, listless expression
of weariness and melancholy. A shadow passed over
the Doctor's brow, and an acute pain seemed to agitate
his features, as his eye fell upon his son. But by a powerful
effort of that strong will which was the most striking
trait in his character, he banished the shadow from his
brow and the tremor from his lips, if not the pain from
his heart.

“Will you not, Max?” he added.

“Certainly, sir,” replied the young man, listlessly, “I
will answer any questions cousin Caroline or cousin Alice
ask me, with pleasure.”

“Hum!” said Caroline pouting, “we want you to tell
us all about it, cousin Maximilian. We would not know
what questions to ask.”

Max bowed slightly.

“And do you suppose,” said the Doctor, “that I would

sit down and commence, ab initio, the narrative of my
travels, Miss Caroline? Upon my word the young ladies
of the present day are exceedingly reasonable. Come,
Max is waiting; go and walk. We old people will
remain behind.”

The young girls and Max saw that the brothers wished
to converse alone, and so without further parley left them.

The Doctor and the Rev. Mr. Courtlandt gazed at each
other with much feeling, separated as they had been so
long. The minister was a very different personage from
that Barry whose boyhood and early manhood we have
seen something of;—for those twenty years which had so
little changed Maximilian Courtlandt, had slowly but
surely revolutionized his brother's character. He was
still most affectionate and tender even; but far more grave;
and on his broad, firm brow study and the weight of pastoral
duty had made many wrinkles. He was pale and
serious; but now his face was lit up with unaccustomed
joy. His whole heart seemed to go forth to embrace the
heart of his brother, and tears for a moment dimmed his
large thoughtful eyes. Then they commenced the conversation
which friends and relations are always so eager
for, after a long absence. The clergyman told his brother
all the events which had taken place in the neighborhood,
during those long years of his absence—the deaths, the
births, the marriages—the thousand familiar occurrences
which only conversation can convey; which are found
neither in the newspapers, nor in the correspondence of
our friends. The Doctor then in the same manner gave
an account of his “life and adventures” since their parting;
and then the conversation turned upon Max.

“Max is still listless and melancholy,” said the Doctor,
“you know this was the reason for my expatriation so
long. I do not think he is much better, and I have returned
with a smile on my lip, but much sadness in my
heart, to the old scenes here, with the hope that the society

of friends and relations will work some change for
the better in his spirits.”

“He does not look well.”

“No; we had a terrible scene down there in Martinsburg—at
the old house. Jenny, the old nurse, you know,
grew garrulous and agitated Max very much—though
God pardon me, I thought he could not be more deeply
affected. Well, brother, I hope all this will wear off with
time. He is better after all, I hope; though not much.
I tried him with every possible diversion—but none absorbed
him sufficiently to drown his memories. He was
always the same calm face, the same unimpressible heart.

“But let us end this sad talk; I have great hopes of
the boy now we are once more back to the old scenes.
These are almost new to him; as we lived in the old
happy days,” the doctor said sighing, “down in Martinsburg.
Fresh mountain air, the exercise he will take,
and, not least, the society of Caroline and Alice will I am
sure make him once more a merry-hearted boy, instead
of the sombre and unsocial man of thirty which he now
resembles.—What charming children are your girls,
brother!” added the Doctor more cheerfully, and half-persuaded
by his own reasoning of the happiness his buoyant
nature shaped for him; “never have I seen brighter
faces or merrier hearts! But come, the sunlight is admirable;
let us take a stroll; I begin to feel like my
former self again.”

8. CHAPTER VIII.
MAX AND CAROLINE.

Max and the young ladies, his cousins, had a very
pleasant stroll on the bright mountain side, which was
now of a thousand colors. The autumn had made every
leaf blue, or yellow, or crimson, and when the wind shook
them together and came sobbing on from the far distance,
ever increasing in loudness until it passed on again and
died away, they resembled so many fluttering pennons
such as the knights of old times bore proudly aloft—the
gifts of their ladies fair—upon the heads of their upright
lances.

The two young girls, for a moment children again at
meeting once more with their long absent uncle, were now
more reserved and more like women. In truth they were
both upon the verge of womanhood, and if their first meeting
with Doctor Courtlandt seemed to stamp them as mere
impulsive children, their conduct on that occasion must
be attributed to the fact that he had always been their
fast friend and even playmate, and they were, thus,
overjoyed to see him back again. They now returned to
their usual placid and cheerful manner—Caroline laughing
gayly, it is true, at every thing; but quite womanly in
spite of it.

They were twins, and resembled each other strikingly
—though Caroline was much the taller of the two, and
had far more vivacity than Alice, whose large liquid eyes
were full of softness and tenderness.

Max enjoyed the stroll very much; the fresh air seemed
to enter into his blood and vivify it. His cheek brightened,
he smiled often, and catching from Caroline the

contagious buoyancy of her own spirits, became more
cheerful than he had been for years.

“How long you have been absent,” said Caroline, “but
now you are back again to stay, are you not?”

“Yes—I hope so, at least.”

“You will be quite an acquisiton to the neighborhood,”
said the young girl, laughing. “We have no beaux here
now, but Robert Emberton and some few more.”

“Robert Emberton—of the Glades?”

“Yes.”

“Is he agreeable?”

“Horrid, cousin Max! You can not imagine what a
fop he is—nothing seems to interest him; he says he is
ennuyé.”

Max smiled.

“What is he ennuyé about?” he asked.

“Nothing!” Caroline replied. “I suppose he thinks it
graceful to yawn and declare that the world is a bore—
that is his word; and pretend that nothing amuses him.
I told him when he came to see me last, that I couldn't
think of causing him such an inconvenience as a ride to
the Parsonage—grandfather's, you know—when it was so
very very far from the Glades—”

“Why, it is not.”

“About ten miles—not more, in truth. But to a person
who thinks every thing a `bore,' ten miles must be a
very great distance to ride—with only a dull young lady
to see.”

“If he said you were dull he showed very little taste,”
said Max, gallantly, “you are any thing but dull, cousin
Caroline.”

“Thank you, cousin Max; you have been traveling,
and now you come to make your pretty speeches to us
country girls.”

“Why, that is not a pretty speech,” said Max, smiling,
“only the truth.”

“Thank you, then.”

“And do you think Mr. Robert Emberton is so affected,
cousin Alice,” asked the young man.

“Oh, no; I think he is very witty and amusing,” said
Alice, with a demure smile, “he says I am not half as
dull as he has heard people say.”

“And so you think he is impudent—not ridiculous, as
Caroline, I mean cousin Caroline, says?”

“No; he is not impudent. I think he is very amusing,
and though he certainly is affected, I am sure he is a
very nice fellow.”

“A difference of opinion certainly, and I must judge for
myself. I am going to live here now, and though I am
not well, and very little inclined to go into society, I shall
visit you and uncle Barry often, when I shall doubtless
see Mr. Emberton.”

“Have you been sick?” asked Alice.

Max's face, clouded.

“No,” he said, “but very low spirited.”

“Oh, you must not be low spirited, cousin,” said
Caroline, “never be low spirited. There is nothing in
the wide world more—unphilosophical—that is the right
word, I believe—than low spirits. You shall come and
see us, and, if necessary, I will laugh all day long to
amuse you. Then we will ride together, walk together,
flirt together, if you choose.”

Max's momentary sadness disappeared before these
merry and joyous words.

“You have a great many pleasant things in store for
me, cousin,” he said, smiling. “How can I thank you—
for the thousand suggestions you make, all tending to remove
my unhappy malady, low spirits? I agree to all
without hesitation—”

“Even the last?”

“The last—?”

“That we shall flirt together, you know. You agree
to that, too?”

Max shrugged his shoulders: had Doctor Courtlandt
seen that shrug he would have been overjoyed.

“You must teach me,” he replied, with a smile and a
glance of admiration at his cousin.

“Teach you to flirt?”

“Certainly.”

“You not know how to flirt?”

“Why should I be so well-instructed, pray, cousin
Caroline—come, tell me.”

“Why, you are so experienced—”

“I am a mere boy, as you see.”

“So old—”

“I am not yet nineteen.”

“Oh, that is nothing I am but seventeen. You may
be very young, but you are very much of a traveler—have
been I mean.”

“I am afraid I have traveled without eyes, if travelers
necessarily learn how to flirt with ladies.”

“Well I am jesting as usual, I perceive. Come, cousin,
tell us of your travels—when you went away you were a
mere child—a boy, if you prefer.”

Max's countenance assumed its old listless expression
of melancholy gravity.

“I could only tell you that we went all over Europe,
and that I was very slightly interested with any thing.”

Caroline did not observe the melancholy expression of
the young man's countenance, and would have pressed
him further, but Alice changed the conversation. The
past, she saw, was plainly full of shadow for the young
man, and like a woman of intelligence she determined to
endeavor thenceforth to wean his thoughts from it. She
had already penetrated his secret grief, that grief so apparent
in his sad eyes and lips.

“See what a beautiful primrose up there by the golden-rod,
cousin Max,” she said, pointing to a rock which over-hung,
like a miniature precipice, their path, “gather it
for me, please.”

“And some for me, my cavalier,” said Caroline.

“With pleasure,” said Max, and after considerable
trouble, he brought both the primrose and the golden-rod,
from their places on the steep side of the mossy rock.

“How sweet!” said Caroline, “and this golden-rod
would really ornament the flower vases beautifully. Get
some more, cousin Max.”

The young man smilingly complied, and after a quarter
of an hour's toil clambering hither and thither, returned
with his arms full of primroses, asters, and other flowers
of the autumn. Caroline received them joyfully.

“What a fine color you have now, cousin Max!” said
Alice, quietly, “your cheeks are as red as peonies.”

“I am sure you only want exercise to be as hardy as a
mountaineer,” said Caroline, “now let us go back, cousin,
for I think father will wish to return: how beautiful my
flowers are!” she added, “and how much I am obliged
to you, cousin Max.”

“I am the gainer, I believe,” said the young man,
smiling, “I feel more buoyant than I have felt for a great
while.”

“I am glad our acquaintance has commenced so propitiously,”
said Alice, smiling upon the young man, and
taking timidly his offered arm, “you must come to the
Parsonage now, and we will walk out, and you shall
gather some of our flowers.”

“As I live!” cried Caroline, “here is uncle coming to
meet us. Oh, uncle, see my pretty flowers, which cousin
Max collected for me. He is an elegant beau!”

“And you a belle of the finest metal,” said the delighted
Doctor, “I have never heard a clapper—by which rude
word I mean a female tongue—which made more musical
utterance. It is far merrier than the merriest cathedral
chimes—your laughter, I mean, Carry—which is a very
gallant speech you must confess in an old savant like myself.”

“Cousin Max is gallant, too,” said Caroline,” very gallant.”

“How could I be otherwise with you,” said Max,
laughing and bowing.

“See now the fine foreign gentleman with his elegant
congé!” said Caroline, merrily.

“Bravo!” cried the Doctor, overjoyed at seeing his son
so animated, and his cheeks so healthfully red, “she has
you there, Max! Come you may take my arm, Carry, as
you and Max have quarreled.”

And so they returned to the Lock, in cheerful talk.

9. CHAPTER IX.
HUNTER JOHN AGAIN: THE WANING GENERATION.

Doctor Courtlandt determined to accompany his
brother to the Parsonage, inasmuch as it was not so
much out of his road to Miss Emberton's, and this determination
gave Caroline great delight. The day was
entirely too fine, she said, for one to be shut up in a carriage,
and now she would ride behind her uncle.

To this proposition, Doctor Courtlandt with great readiness
consented, and his aunt having brought out a voluminous
shawl, and spread it carefully upon the back of
her nephew's horse in order that the young girl's pretty
pink dress might not be soiled, Caroline with one quick
spring took her place behind Doctor Courtlandt, and the
party set forward toward the Parsonage. As for Max, he
promised to ride over in the afternoon.

The day was splendid, as our October days nearly
always are, with their brilliant sunlight, invigorating
breezes, and variegated trees and grasses. The small
streams ran merrily in the full fair light; the blue sky—
without a cloud, but shadowed by a tender delicate haze
drooped like a magical curtain over the far azure head-lands
of the green valley sea—the Sleepy Creek and Third
Hill mountain peaks; and the whole air seemed to be
alive with happiness and joy.

“Oh, uncle Max,” cried Caroline, “how glad we all
are you have come back again! But I believe I am
more delighted than any one else—for you know I always
was your pet: wasn't I?”

“By no means—not a bit more than Alice, you little
rogue—not a bit.”

“You will call me `little.”'

“And are you not?”

“No.”

“How, pray? Are you so very huge, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, monsieur. I am seventeen, and at that age
young ladies are not little things.”

“I suppose then you have already made up your mind
to get married.”

“No, I have not.”

“Will you be an old maid?”

“Yes.”

“What will you do?”

“Keep house for Alice and Robert Emberton.”

“Hum!” said the Doctor, “is that all arranged, eh?”

“By no means; but he is the only beau in the neighborhood,
and Alice is a great deal prettier than I am.”

“Are you jealous of her?”

“No, I am not—but I would be, if it was not for one
thing.”

“What is that, pray?”

“Max's coming.”

“What has the arrival of Max to do with your jealousy?”

“Max shall be my beau.”

The Doctor sighed and smiled.

“That is all very well,” he said, “but there is an old
proverb, mademoiselle, which is somewhat applicable
here.”

“What is it?”

“That it takes two to make a bargain.”

Caroline laughed.

“Oh, Max likes me well enough,” she said, “and as
he is a much nicer person than Mr. Robert Emberton I
will have him for my cavalier.”

The Doctor sighed.

“Max is not very well,” he said, “but you have it in

your power, Carry dear, to be of very great service to
him.”

“How, uncle Max?”

“By coaxing him out of his reserve and melancholy.
If Max was happy he would be as stout as a plowman.”

“Is he unhappy, uncle?” asked Caroline.

“Very, my dear Carry; very unhappy, and this is
what afflicts me so much. It would make a new man of
me were Max to grow gay and cheerful—try now and
amuse him.”

“Indeed I will, dear uncle,” said Caroline, tenderly,
“and on your account, for I dearly love you, uncle Max.”

The doctor took the little hand which clung to his
waist and affectionately pressed it.

“That is a good girl,” he said, “you and Alice too.
We are to have a dinner in three or four days, and this,
with your society will, I trust, wean Max from his melancholy
thoughts. He requires to be interested—employed;
if he is idle and has not congenial society he is gloomy.
We met little such abroad, and I am afraid our long residence
in Italy was scarcely a benefit to him.”

“Oh, how I should like to go to Italy,” cried Caroline,
“what a beautiful country it must be, uncle.”

“Yes—very beautiful.”

“But it could not be much prettier than our mountains
here. Look how grand they are—leaves of all possible
colors! and then see how pretty the Parsonage is,
coming out from the trees, on the side of the hill. It is
the nicest little house in the valley.”

“Yes; it is much changed, however. Ah, how familiar
every thing is!” said the Doctor. “Time! time!—
time is a dreadful but very instructive thing, Carry!
Come, we are at the end of our ride. Your father is out
of the carriage; and Alice—what a little fairy she is!”

Hunter John Myers, that stalwart mountaineer of old
days, came out to meet them. He was no longer stalwart,

but bent down with years—those heavy stones which falling
slowly one by one upon the shoulders of the strongest
bend them to the earth, their resting-place. The old
man's head was snow-white, and his eye dimmed. It
was many years since it had flashed, as was its wont in
the past. His strong stride was now a feeble walk; his
gait had changed like all the rest. A venerable landmark
of the past, he stood on the confines of the two eras, like
an historical monument separating widely different lands.

He was still clad in his old hunting shirt which had
seen so much service in the woods, now waning before
his eyes; his head was still crowned with its regal otter
skin. At his feet a number of veteran deer hounds
crouched, whose days of activity and strength, like his
own, were slowly dropping into past days. Never would
they tear the throat of the deer brought to bay any more;
never again hear the hunter's horn, unless their old worn
out master, in melancholy jest, should take it from its
nail, and startle their old ears as they lay dreaming in
the sunshine.

The hunting days of the old man were over; he was on
the verge of the grave—painfully dragging along his feeble
limbs which he supported with a knotty stick. But
for all this his spirits had not left him. He was still
cheerful and hopeful; and came to meet his visitors now
with hearty pleasure in his old face.

“Welcome, Doctor,” he said, “my old eyes are blessed
to see you back safe and sound once more. I'd most nigh
given you up—'way off in foreign parts; but here you
are back again. Back strong and hearty, not like me,
old and weak and poorly. Welcome—welcome.”

“You are not so bad as you say, my good old friend,”
replied the Doctor, clasping the honest hand with kindly
warmth, “I bless heaven you are so well.”

“I am not long for this world,” said the old man, “soon
the mortal part of the man who went by the name o' Hunter

John Myers on this earth, will be in the dust;—but
pray God his soul will return to that all-wise and loving
Creator who has been so good to him, through a long
happy life.”

“Pray God!” returned the Doctor, holding down his
head, and much affected by the old man's changed and
feeble voice.

“That's all I ask,” said the hunter, looking thoughtfully
out on the beautiful landscape, “I have lived my
life, and it was not so easy and well-doin' in the old Injun
times; but I never could complain of any thing, and I've
had more 'an my deserts. I'm most nigh gone away now
to the other country; when the Lord calls me, I hope I
will be ready.”

Then leading the way, they entered the house. Mrs.
Sally Courtlandt received them—the same tender, earnest
loving face of old times—the same soft voice which had
filled the long past years, for many there, with music.
She was little changed; the girl had become a woman—
that was all. She was happy in possessing so good and
tender a husband, in being able to minister to the wants
of the old man—in having dutiful and affectionate children.
Those blessings which had followed the “darling”
of the valley long ago into the new land of matrimony,
had not been uttered in vain, it seemed.

The house inside was little changed, but some additions
had been made, and some improvements introduced.
Sally's little chamber was now that of the sisters.

“The house has been plastered,” said hunter John,
“and they've put up a porch in front—none of my doings,
Doctor, you may be sure. I wanted them, though, to beautify
the place when my son was minister. They most
nigh refused, but had it done; so you see it ain't my doin'
—but they did it because I wanted 'em to.”

“It's much nicer, I think, grandfather,” said Alice sitting
down by him and affectionately resting her head on

his shoulder, “the vines too improve it—in front, you
know.”

The old man, with an expression of great affection on
his placid features, patted the little hand which clasped
his own.

“Yes, yes, Alice darling,” he said, “the new things
are prettier than the old—the young fairer than the aged.
But what is Oscar growling about?”

The old stag hound rose to his feet and looked toward
the door, evidently moved to this unusual demonstration
by the approach of some visitor. At the same moment
the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard, and mingled with
this measured sound a young man's voice humming a
merry song.

“Who is that?” asked Doctor Courtlandt, “some visitor,
Carry?”

“Not mine!” said Caroline indifferently.

“But who is it?—he has dismounted apparently.”

“It is Robert Emberton,” said Alice, rising from her
seat, “you know, the brother of Miss Josephine, uncle.”

At the same moment the young man entered the room,
bowing to the company.

10. CHAPTER X.
MR. ROBERT EMBERTON: THE RISING GENERATION.

If hunter John Myers, with his gray hair, old fashioned
dress, and rude plain dialect, was a type of the venerable
and moving past, the young man who now entered, graceful,
smiling, ready in speech, and clad in the very latest
fashion, presented a tolerably accurate specimen of the
“new men” and the changed world which had taken the
place of the old rugged times gone by.

Robert Emberton was a handsome young man of nineteen,
with bright eyes, erect carriage, and graceful person.
There was little of the boy about him, in feature, figure,
or manner. He was perfectly easy and self-possessed;
carried his head, as the phrase goes, elegantly; and seemed
to look upon society and human existence as a rather
amusing comedy, which every one had tacitly consented
to act as well as possible for the moment—with a perfect
understanding, however, that it was all for amusement
and had no particle of reality at bottom. He was elegantly
dressed, as we have said, and in the very latest
fashion. From his fingers dangled a light whalebone
cane with a deer's foot at its top, and in the other hand he
carried easily a well smoothed beaver hat.

The young man's easy negligence of manner somewhat
changed when he perceived Doctor Courtlandt's piercing
eye fixed upon him, and he bowed to that gentleman profoundly.
Certainly he had not paid the same compliment
to any other person for a long time, and this unusual circumstance
may be accounted for, on the ground that Mr.
Robert Emberton had never yet met with so distinguished
a man in countenance and manner, as the individual who

now stood before him—with such a noble face—such
brilliant eyes full of intelligence and mental power—such
a forehead where thought sat enthroned in quiet majesty.
But perhaps the young man's unusual respect was more
still to be attributed to the accounts he had heard of Doctor
Courtlandt from his sister—more than all, possibly, to the
long travel of his new acquaintance in distant lands; for
Mr. Robert Emberton had but one ambition, which ambition
was to visit that centre of civilization—Paris. He
fancied that the very coat the silent and grave gentleman
who stood there wore, was redolent of Parisian elegance.

So Mr. Emberton, with much less easy negligence than
was his custom, replied to the courteous words vouchsafed
him by the Doctor.

The Doctor was pleased, he said, to make Mr. Emberton's
acquaintance—since he had had that pleasure when
Mr. Emberton was exceedingly young; was glad to see
him now, on his return, so much improved.

The young man had intended on that morning he said,
to call on the Doctor, both because he was sure he should
have a very pleasant visit, and because his sister had
commissioned him to say that she was now very nearly
quite well.

“Which I hope,” the Doctor said, “is not to forbid my
carrying out my promise to call on her to-day?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the young man said, “on the contrary,
she desired me to say that she would be much pleased to
see you, as your visit was very short when you called
yesterday.”

“I will then go this morning as I had intended, though
now Miss Emberton will have only an ordinary visitor in
place of a professional one.”

Having settled this matter so satisfactorily, the Doctor
left the young man to pay his addresses to the ladies,
which he however seemed in no haste to do; perhaps
because he had seen a great deal of them, and very little

of the Doctor, whom he had heard so much of. His society
was, however, by no means so attractive as to make Doctor
Courtlandt choose it in preference to that of his old
friends and his brother; and so Mr. Robert Emberton
was obliged to content himself with the ordinary conversation
of the young ladies.

They strolled out on the hill side, followed negligently
by their cavalier, who dangled his cane and yawned.

“Do you feel unwell to-day?” said Caroline, turning
her head carelessly over her shoulder, and fixing her bright
eyes satirically upon him.

“Unwell?” yawned the gentleman, somewhat surprised.
“Why, not at all; why did you ask?”

“I thought from your manner that you were not well.”

“My manner; what is peculiar in that, Miss Caroline?”

“It is so listless; one would think you were `bored' to
death, as you are fond of saying.”

“The fact is, I am bored; I was, I mean, before I had
the delight of gazing on your fair countenance. But I
was not conscious that my ennui displayed itself so unmistakably.”

“It does.”

“In my conversation, eh? That is dull, you mean?
My ennui is betrayed there?”

“In every thing.”

“Ah, there it is! The young ladies of the present day
are becoming the most extraordinary creatures. You
can not yawn or complain of any thing in the whole universe,
but, by Jove!—excuse me, fairest Miss Caroline—
they are offended. That is not so important, however,
for ladies soon recover from their ill-humor; but it really
is annoying to a man of sense, that he is expected on all
occasions to be in raptures, to smile, and simper, and
exhaust the vocabulary of compliments and pretty speeches.
I can't; it bores me.”

“Are you ever any thing but `bored,' sir?” asked Caroline.

“Very seldom any thing else—I have just come from
Bath, up there, you know. You've heard of Bath, I sup
pose.”

“Heard of Bath, Mr. Emberton!” said Alice, quietly,
“why it is just over the mountain, and is the most fashionable
watering-place in the valley.”

“Well, I was about to say when you interrupted me,
Miss Alice,” the young man replied negligently, “that I
have been bored to death there lately.”

“By what, pray?” said Alice, smiling.

“By every thing; and the dreadful part of it was, that
I could not escape it.”

“You were not obliged to talk to the ladies, were you?”

“Oh, I did nothing of the sort. The very evening I
arrived, an event happened to me which stopped all that.”

“What event?”

“A young lady very nearly made a declaration to me;
it was shocking though it is Leap Year.”

“I declare you are too bad!” said Alice, laughing, “and
if you were not so affected and meant half you say, I
would—”

“Cut me?”

“Yes, sir, and Carry too; I know she would.”

“Without hesitation,” said Caroline, pouting.

This expression upon Caroline's face seemed rather to
amuse Mr. Emberton.

“That would be dreadful,” he said carelessly, “but I
was going on with my account of the kingdom of boredom
up there—or down there, as you please. It was not the
female society—shocking phrase that, but one must use
it, it is so fashionable—not the ladies who bored me. One
can always decline being victimized by them, and I did
decline, after waltzing to that dreadful music for one whole
evening; but I could not escape the rest.”

“What else wearied Mr. Emberton? I hate the word
bored,” said Caroline, “and beg you will not use it again.”

“With pleasure. My tribulation arose then from the
awful dressing of the company. Never have I seen any
thing so horrible as the taste of those young ladies and
gentlemen; it was enough to give one a chill. I became
depressed, I was overcome—I was in doubt whether I
was present at a social meeting of the South Sea Islanders,
or the inhabitants of Nova Zembla. I came away
immediately and shall not return.”

“You came because your sister sent for you, did you
not?” asked Alice, laughing.

“Yes; but I was coming without her request. I saw no
new faces, no pretty girls—all passées, regular old stagers.
By-the-by, speaking of new faces, you have a cousin who
has just arrived have you not, my dear Miss Alice?”

“Yes; cousin Max.”

“Nice fellow?”

“Very nice, I suppose; he is Caroline's beau, not
mine,” said Alice, laughing and blushing slightly.

“Handsome?” continued Mr. Emberton.

“Exceedingly.”

“Dress well?”

“I did not observe.”

“Is he comme il faut, I mean?”

“At least he is just from Paris.”

“Then he dresses well; and as he dresses well, is exceedingly
handsome, a very nice fellow, and above all your
cousin,” said Mr. Emberton, summing up, “I have no doubt
you will fall in love with him at once, Miss Caroline.”

“I believe I shall,” the young girl replied.

This answer made the gentleman, strange to say, somewhat
moody; he had too high an opinion of persons who
had been to Paris to despise them.

“He is an admirer of yours, I believe?” asked Mr.
Emberton, with affected nonchalance.

“Oh, indeed he is,” said Alice, with some constraint,
“he and Carry are excellent friends already.”

“Keep a little corner for me in your heart, Miss Carry.”

the young gentleman said, resuming his drawl, “even if
I should be called on to dance at your wedding.”

Caroline made no reply.

“It is not arranged entirely yet, is it?” he asked.

“No, sir! it is not!”

“Why, Miss Caroline—I really feel some trepidation;
you will not eat me, will you?”

“No, sir; you are not to my taste.”

“Not to your taste! Good! That reminds me of a
friend of mine down at Bath. After half an hour's devotion
to the ice cream, he said to me pathetically, `I've
eaten so much of this thing that I've got through; but
it's not to my taste.' Now to apply my anecdote. You
can not eat me, my dear Miss Caroline, but you can imbibe
my discourse. I hope under these circumstances
you have not imbided so much of it on the present occasion
that you wish you had got through with it.”

“I am never guilty of impoliteness, sir,” said Caroline,
half offended, half ready to burst out laughing at this
ridiculous reply.

“And I am sure,” the young man said with a courtly
bow, “I would not have alluded to your engagement with
your cousin, had I imagined such an illusion would be
thought `impolite.”'

“I am not engaged.”

A well satisfied smile lit up Mr. Robert Emberton's
face at these negligent words, and the whole party having
once more recovered their good humor, continued the
jesting conversation, until after making the circuit of
the hill, they returned to the Parsonage.

The Doctor was mounting his horse; the young man
hastened up.

“Will you permit me to accompany you, sir,” he
asked, very deferentially.

“I will be very glad to have your company, sir,” the
Doctor replied; and taking leave of the family, they set
forward toward the “Glades.”

11. CHAPTER XI.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

After a pleasant ride of two hours they arrived at the
Glades, where the young man's multitudinous questions
addressed to the Doctor, for a moment ceased to stun that
gentleman's ears. At the gate stood a large lean horse
champing his bit, and this caused Mr. Robert Emberton
to surmise that “his dancing-master had come to give
him a lesson.”

The Doctor smiled; for this word “dancing-master,”
threw him back to former days when the art of dancing
was so excellently represented in Martinsburg, by that
worthy offshoot of the days of the Grand Monarque—
Monsieur Pantoufle Xaupi. But what was his astonishment
on entering the mansion to see approach him, no
less a personage than that very Monsieur Pantoufle,
twenty-five years older, and needing now no white powder
on his thin elegantly dressed hair; but still supple, still
bowing, ambling, smiling, still full of the thousand engaging
amenities of look and manner which characterized
him in those long past days, to which the Doctor's
thoughts had just flown back.

Monsieur Pantoufle ran to the Doctor and embraced
him enthusiastically.

“My dear friend!” cried the dancing-master, “is it
possible I now see you in person, so well, so excellent-looking!
Is it possible I see my much cherished friend
—Monsieur Max!”

“In person;” said the Doctor, smiling and cordially
returning the pressure of the old man's hand, “I am

as much surprised as yourself, Monsieur Pantoufle—
but delighted to see you!”

“Ah, you charm me!”

“You are as gay as ever?”

“Not so gay;” said the old dancing-master, shaking
his head, “age come on very fast; je suis veillard, Monsieur
Max.”

“Mais vous êtes bien aise?”

“Non, mon cher. I grow old. The times pass—it is
long since I fence, I dance, I play upon the harpsichord,
the violin, as I used to in the old time.”

“You look very well—and almost as young as ever,”
replied the Doctor.

The old man shook his head.

“I have but the spirits,” he said, “the spirits never
leave me.”

That is much.”

“Yes, yes—very much. I often tell my young friend
here, Monsieur Robert, to keep up the spirits; always
keep up the spirits.”

“He needs it little, I think; but really I am delighted
to see you,” said the kind hearted Doctor, “you recall to
me a great many pleasant reminiscences of the past,
though some are unpleasant, too. You recollect that I
bought your coat, eh?”

“My grand monarque coat!” said the old man, shrugging
his shoulders, and laughing.

“Yes, the Louis XIV.”

“I nevare can get such now,” said Monsieur Pantoufle.
“The present mode is abominable.”

“I am just from Paris.”

“From Paris; est il possible?”

“Direct.”

“My friends send me any message? But I have no
friends now,” added the old man shaking his head, “they
all pass away, they all go like the autumn leaf, in the
wind; they send me any message, eh?”

“I was there but a short time and made very few acquaintances.”

“You meet the Duc de Montmorenci?”

“No—your friend?”

“My cousin, my blood cousin: it is an homme d'esprit!
But he has forgot the poor dancing-master sans doute.”

“Well, at least I have not; for I retain too pleasant
an impression of you, my dear Monsieur Pantoufle; and I
wish sincerely that you may never have a day of trouble
or ill health.

“I have had much; but the spirits have not leave me.
I come, Monsieur Robert,” he added, turning to the young
man, “to give you your dancing lesson; I was grieve to
hear of Mademoiselle's sickness, and was going back to
Bath, but she send me word she would come see me—I
must wait; à la bonne heure. She is here.”

Miss Josephine Emberton entered, still pale and looking
feeble, but evidently not otherwise unwell. She
greeted the Doctor with manifest pleasure, and expressed
her great satisfaction at seeing him back again, very
gracefully.

“I scarcely exchanged three words with you yesterday,”
she said, “and now, Doctor, you must give me
leave to make my speech out, you know. It really looks
like old times to see you and Monsieur Pantoufle face to
face; it reminds me of the happy days of my girlhood in
Martinsburg, when I was so young and merry.”

“Ah,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, with a very engaging
bow, “you jest Mademoiselle: you are very young—not
twenty years, I think, indeed.”

“You are very gallant, Monsieur Pantoufle,” Miss
Emberton replied, languidly, but smiling kindly on the
old man, “and I always know what to expect from you
when I make any allusion to my age.”

“Permit me, madam, also to reiterate Monsieur Pantoufle's
compliment,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “I find you
changed, it is true, from the merry school-girl you were

formerly, when a very pert and impudent boy used to
come and visit you at his aunt's: he also is changed but
like yourself, God be thanked, still retains his love of old
friends and holds in his heart, as a sacred treasure, the
recollections of those times you allude to.”

“They are very far off, Doctor,” said Miss Emberton,
with a smile and a sigh.

“But very vivid to me, madam,” replied the Doctor,
“they were happy times—very happy. The memory of
them even now when long years have gone by, each
touching my forehead with a wrinkle, my hair with a
snow flake, even now my recollections when they go back
to the times we speak of, are full of pleasant regret.”

“Is regret ever pleasant, Doctor?”

“Often—very often.”

“How is that?”

“It is very simple. We naturally regret all that
splendor and joy which has flown away; the present is
not equal to the bright past in any thing;—from our proclivity
to love the `good old times,' whether those times
were good or not. That is human; therefore we ever sigh
for them back again. But with the regret is mingled
the consciousness of having once been happy—grand and
most affecting recollection!—and so the regret is often
swallowed up in joyful satisfaction.”

“C'est vrai!” said Monsieur Pantoufle, wisely and
thoughtfully shaking his head.

The lady smiled.

“Well, I confess there is very often some such feeling
in my own mind,” she said, “but I am still very child-like
in my character—though I am becoming an old woman
—which probably accounts for it.”

“Child-like, madam? I find you paying yourself a
very high compliment.”

“How so?”

“The child character is my beau ideal—the most perfect.”

“'Tis true, 'tis true,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, mournfully
shaking his head; “hélas!”

“Why, Doctor?” asked Miss Emberton.

“Because it is the purest. Carping men may exhaust
their rhetoric in scoffing at the idea, but my experience
tells me that the child-mind, unfettered as it is with conventionality
and custom, unobscured and unaffected by
worldly fallacy, that this first virgin tablet takes truer as
well as more beautiful impressions than the adult mind.
Thus I have ever loved children.”

“There is much truth in what you say, Doctor; I think
I should like to possess some enchanter's wand for a moment.
I would transport myself back to Mrs. Courtlandt's
in Martinsburg, and for a time live again in the
midst of my child-friends there as I used to. But they
have grown up, married, and I believe quite forgotten
me; the world is real, not enchanted.”

“Alas,” said the Doctor, “no truer word could be
spoken. But the other day I visited that very house—
collecting my memories, you will understand, madam,”
said the Doctor, smiling.

“The old school?”

“Yes; and I stood in the room just where I so often
stood in the old days listening to the merry laughter of
the girls. I thought I heard it again ringing joyfully
through the passages and out under the broad garden
trees! I was mistaken; it was all gone, and the place
only made me melancholy.”

“So you came away sighing, Doctor, did you?” asked
Miss Emberton, with a languid smile.

“No, no. For one memory rescued me from this
prison house of tears,” said Doctor Courtlandt, laughing.

“What memory?”

“Do you recall the occasion of Mrs. —'s exhibition,
or examination, rather?”

“Perfectly.”

“When I played Romeo you recollect, madam?”

“Yes—yes!”

“Well I recollected, as I stood there in the old room,
that foolish act of mine—the note I gave you.”

The doctor and the lady both laughed.

“When we were dancing the minuet?” she said, “oh
yes, I recollect perfectly.”

“So now, madam; there is one of those pleasant regrets
I spoke of.”

“True it is such.”

“I have my Romeo coat still,” said the Doctor.

“What a curiosity!”

“A curiosity indeed; and how singular that Monsieur
Pantoufle should be here now so long after, just as we
are speaking of those times. That was his coat, my dear
madam.”

“Oh, I recollect; you seem to have forgotten the `subscription'
you proposed!”

The Doctor laughed heartily; and after some more
pleasant conversation arose to take his leave.

“I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing your sister
and yourself at the Lock upon Friday,” he said to the
young man, “some friends come to dine with me.”

“With great pleasure, Doctor, should I be well enough.
Call again when you find it convenient: we should not
neglect old friends.”

Twenty years before the Doctor would have made his
departure glitter with a speech replete with gallantry;
but time had affected him equally with Monsieur Pantoufle.
He therefore, simply bowed, and requesting Monsieur
Pantoufle to accompany the party, wrapped his surtout
around him, and returned homeward, thinking of
Max.

12. CHAPTER XII.
HOW THE WORLD WAGS.

The day for the dinner came, and Doctor Courtlandt
stood at the door of his open, hospitable mansion, welcoming
every one, as the vehicles of every description,
from the large family coach to the light one-seated curricle,
deposited their freights before the door. The large
carriages, roomy and luxuriously swung upon low-bending
springs, were affected by the elderly ladies and those
old “squires,” to use the rustic designation, whose figures
for long years nursed into corpulence and rotundity by
generous viands and an ample modicum of sherry daily,
would not consent to be incarcerated in narrower and less
spacious vehicles. But the young gentlemen and ladies
of the neighborhood, whose graces on the contrary courted
observation, made their appearance on fine and spirited
horses.

The Doctor was “all things to all men;” as perfectly
agreeable with his ready jests to the young damsels, as
he was with his cordial, neighborly bearing to the elderly
ladies and gentlemen. For a time nothing was distinguishable
but the incessant clatter of hoofs, and rattle of
wheels, mingled with the hum of voices—then the “arrivals
were complete” and the company was marshaled
into the great dining-room, wherein that worthy old gentleman,
father Von Horn, had often received his neighbors
in long past years.

The return of Doctor Courtlandt and his son, was quite
an event in the neighborhood—and to every one a pleasant
event. The reader may have observed in former
portions of this true chronicle, that Doctor Courtlandt

even as a wild, headstrong boy, managed to conciliate the
goodwill of every person with whom he was thrown in
contact. Throughout his life this was certainly a very
observable circumstance; and now his return was hailed
by all those friendly hearts as a most welcome event.
There was much to interest a mere stranger even, in the
noble looking gentleman now seated at the head of his
broad board, and dispensing around him smiles and congratulations.
Intellect had written in unmistakable characters
its presence on the broad ample brow; and no one
who had watched the expression of the firm lips—so infallibly
the test of character—would have doubted that
the heart which corresponded to this intellect was as
noble and true.

Caroline and Alice were seated by Max and Mr. Robert
Emberton: and Miss Emberton was the centre of attraction
among the fair dames who bloomed in long rows on
the right and left hand of the host. At the foot of the
table—or more properly the head—sat Mrs. Courtlandt,
the Rev. Mr. Courtlandt and his wife.

Alice observed with pain that Max ate scarcely at all;
and this was only not observed by other persons from the
fact that the young man was kept very busily talking:
he and Doctor Courtlandt were the two centres to which a
thousand questions tended, throughout the whole banquet.
The young man seemed very listless and melancholy.

As for Caroline she was very busily engaged in laughing
at Mr. Robert Emberton's petit-maître airs, and at
his attempts to talk French with Monsieur Pantoufle, who
sat opposite them. Monsieur Pantoufle shrugged his
shoulders at Mr. Robert Emberton's extraordinary lingua
Franca—for this young gentleman had managed to mix
up with his French both Italian and German, in which
he fancied himself a proficient.

And so with the buzz of voices and the clatter of plates
the dinner, like all mortal things, came to an end.

“Come, Mr. Emberton and you, cousin Max,” said
Caroline, “you must not stay drinking wine—you must
come and walk with us on the hill side.”

“Willingly,” said Mr. Robert Emberton, “drinking is
a great bore.”

And accompanied by Max, Alice, Caroline and a number
of young ladies, the unfortunate victim of ennui went forth.

The afternoon was beautiful; the sun just poised upon
the western forest, hung in the rosy sky like a great
shield on the flame-colored hangings woven of old by
Ingebord, that “Child of kings;” the bright trees waved
their long branches to the golden clouds; the fresh pure
air brought the most becoming color to every cheek.

Max was silent and even gloomy. Alice looked at him
timidly.

“Cousin Max, you do not seem well,” she said, bashfully.

“I am very well,” said the young man, sombre and
mournful.

“You must not be low spirited.”

“I am not.”

And then after these abstracted words he turned away.

Caroline's gay laugh rang out.

“And you pretend to say that you speak French, sir!
upon my word! I have never heard a more singular dialect
than that with which you were pleased to regale my
ears at table.”

“I did not address my French to you, Miss Caroline,”
said Mr. Robert Emberton, to whom these words were
directed.

“Well address me now, and tell me if that sky is not
beautiful?”

“Beautiful?”

“Yes, it is lovely. Look at the girls and the gentlemen
yonder, how sentimentally they are grouped admiring
it.”

“They are young,” said Mr. Emberton, yawning.

“Young? what do you mean?”

“Unsophisticated.”

“Because they admire a beautiful sunset? How fine
your taste is!”

“I don't pretend to have any.”

“You have none, or you would admire those beautiful
woods.”

“You have harnessed that poor word beautiful too
often. It will break down the next stage.”

“Then lovely—the evening is lovely.”

“There's nothing in it.”

“Just listen. I think you and cousin Max are the
dullest beaux I have had for an age.”

Max, by a strong effort suppressed his gloom, and turning
to the young girl whose bright glance flashed like an
arrow to him:

“What did you say, cousin?” he asked, smiling sadly.

“I said you and Mr. Emberton were very bad company.”

“Well,” said Max, “I will endeavor to behave better.
Come now, make me laugh, cousin Caroline. I am in
one of my fits of dullness.”

“He would not speak to me,” thought Alice, “and
turned away from me saying that he was not low spirited;
plainly because he did not expect any pleasure in my
society. Now he is very ready to talk to sister, and in
five minutes will be laughing. Well, I hope she will
make him laugh;” and mortified tears came into the
young girl's eyes.

“Now, Miss Alice,” said Mr. Emberton, offering his
arm to the fair girl to help her over the steep rocks they
were clambering, “I begin to feel in a better humor with
you upon my arm. I confess I have been in a wretched
humor all day—before I left home, understand: for by
this time I should have done something dreadful, but

for Doctor Courtlandt's brilliant conversation and your
pleasant society.”

Alice glanced at Max and Caroline who were talking
gayly—Caroline at least. Max seemed already to have
thrown off much of his gloom.

“You are as much in earnest about uncle's `brilliant
conversation' as about my `pleasant society,' I suppose,
Mr. Emberton,” the young girl said.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Emberton bending down to her
ear gallantly, and taking the opportunity to throw a
glance upon Max and Caroline, “I was never more sincere
in my life.”

“Sincerity is your forte, you know.”

“My forte?”

“I mean it is not.”

“I am always sincere with you,” said Mr. Emberton,
tenderly.

“And I with you; for I always tell you your faults,
you know.”

“My faults?” said her companion, glancing at Caroline
and her cousin.

“Yes,” said Alice, with the same wandering of the eyes.

“Have I faults?”

“Yes, sir,” said Alice, “and one of them is looking at
other people when you are talking to a lady.”

“Other people!”

“Yes, you were looking at sister and cousin Max while
you were answering me; and scarcely knew what you
were saying.”

Mr. Emberton smiled.

“You were doing the same,” he said.

“Well, if we are not society for each other—though
you say mine is so pleasant,” Alice replied, with some
feeling and a perceptible tremor in her voice, “suppose
we join them, sir.”

“A quarrel on my hands, by Jove!” muttered Mr.

Emberton. “On my word, Miss Alice,” he continued
more seriously, “I had no intention of being guilty of
discourtesy. I am exceedingly dull, I feel; and ask your
pardon. Don't refuse it.”

Alice smiled, and granted the wished for pardon; but
insisted on joining the party. And so they approached.

“Oh, cousin Max has been giving me such a nice
description of Italy and Rome!” cried Caroline.

“Has he?” said Alice in a low voice, “I could not get
you to talk with me, cousin Max.”

“I have talked very little,” said Max, with a long look
at Alice, “and indeed very prosily. You were much
better employed.”

“Flirting with Mr. Emberton,” said Caroline, with an
affected laugh, “oh fie, a preacher's daughter!”

Alice turned away to hide her tears, and with her companion
approached a large rock which was covered with moss
and afforded a delightful seat. They sat down—Robert
Emberton bending over the young girl intent on removing
all traces of ill-humor from her mind.

“There they go,” said Caroline to Max, with a somewhat
ironical look, “I am very glad you secured me from
that fine gentleman, cousin Max, with his eternal talk of
being bored—he is excessively disagreeable.”

“Do you dislike him, cousin?”

“No,” said Caroline, indifferently, “he will do very
well in his way—he is very affected.”

“Is he intelligent?” asked Max, looking at the person
he alluded to.

“So-so—yes, I won't be insincere; quite intelligent,
but the most ridiculous—”

“Do you like him?”

“No, not a bit.”

“I thought he visited you and Alice very constantly.
Does Alice like him?”

“I don't know, but it is plain he likes Alice,” said the
young girl, ponting.

“They seem to be admiring the sunset; see how beautiful.
There is now just a very small remnant of the
disc upon the horizon. There, it is gone.”

“Yes, gone,” said Caroline, with her eyes fixed on
Alice and Mr. Robert Emberton, as they sat in friendly
proximity side by side upon the beautiful moss-clad rock.

“There are no sunsets in the world equal to our mountain
ones here,” said Max, going through the same ceremony
as his cousin.

“Not in Italy?” asked Caroline, absently.

“No—none as beautiful.”

“I have heard so much of the Italian sunsets—are they
not superb.”

“Yes, the sky is very fair.”

“Very few clouds, I believe?” said Caroline, still absently,
and feeling a very violent dislike for Mr. Robert
Emberton who was fixing her sister's bracelet affectionately
upon the beautiful arm.

“I observed none, scarcely,” said Max, asking himself
why he had not before observed how fond Alice was
of Mr. Emberton, upon whom she was at that moment
sweetly smiling.

Caroline burst into a merry laugh.

“You are not thinking of me that's plain, cousin Max,”
she said.

“Not thinking of you?”

“You are looking all the while at Alice, at least!”

“I believe we have both been looking in that direction,”
said the young man, smiling, “suppose we go and see
what they are examining so attentively.”

“With pleasure!” said Caroline, making a mock
courtesy, and taking the offered arm with a laugh. It
was a flower that Alice and Mr. Emberton were examining—one
of those fair autumn flowers which glitter like
stars all over our beautiful mountains.

“What is that?” asked Caroline taking it, with an
ironical laugh, “what Shakespeare calls Love-in-idleness?”

“I profess my entire ignorance, Miss Caroline,” said
Mr. Robert Emberton, “I never studied botany;—it
bored me.”

“Oh, that is nothing extraordinary, sir,” said Caroline,
satirically, “botany does not monopolize the privilege.”

“Now you are going to cut me up as usual, Miss
Caroline. Really, Mr. Courtlandt will think me a most
unfortunate individual.”

“You are very fortunate I think, sir,” said Max, “you
are in good spirits and amuse cousin Alice. I can not.”

“Oh, Cousin Max!” said Alice, reproachfully.

“I only mean that I am really very low-spirited and
dull,” said Max, grieved at the hurt expression of the
little tender face, “Indeed I am always, and am a poor
entertainer.”

“You seemed to be entertaining Miss Caroline very
agreeably, sir,” said Mr. Emberton, “she always laughs
at instead of with me.”

Caroline, as if to verify this charge against her, burst
into a merry laugh.

“Upon my word!” she cried, “I think we ought to
have arranged differently. You, cousin Max, with Alice
and I with Mr. Emberton; thought I know I should have
got the worst of the bargain.”

“You flatter me: you are really too good to me,” said
Mr. Emberton, bowing ironically.

“Well, I will not undervalue you so much,” said
Caroline merrily, “for when I have bored, and bored, and
bored you still more, perhaps I shall discover the vein of
gold, now hidden. But come let us go back!”

And they all returned to the mansion. They found
the company about to separate for their different homes,
and soon in the joyous and gay clatter of those friendly
voices they lost sight of the comedy of errors they had
just enacted. The scene passed away like a momentary
cloud floating across the sunlight—but still that scene

was more important to this history than a thousand dinners.
We might have detailed for the amusement of our
readers, the jests, the laughter, the merry speeches of the
ladies in the drawing-room, of the elderly gentlemen over
their wine when these fair ladies had departed for a time,
but our duty was to abandon all this brilliant company
and busy ourselves with the four personages whose phases
of character, and changes of feeling must enter chiefly
into this chronicle. This duty pointed to the most difficult
of two matters: for it is mere pastime to catch idle
momentary words and laughter, and note the footprints
of the march of incident; but far more difficult to truthfully
outline, even, the characters of human beings. The
first is easy sport, the latter a very different matter.

This trifling scene was the means of developing clearly
to their own eyes in those four hearts, a fact which
hitherto they had not given thought to.

The company separated with many expressions of good
will, and soon there was nothing in this large room, where
so many voices had but now resounded, but silence.

The Doctor had been much grieved at Max's melancholy
in the earlier part of the day. But when the young
man returned from his walk with the fair girls his cousins,
this melancholy had disappeared, and there was life again
in his large blue eyes.

“Ah,” murmured the astute observer of human nature,
“the change has, God be thanked, commenced. What
would they not deserve of me if they did away with his
sombre thoughtfulness.”

The Rev. Mr. Courtlandt and his wife with the young
girls departed last.

“Good-by, uncle,” said Caroline, “oh, I have had
such a delightful day. Such pleasant company.”

“Whose the most so, pray?”

“Yours of course—you're such a nice old fellow.”

“Old indeed—at forty!”

“Well, `young fellow,' then.”

“I distrust your compliments, you witch; now I am
quite sure you found Mr. Robert Emberton's society
enough to occupy you for the whole day.”

Caroline laughed ironically.

“No,” she said, “he was `bored' as usual.”

“As usual?”

“He always is; but he says he will come and see us
to-morrow or the next day, and not complain of dullness
for once.”

“And you, Alice—have you had an agreeable time?”

“Very agreeable, dear uncle,” said the young girl,
looking at Max.

Max smiled and sighed; the Doctor caught the sigh in
its passage.

“Max,” he said, “how has it been with you?”

“I am always in good spirits when I am with cousin
Carry and cousin Alice.”

“Oh,” cried Caroline, “what a gallant speech Monsieur
le Voyageur.”

“And very sincere,” said Max, looking at Alice, “that
is its only merit.”

“Well, now it strikes me,” the Doctor said, laughing,
“that you might be in good spirits oftener.”

“How, sir?”

“The Parsonage is not far.”

“Oh, I am going over to-morrow.”

“Yes,” said Alice with a bright smile, “cousin Max
promised to bring me something—though I had to tease
him for it.”

“What sort of a something?”

“Oh, that's our secret, sir,” said Alice, in her soft
musical voice which was the very echo of tenderness and
joy, “the secret which is known to three people is no
secret, you know.”

“I promised—” began Max.

“Now, cousin!” said Alice, smiling, “that will spoil
all.”

“Well, I won't ask,” Doctor Courtlandt said. “Max
may take you what he chooses to take you; but you
shall take away a kiss from me. Come, both!—but one
at a time. Good! now there is brother waiting for you,
and your mother smiling at you.”

“Au revoir!” said Caroline, laughing merrily and
making a mock courtesy.

“Good-by, uncle. You must come and bring what
you promised, cousin Max,” said Alice; and so the last
of the guests departed.

13. CHAPTER XIII.
ALICE'S SECRET.

On the next morning Doctor Courtlandt rose with the
sun, and opening his window to the fresh morning air,
inhaled joyfully that breath of golden autumn so full of
life and strength.

“Ah,” he said, “I should be in the hills by this time!
I feel my old warlike instincts revive; I am conscious of
a deadly enmity to deer and turkeys. I should now be
filling my chest with the full-flowing wind of the Sleepy
Creek Mountain, yonder—I should be in the midst of
those splendid woods hearing the merry leaves rustle instead
of thus being a tardy sluggard here!”

And Doctor Courtlandt dressed with the ease and
rapidity of an old traveler; and gay, light-hearted, ready
to break his jokes upon any one who approached, descended
to the breakfast room.

Max was already there bending over a portfolio which
lay upon his knees. His long fair hair half covered his
face, as he sat with his delicate profile turned to the door by
which his father entered, and the red, cheerful light of the
crackling twigs in the fire-place—only a handful, to dispel
the morning chilliness—brightened his eyes, and mingled
itself with the clear sunlight streaming through the window
opening on the east.

The Doctor clapped him on the shoulder.

“What brought you down so soon, my boy? you are
not generally so early a riser,” said he laughing.

Max raised his face; he was smiling.

“I could not bear to lie in bed on such a lovely morning,
sir,” he replied.

“Why, that is well said! Now suppose we go and
look at the mountains. I was born in the mountains, and
have all my life risen early to go and see the morning
mist curl up from the streams.”

“It is very beautiful,” said Max, putting on his hat,
and placing under his arm the portfolio.

“Oh, grand!” and with this joyful exclamation, Doctor
Courtlandt, accompanied by his son, went out upon the
mountain side.

“See,” said he, “how fresh the trees and all are from
their night's rest, so to speak. How still the air is; nothing
is stirring but those small birds, and that hawk floating
far up above the mountain upon his long wings. Observe
the mist hanging above Meadow Branch—no trace of the
Parsonage or any other house. Yes! upon my word!
there it comes out! the sun is routing the mist—you
have never seen any thing as pretty in Europe, my boy!
and day is on us! with all the fresh vigor of youth and
joy. That wind! hear how it floods the air with merry
laughter! the trees are positively so much variegated
cloth of gold! and the leaves dancing to the tinkling
music! Ah! the air is full of it!”

Max stood rapt with the beauty of the fair October
morning; and for the first time felt that autumn was not
necessarily so sad. His eye sparkled, his cheeks filled
with blood, and his eye drank in rapturously the whole
beautiful landscape.

“Splendid; is it not?” said Doctor Courtlandt, “if I
could only sketch this scene!”

“Here is my portfolio, sir.”

“Do you ever draw now?”

“Very seldom; but I am determined some morning to
make a sketch of the valley from this very spot.”

In opening the portfolio, the young man's hand displaced
a paper, which fell out on the grass. He picked
it up, smiling.

“Here is something about the mountains, sir,” he said.

“What—poetry? Heaven defend me!”

“Yes; and I had selected it for Alice.”

“For Alice?”

“You recollect yesterday, when they went away, Alice
said I had promised her something. My promise was to
write for her some verses, and this was already written.”

“About the mountains?”

“Here it is, sir; it was written on the Atlantic, years
ago.”

“How! when we were—”

“Going to Europe; yes, sir; it sounds low-spirited,
and I was very much so at the time.”

“But you are not now, my boy?” said Doctor Courtlandt,
wistfully, taking the paper as he spoke.

“No, sir;” Max replied with a smile, “I believe I am
getting hearty again. I feel very well indeed, and was
laughing a little while ago at the excess of sentiment
which produced those verses—when you found me in the
breakfast-room, you know.”

The verses were written in a plain, delicate hand, and
ran as follows:

“Hum!” said the Doctor, critically, “the last verse
seems to me redundant; but I have no doubt it will serve
your purpose. Well, you are back to your mountain
side! Don't write melancholy poetry any more, my boy.”

“I never write, sir; and I am sure you would not
have been annoyed with my scribbling this morning, but
for the fact of our walk out here.”

“No annoyance, my dear boy; pleasure—pleasure;
but come, I see aunt yonder marshaling the turkeys, and
now see! she beckons.”

“Good-morning,” said the old lady, who was counting
the keys in her large key-basket, “why, Max, you look
uncommonly well.”

“And I have an excellent appetite, aunt,” replied Max,
laughing.

“Come, agreeable Mrs. Courtlandt,” said the Doctor,
“let us have some breakfast, if you please.”

“It is ready, nephew.”

And so they all entered and sat down to breakfast.
Max, as he said, had an excellent appetite; and so overjoyed
was the worthy Doctor at seeing his son thus recovering
his strength, that they had no sooner risen from
the table than he suggested a bout with the foils. Max
went up stairs to procure them.

Just as he left the room a merry voice was heard at the
door, crying, “Good-morning, good folks!” and Caroline
ran in.

14. CHAPTER XIV.
A BOUT WITH FOILS.

“Good morning, uncle!” cried Caroline. “Aunt Courtlandt,
how well you look after all the worry yesterday.
I'm as glad to see you as if I had been away for a month
instead of one night. I just got my riding dress, and
rode over as the morning was so fine!”

“What a nice dress;” said Doctor Courtlandt, “ah,
the young ladies of the present day are quite different
from those of the old time. Silk is now the rule, then
linsey was decidedly more fashionable.”

“You speak as if you were as old as Methuselah.”

“I'm past forty, Carry,” replied the Doctor, “I am
getting old.”

“You shall not grow old; I will keep you young, uncle.”

“How will you accomplish that?”

“By laughing at you.”

“Laughing at me, indeed.”

“You know then you will laugh back at me; and as
long as people laugh they do not look old.”

“Well, take off that riding skirt; that at least is no
laughing matter.”

“Certainly; where is my agreeable cousin Max?”

“Ah! there is the cat out of the bag. You did not
come to see me—but Max.”

“Fie! uncle; a young lady visit a gentleman! Indeed!”

And the young girl's pretty lip curled scornfully.

“Come, come,” said the Doctor, “I foresee you will
spend your indignation on the unfortunate Max—a kiss
will make us good friends again.”

“Who could quarrel with you, you nice old man!”
cried Caroline, running to him.

“Take care! your skirt will trip you!” cried Mrs.
Courtlandt.

The caution came too late;—Caroline, full of life and
merriment—a merriment which reddened her cheeks
and danced in her sparkling eyes, sprang forward so
quickly, that the long skirt she wore got beneath her feet,
and she fell forward—not into the arms of the nice old
man, her uncle, but into those of Max, who at that moment
entered with the foils and masks.

The Doctor burst into laughter.

“Bravo!” he cried, “there is a nice present Miss Caroline
makes you, Max; thank her.”

“Of herself, sir?” said the young man, with a pleasant
laugh, “then I accept unconditionally.”

Caroline laughed, and quickly extricated herself from
her cousin's embrace.

“Thank you,” she said; “it is Leap Year, but I have
no intention of presenting myself to any body.”

“Especially to such a dull fellow as myself,” said Max.

“You are not dull, cousin: how could you be? a traveled
gentleman, full of accomplishments, elegant graces;
and then your bow—that is nonpareil.”

“What a tongue, you little witch!” said the Doctor.

“And now you are about to exhibit your fencing graces,
I suppose,” said Caroline; “come, begin!”

Max smiled, and took his foil, without paying any attention
to his cousin's raillery. The Doctor put on his
mask, and bent his foil on the toe of his boot.

“Two to one on uncle!” cried Caroline, laughing and
retreating from the glittering steel, which the Doctor, with
the ease of a practiced swordsman, whirled around him—
going through the motions of engaging and disengaging.

“Two to one—say you?” replied her uncle; “that
were too much, unless you won.”

“I declare, uncle, you are the smartest old gallant I
have ever seen! Well, I'll bet cousin Max that you throw
his sword out of his hand in half a minute.”

“Take the bet, Max,” said the Doctor.

“I am afraid you will, sir,” Max replied, laughing.

“Bet—bet, nevertheless.”

“What shall the bet be, cousin Carry?” asked the
young man.

“Your hat against my riding-cap. You will look very
nice riding back with me without your hat.”

“Done,” said Max, putting on his mask.

“En garde!” said Doctor Courtlandt; and Max placed
himself in position.

“All fair now, uncle,” said the young girl, laughing.

“I pledge you my honor I will try to make him lose.
So take care of your weapon, Max.”

Max grasped his foil with an experienced hand, and,
throwing back his hair, fixed his eyes upon those of his
father, and crossed his weapon. The two swords clashed,
and half a dozen rapid passes ensued, in which neither
were marked.

“I need not have chalked the button, sir,” said the
young man; “I can not touch you.”

“Try again,” said Caroline.

The weapons were again crossed; and after a rapid
passage, in which the foils writhed around each other
like glittering serpents, the young man was struck upon
the breast.

“You are dead,” said Doctor Courtlandt; “see, Max,
on your heart! The mark is perfectly plain. You are a
dead man!”

“I never felt better in my life,” replied Max, laughing.

“Now for the bet,” said Caroline.

“Ah! I forgot,” said the Doctor, taking his place.

The weapons crossed a third time; and after a dozen
rapid passes the young man, by a quick turn of the wrist,

sent Doctor Courtlandt's foil flying to the other side of
the room.

“Oh, how nice!” cried Caroline.

“Faith!” said Doctor Courtlandt, rubbing his arm,
“you have a good wrist, Max.”

“And I have won your cap, cousin Caroline,” the young
man said.

“But you would not be so ungallant as to take it?”

“Indeed I will: I would have had great success in
pleading for my hat, had you won.”

“Well, there it is, sir; I take back all I said about
your gallantry and accomplishments.”

“I appeal from Miss Courtlandt out of humor to Miss
Courtlandt pleased,” said Max, laughing, and taking the
little cap with its black feather.

“That is right, Max,” said the Doctor; “compel her
to comply with the conditions of the bet.”

“Will you try another pass, sir?”

“No, thank you; by no means; I have enough. My
arm is still stunned to the very elbow. I should have
killed you, but you have, in reality, disabled me. You
profited by La Force's teaching, faith.”

“Fencing was my only amusement, sir, you know.”

“Yes, yes—you have, however, turned your science to
some profit. A nice cap you have lost, Carry, by your
betting mania.”

“Dear old man! I do not regret it—for it was for
your sake. Now I must go back; I just galloped over,
and had no idea I should be so much amused.”

“Max, do you go over this morning?” asked Doctor
Courtlandt.

“Yes, sir; I have just ordered my horse, and whenever
cousin Carry is ready, I am.”

“I am ready now; but poor me, what am I to do without
my cap?”

“The best you can.”

“Well, Mr. Uncourtly, come; I don't care for any.
My curls are not so unbecoming, and the sun is not
hot enough to freckle my face. Good-by, dear uncle—
and you, aunt, come over as soon as you can.”

And with these words the young girl, holding up her
long skirt, went out, followed by Max, who bore in his
hand the riding-cap.

“Please give it to me,” said Caroline, as she took her
seat in the saddle.

“That depends upon your behavior, cousin Caroline,”
said Max.

“What! on the ride?”

“Yes; so take care!”

“Keep it then!” cried the young girl, shaking back
her long curls, and rapidly setting forward toward the
Parsonage. Max followed, and took his place at her
side in excellent spirits, and anticipating a delightful
visit.

A quarter of a mile from the house, they met Mr.
Robert Emberton, riding very languidly toward Doctor
Courtlandt's. He saluted the young lady with negligent
politeness, and drew up.

“Where are you going?” asked Caroline.

“To Doctor Courtlandt's—then to the Parsonage, to
see Miss Alice,” said Mr. Emberton, laconically.

“What, pray, takes you to uncle's?”

“My horse,” said Mr. Emberton; “and in addition to
that execrable animal, a note from that amiable sister of
mine, Josephine.”

And Mr. Emberton was about to pass on.

“Stop,” said Caroline, “there is one of the Lock servants
going home; he will take it.”

Mr. Emberton hesitated.

“I had promised myself a pleasant talk with Doctor
Courtlandt—most entertaining gentleman I have ever
known—” he said, “but he is probably busy to-day.

Therefore,” added Mr. Emberton quickly, lest Max should
have an opportunity of assuring him that his father was
at leisure, “I will continue on my way to the Parsonage.
Don't let me stop you.”

Caroline, after some hesitation, agreed to laugh at this
speech; and Mr. Emberton delivered the note to the
servant who was passing on a wagon horse.

“You may join us if you choose,” said Caroline, “or
ride alone.”

“Well, I'll go with you,” said Mr. Emberton.

And they all continued their way to the Parsonage.

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE BRACELET AND THE NOTE.

Doctor Courtlandt stood watching Max and Caroline
as long as they were in sight, with a well-pleased smile
upon his thoughtful face.

“She would make him a most excellent wife,” he murmured,
“but I do not think they are at all more attached
to each other than cousins, who are friends, are usually.
But the one great fact which remains, is this—Max is
better, stronger, gayer, more lively. He no longer mopes,
though his sadness has not entirely left him, and he still
thinks too much. Certainly that was a happy day in
Italy when I said to myself, `All this is worse than idle
—let us go back again to Virginia.' Here has been a
greater change than I could have hoped in so short a
time; and, by my faith, I believe these two young girls
have been the means. How gay and sincere a spirit is
Caroline's—how cheerful and tender Alice's; they are
paragons of sincerity and true-heartedness withal—and
such mere children. Come! can I not be content with
my young cavalier, but I must be coveting my neighbors'
children? What a glorious fellow Max would be were
his spirits once back again; what a wrist he has; well,
we will trust to time, and new scenes.

“New scenes! that cap of Caroline's brought to me some
very old scenes;” and the Doctor smiled thoughtfully;
“it resembles exactly my Romeo cap, in former times.”

The Doctor's brow clouded over, and he sighed. That
poor heart had never entirely recovered from its wound.
Her image still remained shrined in his memory and
heart.

“And my Romeo coat? Where is that?” he said,

with a mournful smile. “Ah, I recollect; I will go and
look at it, even if it throws me back once more to those
times. Should I avoid these tender memories? No—no!
a thousand times!”

And going to his chamber the Doctor opened a closet,
and after some time spent in searching, drew forth the
coat which he had worn on that night, whose events we
have chronicled in former pages of this history.

“Twenty-five years nearly,” he murmured; “that is
a long time. Ah! how all that past revives for me!
There again is the crowd; there the bright faces, the
good true-hearted friends, the old-fashioned dresses, the
trembling form of Barry!”

The Doctor mused long with dreamy eyes—all the past
seemed to defile before him with its bright faces and gay
scenes. Then sighing deeply, he took the coat and was
about to fold it again, and put it away, when he felt something
in the pocket. He drew this something out; it was a
small red sandal-wood bracelet, such as are worn by girls.

For a moment he sat gazing at the bracelet in astonishment;
but suddenly his eyes lighted up with merriment,
and the old odd smile passed over his lips.

“Who would have thought it!” he said, “this bracelet
has actually been in this pocket for nearly twenty-five
years. It was Josephine's! I remember now distinctly
how I obtained it on the evening I played Romeo. We
were coming out together, and the young lady complimented
me upon my style of playing it. `The good
opinion of no one pleases me so much,' I said. What a
joyous heart beat in my bosom then! And then Josephine,
that bright child timidly gave me this! `to make
me her knight,” she said!”

The Doctor mused and smiled, holding the bracelet
absently, his eyes fixed on the carpet.

“Ah! those days are gone;” he murmured, “youth is
so short, manhood comes so soon; ere long old age will
chill me wholly. My strength even now is waning, and

time, after destroying my heart and memory, will also annihilate
my existence. Oh, merciful Father! let me not lose
that past—may I never lose the memory of my childhood
and my boyhood! May those who have it in their power
to revive those memories, do so—in whatever manner;
whether by a word, a picture, a piece of music, or—”

“A note, sir,” said a voice behind the Doctor, “a note
from Miss Emberton.”

The Doctor was struck with this apposite continuation
of his sentence; he took the note with a smile, opened it,
and read:

“Miss Josephine Emberton is almost ashamed to trespass
on the time and kindness of Doctor Courtlandt, especially
so short a time after his arrival. But presuming,
on her long acquaintance, she asks as a favor that he will
call on her some time to-day, if it should be perfectly
convenient, assuring him that he will be able to assist
her in a very annoying matter.”

“Away with dreams; here is the waking existence!
away with imagination; here is reality!” exclaimed Doctor
Courtlandt. And putting the bracelet in his pocket,
after carefully folding up and restoring to its place the
Romeo coat, he descended. Mrs. Courtlandt met him.

“I must go to see Miss Emberton by particular request,
aunt,” he said, “here is her note. My farm business
must wait.”

And leaving the note with Mrs. Courtlandt, he went
and ordered his horse. In a quarter of an hour he was
in the saddle, and on his way to Miss Emberton's.

He returned in the afternoon, and on again seeing Mrs.
Courtlandt, smiled.

“What was the business—the `annoying matter,' I
mean, nephew?” asked the old lady.

“Guess.”

“I can not.”

“To tell her if a man who offered himself for an overseer,
was capable or not.”

“Could not her brother?”

“Oh; Mr. Robert has not studied farming; I have,
you know—but still, Miss Emberton should have sent
for you; you are a much better one than myself.”

“Pshaw!”

“But that was not the most striking part of the
affair.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you imagine who the man was who desired to
fill the position of overseer at the Glades?”

“No; I never could guess.”

“Mr. Huddleshingle.”

“What! he who in old times—whom Brother Jacob—”

“Yes—the very same!”

“And how did you arrange it; is he Miss Emberton's
overseer?”

“No, no—upon seeing me he became very embarrassed
and angry, and refused to live at the Glades, saying he
had changed his mind. He will go to the West, he says,
to-morrow; and I feel little commiseration for him. He
never was an honest man.”

“That was a most scandalous trick of his.”

“Yes, yes, aunt; but this entails on me the discovery
of another overseer for Miss Emberton. Well, I must go
and consult her on the subject. She is a most agreeable
person, aunt,” said the Doctor, thoughtfully, “and less
changed than I imagined.”

“I always told you Josephine was an excellent girl.
She is little altered in character, though much more
sedate.”

“I returned some of her property—an old bracelet;
and we had a very hearty old time laugh. Really she is
a very agreeable woman, excellent Mrs. Courtlandt! But
where is Max?”

“There he is coming,” said Mrs. Courtlandt.

16. CHAPTER XVI.
COMFORT AND HELP TO THE WEAK-HEARTED.

Max came in looking ill-humored and melancholy: but
there was in this expression of disquietude nothing resembling
his habitual sombre and listless apathy. Plainly his
moodiness was the result of some direct tangible circumstance
which had lately occurred; and that, the watchful
eye of Doctor Courtlandt discerned as usual at the first
glance. Thus the young man's low spirits did not afflict
him in the least; very evidently it did not lie very deep
beneath the surface, and thus would easily pass away.

Max saluted his father and aunt, and after a few listless
words again put on his hat, and carelessly walked out
upon the hill. He bent his way to the spot where they
had wandered along on that beautiful evening—himself
his cousins, and Mr. Robert Emberton—and reaching the
moss-covered rock upon which Alice and her companion
had seated themselves, stopped moodily. The evening
was very fine; the sun, just about to set, filled the air
with its warm rosy light, and the whole universe seemed
to be at rest. The perfume of the autumn leaves floated
hither and thither borne along by the soft breeze, and
there was in every feature of the fair landscape, vailed as
it was by the slight haze, that thoughtful, melancholy
grace, which inclines the heart and memory to dreamy
reverie.

The young man seated himself upon the rock where
Alice had sat, and fell into this dreamy species of reverie.
But there was little inclination for pleasant thought in
his mind. That visit from which he had anticipated so
much delight, had by one of those unlucky circumstances

which seem to spring up in the path of all men like an
adverse fate, been turned into a bitter trial. He had
gone from home on that morning, happy, joyful, full of
an “unaccustomed spirit,” which had “lifted him above
the ground with cheerful thoughts.” Alice, he said to
himself, would be there to meet him, and in her dear
company he would spend a long happy day, in the bright
sunshine, wandering in search of flowers, directing his
steps to every pretty knoll and forest glade, drinking
in the music of her voice, the soft light of her tender
thoughtful eyes.

All this the young man had promised himself, and all
this had been reversed by the simple presence of Mr.
Robert Emberton, who like a Satan entered his Paradise
and threw every thing into confusion.

Mr. Emberton throughout the whole day—Max reflected
with bitter enmity—had attached himself to Alice,
and this on the avowed ground that Caroline had quarreled
with him, and for the time had declined to accept his
overtures of friendship. That this was all a pretense on
Mr. Emberton's part, merely a ruse to cover his preference
for Alice, was perfectly plain to the young man; and this
view was completely substantiated by the simple fact that
Caroline had plainly not “fallen out” with Mr. Emberton.
He, Max, had attached himself perforce to that young lady,
and in consequence a drama was enacted, of which the
former scene upon the spot he now occupied was but the
rehearsal; a drama full of mistakes, misunderstandings,
explanations, and complaints. So the day passed, and
four persons who undeniably took pleasure in each other's
society, had separated with ill-concealed bad-humor.

It was perfectly plain to the young man that Alice did
not care for him, whether she felt a very lively affection
for Mr. Emberton, or not. This possibility made Max at
the same time wrathful and wretched. If such were the
case what right had he to complain, he asked himself.

If Alice preferred the society of Mr. Emberton to his own,
was not such a preference perfectly proper and rational?
What was he, with his melancholy face and abstracted
manner, the young man thought—his proud lip curling
sorrowfully—that the young girl should abandon for his
society so very elegant a gentleman—so full of amusing
anecdote, and sparkling repartee, so easy, graceful, so
calculated to please the taste of women with his pleasant
humor!

The consequence of this train of thought was that
gradually the young man's mind—like a cup held beneath
a rock, dripping with brackish water—filled with
harsh and poisoned thoughts. Anger, jealousy, love,
chased each other incessantly through his moody brain,
and wrapped in this reverie so full of anguish, he lost
sight of the fair scene around him, as completely as if it
had no real existence; his feverish eyes fixed alone on
the scenes his brain had conjured up.

Suddenly he felt a hand upon his shoulder; and turning
round, saw his father who had approached without
his perceiving it, so profoundly had he been absorbed in
this bitter and agitating reverie.

“You are melancholy, my child,” said Doctor Courtlandt,
tenderly, “come, drive away these thoughts which
follow you like hounds; yield to them and they will tear
you down and kill you.”

The young man, troubled and gloomy, made no reply.

“I do not ask you the occasion of your melancholy,”
continued the Doctor, “but I offer you a medicine which
will prove a panacea, whatever your malady may be.
Plainly something annoys and agitates you. Well, take
my advice, and banish this something from your mind.”

“I can not, sir;—I confess I am annoyed,” the young
man added, in a low voice, “more than annoyed.”

“Well, rid yourself of this annoyance; for you can.
Youth is so credulous, so eager in every thing; all

things loom large and threatening through the mist of
inexperience. The shadows—long and enormous, it is
true, but shadows still—are, in your eyes, giants armed
with wrath and destruction. Laugh at them! laugh at
your annoyances! they are but shadows.”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Max, “shadows—for they
darken my heart.”

“My son,” said Doctor Courtlandt, taking the young
man's arm and pointing to the setting sun, “what see
you there?”

“Sunset, sir—night is coming.”

“Nothing more?”

“Darkness and wind.”

“More, more is coming, Max, than darkness and cold,
and the chill biting wind! The morning also comes!—
the morning full of warmth, and light, and joy; filled
with the music of gay birds, instinct with hope and happiness!
You believe as much from faith, since you see
no trace now of any such thing; well, bring your faith
to bear upon the world! If God obscures the heart with
shadows, He can also again illuminate it with joy; if you
are unhappy, you may still be very happy. I have never
yet despaired; and because I have seen in every event of
my checkered life the hand of God. He does every thing
for the best, and lets no sparrow fall unheeded. Remember
that! The misery of His poor creatures here is
not pleasing to that merciful and omnipotent God; enough!
remember this, my child! Let us return.”

And accompanied by his son Doctor Courtlandt returned
to the house.

17. CHAPTER XVII.
BY THE FIRESIDE.

The autumn passed with all its joyful splendor and
its dreamy beauty; its singing birds, and many-colored
forests, and its tender flowers glittering like jewels in the
crevices between mossy rocks, and on the sunny hillsides.
The winter wind had come; and it sighed mournfully
through the tall bare trees which bent before it now—so
stormy was it—but then sprang up again like giants, and
catching it in their gaunt hands, made it sue loud for
mercy. Ah! very unlike those soft breezes, were these
stormy winter blasts, which had dispelled with a single
breath, the tender haze of autumn from the woods and
hills. They rolled like thunder through the lofty pines,
or like a great organ peal—so “musical” was this “discord;”
so “sweet” this “thunder” of the winter wind.

Then the sky became obscured as if some enormous
flock of wild pigeons, such as once were wont to pass
here in Virginia, were flying over the mountain land;
then one morning when the mountaineers arose, they saw
pass by their windows myriads of downy flakes, which
any one of imaginative temperament might have said,
were in truth the feathers, soft and very white, of those
flying pigeon-nations, scattered from those mid-air-flying-breasts,
by the great stormy artillery of Heaven.

The autumn was, thus, dead; wild geese no longer were
seen flying southward far up in the clouds, from which
their faint cry floats so clearly to the ear; the carol of
the robin was no longer heard; the flowers had perished,
even the golden-rod, last lingerer on the hille;—in one
word, winter had set in in earnest, there in the mountain-land,

and one of those good, honest, old-time snows,
which scorned to lie less than a foot or two in depth, now
wrapped the whole landscape in its bridal vail.

In the houses, diligent preparation had been made to
meet the enemy; and every where he was routed by blazing
wood fires, and by furs such as fair ladies wrap themselves
in, when the merry sleigh-bells tinkle at the door.
But more than all did the cold dismal winter night yield
up its power for evil before the merry laughter of the
happy-hearted children in the long evenings playing their
thousand games—as “Blind man's buff,” “'Tis oats,
peas, beans, and barley grow,” and many others—by the
bright, roaring fire. At the houses where these scenes
were enacted, this merry laughter heard, the grim old
Winter dared not show his nose, but peeping through the
window furtively, passed on slowly, otherwhither!

We have thought it unnecessary to chronicle all the
sayings and doings of the personages of this brief history;
since the few scenes we have attempted to trace, have
we hope, served to indicate sufficiently for the purposes
of the narrative up to the present moment, the characters
and surroundings of those personages.

Doctor Courtlandt had become now quite a regular
visitor at the Glades, and indeed Miss Emberton had
found the little whist parties, which were gotten up by
him for her amusement, a very acceptable substitute for
the usual listless “reading aloud” of her brother, in the
long winter evenings. Mr. Robert Emberton cherished
for his sister a very devoted affection, but reading he considered
a great bore—much more, reading aloud. Doctor
Courtlandt's whist arrangement, therefore, met with the
hearty approbation of both the brother and sister; and
Mr. Emberton's opinion of the elegant traveled gentleman,
spurred by self-interest, vastly increased. He had, however,
deferred in all things to Doctor Courtlandt, from the
first moment of their acquaintance. M. Pantoufle even,

now domiciled at the Glades, gained a new interest from
his former acquaintance with such a man.

At the Parsonage, Mr. Robert Emberton and Mr. Max
Courtlandt were very constant visitors. The Comedy of
Errors had been repeated so often, that it might have
heen justly considered a great favorite with the actors
and the audience—on this occasion, one and the same.
The young men often drove over to ride the ladies out in
their sleighs; and this tacit rivalry had in a great degree
served to remove Mr. Emberton's listlessness, and Max's
melancholy.

Thus more than a month had passed rapidly, and Christmas
began to hint of its approach, in the diligent attention
paid by Mrs. Courtlandt to her larder, in the busy employment
of the young girls on their various “Christmas
gifts” to be—but more than all in the joyful anticipation
plain in every eye.

The sunshine sparkling on the snow, was not half as
brilliant as those joyful eyes.

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
COMEDY OF ERRORS: ACT V.

One fine morning two gayly caparisoned sleighs were
standing before the door of the Parsonage, the horses of
which tossed their heads impatiently, and spurned with
their shaggy-fetlocked feet, the glittering snow. At every
movement of their heads, the sleigh-bells attached to their
harness gave out a merry jingling; at each pawing with
their impatient feet, the snow flew around like a cloud of
pearly powder.

Within, in the comfortable dining-room, roared cheerfully
a huge wood fire, and round this fire were grouped,
the old mountaineer, Mrs. Courtlandt (her husband was
absent on a pastoral visit), Alice, and Caroline.

The young girls were wrapping themselves up in that
mountain of shawls, and furs, and comforts, which young
ladies will always continue to wrap themselves up in, to
the end of the world. Caroline's merry face and dancing
eyes were already half buried in a huge “nubia,” and
she overflowed with joy and laughter at every word which
was uttered; Alice, more quiet and sedate, but full of
anticipation, had already put on her wrapping.

Max and Mr. Robert Emberton, enveloped in their
comfortable surtouts, leaned opposite each other against
the mantle-piece.

Old hunter John looked at his grandchildren with
affectionate pride.

“There you are,” he said, his old face lit up with a
happy smile, “all wrappin' up and fixin' yourselves as if
you were going to the end of the world, instead of takin'
a little jaunt to town! Cheeks as red as roses, I declare.”

“Thank you for the compliment, grandfather,” said
Alice, demurely.

“I'm a poor hand at payin' compliments,” said the
old mountaineer, smiling. “When I was a youngster I
did a deal of it, though; and I always found it best to
pile 'em up pretty strong; the girls liked it all the better,
if I don't disremember.”

“Take warning, gentlemen!” cried Caroline, “there
is a great deal of truth in what grandfather says.”

“Yes!” said the old man, with a cheerful and thoughtful
look, “I was a wild youngster, and many's the time
I have spent the whole night shaking my heels to the
music of the fiddle! The times then were most nigh
uproarious, and the girls thought nothing of dancin' reels
from sundown to sunrise. Merry times! merry times!”
sighed the old man, “but all gone many a long day into
the dust. They were like wild geese flyin' 'way off to
the south, and never comin' back again; but I don't
mourn over 'em. The Lord has been very good to me,
and the old time was bright enough for me considerin'.
Now I am mighty feeble, and most nigh gone to the other
country; I begin to think the horn is goin' to sound for
me 'fore long; and when it does sound, I'm in hopes I'll
be able to say, `Come, Lord Jesus, I've been a waitin' for
you long.”'

Alice put her arms round the old man's neck, and
kissed him.

“Don't be gloomy, dear grandfather,” she said, with a
tremor in her voice.

“I ain't gloomy, darlin',” the old man said, “no, no,
I ain't gloomy! Why should I be gloomy? I might 'a
been once. When I was a young strong man I lived my
life like the rest, without thinking or caring for any thing
but the fun and frolic of the time. My heart was full of
blood, and I never knew what it was to be weary in the
old days then—not if I hunted for days and nights together,

or was on the Injun trail 'way off in the backwoods—
tho' the woods here were far enough back from the Ridge.
If you had 'a told me then I was soon goin' to die and
leave all the fine world, and have no more fine times
a-dancin', and huntin', and frolickin' with the boys, you
might 'a made me gloomy; it would be too much to expect
the young people to give up their life, when they
enjoy every thing so much, 'thout feelin' as if they would
like to stay in the grand, beautiful world. No, no! the
young love life, and the merciful God wisely made it so.
They have nothing to do with sighin', and moanin', and
thinkin' of the other world, though I don't deny they had
better be givin' some thought to the time when the
trumpet 'll sound. I might 'a felt gloomy then, if some
body had 'a told me, `Hunter John, you're goin' to die.'
But now I look on this world as my tarryin' place for a
little while only. My heart ain't got much blood in it,
and my body's gettin' mighty poorly and feeble, and 'fore
long, Alice dear, the time will come when the old man,
your grandfather, will lay with his forefathers in the dust
out o' which God made him. No, no!” the old man said
cheerfully, “I'm a lookin' forward to the time with hope.
The old weak body is nigh parted from the spirit, but
the spirit don't want to stay. It's bound home, my
darlin'.”

Alice turned round to wipe her eyes.

“Go on now, children,” said hunter John, “you are in
the spring time. Daughter Sally a-knitting and smiling
yonder is the summer, and I am the winter; but you
are the spring; go, children.”

“We are going to bring Saint Nic up, dear grandfather,”
said Caroline, “he's a good old man, and I know
you'll like him.”

“I never did see him yet,” replied hunter John, smiling
and kissing the young girl, “but I've heard of him oftentimes.
Come, you're a-losin' time.”

The girls kissed their mother, for young ladies never
omit this ceremony in the presence of gentlemen, and ran
to the door. Mr. Emberton's sleigh was the nearest, and
Alice happened to reach the door before Caroline. The
consequence was that the fifth act of the comedy of errors
was inaugurated by Mr. Emberton's politely helping Alice
into his sleigh. Not one of the party looked at any other
member of it, and Max assisted Caroline into his sleigh
without betraying his disappointment.

The heavy furs were thrown over them, and the two
sleighs darted from the door like flashes of light, leaving
behind them—as a ship leaves in her wake a trail of foam
—a long “dying fall” of merry bell-chime music, on the
frosty air.

19. CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE FIRST SLEIGH: OR PROPERLY THE SECOND.

Mr. Emberton and Alice, inasmuch as their sleigh was
before that of Max and Caroline, took the lead; and in a
few moments—so rapid was their flight—the whole party
arrived at and commenced the ascent of the Third Hill
mountain, cutting through the heavy snow drifts, darting
along on the hard frozen portions of the road, and every
moment rising higher above the little valley which they
could already, from their elevated position, overlook
throughout its entire length and breadth.

The morning was bright and beautiful, but bracing
and cold. The cool wind brought roses into the cheeks
of the young girls, and the sunlight flooded their bright
faces and laughing eyes with its full golden splendor.

Nestling under her furs, Caroline bent her eyes on the
sleigh which glided rapidly, with its merry bells some
distance on before them. She seemed to be somewhat
annoyed at the unlucky mistake which had thrown her
with her cousin. Not that Caroline disliked Max; on
the contrary she was very fond of him; but only in that
cousinly degree which is so far removed from any softer
feeling. She had set her heart on riding with Mr. Emberton
that day; and had arranged an agreeable little
series of teasings for his especial benefit; and she was
much disappointed at not being able to carry into effect
these amiable intentions.

Max's eyes, if the truth must be told, were also fixed
upon the sleigh in advance of them, much more frequently
than upon the beautiful girl at his side. We know
his secret at least—if that of other persons is not so

plain; and it must be confessed the young man had felt
a very acute disappointment, at the accident which had
prevented him from having the charming ride he had
promised himself with Alice by his side. Mr. Emberton
did not improve in his opinion, for his own agency in the
matter.

“See what a glorious day, cousin Caroline,” said Max,
“here we are on the mountain top, and yonder is the
North Mountain which we must also cross before we can
swoop down on Martinsburg.”

“Yes, yes, a lovely day!” cried Caroline, “but the
wind is very cold.”

“Oh, you must expect that—”

“In a sleigh ride, I know. I rather enjoy the cold.”

“Wrap up well—fix the bear skin over your feet
securely,” said the young man, bending down and arranging
the fur around the young girl's delicate ankles.

“Oh, they feel much warmer now! Thank you.
How fast we are going!”

“Do you like sleigh bells?”

“Oh, I delight in them.”

“And I; I think they are very merry.”

“Very merry.”

This entertaining dialogue was gone through with
somewhat absently, the eyes of the interlocutors being
fixed on the sleigh before them, which was flying like a
swallow over the smooth descent of the mountain, its
merry bells supplying pleasantly the place of echoes to
their own.

“What music!” said Caroline.

“Delightful,” replied Max.

“And at this rate we will swoop down on Martinsburg
in a little while, as you say, cousin Max. You don't
intend to carry off any body, do you?”

“How?”

“Hawks only, swoop—and hawks carry off chickens,”
said Caroline, philosophically.

“There are no chickens in town equal to our mountain
ones,” said Max, laughing.

“Come, Mr. Flatterer!”

“You are welcome to your portion, cousin Carry,” said
Max, absently.

“My small portion I know: for you can not deny that
Alice takes up the greater part.”

“Certainly, I deny it,” said Max, slacking his rein and
thereby increasing the speed of the already flying sleigh.

“Deny what?” said Caroline, looking mischievously at
her cousin.

“Why, deny your accusation!” said Max, turning
round with some embarrassment and fixing his eyes on
his cousin's laughing face.

“What accusation?”

“The one you made.”

“What was it?”

Max laughed and colored slightly with the consciousness
that Caroline had fathomed his abstraction; Caroline
burst out laughing.

“You were not thinking of me, cousin Max,” she said,
“you were thinking of Alice. Upon my word I believe
you are in love with her, and now I come to think of it—
to remember—to put this and that together—yes I'd take
my oath you are in love with sister!” cried the young
girl clapping her hands and laughing merrily.

Max blushed and turned away his head from his cousin.

“What folly!” he muttered.

“Do you deny it?”

“Certainly,” said Max, smiling and regaining confidence.

“You ought to reply, `Certainly I deny it,”' said
Caroline, archly, “then you would use the very words
you did just now, when I charged you with allowing

Alice a larger portion of your regard than myself, and
when you did not hear me because you were so intently
gazing at her in the sleigh before us!”

The young girl's laugh rang out loud and merry. Max
adroitly turned the conversation.

“We are coming to the stream,” said he, “I suppose
the ice will bear us. It is quite deep, and I should not
fancy giving you a wetting, my charming cousin.”

“See! they are nearly on the ice.”

“Heaven send it don't break!”

The sleigh of Mr. Emberton darted across the frozen
stream like a sunbeam, throwing the light coating of snow
which lay upon it, up in brilliant clouds. Just as they
reached the other side, Mr. Robert Emberton, by a sudden
movement pressed his lips to Alice's cheek.

This manœuvre was distinctly perceived by Max and
Caroline, and without thinking of the conversation they
had just had, they both uttered an indignant exclamation.

“It is too bad—really too bad!” said the young man,
his brow flushing with anger.

“It is outrageous!” said Caroline.

“On what pretense!—”

“I should like to know!”

“For this person—” muttered Max, throwing a wrathful
glance at Mr. Emberton's sleigh.

“For Alice—” said Caroline; and then stopped.

“It was not Alice's fault,” said Max.

“It certainly was wrong in her to submit to it, cousin!”
said Caroline.

“The wrong is from him—and he shall—”

The young man stopped, half from indignation, half
from a feeling of propriety. Caroline was not the person
to inform of his intention to call Mr. Emberton to
account.

“It certainly is not a bridge!” said the young girl.

“And is it well settled that ladies are kissed on bridges?”

“When they are sleighing—at least they would not be
justified in feeling offended.”

“But this is not a bridge,” said Max.

“I just said so,” said Caroline.

`Why then—?”

“Certainly; why then?” And Caroline burst out
laughing.

“You are in love with Alice,” said she, merrily, “you
are too indignant for any thing but a lover.”

Max turned full upon his laughing cousin, and smiled
satirically.

“You were quite as indignant as myself!” he said, with
a meaning look. Caroline blushed to the roots of her
hair.

“Come, dear cousin Carry,” said Max, “don't let us
quarrel; I never mean to hurt any one's feelings.”

The young girl pouted, and replied:

“My feelings are not hurt.”

“Then let us strain a point, and turn the ice into a
bridge;” said Max, as they darted at full speed on the
smooth surface, “a cousinly kiss to make friends!”

The frozen stream was crossed, and they fled onward
like the wind.

20. CHAPTER XX.
IN THE SECOND SLEIGH: OR PROPERLY THE FIRST.

“Mr. Emberton!” exclaimed Alice, indignantly, “you
had no right to kiss me! and I request as a favor, sir,
that you will not repeat the offense!”

Mr. Emberton looked surprised.

“Offense?” he said.

“Yes, sir! It was an offense!”

“You astonish me, Miss Alice—upon my word you do.”

“If other young ladies permit gentlemen to take such
liberties,” replied the young girl, in an offended tone, “I,
at least do not, sir.”

“I was not aware that I had been guilty of taking
liberties, Miss Alice,” said Mr. Robert Emberton, tranquilly.
“I looked upon the thing as a matter of course;
quite mathematical! and I reduce the thing to an algebraic
equation thus—a sleigh ride plus a young lady and
a bridge, equal to one kiss; or more scientifically stated,
x + y = z.”

But seeing that these bantering words were very far
from removing the young girl's ill-humor:

“Seriously speaking, Miss Alice,” continued the young
man, “I do not think my conduct—dreadful word that,
always means mischief—has been so outrageous. Things
are proper or improper as they are regarded in the light
of abstract propriety, or conventional propriety. Now I
maintain that convention—mighty and terrible force as
the philosophers say—absolves me for my—conduct; yes,
I repeat that terrible word; absolves me from any blame.
And why?

as Jacques says; excuse me, I don't often quote Shakspeare—it
bores me.”

“Mr. Emberton, you make every thing ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?—every thing is ridiculous! Ridiculous?
It is the essence of life—the staple of our being—ridiculousness—folly.
I am exceedingly ridiculous myself,
Miss Alice, confidentially speaking; don't mention it,
since I would say as much only to you. But let me
achieve by one bold stroke my pardon. I was about to
say that convention, among many other things, has
decided that a gentleman may, while waltzing, clasp a
lady in his arms with fraternal affection, although he may
be a perfect stranger to the said lady; it has also quite
settled the propriety of kissing when bridges are crossed
in sleighs—”

“It was not a bridge!” interrupted Alice, recovering
from her ill-humor somewhat.

“Not a bridge! not a bridge which we crossed some
moments since?” exclaimed Mr. Emberton, with well
counterfeited surprise.

“Certainly not, sir!”

“It certainly was!”

“Thank you for contradicting me, sir,” said Alice.

“Contradicting you!”

“I said it was not a bridge—you say it is; pray is not
that a contradiction, sir?”

“By no means.”

“Why not?”

“Because the spirit of contradiction is wanting,” replied
Mr. Emberton, with ready and nice philosophic discrimination.
“If you say, `I think it is not a bridge,' and I
reply with all deference, `I think, madam, it is an excellent
one'—the simple question arises, which of us is mistaken.
If you say, `It is a bridge,' and I reply, `It is
not,' then there is some opening for a charge of contradiction—to
be decided in due course by the duello. A bridge

is a very good thing to fight on—at Lodi, for instance.
But I see I am boring you, and I begin to feel the approach
of the foe myself, evoked, which is worse, by myself. I
will therefore state that there formerly was a bridge at
the point we crossed, and that bridge is no doubt now
beneath the current. I believe you are not doing me the
honor of listening very attentively to my profound philosophical
remarks, Miss Alice,” continued Mr. Emberton,
with great equanimity; “what are you looking at?”

“The mountains; they are very beautiful. Are they
not?”

“Oh, charming,” replied Mr. Robert Emberton, well
content that Alice had regained her good-humor, “not
equal to Mont Blanc, however, I imagine.”

“No, I suppose not; Max could tell us.”

It now became Mr. Emberton's turn for complaining.

“You are no doubt, somewhat disappointed at our
arrangement to-day,” he said, “are you not?”

“What arrangement, pray?”

“Mr. Courtlandt with Miss Caroline, and yourself consequently
bored by your humble servant?”

“I am never bored, sir,” said Alice, unconsciously
turning round to look at Caroline and her cousin.

“Which is as much as to say you are not bored on
this occasion, simply from the fact that the feeling is unknown
to you, eh?”

“No, sir.”

“You are pleased with my society then?” asked Mr.
Emberton with logical deduction.

“Delighted, sir!” said Alice, smiling.

“Consider yourself profoundly saluted,” said Mr. Emberton,
inclining.

“And what do you say to my society?” asked Alice,
laughing.

“It is charming, as it always is, my dear Miss Alice.”

“You are sure you would not prefer Caroline's?”

“Oh, perfectly sure!”

“Caroline with her vivacity and delightful flow of
spirits—”

“I like you best!”

“And so much prettier than I am,” said Alice, looking
wistfully back.

“Who could imagine such a thing?”

“Then,” said Alice, “you can not complain of the `arrangement?”'

“No, no; but you can. There is that elegant young
traveled gentleman, Mr. Courtlandt, whom you have
missed; your cousin too—cousins are so agreeable, you
know,” said Mr. Emberton with some gloom. “He could
tell you, as you said, all about Mount Blanc and Italy.”

“He does not talk much.”

“He seems to be tolerably well engaged in conversation
now,” muttered Mr. Emberton.

“He is fond of cousin Caroline,” said Alice, in the
same tone.

“Yes?” said Mr. Emberton, frowning like Bombastes
Furioso.

“And she of him,” said Alice.

“No!” exclaimed Mr. Emberton.

“Indeed I am in earnest—of course I mean Carry
thinks him agreeable.”

“She thinks me very disagreeable.”

“And Max thinks as much of me,” said Alice, turning
away her head.

Mr. Emberton suddenly remembered himself, and again
assumed his languid petit maître manner.

“Likes and dislikes are a great bore,” he yawned.
“The only good thing in life is a fast horse; you do feel
then as if you had blood in your veins. A spanker, eh?”
continued Mr. Emberton, languidly pointing to his flying
animal.

“Oh, certainly,” said Alice.

21. CHAPTER XXI.
BUYING CHRISTMAS-GIFTS.

The North Mountain was passed—that giant reposing
at full length upon the margin of the pretty stream,
murmuring over such beautiful mossy rocks in its pilgrimage
to the Potomac—a huge bulk unmoved by wars
or rumors of wars, unaffected by the changes in all human
things, indifferent equally to the snows of winter
falling on his brow, and summer sunlight flooding with
its joyful radiance all his supine length—ever silent and
uncomplaining, ever patiently biding his time, through
pleasant days when birds sing merrily in the blue mid
air above, through winter nights when the chill wind
sighs through the evergreens, bowing their lofty heads in
wonder at its tidings of far distant lands!

A moment's pause on the high-raised summit, to gaze
upon the wide Lowland, wrapped in its bridal garment
and flashing in the sunlight, and the sleighs sped on.
They passed down the steep road carefully, fled by the
old Tuscarora meeting-house, whose walls, could they
speak, might relate to the present generation many wondrous
narratives of the olden time, and so with merrily
tinkling bells, ran like bright dragon flies, stripped of
their obscuring mail and darting like light-flashes through
the sunlight, into the bustling town.

Christmas was coming in Martinsburg also. At the
rumor of Saint Nicholas's expected arrival—not by the
cars, however, be it understood—the whole town had
come forth to look for him; as when a great man is expected
daily, the whole community are abroad to welcome
him.

The stores were decked out in their gayest stuffs; in
every window silks and velvets, and tempting jewelry, for
Christmas presents, caught the eye; and every street was
full of joyful wayfarers—holiday-looking young gentlemen—and
gayly dressed ladies, and rejoicing children—
going the rounds to look at the myriad of pretty things and
purchase their presents for the coming Christmas night.

Conspicuous among these handsomely decorated stores
was that of our old acquaintance, Mr. Barlow; that Mr.
Barlow who had promised faithfully on no account to sell
the Romeo coat to any one but Max, in the old times,
merry and long ago. He was still the obliging and
worthy gentleman he had proved himself on that occasion;
full of very cheerful smiles, and ready to unroll for
all who entered his broad door, his various attractive
cloths and silks and velvets.

The young girls stopped first before his door; and the
gallantry of their cavaliers was quite obscured by that of
Mr. Barlow, who assisted them to the broad, well-matted
door step with profound and most engaging courtesy.

“Good-morning, Mr. Barlow,” cried Caroline, “how
many pretty things you have! Please show me that velvet.”

Mr. Barlow unrolled it.

The velvet was such as Caroline wanted, and she purchased
enough for her Christmas gift to her mother; then
a large bundle of warm worsted for comforts; these were
intended for her father and grandfather.

“Velvet? What is that for, my dear Miss Caroline?”
asked Mr. Robert Emberton, languidly.

“For a present, sir,” said Caroline.

“Ah, yes! really now that did not occur to me. And
that thread?”

“What thread?”

“In your hand.”

“It is not thread; it is worsted.”

“Worsted—really! and what do you purpose making
of that worsted?”

“Making use of it,” said Caroline.

“No!” said Mr. Emberton.

“Now, Mr. Barlow,” continued Caroline, “please show
me some pearl-colored cloth, very fine but thick and
warm.”

Mr. Barlow took down a roll.

Caroline bent over and whispered to him, inquiringly.

“Oh, yes; quite enough,” said Mr. Barlow, smiling with
a look of perfect intelligence, “will you have that much?”

“If you please.”

“How much?” said Mr. Emberton, turning round,
“and what is it?”

“It is cloth—pearl-colored—you may see for yourself,”
said Caroline, indifferently.

“And what is it for, pray,” continued Mr. Emberton,
yawning, “presents or use?”

“Both, sir,” said Caroline.

“For whom?”

“That is my secret.”

“A gentleman?”

“Yes—a gentleman,” said Caroline, laughing and
blushing slightly.

Mr. Emberton's manner lost a little of its languor, and
he glanced quickly at Max. That gentleman had on,
under his surtout, a complete suit of pearl colored cloth,
whose color matched precisely that which had just been
purchased by Caroline. His hat alone was black, and it
was perfectly plain to Mr. Emberton that the cloth now
selected by his cousin was to be made into a cap to suit
the rest. This view was farther confirmed by the purchase
on Caroline's part of ribbons, pearl buttons, etc., etc.
such as were needed for the purpose.

Mr. Emberton became jealous and gloomy, and from time
to time cast ill-humored glances at both Max and Caroline.

Let us now see how Alice had got on with her purchases
at the other end of the counter, where a polite
shopman—overwhelmed and confounded by her soft voice

and the tender beauty of her little face—outdid himself
in the rapidity with which he complied with her demands.

Alice commenced as Caroline had done, by purchasing
—with the greater part of her money—those things which
were destined to form presents for her mother, father, and
grandfather. These she selected with great care, and had
wrapped up in a separate bundle.

“Grandfather will be pleased I know, cousin Max,”
said the young girl, “with what I have for him this time.
Now I must not neglect my other friends.”

Max, looking tenderly but anxiously at his cousin,
made no reply.

Alice said something to the shopman in a low tone which
Max did not catch; and the overwhelmed and confounded
knight of the yard-stick—the most gallant and disinterested
of men—hurried to obey. He took down a roll of silk.

“Yes, that is very pretty.”

“Here is the price, Miss—it is not dear, Miss—”

“No—not at all.”

“But we can sell it to you cheaper—you are our regular
customers, Miss.”

“Thank you, sir; please cut me off enough for the
pattern.”

“What is that, cousin Alice?” asked Max, taking up
the handsome piece of stuff.

“Silk,” said Alice, smiling.

“I know it is silk; but what for? A present?”

“Yes—a present,” said Alice, blushing like a rose.

“For whom, may I ask.”

“Yes; you may ask! though that answer is far more
like sister, who is so merry, than myself—you know I am
so quiet,” replied Alice, with a sparkle of her soft merry eyes.

The polite shopman heaved a deep sigh—he was a captive
forever.

“You mean I may ask, but that you will not tell me,”
said Max.

“Yes; I can not tell you,” said Alice.

“At least you can tell me what is to be made of this
handsome silk.”

“No, indeed I can not.”

“Why?”

“That would be half of the joke, you know,” replied
Alice, her lovely face lit up radiantly.

The poor knight of the stick put his hand upon his
heart, where, at that moment, a heavy load seemed to rest.

“I'm afraid it's no joke to me,” said Max, laughing.
“But give me some guesses, as the children say.”

“No, I can not.”

“Not for a dress?”

“I can not answer.”

“What is it for—do tell me.”

“You quoted the children just now,” Alice said, laughing
too, “well, I will answer as the children do—it is
for laroes to catch meddlers, cousin Max.”

“Oh, how unfriendly you are, cousin.”

“Unfriendly?” said the young girl, softly.

“Yes; you will not tell me; let me think!”

Max glanced round, and his eyes fell on Mr. Emberton.
That gentleman was clad in black—plain and elegant,
though rather dandified—the only exception being his
waistcoat, which was a bright searlet, in the latest mode.

“Your silk is for a waistcoat, cousin Alice,” said Max, his
merriment suddenly changing to mortification and gloom.

Alice blushed and looked furtively at her cousin; and
without thinking, said:

“How could you guess?”

“It is for a waistcoat, then?” asked Max, in a mortified
tone.

“Yes, cousin Max,” said Alice, in a low voice.

Max gently bowed his head, making no reply; then he
turned away without heeding the hurt and embarrassed
expression on Alice's lovely face, for she had with those

jealous eyes of hers, noted his mortified tone and sudden
gloom. Nothing could be more lovely than the young
girl's face at the moment.

The knight before mentioned heaved a sigh so piteous
and profound, that “it did seem to shatter all his bulk.”
He was afterward heard to declare, that he would win
that young lady for his bride, or perish in the attempt.

The whole party left Mr. Barlow's, and once more entered
their sleighs—Mr. Robert Emberton and Max exchanging
moody glances, Alice and Caroline scarce knowing
what to think.

A ride of a hundred yards brought them to the jeweler's.

The jeweler's was not less brilliantly decked out than
Mr. Barlow's; or rather it as much exceeded in splendor
that more useful establishment, as rich gold and silver
vessels, and rings, and breastpins, and bracelets exceed
the brightest silks, and the most richly woven cloths.

The shopman here seemed to be not less gallant than
that unfortunate knight at Mr. Barlow's. He had the
eyes of Argus and the hands of Briareus; but to set off
these attractions, he was as huge as the giant Enceladus,
and as ugly as Irus, the poorest of the Greeks. He had
long ago cast his eyes on Alice, that bright saint so far
above him; not matrimonially;—he never dreamed of that;
but with the despairing adoration of a Chaldean priest,
pouring forth his love and worship for some bright particular
star glittering in the far golden Orient.

But it will not be necessary for the purposes of our
tale, to dwell upon the private feelings of this gentleman.
We will, however, add, before dismissing him and his
passion, that the mysterious affair which soon after convulsed
the borough with curiosity and dreadfulest suspense,
was owing to the fact that he and the knight at
Mr. Barlow's had come to a mutual knowledge of each
other's feelings. A bloody duel was anticipated, and
every number of the “Martinsburg Gazette” was carefully

scanned by the breathless community—the editor
of that paper having acquired a high reputation for skill
in getting at the “latest news” of every description. The
whole affair, however, was finally ended by a “correspondence”
in that paper—in which the friends of the two
parties, over their signatures, “were gratified to inform
the public that the misunderstanding, etc., etc., had been
amicably arranged in a manner satisfactory to both gentlemen”—after
which the subject was dismissed, and no
longer afforded a topic for tea-table gossip.

But we digress;—the young gentlemen and their
fair companions made their purchases duly—the ladies
not looking at the gentlemen, the gentlemen not looking
at the ladies. But the unfortunate comedy, of which we
have carefully traced a number of scenes, had not yet run
its full complement of nights, or rather days.

Max bought an elegant bracelet.

“It is for sister;” said Alice to herself, “she has one
on her arm which just matches it.”

And Alice looked very low-spirited.

Mr. Emberton purchased a very pretty pair of ear-rings.

“They are for Alice;” said Caroline to herself, with a
most engaging pout, “I know they are; she said the
other day, and he heard her, that she was about to bore
her ears. Mr. Emberton might have accomplished that
painful object without buying ear-rings for her.”

And Caroline sighed.

Then, the jewels being carefully wrapped in their snowy
cotton wrappings and put away securely in their small
boxes, the party once more commenced their rounds.
Early in the afternoon their purchases were completed,
and with the merry jingle of those never-quiet bells the
sleighs fled back toward the mountains.

This time Max and Caroline were in advance

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE UPSET.

They approached the steep side of the North Mountain,
whose ten thousand stalwart pines bent down beneath
the heavy snow-burden resting on their branches; and
commenced the ascent, lost in admiration of the scene, so
still, so desolate, but so replete with beauty.

The top of the mountain was reached, and behind them
the entire valley from east to west—from the Blue Ridge
to the spot which they had now reached—was visible.
They gazed for a moment on the snow-clad Lowlands,
followed pensively the light curling wreaths of smoke
with admiring eyes; then with the ever-merry tinkling
of the bells went rapidly down the western slope toward
the Third Hill Mountain and the little valley it embraced
in its shaggy snow-clad arms.

“It is near sunset,” said Alice, “and we have some way
to go yet, Mr. Emberton. How much time we have lost.”

“I can but felicitate myself.”

“For what reason?”

“I have had so much more of your society,” said Mr.
Emberton tranquilly, in a matter-of-course tone.

“You seem in a complimentary humor.”

“I am, my dear Miss Alice,” replied Mr. Emberton,
yawning, “the fact is, I am this evening in quite excellent
spirits; are not you?”

“Not unusually,” replied Alice.

“Are you uncomfortable? I am afraid you are not
wrapped up as well as Miss Caroline, who has for her
cavalier a much more elegant man than myself.”

“Which means,” replied Alice, “that I am expected
to say that such is not the fact.”

“No, no, my dear Miss Alice; these little conventionalities
may suit ordinary young gentlemen very well; but
not me. I am indifferent wholly to all that. In fact I'm
—exhausted; I would say blasé, but for the undeserved
contempt into which that expressive word has fallen. No,
no—on my honor, I had no intention of fishing for a compliment.
I meant simply to say, that considering riding
out a bore except with a few of my lady friends, and
consequently being somewhat unused to it, I had probably
neglected to wrap you up securely from the cold.”

“I am plenty warm, thank you—except my hands,
which I have in the hurry unaccountably neglected. They
are cold; but I will get my gloves out of my reticule.”

In performing this manœuvre, Alice also drew from the
reticule with the gloves, a piece of paper, which fell open
upon the bear-skin before Mr. Emberton's eyes. This
paper contained some verses, and—what was more unusual—a
rose bud had been wrapped in it.

“Poetry, by Jove!” said Mr. Emberton. “Excuse me,
Miss Alice, that shocking expression will escape me in
spite of my most careful attention. But who wrote these
verses—pardon me for having already unconsciously read
a portion of the first.”

Alice looked annoyed; then indifferent

“They were written by cousin Max,” she said, “and
I have no objection to your seeing them, as you have
already read a part.”

“It was unconscious, I assure you.”

“Unconscious indeed!”

“Purely,” said Mr. Emberton, taking the paper and
reading the verses with a languid expression:

purely unconscious, I assure you, Miss Alice, and did
you know my utter indifference to poetry in general, you
would at once admit my excuse. My eyes fell upon the
page without any intention on my part of reading what
was thereon written. MS. is such a bore.”

Alice had already restored the rose bud to her reticule
—feeling some dread of Mr. Emberton's bantering. That
gentleman, however, either had not seen it, or did not
think it worth his while to take notice of the fact.

He continued reading the verses:

pretty, but the accent is not indicated by italicizing the
`I;'—you will observe the author's meaning is, that he,
like the sunset, should have shuffled off this mortal coil
before leaving the mountain side!”

“You are very critical.”

“By no means. I am in an excellent humor—which
is very natural, since our sleigh is making good time.
Rapid motion always invigorates me—except the waltz,
which is an awful bore—dreadful.”

“We are going very rapidly.”

“Yes, Miss Alice; and the bells; nice music, eh?”

“I like it very much.”

“Then Selim knows his points; a spanker, is he not?”

“I don't know what you mean by a `spanker,”' said
Alice, tranquilly, “but he is well broken to the harness.”

“You are fond of sleighing, Miss Alice?”

“Exceedingly.”

“Yes?”

And after this compendious monosyllable, Mr. Emberton
fixing his reins securely in one hand, betook himself
again to reading Max's verses.

He had just reached the lines,

when an exclamation of affright from Alice made him
drop the paper, and grasp suddenly the loose rein he had
allowed to slack too much.

The cause of the young girl's exclamation was apparent.
Max and Caroline in passing over the ice, now rendered
unsafe by the gradual thawing it had throughout the day
been subjected to, had almost broken through the bending
crust, near the very centre of the stream. They were
now plainly visible on a little knoll beyond, making signs
to the second sleigh not to cross at the same spot.

It was too late. Mr. Emberton's horse thundered down
the bank and rushed upon the smooth surface. The consequence
was that the animal's forelegs broke through
the ice, and the sleigh was in a moment nearly submerged.
Max whirled his horse round and hurried back to the rescue
of the party, just as Mr. Emberton, by a violent blow
of his whip, forced his horse, the sleigh, and all through
the icy water, and the broken ice, to the bank.

Caroline received the trembling Alice in her arms, turning
pale at her sister's narrow escape. Had the water
been deeper, a most serious accident might have been the
consequence.

“Oh, Alice!” cried Caroline, wiping her eyes.

“I'm not hurt, sister,” rejoined Alice, recovering her
lost color.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“And you, Mr. Emberton?” said Caroline, turning round
suddenly to that gentleman, who was almost covered with
ice.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Emberton, “perfectly sound—
arrived safe. My luck was always execrable, you know.”

“We made signs, sir,” said Max, austerely, “you
might have seen them.”

“I did not, sir.”

“You might have seriously injured Miss Courtlandt, sir.”

Mr. Emberton's eye flashed at the haughty tone of the
young man's voice.

“Miss Courtlandt was under my charge, sir,” he replied,
endeavoring to assume his habitual coolness.

“I beg that you will have more care when such shall
be the case in future, sir,” said Max, indignant at Mr.
Emberton's coolness and indifference.

Mr. Emberton, by a powerful effort, suppressed the
angry reply which rose to his lips, and said satirically:

“You are I suppose, Miss Alice's knight as well as
Miss Caroline's, and I have no right to quarrel with you.
But I would respectfully suggest that you were partly
the occasion of our accident.”

“I, sir!”

“Certainly: but for being busily engaged reading some
agreeable verses of yours, I should doubtless have seen
the signs which were used, it seems, in such profusion to
warn me.”

Alice blushed, and looked at Max timidly.

“I do not understand you, sir,” said the young man,
coldly.

“He was reading your verses, `The Mountain-side,'
cousin Max,” said Alice, softly, “they happened to—”

“Is it possible you allowed them to be made a laughing
stock in your presence, cousin Alice,” said Max, in a
tone of profound mortification, “and by Mr. Emberton?
Cousin Alice!”

Alice opened her lips to refute this charge on the young
man's part; but Mr. Emberton interrupted her.

“A laughing stock, sir?” he said, “by no means! I
was admiring the said verses, and really was not bored
more than I am usually by poetry; I think I may venture
to say even less than usual. I particularly admired
one of the stanzas which I chanced to read just as I went
beneath the ice—devilish cold day for a bath; excuse me
ladies! I was reading your verses very attentively when

our accident happened, and to prove to you that they
made a deep impression on me, I will repeat the lines in
question. They were
Fine verses, expressive verses: very expressive! For
you will observe that not only the sunset but Miss Alice
and myself were very nearly:
And that reminds me that my arm hurts like thunder;
really ladies I shall never break myself of this dreadful
habit. Pardon, pardon!”

Mr. Emberton having achieved this explanation, which
served the double purpose of affording him a safety valve
for his satirical humor, and of turning the whole affair
into a jest, carefully wrapped his companion's feet in the
warm bear-skin, and touching his panting and foaming
animal with the whip, again set forward toward the Parsonage
beyond the mountain.

They arrived without further accident, just as the last
light of sunset fading away like a rosy blush before the
approach of night, waned slowly from the western sky;
and to Mr. Emberton's great satisfaction and delight, the
young ladies made quite a jest of the accident. In truth
Alice had scarcely received a wetting, wrapped as she
had been in her thick bear-skin; Mr. Emberton, on the
contrary, had had his arm badly bruised by the concussion
with the ice.

They took leave of the family now—both the young
men—and Max was about to get into his sleigh when he
felt a finger on his shoulder.

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE RIVALS.

The young man turned quickly and found the eyes of
Mr. Robert Emberton fixed upon him. Mr. Emberton's
countenance had entirely lost its habitual languor, and
was characterized by an unmistakable bad humor.

“You spoke to me very roughly a little while ago, sir,”
he said, “and in a manner not at all to my taste. Gentlemen
are not in the habit of using such language toward
each other here, whatever may be the case elsewhere.”

Max drew himself up haughtily.

“I had the right to say what I did, sir,” he replied,
“and if any thing I think I was forbearing—very forbearing.”

“I do not agree with you, sir.”

These words were uttered in a tone so cold and so full
of insult that the young man's face flushed.

“Mr. Emberton!” he said advancing a step toward his
adversary.

“Well, sir!”

“What do you purpose, will you be good enough to inform
me?”

“Yes, sir; I will.”

“You touched my shoulder I believe, as I was getting
into my sleigh,” said Max, haughtily.

“I did, sir,” replied Mr. Emberton, “and my purpose
was to say to you that your demeanor to me to-day has
been such as I shall not pardon.”

Max's eye flashed;

“As you please, sir!” he said.

Mr. Emberton looked at his adversary with a scornful
curl of his proud lip; and after a moment's silence
said:

“I could pardon your incessant attempts to render my
visits here disagreeable, sir—I could pardon these attempts
on your part if—”

“What do you mean, sir—I confess I am at a loss to
comprehend you,” replied Max, coldly.

“Attempts,” continued Mr. Emberton with great bitterness
in his tone, “in which I confess you have been at
times very successful. To-day for instance.”

“I do not understand you, sir.”

“I will not explain my meaning then, sir. If the lady
threw no obstacle in the way—and permit me to say that
I do not imagine any such state of things to exist, after
the mortifying experience I have had of my standing with
her this day in town yonder—if the lady threw no obstacles
in your path when your purpose in coming hither
was to render my presence ridiculous, then I have no
reason to complain of her; so much the worse for me.
That is not my cause of quarrel with you, sir: my reason
for stopping you just now was to say to you, that this
day you have openly insulted a gentleman who has never
stood in your path, though you have frequently stood in
his own, and to assure you further that he has no intention
of pardoning that insult!”

These words were uttered with great bitterness; Mr.
Emberton was plainly thinking of Caroline's preference
in Martinsburg, of his rival over himself.

Max caught at the last words uttered by his adversary,
and replied with equal bitternes:

“A gentleman who has never stood in my path!”

“Never, sir.”

“I know not whether this is irony or not, sir; but if
not irony it certainly resembles it. You make yourself
out a veritable saint, sir—the Chevalier without reproach.

You have not laughed to-day at my cousin's preference of
yourself to me in Martinsburg—by no means!” said the
young man, bitterly, “you have not made merry with my
verses, turning the expression of my grief at leaving my
native land into a jest—not at all! By heaven! Mr.
Emberton, you shall repent what you have said this day
before you are an hour older!”

Max overcome with rage, advanced two steps toward
his adversary, looking at him with burning and flashing
eyes.

Mr. Emberton by a powerful effort controlled himself.

“I did not laugh at your verses, sir,” he replied, “they
were wholly indifferent to me—wholly. I remember nothing
of them; but I do remember your language to me.”

Max suppressed his anger, and said with as much coldness
as he could command:

“I have nothing to retraet, sir.”

“You have insulted me, sir!” said Mr. Emberton, again
giving way to one of his pale rages.

“I have nothing to explain, sir.”

“I do not ask you to explain, sir,” said Mr. Emberton,
“there are things which you could not undo by an explanation;—and
I don't care to tell you, sir, that but for
those things, I should have passed over this insulting language
to-day.”

“You seem fond of riddles, sir,” said Max.

“I am not deceived by your pretense of not understanding
me.”

“My pretense, sir!”

“Your pretense—yes, a thousand times your pretense!
You not only make me ridiculous, but you pretend not to
know it.”

“Ridiculous, sir? your riddles are deeper and deeper.”

Mr. Emberton dug his nails into the palms of his hands;
as for Max he had nearly bitten through his upper lip.
The forms of the young girls were already seen flitting

by the window toward the door, to ascertain the cause of
the delay of their cavaliers, in taking their departure.

Mr. Emberton advanced close to Max.

“There is one word which I will make plain to you,
sir,” he said, “there shall be no riddle in it, I promise
you.”

Max replied haughtily:

“Very well, sir.”

“I will commission a friend to say it to you,” said Mr.
Emberton, “you might not understand me and my riddles!”

After these bitter words, Mr. Emberton made Max a
low bow, which was returned as ceremoniously, and both
got into their sleighs just as Caroline and Alice appeared
at the door. Mr. Emberton saluted them with some constraint
but a tolerable imitation of his usual sweetness, and
drove off in the direction of the Glades.

Max took his way to the Lock, overwhelmed with bitter
thought. Alice was lost to him! that day's events
had proved it! How fond and foolish he had been to
dream of her! And then came the thought of Mr. Robert
Emberton in connection with Alice—both laughing at his
verses. Max ground his teeth.

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MONSIEUR PANTOUFLE'S “OLD INSTINCT.”

On the morning after the scenes we have just related,
Doctor Courtlandt was sitting in the breakfast-room before
breakfast, perusing a letter which had just been brought
to him from the post-office, when Monsieur Pantoufle made
his appearance, shaking from his slippers and shoe-buckles,
the snow which those ornamental rather than useful articles
of dress had gathered, in their passage from the
owner's horse to the mansion.

At Monsieur Pantoufle's entrance, Doctor Courtlandt
felt an undefinable sensation, such as men usually experience
when persons come to pay something more than a
mere friendly or formal visit. This may perhaps be explained
on the ground of the Doctor's almost instinctive
comprehension of every thing which in the remotest degree
related to his son. Max had returned on the previous
evening gloomy and silent, and had retired earlier than
was his wont, overcome it seemed by some afflicting emotion.
Doctor Courtlandt had taxed his brain to account
for this gloom of the young man's; had run over in his
mind the events of the day before—Max's visit, his meeting
with Mr. Robert Emberton, for the sleigh ride had
been arranged some days before, and he knew Mr. Emberton
was to be of the party, his delight on setting out in
the morning, his gloom on returning at night. The Doctor
had been completely puzzled; but now a sudden light
seemed to flash upon him; the very moment Monsieur
Pantoufle, after making his customary bow, asked in a
ceremonious tone for Max, he began to understand.

“He has not come down,” said the Doctor, “take a
seat, Monsieur Pantoufle.”

“I thank you, Monsieur,” replied Monsieur Pantoufle,
politely.

“Do you wish especially to see my son, Monsisur Pantoufle?”
asked the Doctor.

“Particularly.”

“Will I not answer your purpose?”

“I have much sorrow in saying no, Monsieur.”

“And why?”

“'Tis a private matter.”

The Doctor rose and approached the music-master.

“I see a note there in your waistcoat pocket, Monsieur
Pantoufle,” he said, “pray is that for Max? I know it is.”

Monsieur Pantoufle looked somewhat confused.

“You say rightly,” he replied.

“What does it mean?”

“I feel not at liberty to indicate, Monsieur Max.”

The Doctor frowned.

“I represent my son, Monsieur Pantoufle,” he said,
“speak!”

“Impossible!” said the music-master, with a deprecating
wave of his hand, “impossible, Monsieur!”

“Monsieur Pantoufle, that is a challenge!” cried the
Doctor, suddenly.

The dancing-master shrugged his shoulders, taking out
the note.

“You have reason, sir,” he said smiling, and handing
it to the Doctor, “since you have guess it, why there
result no harm in giving it to you.”

“A challenge from whom, pray, in God's name!” cried
the Doctor, much moved and grasping the note tightly.

“From young Monsieur Emberton.”

“Robert Emberton!”

“Himself, Monsieur,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, laconically.

The Doctor looked at the music-master angrily.

“And you are his second?”

“I have that honor.”

“Permit me to say, Monsieur Pantoufle,” the Doctor
replied, with a scornful curl of the lip, “that it is no
honor!”

“You speak harsh words, Monsieur Max.”

“Not at all, sir. I have no intention of exposing myself
to a similar compliment from you, Monsieur Pantoufle—you
are so excellent a hand at the short sword.”

But seeing on Monsieur Pantoufle's wan old face a hurt
expression at these sneering words, the Doctor added:

“I do not wish to wound your feelings, sir, but you
must permit me to say, that I think you are too old a
man to lend yourself thus to the silly freaks of a hotheaded
youth. In Heaven's name, why should Mr. Robert
Emberton take it into his head to send a defiance to my
son of all the persons in the world!”

“He says that insult pass.”

“Folly!”

“He must have satisfaction, he says,” continued Monsieur
Pantoufle, shrugging his shoulders.

“Satisfaction!” repeated the Doctor, “it really is astonishing
how hot these foolish heads of young men continue
to be. A defiance, by heaven, to the son of one who will
soon—but that is not your affair, nor Mr. Robert Emberton's.”

“Eh?” said Monsieur Pantoufle, interrogatively.

“Nothing,” said the Doctor, stiffly, “let us come back
to your message. You are Mr. Emberton's second.”

“As I was yours, Monsieur Max,” said Monsieur Pantoufle,
with a sly laugh.

“Do not bring up the follies of my youth as an apology
for those of other persons, Monsieur,” said the Doctor. “If
I was foolish enough to challenge Mr. Lyttelton and his
friend, or his enemy, it is no excuse for you.”

“You hurt me, Monsieur Max,” said the old man, feelingly.

“I have no such intention, my old friend. But this
duel I tell you, Monsieur Pantoufle, can never take place.
You will go back nevertheless, and tell Mr. Emberton
that your message was delivered—the rest is my affair.”

“Willingly, Monsieur Max,” replied the old man, “I
meddle in this affaire against my wishes; but the old
instinct, the old instinct, you know, Monsieur Max!”

And shaking his head, the old man slowly took his departure,
alleging that he had already breakfasted.

The Doctor remained alone looking at the note. Max
entered ten minutes after Monsieur Pantoufle's departure;
his father had already formed his resolution.

25. CHAPTER XXV.
STRATEGY: AND A WARLIKE PROCLAMATION.

Max was still gloomy and taciturn—his heart lacerated,
his eyes red and heavy with want of sleep. He had been
revolving all through the long wretched hours of the
weary night the events of the day before; and he could
come to but one conclusion, to but one opinion of his
cousin's feelings. She had openly preferred Mr. Emberton
in purchasing her presents—she had manifested
throughout the day her satisfaction at being thrown with
that gentleman instead of with himself, she had consummated
her mortifying neglect and indifference toward
himself by something worse than all. She had made
those sincere and tearful verses he had given her, a jest,
a subject for merriment and laughter, and with whom?
That bitterly detested rival! The young man felt his
heart becoming sour and acrid, and the change forbode
no good to that rival, so successful.

Doctor Courtlandt slipped the note brought by Monsieur
Pantoufle into his pocket, and said with a smile to his
son:

“Good-morning, Max! how goes it to-day.”

“I feel dull, sir.”

“Come, come! cheer up. If you look so badly I shall
never be willing to trust you with the commission I am
about to.”

“What is that, sir?” said the young man, gloomily.

“See this letter.”

Max took it. It bore the New York post mark, and
was directed in a large commercial hand.

“Your books, sir?”

“Yes, they have arrived, and I am very anxious to get
them on.”

Max made no reply

“I am afraid to trust them to the cars without some
one to take care of them,” continued Doctor Courtlandt.

“Some one, sir?” repeated Max.

“And I can not go myself,” finished the Doctor.

Max raised his heavy eyes to his father and said gloomily:

“You must excuse me, sir; I really can not go. I
am kept here.”

Doctor Courtlandt looked hurt, and was silent.

“I mean, my dear father,” Max said, tremulously,
“that I am not fit for the commission—besides I really
am kept here.”

The Doctor was silent still.

There was nothing so fearful to the young man in the
whole universe as his father's displeasure. And for the
very simple reason that this displeasure was never manifested
harshly, in word or tone, did Max on this occasion
feel an instinctive dread of that obstinate silence with
which the Doctor had met his excuses.

“Could no one else go, sir?” asked he, in a low tone.

“I do not wish you to do what is distasteful to you,
my son,” said the Doctor, turning away.

“Distasteful! oh, sir, I would cut off my hand if you
wished me to. Could you doubt it!”

“I do not ask so much.”

“Father—”

“Enough, my son—if you do not wish to go to New
York—”

“I will go,” murmured Max, “I did not mean to refuse
to go, sir.”

“That is my brave boy,” said the Doctor, cheerfully,
“why the trip will do you good. You are looking a little
pale, and this renders the haste I am in to get my valuable

library, and the consequent hurry you must be in,
somewhat disagreeable.”

“Are you in haste, sir?”

“To receive them? Yes. They may be damaged
lying in the Custom-house.”

“Command me, sir.”

“Well—then I command you,” replied the Doctor with
his fond smile, and looking with his large tender eyes so
full of majesty and profound affection, at his son, “I
command you to go and pack up your valise to take the
afternoon train—”

“To-day, sir!”

“Have you not time to reach Martinsburg? It is
scarcely nine o'clock.”

Max saw from his father's tone that any further opposition
would be distasteful to him, and with a sound between
a sigh and a moan, he replied:

“Well, sir—I will go to-day then. I ask only a few
moments to write a line which I will trouble you to have
delivered to-day.”

“Certainly—certainly,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “go
at once and write.”

Max went to his chamber and sat down at his writing
desk. That “line” was to be written for the eyes of Mr.
Robert Emberton. After a moment's reflection, during
which his face assumed an expression of coldness and
gloom which would have much afflicted Doctor Courtlandt
had he seen it, the young man wrote as follows:

Having penned this warlike epistle, the young man
neatly folded it, and sealed it—to omit nothing—with
the old Courtlandt coat of arms, venerable relic of antediluvian
Courtlandts, dead and gone many a day, after
doing many things of a description very similar, and
equally as unchristian as that just performed by their
descendant; then directing it succinctly to “Mr. Robert
Emberton, at the Glades,” he left it lying on his table;
this done, he hastily packed up his traveling valise, took
it under his arm and went down to his father.

Breakfast was a mere ceremony on the part of both
father and son; and, in an hour, Max was pursuing his
way through the deep snow to Martinsburg, there to take
the cars for New York

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
DOCTOR COURTLANDT AND MR. ROBERT EMBERTON.

Max had no sooner departed, than Doctor Courtlandt
ordered his horse—preferring that conveyance to the more
comfortable sleigh—and took his way toward the Glades,
the note to Mr. Emberton in his pocket.

The Doctor's face betrayed much pain and anxiety.
That kind and affectionate heart was liable at all times
to be wounded through others, and now, when there was
imminent danger of a mortal encounter between the person
he was going to visit, and that other person most dear
to him in the world—that world from which had passed
successively so many who had been the light and joy of
his existence—Doctor Courtlandt's heart was full of gloom
and anxiety, and his brow overshadowed.

He was welcomed ceremoniously though with some
embarrassment, by Mr. Robert Emberton, and so was
ushered into the drawing-room.

“My sister is not at home, sir,” said Mr. Emberton,
striving to speak with his usual coolness and sang-froid,
but finding it excessively difficult to return calmly the
piercing glance of Doctor Courtlandt.

“Your sister?” said Doctor Courtlandt.

“Yes, sir; she is to-day out on a visit. mention it
because you generally call to see her rather than myself.”

“That is true,” said Doctor Courtlandt.

“I do not complain, sir,” replied Mr. Robert Emberton,
uneasily.

The Doctor looked at the young man long and fixedly.
Mr. Emberton was much embarrassed by this acute look,
and began to color.

“Is my presence disagreeable?” asked the Doctor, in a
tone full of softness and courtesy.

“Disagreeable, sir! how could you think it?”

“You seemed put out.”

The young man blushed.

“I am out of sorts to-day, sir,” he replied, “you must
excuse me.”

“That is a polite speech; and I only find fault with it
because it is not very sincere,” replied Doctor Courtlandt.

“Not sincere, sir?”

“Not the whole truth, I mean.”

The clear glance again flashed to Mr. Robert Emberton
and embarrassed him.

“I am really out of sorts, as I said,” he replied.

“That is not the only cause for your absence of spirits
however—you who are generally so gay.”

“Well, no, sir; it is not,” said Mr. Emberton, in a
formal tone.

“Therefore you did not tell the whole truth—though
what you said was true. Mr. Emberton,” said Doctor
Courtlandt, rising and speaking in a noble and courteous
tone, “I find myself playing at cross purposes with you
—and I dislike cross purposes. I will therefore speak
more plainly, and say to you that I know of the hostile
message you have sent my son, and that I have been
much pained by it; very much pained by it.”

“It is not my fault, sir,” Mr. Emberton replied, in a
sombre voice.

“Still you sent it?”

“Mr. Courtlandt forced me to send it.”

“Forced you!—he so gentle, so observant of all the
courtesies of life?”

“I find no fault with his temper, sir, or his breeding;
though I had a very disagreeable specimen of them yesterday.”

“Max insult you!”

“Yes, sir; an unmistakable insult.”

“For what reason?”

“An accident I was so unfortunate as to meet with
afforded him the occasion.”

“On your ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Doctor looked much pained.

“And you would kill him, or force him to kill you for
a hasty word?”

Mr. Emberton bent his head gloomily, making no reply.

“Young man,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “permit one
who has passed through more vicissitudes than most men,
and thus lived more than men do usually in forty years—
permit me to tell you that the man who rashly takes human
life, for a word, for a gesture, for a tone of the voice
too high or too low to suit him, that man commits a most
criminal and unchristian act. Your blood is hot with
youth—curb it; your eyes fill with anger at the very
glance of enmity—be calm! We live here but three
score years and ten at best; is it worth while to bicker,
and quarrel, and fight with your human brethren—your
brother worms?”

“For honor—yes, sir!”

“Honor! grand trumpet blast preluding all the wars
that have desolated the world! Honor, young sir, is a
great and invaluable treasure—the Christian gentleman
will guard it with his life. But this honor must be very
frail if it is endangered by an ill-humored word!”

“I might have passed by Mr. Courtlandt's harsh words,
sir,” murmured the young man, gloomily, and applying
to his particular case the general principle of his inter-locutor,
“but we are rivals! There is the word. It has
torn my breast—it is out!”

Doctor Courtlandt looked inexpressibly pained, and
pressed his hand upon his breast.

“Rivals!” he said mournfully.

“Yes, sir; there is the cause of this thing which you
complain so of; not those trifling words he uttered.”

“And you both love Alice?”

“Alice, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Robert Emberton.

“Yes,” said the Doctor.

“Alice!” repeated Mr. Emberton, springing toward the
Doctor, “does your son love Alice—not Caroline?”

The Doctor looked at the young man curiously.

“I think so,” he said, “I never spy, under any circumstances;
and I ask no confidences.”

Mr. Emberton fell back gloomily, murmuring, “But
Caroline loves him.”

“There seems to be a misunderstanding here,” said the
Doctor, astonished, “and if you can not solve it, I can
not.”

“Could it be—” said Mr. Emberton, in profound thought.

“What?” asked Doctor Courtlandt.

“Could she all this time—”

“Who—what?” repeated the Doctor.

“Doctor Courtlandt,” said Mr. Emberton, suddenly,
“if you will be courteous enough to excuse me, I will
take the liberty of leaving you for a short time. I trust
you will pardon this very discourteous act—but I feel
that this moment is the turning point of my life. It makes
or mars me. There is my sister returning just in good
time, and Monsieur Pantoufle who accompanied her.
With your leave, sir, I shall expect to see you here on my
return.”

“Your return?” said the puzzled Doctor.

“Here is Josephine,” said Mr. Emberton; and scarcely
saying good-day to his sister, he left the hall, and ran to
the stable. He saddled his horse in a moment, mounted
and galloped at full speed toward the Parsonage.

In two hours Mr. Robert Emberton returned to the
Glades overwhelmed with joy—almost ecstatic in his
delight. He burst into the room where the three persons

he had left were assembled, and running to his sister
saluted her with a hearty kiss.

“Do pray! what is the matter, Robert,” said Miss
Emberton, looking very pretty and good-humored.

“Behold one who will soon be a married man!” cried
Mr. Robert Emberton, “a reformed Benedick, a most
respectable individual of the married species, my dear
Miss Josephine! You must excuse my extravagance,
Doctor,” continued the young man turning to Doctor
Courtlandt, with some color, “but I am so completely
happy that my habitual spirits have been exaggerated
into boisterous hilarity. And in the first place please to
consider the foolish note I wrote to—you know, sir—consider
it burned.”

“What note—to whom—and what in the world does
all this mean?” cried Miss Emberton, amazed.

Explanation upon all points ensued, but with these
explanations we will not trouble the reader; simply
tracing the main events of the day.

Mr. Robert Emberton, first gaining Mrs. Courtlandt's
consent, had with the bluntness of despair come directly
to the point with Miss Caroline, and the result was
precisely what the reader has no doubt anticipated. The
cap was most assuredly for him, and Caroline for once
lost her wit and humor, and did not talk brilliantly at
all. But there is reason to suppose that her lover was
not in the least displeased with this circumstance, but
when she murmured, blushing radiantly, “My ear-rings!
my ear-rings!” liked her all the better for her charming
and novel confusion.

Doctor Courtlandt was sincerely pleased, and this satisfaction
caused Mr. Robert Emberton very nearly to embrace
that gentleman. After those thousand exhausting
emotions the Doctor returned placidly home, thinking of
his son who was borne every moment further from him.
Was he to meet with such a happy issue too?

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
ALICE.

It was on a pleasant sunny morning toward Christmas
that Max, having performed his father's business in New
York, again returned to the Lock.

The young man was weary and exhausted, but more
weary in heart than body. That ever present thought
which he had carried away with him had paled his cheek,
and filled his large blue eyes with settled abiding gloom.
Never for an hour had the image of Alice left his heart—
of Alice to whom he was now nothing—of Alice forever
lost to him. He could have endured all the spites of fortune
he thought, had this one arrow not been buried in
his breast. He never knew how much he loved her until
he had lost her, he now felt; never had his heart been so
overcome, so absorbed by gloomy and despairing thoughts.

The sunshine, sparkling on the bright snow, was black
—the sky, so clear and pure, was but a “pestilent congregation
of vapors;” from all things the light and joy of life
had passed and gone. No more love, no more happiness,
never more lightness of the eye or heart. All that was
over now.

The Doctor and Mrs. Courtlandt had driven over that
morning to see Miss Emberton, a servant said, and would
spend the day at the Glades. Max sat down motioning
to the servant to leave him. That name had opened his
wounds anew, and now hatred was added to his other
mental excitement. That abhorred rival had for a time
vanished from his mind—from his heart so overwhelmed
with one thought, that Alice could not be his own;—she
had preferred that man, she had slighted him, she had

laughed at his verses, had met with contemptuous calmness
his love and affliction; it was on his despair that he
had fed, not his hatred. Now the name of his rival
aroused this new hell in him, and for a time he suffered
a new torment of jealousy and rage.

All things, however, spend themselves in time—love,
hatred, jealousy, despair;—otherwise the over-fraught
heart would break. After an hour's gloomy silence the
young man rose and looked around him wearily. Then
he collected his thoughts; he would go at once and make
arrangements for his meeting with Mr. Emberton; that
at least should not be neglected or deferred.

He took from his pocket the bracelet he had selected
for her, and looked at it long and in silence. A sigh
which sounded like a sob, shook for a moment his breast
and agitated his nervous lips.

“I will go and see her for the last time,” he murmured,
“yes, yes! I will go and feed on my own heart. Nothing
worse than I have felt can touch me now!”

He mounted and set forward rapidly toward the Parsonage,
as though he feared his own resolution. Covering
his face with one hand he cast not a single glance
upon any thing around him; he knew that however
beautiful the fair sunlight might be, however grand the
mountain heights, however calm the white silent landscape,
they could bring no light, or calmness to his heart.
Still these objects had their usual effect; he felt their
influence spite of his incredulity. When he arrived at the
Parsonage he was more subdued, and even found himself
smiling mournfully at his own wretchedness.

On a mossy rock, which the snow had disappeared from,
at the distance of two hundred yards from the house,
Max saw Alice seated and busily engaged at some work.
He dismounted, tied his bridle to a bough of one of the
waving evergreens, and approached her. The young
girl's back was turned to him, and so completely had the

soft snow muffled the hoof-strokes of his horse that she
had not heard them, and was plainly not aware of his
approach.

Alice was clad with her usual simplicity and taste, and
was singing lowly to herself, while busily plying her
needle. The song was thoughtful but very sweet and
musical, and her pure clear voice, gave to it an inexpressible
charm. Max thought that he had never seen a
more angelic vision, a more radiant embodiment of purity,
and youth, and innocence; the very sunlight seemed to
linger on the beloved head, bent down so earnestly; and
when the feeling words of her song floated to him like the
low warble of a bird—those feeling words of Motherwell:

when Max caught the dying fall of the exquisite music,
and the more exquisite words, his very heart was melted
within him, and two large tears gathered in his eyes and
rolled down his cheeks.

“Alice,” he said softly, “that is a pretty song.”

The young girl started, and turned round. A deep
blush suffused her face at sight of her cousin, and she
half rose.

“Do not mind me, cousin Alice,” said Max, passing
his hand over his brow, “sit down.”

“I did not know you had returned,” said Alice in a low
voice, and glancing timidly at the young man.

“I only got back an hour or two ago,” said Max.

Alice stole a pitying look at him.

“I am afraid you will be surprised to hear what has
happened in your absence,” she murmured, with some
agitation.

“What has happened?” echoed Max.

Alice turned away. Oh, how can I tell him, thought

she; he certainly loves Caroline, and her marriage will
distress him dreadfully.

“You said something had happened, cousin Alice,”
said Max, pressing one hand on his throbbing heart, and
with the other taking the hand of the young girl.

“Yes,” murmured Alice.

Max's brow flushed, and his lips trembled.

“What mean you?” he said.

“It will distress you to hear it.”

“I am used to distress,” said the young man, raising
his head with gloomy calmness, “it will prove no new
guest with me.”

Alice turned away with her eyes full of tears.

“How can I tell you?” she said, without looking at him.

Max felt his heart grow as chill as though it were surrounded
suddenly by ice.

“Speak,” he said, coldly.

But recollecting himself he turned away, and said in a
low, suffocating voice:

“Do not mind me—speak; tell me all, as though I
were an indifferent person. I can bear it—yes, yes; I
can bear it.”

For a moment his voice died away in his throat. He
continued:

“I have borne much; I can bear this also, doubtless,
though it goes near to tear my heart-strings—what I
think, nay, know. Why conceal it now, Alice? 'tis a lost
labor! Think you I saw nothing all these weary days—
think you I could fail to see? But do not misunderstand
me! I blame no one—no one! My wretchedness is of
my own making. Why did I love so; why stake all my
heart and life upon this chance!—to lose it!”

The young man's head sank down, and covering his
face with his hands, he tried to strangle in its passage
the passionate sob which shook his bosom.

“Cousin Max,” said Alice, “I pity you from the bottom

of my heart. I can't tell you how distressed I am
at your grief,” she added, wiping away her tears.

Max turned away.

“Pity me!” he said, “you pity me—great God, she
pities me!”

Alice looked startled.

“What do you mean, cousin?” she said, “indeed I do
sincerely feel for you.”

“Away with your pity!” said the young man, rising
with bloodshot eyes. But sinking back he muttered:

“Forgive me, cousin; I am not well. Bear with me
—my brain is hurt.”

Alice took his hand with a radiant blush.

“I pitied you because I loved you,” she said, in a faltering
voice.

“Loved me?”

“Yes—loved you—very much; as my cousin,” stammered
Alice.

He turned away, and by a powerful effort controlled
his agitation.

“You were speaking of what had happened in my absence,”
he said, in a low, gloomy tone, “tell me all.”

“It will distress you.”

“No—no.”

“I fear it will.”

“Speak, cousin Alice.

“You know we shall have a wedding here soon, then?”
said Alice, calmly. “If you will make me speak, I must.
You knew that?”

“I guessed as much,” said Max, in the same low voice.

“All look forward to it soon.”

“Do they?” said the young man, averting his face.

Alice thought she had overrated the affection Max felt
for Caroline, so calmly were these words uttered; and
this idea we are bound to say made her heart leap.

“It will be a very merry wedding, considering that

father is a minister,” she said, with a laugh of affected
cheerfulness.

“Will it?”

“It should be a happy time.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Emberton has much improved already.”

“Has he?” murmured the young man, his long hair
vailing his face.

“And he is much more of a man than before.”

“Is he?”

“Don't you think him intelligent? I do, cousin.”

“Do you?”

“And handsome; is he not?”

“Very.”

“Then he has a good heart.”

“I suppose you think so.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Naturally.”

“Why naturally of course, cousin,” said Alice, “and
I ought to assuredly.”

“Assuredly.”

“You speak very strangely, cousin,” said Alice, blushing.

“I am sorry I displease you.”

“Oh, you do not displease me—you displease me! Nobody
thinks I am worth it. But really I am somewhat
put out at Mr. Emberton's selection.”

“Put out?”

“Yes; he is a man of taste.

“Of great taste.”

“Of intelligence, too.”

“Yes; of intelligence.”

“Well,” said Alice, attempting to laugh, “he should
have exercised those qualities in his selection of a wife.”

Max turned with gloomy astonishment toward his
cousin.

“He has thought best, however, to mortify me by following
his own judgment, in choosing—”

Max half rose.

“In choosing? What do you mean, Alice!”

“In choosing Caroline!” said Alice.

“Caroline!” cried Max.

“Of course.”

“Caroline! not you!”

“Me, indeed; is it possible you thought all this time
that I—”

Alice stopped, blushing deeply.

Max could hardly believe his ears; he looked around
incredulous.

“Caroline!” he repeated.

“Yes—certainly—”

“Robert Emberton!”

“Certainly; they are to be married before New Year.”

“Not you, Alice!” cried the young man, devouring
her face with his passionate glances.

Alice blushed more deeply.

“How could you imagine such a thing?” she murmured.

“And that silk was not for Robert Emberton? That
waistcoat!”

“Here it is. I have just sewn on the last button,”
said Alice, holding up the waistcoat, with a faint laugh,
“I will not say who it is intended for, until you tell me
for whom you bought the bracelet—it is not a gentleman's
ornament, you know.”

Max with radiant countenance drew out the bracelet
and clasped it on her wrist.

“For you!” he said, “oh, heaven is my witness I
would clasp my heart thus were it in my power!”

“Was it for me?” murmured Alice, smiling and blushing,
with averted face.

“And the waistcoat!”

Alice blushed to the very roots of her hair; and with a
hesitating movement of the hand gave it to the young
man.

“Was it always intended for me!” said Max.

“Always!” murmured Alice.

“Alice, dear Alice,” said the young man overwhelmed
with joy, “I gave you more than that bracelet on your
arm.”

“More?” the girl murmured.

“I gave you my heart. My heart, darling—do not
take your hand away! all my heart, my life, my being!
will you give me as much?”

That tender little hand remained in his, and no fine
eloquent speech was needed to make him understand that
the long train of errors was exploded, and the heart so
faithful to him, his forever. The sunlight poured its joyful
and most loving radiance on that fair picture—the
maiden's head on her true lover's bosom.

The port was reached, his bark was safe from storms;
the anchor of his hope lay on his heart.

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
A BOUT WITH TONGUES.

Max returned in the afternoon to the Lock, just as
Doctor Courtlandt and his aunt drove up to the door, in
their comfortable sleigh. The worthy Doctor was overjoyed
to see his son looking so well, and welcomed him
with great affection.

“When did you return, my boy,” he said, “on my
word, you are, it seems to me, in excellent spirits.”

“I am, sir,” said Max, with a smile.

“You found us absent; how have you passed the
morning—riding out?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Doctor's piercing eye detected some embarrassment
in the young man's countenance; but not a very
painful embarrassment.

“To the Parsonage?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Max said.

“And whom did you see?”

“Every body, sir, but Caroline. Where is she to-day?”

“Riding out with Mr. Emberton,” said Mrs. Courtlandt,
“and I believe here they come.”

In fact a sleigh at that moment made its appearance
at the bottom of the knoll coming from the direction of
Martinsburg. In this sleigh were seated Caroline and
Mr. Emberton, laughing and talking.

“You have heard the news, I suppose, Max,” said Mrs.
Courtlandt.

“The news, aunt?”

“About Caroline and Robert Emberton. Since you
have been away he has addressed her—”

“And—” began Max laughing.

“They are engaged.”

“I knew it,” said Max.

“Who told you?”

“Alice.”

“Ah,” said Doctor Courtlandt, with a sudden suspicion,
and looking intently at the young man, “she told you,
did she?”

“Yes, sir,” Max said with a blush, avoiding the laughing
eye of Doctor Courtlandt.

“Alice is making a very nice waistcoat for you, Max,”
said his aunt, “she has put a great deal of work on it.”

Max was glad of this diversion.

“How did she get my measure, aunt?” he asked.

“I gave her one of yours to cut it by; on the very
day you left us.”

Max suddenly recollected that he had seen Alice on
that day, from his elevated position on the Third Hill
Mountain, leave the Parsonage and take the road to the
Lock.

“It was very kind in her,” he said, smiling.

The sleigh drove up to the door, and Mr. Emberton
helped Caroline out.

“Oh, there's my elegant cousin, as I live!” cried the
young girl.

“How d'ye do, cousin,” said Max, going up and taking
her hand.

“Come, don't be so formal,” said Doctor Courtlandt,
mischievously.

“He shan't kiss me.”

“By your leave, mistress,” said the young man, pressing
his lips to her cheek, “that is good Shakspeare.”

“And bad manners.”

Mr. Emberton approached Max and courteously offered
him his hand. That young gentleman returned the
friendly grasp with great good feeling.

“I hope you will consider my note to you unwritten,”
said Mr. Emberton.

“What note?” said Max. “It seems to me that this
observation should come from me. I regret the hasty
words I wrote to you.”

“What words?” said Mr. Emberton.

Doctor Courtlandt began to laugh; and taking the
young men aside explained the whole matter.

“I am sure we are good friends now, however,” said
Max, laughing, “and I offer you my hand and my friendship.
Take both.”

“With all my heart.”

And so these belligerent gentlemen sealed their newly
agreed on amity by pressing each the other's hand. This
dreadful matter was arranged to suit all parties; but we
are bound to say that the bright eyes of the sisters had
perfected this sudden friendship, as they had caused the
former quarrel. Both Mr. Robert Emberton and Max
were much too happy, to feel the least desire to drink
each other's blood—a ceremony they had felt a violent
desire to perform a week or two before.

They returned to the spot where Mrs. Courtlandt and
Caroline stood talking.

“Have you seen your nice waistcoat, cousin Max?”
said Caroline.

“Yes, my charming cousin.”

“`Charming,' indeed! you are very witty all at once.”

“Your presence inspired me.”

“Yes; as it did just now to be very presuming, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“In kissing me!”

“Kissing goes by favor,” said Max, laughing.”

“If favor went by kissing you would never reach me.”

“Why?”

“You are not a favorite with me,” said Caroline,
“which I think is a very good reason.”

“Excellent; but you might tolerate my presence on
one ground.”

“What, pray?”

“My awkwardness is such an excellent foil to your
grace.”

“I have never heard a gentleman praise another, especially
a lady, at his own expense, and thought him in
earnest; mere irony, sir.”

“Ma foi!” said Max, “there is no irony about it.
You are a very elegant and charming young woman, I a
very ordinary young man.”

“Yes—you think so doubtless with your fine curls,
and your nice mustache—to be!” added Caroline laughing
and pointing at her cousin.

“Exactly,” said Max, “old people always spy out
the weak points in an inexperienced and unsophisticated
youth.”

“You won't dare to call me old, sir.”

“No, no—did I not just now say that you were an
excellent foil, with your thousand graces, to myself? Now
if I am so elegant as you say, it necessarily follows that
you are so much the more beautiful and graceful, since I
am but a foil to you, mademoiselle.”

“Foil! a fencing term.”

“Yes, of some significance.”

“What, pray?”

“It suggests riding caps.”

“Oh, you have not forgotten my ill-luck—I have not
lost sight of your want of gallantry.”

“Forgotten it! no, you looked much too charming on
that day with those beautiful flowing locks, my belle
cousin, for me to possibly forget.”

“Oh, a fine compliment!”

“I make you a present of it—free, gratis.”

“I do not accept.”

“It was in return, cousin Caroline.”

“In return for what?”

“Your present to me.”

“What present?”

“The present of yourself, when you ran forward and
threw yourself into my arms—deign to recollect, if you
please.”

This repartee of Mr. Max caused Doctor Courtlandt,
who well remembered the fencing scene we have related,
to burst into a laugh and cry “bravo!” Caroline, for a
moment discomfited, turned round and said to him:

“Uncle, you shall not take Max's part against me.”

“Against you, my heart's delight!” oried Doctor Courtlandt,
“never!”

“I knew you would not; you are such a nice old beau.”

“Thank you.”

“Besides I have quite as good a joke on you,” said
Caroline, with a merry and significant laugh which evidently
startled the worthy Doctor.

“Humph!” he said, suspiciously.

“I have indeed.”

“Bless my heart,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “this is a
most extraordinary young lady. But come, let us go in;
no more wit-combats, no more clashing of foils and that
sort of thing, my children.”

“Nice old fellow!” said Caroline, lacing her arm round
the Doctor's waist and leaning her head on his shoulder,
“Aunt Courtlandt, did you ever see a more excellent and
amiable old man; so handsome too, so much handsomer
than Max! There's my hand; forgive me, cousin!”

Max took the hand, laughing.

“Oh, uncle,” whispered Caroline, “somebody told me
you were going to be married! Is it true?”

“Humph,” said Doctor Courtlandt, and he led the way
into the house.

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE WING OF THE ANGEL.

The merry Christmas came; Christmas so full of rejoicing
and gay-hearted laughter—which men looked forward
to in the old time as to a blessed day of mingled
joy and thanksgiving; which rose in every heart like an
incarnate laugh—like a great snow-clad giant bearing
on his stalwart shoulders all good cheer, as brawn, and
mighty rounds of beef, and foaming tankards, and flagons
full of ale and “sack and sugar” (no “fault” in any
quantity)—and rolling from his bearded lip shaken with
merriment, tidings of joy, and merry jests and quips;
tidings of love and peace, and hopeful words for old and
young, in cabin and in stately hall; and still again in
every pause of the full-handed laughter, tidings of joy
and love, tidings of love and peace!

The organs rolled aloft their blessed promise of the
peaceful other world. The lips of young singing maidens
uttered that promise in the pauses of the storm; the
great music-storm which clashed and roared along the
fretted roofs of mightiest cathedrals, drowning every
sound but that low silent voice which ever floated in like
some enchanting murmur, louder than thunder, stiller
than the whisper of the lightest wind, the voice which
soared, a divine harmony above the whole, and said to
every heart—“Peace and good-will, peace and good-will,
peace and good-will to all mankind!”

Children were merry every where, and old men glad.
Relations gathered once more round the board at which
they had sat, little boys and girls once; all were for the
time quite other men and women than those scheming

ones, whom the great surges of the world had swept
away from all their youth and innocence, to struggle in
the sea of bitter thoughts, and never-ceasing yearnings and
desires.

Christmas, in one word, once again had come to shower
blessings on the earth; the poor cold earth, weary and
very sick; and at his approach the snow-clad lowlands
and the mountain land alike, smiled with new joy and
youth.

At Doctor Courtlandt's hospitable board all his old
neighbors who would leave their homes were assembled.
Miss Emberton and her brother and Monsieur Pantoufle
from the Glades were there; and Mr. and Mrs. Courtlandt
from the Parsonage—the girls too—and even the
old worn out hunter John had come, well wrapped up in
furs, to welcome again, surrounded by his friends, the
advent of the time.

Hunter John was very feeble and tottering; his sands
of life were well-nigh run, and he seemed to see the hour
plainly now was at hand when his old body must return
to dust, and his soul to him who gave it.

They all took their seats round the hospitable board;
and then commenced the merry laughter, and the friendly
wishes for health and happiness, which those good honest
people were accustomed to utter on such occasions.
Caroline and Mr. Robert Emberton were very merry,
and Mr. Emberton seemed all at once to have lost his
unhappy feeling of ennui and lassitude; he was not
heard to complain of being bored once during the whole
day. Max and Alice, tranquilly happy, conversed with
their eyes alone—that eloquent and most expressive language
which needs no tongue to utter it. Doctor Courtlandt's
intended marriage with Miss Emberton was now
no secret, and the friendly voices round them, told them
plainly that myriads of good wishes would accompany
them to church.

Why should we attempt to catch those merry accents,
trace those gayly uttered words, petrify here with a cold
pen those bursts of laughter, circling and crossing round
from side to side; why try to describe a Christmas dinner?
All know the original; the portrait would find
many critics. When the poor chronicler has told how
they attacked the viands, and emptied willingly many
full cups, how every moment laughter exploded in the
air, and how the merry jest went round, or better still
the health to absent friends;—when this is said, he has
told all, and for his pains has written a few lifeless words.
Much better leave the subject unattempted—leave the
scene purely to the imagination.

Old hunter John looked on with cordial eyes, but very
dim eyes; these merry sounds seemed to remind him of
his youth, floating to him not from the real lips around
him, but from the far land of dreams, and from those
lips, cold now so long, so long! As he listened, all the
past revived for him; the merry scenes; the border revelry
of old; the life and joy of that old time dead long,
long ago. He listened as in a dream; he heard again
those joyous youthful voices; his youth returned to him,
with its rubicund faces, and gay-dancing eyes, and jubilant
jests and laughter.

The old man raised his feeble head, venerable with its
gray locks now nearly blown away by the chill wind of
age, and sought to erect his drooping shoulders. But
overcome by weakness he sank down, his forehead on his
arm, murmuring, “The arrows of the Almighty are
within me; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

They raised him, and bore him in the midst of a great
show of sympathy, to a chamber; a mist seemed to obscure
his eyes, which he sought with a motion of the
hand to dispel. Stretched comfortably on a soft bed, he
revived however, and seemed to regain his strength, and
would have risen.

Doctor Courtlandt forbade this, and advised him to remain
quiet. The old man smiled, and shook his head.

“I believe you are right, neighbor,” he said, “I'm goin'
—most nigh given out. But tell 'em not to be uneasy
on my 'count. I'm only mighty weak.”

“You are no worse, my good old friend,” the Doctor
replied, “than you have often been of late. This was
only a sudden weakness which you will get over. It was
vertigo.”

“Anan?” said hunter John.

“Your head was full of blood from the riding. You'll
soon recover.”

The old man smiled faintly.

“Well, Doctor,” he said, “go down and cheer 'em up.
'Seems to me they ain't laughin'.”

The Doctor after giving some directions went out, leaving
Mrs. Courtlandt—a famous nurse, and one who delighted
in doing all a nurse's offices—with him. Hunter
John turned his face to the wall, and remained silent.

Suddenly he felt an arm round his neck. He turned,
and a tear dropped on his old wan cheek.

“Alice!” he said.

The child—she was scarcely more—clung closer around
his neck; and thus locked in a close embrace, the old
man and his darling Alice, rested happily.

30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE HAND OF THE ANGEL.

Christmas passed away with its misletoe boughs to kiss
under, and its stockings hung up for Saint Nic, and its
Christmas trees shaken by chirping children. It had
been a very merry Christmas in the mountain land, for
none of the old adjuncts of the festive season had been
wanting; the same joyous Yule it was which cheered
those English hearts in cabin and in hall, in the fine
open-hearted times of old. May it ever live a deathless
legend, ever to be shaped in act with each recurring year;
—may modern innovation never lay its cold prosaic hand
on the true-hearted habitudes, so long the wont of our old
ancestors, from the days of Arthur and the sage Merlin.

So Christmas, honored with high revelry and song,
passed onward like a word of comfort, like a trumpet-blast
of hope to fearful souls. The New Year marched
in also, and passed onward blithe and joyous; crowned
with some early flowers, and emptying, with laughing,
youthful lips, great beakers to the time! Then the tender
days of spring began to hint of their approach, though
snow still covered the ground. Still hunter John was no
better. He had been carefully removed to the Parsonage,
after the scene we have briefly traced in the last chapter
—but only to retire again to his bed, overcome with weakness.
The old mountaineer was very ill, and soon all his
old neighbors and friends flocked round him—their horses
standing in a long row tied to the fence before the house.
They assembled in the dining-room, shaking their heads
and whispering—he was too old, they said, his life too
feeble much longer to cling to him. Then one by one

they went into his chamber, and gave him cheerful,
hearty words, and cheered him up, making a jest of his
sickness. The spring was coming! they said, the spring
would see him strong and well again.

The spring was coming truly; the cold winter waned
away before the approach of vernal winds, unbinding the
lowland and the mountain streams, and whispering to
the little fearful flowers upon the grassy knolls to raise
their heads and not be afraid. The spring said it would
soon be coming, though other snow-storms might delay
for a time its onward march. Soon it would marshal its
bright crocuses, and primroses, and its tender violets and
eglantine, and sending forward over the sunny hills its
couriers to spy out the land, would give the signal with
its merry winds, and make its inroad on the forces of the
haughty winter-time.

Still hunter John remained very ill; still his old neighbors
came to see him, cheering him with hopeful words.
Alice and Caroline would never leave him;—those tender
hearts were struck by the same blow which smote the
grandfather. Alice would read to him often from the
Bible, which was his favorite book—he could bear indeed
to hear no other; and Caroline would hang upon his lips,
ready to do his bidding. The young girls left scarcely
any thing to Mr. Courtlandt and his wife.

And so the winter slowly passed away, and hunter
John grew weaker.

His old neighbors now came oftener, and shook their
heads and whispered more than ever; Doctor Courtlandt
was never absent now, having taken up his residence very
nearly at the Parsonage; his presence was a great relief,
and a great hope to all—and never had the worthy Doctor
so taxed his brain for what he had observed and learned;
never had science so battled with the grim enemy who
defied it.

And so the winter very nearly went away, and spring

grew every moment stronger and more gay. But winter
rose up like a giant for the last struggle, and one morning
the dwellers in the mountains found the earth again
wrapped in snow.

The old hunter grew more faint and weak; the long
day waned, and the sun slowly sloped to the red west.

With Mrs. Courtlandt on one side, the Doctor and his
brother at the foot of the bed, and Alice and Caroline by
his side—he had thrown his feeble arm around their necks
—old hunter John rested quietly, gazing wistfully at his
old stag hound stretched upon the floor, or looking through
the window at the snow.

“I think I'm goin',” he murmured, “I think the Lord's
a callin' me, children. Keep still, old Oscar,” he continued,
looking at the hound who had risen, “poor old
fool! your master will never hunt any more upon the
earth—never any more, old Oscar!”

“Oh, grandfather!” Alice sobbed, “don't talk so!—
please don't!”

The old man smiled.

“I ain't complainin' darlin',” he said cheerfully but
feebly, “you know I ain't complainin'. No, no! the
Lord's mighty good to me—he's been mighty good to me
these many long years—and he's a smilin' on me now
when I'm most nigh gone.”

He gazed through the window, dreamily; the sun
was on the mountain top: and the shadow of the “Moss
Rock” ran over the snow clad valley toward the Parsonage.

“The Lord's been merciful to me,” murmured the old
man. “I'm rememberin' the time now, when he turned
aside my gun—I didn't cut down my little blossom,
darlin',” he said turning to Mrs. Courtlandt, who was
weeping, “the Lord was mighty good to me: glory and
worship be his, evermore: Amen.”

His thoughts then seemed to wander to times more
deeply sunken in the past than that of the event his

words touched on. Waking he dreamed; and the large
eyes melted or fired with a thousand memories which
came flocking to him, bright and joyous, or mournful and
sombre, but all now transmuted by his almost ecstasy to
one glowing mass of purest gold. He saw now plainly
much that had been dark to him before; the hand of
God was in all, the providence of that great almighty
being in every autumn leaf which whirled away!

Again, with a last lingering look his mental eyes surveyed
that eventful border past, so full of glorious splendor,
of battle shocks, and rude delights; so full of beloved
eyes, now dim, and so radiant with those faces and those
hearts now cold; again leaving the present and all around
him, he lived for a moment in that grand and beauteous
past, instinct for him with so much splendor and regret.

But his dim eyes returned suddenly to those much
loved faces round him; and those tender hearts were
overcome by the dim, shadowy look.

The sunset slowly waned away, and falling in red
splendor on the old gray head, and storm-beaten brow,
lingered there lovingly and cheerfully. The old hunter
feebly smiled.

“You'll be good girls,” he murmured wistfully, drawing
his feeble arm more closely round the children's necks,
“remember the old man, darlin's!”

Caroline pressed her lips to the cold hand, sobbing.
Alice did not move her head which, buried in the
counterpane, was shaken with passionate sobs.

The old man gazed wistfully on the little head, and
gently smoothed down the curls with his rugged hand.
Then he felt one of those strange sensations which dart
through the mind at certain times, and have so singular
an effect upon us. The old dying mountaineer was certain
that he had lived all this before; those faces were
around him in that identical arrangement, ages ago;
Alice was sobbing there; his eyes were growing dim; he

had lain dying there as he now lay a century ago! It
was so plain that heaven itself seemed to have plunged a
beam of supernatural light into his heart, a beam which
lit up all the mysterious hidden crypts of memory, revealing
to him as he lay there on the border of two worlds,
the secret of humanity! “Yes, yes!” he murmured,
“she has cried for me before—I have died before—blessed
Saviour you were mine before!” Then he became very
calm; his eyes no longer wandered, but dwelt with looks
of deep affection on those tender faces grouped around
him, as he was about to fall into his last sleep on this
earth; that sleep from which he must awake in another
world.

The Doctor felt his pulse and turned with a mournful
look to his brother. Then came those grand religious
consolations which so smooth the pathway to the grave;
he was ready—always—God be thanked, the old man
said; he trusted in the Lord.

And so the sunset waned away, and with it the life
and strength of the old storm-beaten mountaineer—so
grand yet powerless, so near to death yet so very cheerful.

“I'm goin',” he murmured as the red orb touched the
mountain, “I'm goin', my darlin's; I always loved you
all, my children. Darlin', don't cry,” he murmured feebly
to Alice, whose heart was near breaking, “don't any of
you cry for me.”

The old dim eyes again dwelt tenderly on the loving
faces, wet with tears and on those poor trembling lips.
There came now to the aged face of the rude mountaineer,
an expression of grandeur and majesty, which illumined
the broad brow and eyes like a heavenly light. Then
those eyes seemed to have found what they were seeking;
and were abased. Their grandeur changed to humility,
their light to shadow, their fire to softness and unspeakable
love. The thin feeble hands, stretched out upon the
cover were agitated slightly, the eyes moved slowly to the

window and thence returned to the dear faces weeping
round the bed; then whispering:

“The Lord is good to me! he told me he was comin'
'fore the night was here; come! come—Lord Jesus—
come!” the old mountaineer fell back with a low sigh; a
sigh so low that the old sleeping hound, dreamed on.

The life strings parted without sound; and hunter
John, that so long loved and cherished soul, that old
strong form which had been hardened in so many storms,
that tender loving heart—ah, more than all, that grand
and tender heart—had passed as calmly, as a little babe
from the cold shadowy world to that other world; the
world, we trust, of light, and love, and joy.

The family fell on their knees sobbing, and weeping.
The calm voice of Mr. Courtlandt—that calm tender
voice which sounded like a benediction—rose in prayer
for the soul which had thus passed; and so the night
came down upon them with shadowy wing, but could not
take from them the light of hope. A silent voice whispered
good tidings for their weary hearts, and in the very
stillness of the dusky chamber was the calm promise of
a brighter, grander world.

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
MONSIEUR PANTOUFLE.

Our tale is nearly finished. That stalwart mountaineer,
the living type of the old border past, having gone
away to another world, what remains for the chronicler
to say? His inspiration is dead, the history wound up,
the hero has fought his last battle and succumbed to fate.

But we will trespass for a brief space still upon the
reader's time, since those other personages who have entered
into, and taken a prominent part in our history—
whose claims to attention are based on the latter clause
of the title of these pages—now demand a few words, in
conclusion, at our hands.

The autumn following that spring whose near approach
we have adverted to, saw three marriages in the mountains
around Meadow Branch. Miss Emberton gave her
hand willingly, most willingly, to the playmate of her
youth—the noble heart whose image had never left her
memory from first to last. With the bracelet in his hand
the worthy Doctor had made his first approaches, and
never did royal signet work so powerfully on some rebellious
town, as that simple circlet of sandal-wood on the
heart of its mistress. It had called up old scenes, fresh
and radiant once more, with all the light and joy of youth;
it had wakened memories slowly fading away into the
dim past; it had, in a word, so strongly stirred that tender
heart of the still girlish lady, that when the hero of those
happy scenes of her youth laid siege more vigorously than
ever to the town, the town surrendered. So they were
married duly; and soon after Caroline and Alice pledged

their troth to Mr. Robert Emberton and Max, the details
of whose courtships we have given very fully.

Monsieur Pantoufle was a welcome guest on these festive
occasions, and the old man's face was a pleasure to
the Doctor and his wife. He had given them dancing
lessons in their childhood—now he saw them happily
united, and rejoiced to see it.

“I shall give lesson in the dance to your children, Monsieur
Max,” he said, playing with his old cocked hat and
ruffles, “ah! you are very happy!”

“How, my old friend,” said the Doctor.

“You have good wife; whoever have good wife is
happy.”

The old man sighed.

“Were you ever married, my good Monsieur Pantoufle?”
asked the Doctor; “you speak very feelingly.”

The old man bent his head, and something like a tear
glistened in his eye.

“Yes! yes!” he said.

“You seem grieved; pardon my thoughtlessness.”

“No; 'tis friendly. I had wife, I had—”

The old man paused.

“I had children,” he continued, in a trembling voice.
“I lose them all on board ship—wreck coming from St.
Domingo—you understand, Monsieur Max—all, all my
little chicks.”

“Your children?”

“Yes; all, all! three little ones—and my poor wife.
I have no heart, no home now!”

With these words two tears rolled down Monsieur Pantoufle's
cheeks, and he turned away with a sob.

The Doctor went to him and took his hand.

“You must be lonely, my old friend,” he said, in his
noble and courteous voice, “and my friends, especially
the friends of my youth, who have ever cherished my
memory and loved me, shall not want for any thing I can

furnish them. You must come and live with us here
whenever you are not engaged giving lessons in Bath or
Martinsburg. You are now growing very old, and you
will find the country far more pleasant than the town.
You can play your violin here, and be sure you will ever
be welcome—most welcome.”

Monsieur Pantoufle raised his thin wistful face, and
made the Doctor one of his old courtly bows.

“Too happy—you make me too happy, Monsieur Max,”
he said, “I can not so trouble you, though; no.”

“I insist—you positively shall, my old friend,” said
the Doctor.

Monsieur Pantoufle smiled and pressed his hat on his
heart.

“Well, you make me ver happy, Monsieur Max,” he
said, a hearty expression diffusing itself over his old face,
“mos happy. Yes, yes; and no one but the old man
shall teach the young Courtlandts to dance the minuet;
—you recollect the good old minuet—or play the piano
—ah! the harpsichord gone out of fashion! Who would
have said when we fence together in old times, I should
give my lesson to the second generation.”

Doctor Courtlandt laughed and took up a foil.

“Do you fence still?” he said.

“No, no—I am old, I am stiff; my hands grow white
and weak—my ruffles are now of use, not for the looks
only. My hand like a ghost's!”

With which melancholy, but not bitter or complaining
witicism, Monsieur Pantoufle, bowing with his old elegance,
took his departure. The poor old man had now a
home at last.

“Poor cousin of the Duke de Montmorenci! I will not
abandon you in your age,” said the Doctor, thoughtfully
smiling. “This world is a strange place—but what matters
it? 'Tis all right in the end.”

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
NON OMNIS MORIAR.

The sun was about to set on one of those fine evenings
in the latter fall, those evenings which seem to blend together
whatsoever is bright and youthful in the spring,
all that is luxuriant in the mature and rich beauty of the
flower-crowned summer, all that is thoughtful and full
of melancholy attraction in the full golden-handed autumn.

The rich crimson light was rolled like a royal banner,
stained with blood, down the rough side of the Sleepy
Creek Mountain; and so across the little valley to the
eastern pines, where it melted away into the fast gathering
gloom.

The Moss Rock stood out against the sky like a giant's
shoulder, and the tall pines growing at its feet, just
fringed the outline of the lofty rock with flame—for they
were kindled now by the red fires of sunset. Near the
foot of the great rock on whose summit a gnarled fir tree
still shook to the storms, or spread its rugged arms on
summer days for little singing birds—on a round grassy
knoll just under the shadow of the mass of rock, a newly
made grave, with its white headstone, was settling into
gloom.

On this stone a young girl, standing erect, was resting
her arm, while her long hair falling down vailed her face,
and hid the expression wholly. She had just planted some
autumn flowers in the sod, and now she gazed at the round
grassy knoll which defined the lofty form which rested
below, with heaving bosom. Alice raised her head, and
pushed back her hair from her face; her eyes were full

of tears, and she was mastered by one of those fits of
sobbing, whose influence is so irresistible.

That tender heart was overcome by the sight of the
grave of her dear grandfather—thus stumbled on in her
walk—and she felt again all the bitter grief she had experienced
on the day of his death. Again she saw the
old forehead so thin and blanched; the feebly smiling
lips; the tender eyes;—again she heard those loving and
much-loved accents of the honest voice. Her head again
sank down, vailed by the long sweeping hair, and she
gave herself up to grief, weeping and sobbing bitterly.

A hand was laid upon her shoulder; and turning round
she saw Doctor Courtlandt gazing tenderly upon her. So
great had been her abstraction that she had not been conscious
of his approach.

The Doctor took her hand and said in his soft noble
voice, full of tenderness and sympathy:

“You seem much afflicted, my child—I do not think
you heard my horse's hoof-strokes.”

Alice bent down her head murmuring:

“Oh, he was so good—he loved me so—I can't help
crying, uncle—he loved me so!”

This broken, sobbing answer went to the strong man's
heart.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I know you loved him, my child;
I know it well, and you had reason. His was a true
brave soul—a heart which fought manfully the life battle
he was summoned to upon this earth; and when the bolt
from heaven struck him down, he went to death in hope
not fear—calmly and tranquilly. 'Tis fit you should love
him, Alice.”

“He loved me so,” repeated the tender heart, sobbing
and weeping, and bending over the stone, “and I loved
him so dearly, uncle!”

“All loved him,” said the Doctor, smoothing the little
head which nestled against his shoulder gently and tenderly,

“and I do not blame you, darling, for lamenting
him; no, no! 'twas a true brave soul—an honest heart
which dwelt here with us for a time—which is now gone
hence, we trust, to joy and glory!”

Alice replied with a deep sob: from her eyes, vailed
with their long lashes, tears rolled down, and her lips
were tremulous with agitation. The doctor soothed her
gently; thoughtfully caressing the little head.

“This man who lies here now a mere clod, a memory,
was dear to us,” he said, his eyes wandering, it seemed, to
other times, “most dear to many as a link of pure virgin
gold which bound the present to the past. History will
have no word to say of him; a mere borderer, he can not
hope to live in the long drawn annals of the land, in
battles, sieges, world-losing combats! No, this is not for
him, 'tis true—no cloth of gold blazoned his deeds to
men's wondering eyes; no shouts of the loud populace,
clinging to his chariot wheels, rung to the sky in praise
of his bold deeds. But a few years! and he will be a
myth, a dream, a mere figure more or less misty of the
doubtful past.”

Those noble eyes grew dim and thoughtful; the
words escaping from the lips of the speaker, were mere
broken links of the chain of meditation.

“Yet he shall live in many a border tale,” the Doctor
murmured, “in many a chronicle of the old border past;
he fought her battles, was a large part of the stirring life
and deeds of those rugged times; he did his part like
others—and his memory shall not wholly die into oblivion.”

The Doctor's thoughtful brow was raised again; the
young girl gazed silently on the grave.

“I have planted a flower there, uncle,” she said, “it
will soon bloom.”

The Doctor, with a look of great affection, took the little
hand, and gazing on the agitated face, bent down and
pressed his lips to the disordered locks.

“I had forgotten, poor rude reasoner that I am,” he
said, “I had forgotten what was more than all—ah, far
more consoling than these mournful consolations I have
called up now. The soul which rests so calmly here
cares nothing for the loud voice of history, for any cunning
of the supple herald's art; what is it to him now
whether he lives or dies in the mere annals of the land!
He lives in loving hearts—he lies in peace after a long,
rough life with many mourners: among them he would
rejoice to find his child—you, darling. Your prayers
and tears still follow him—your blessings sanctify his
memory; could the cold spirit feel any thing, I know
these tears would move him. He lives in most loving
memories: grand consolation—may I have it on my dying
bed!

“Many would say the wish is idle, but I should love
to think my own grave was decked with flowers. The
human soul clings to its habitudes of thought, whatever
cold reason says; the hopes, the wishes, the aspirations
of the soul run ever in the old well worn channels. I
think that I should lie in peace if children came without
fear to my grave, and flowers grew round it, perfuming
the pure air, and symbolizing the grand beautiful heaven
above! Is the wish vain and childish? Well, God has bid
us grow like little children in our thoughts, and so I will
not be ashamed of my instinct. Come, darling; the sun
has set, and you should return. It is not fit that you
should indulge so much your grief—though this was an
eminent soul you weep for. He was, I am sure, prepared
to die, and lived a long happy life—happy in many true
hearts, all his own—happy in a good conscience, and a
tranquil end. Thanks be to God for turning the strong
man's heart to Him in these latter days; may he do as
much for you and me and all!”

The Doctor put back the hair, and kissed the tender
forehead which rested on his breast.

“We are all puppets, more or less, Alice,” he said,
“and we can not grasp, with all our boasted powers,
seemingly the most open and palpable significance of our
human life. All is most wondrous—youth, manhood,
age, the seasons, the growing trees, the grass; a divine
mystery lies in them all, and ever escapes us. You are
like a spring bud, I am in the mature summer of my life,
the form which rests in peace there, after so many piled
up years, so many tempests, was the snowy haired winter
of man. Well is it for us if we come to that winter
with so little soil upon our hearts—if we accept this
human life, so mysterious and strange with the like child-like
earnestness and trust. He was a brave true soul, a
most honest heart—his epitaph is written in most loving
memories!”

And kneeling down the Doctor wrote upon the tombstone
of the old hunter:

“Thou shalt come to thy grave in a full age, like as a
shock of corn cometh in, in his season.”

Then after a moment's thought he added those pious
words of the Psalmist: “Blessed be the name of the
Lord from this time forth, and forevermore.”

He felt an arm encircle his neck, the young girl's hair
brushed against his forehead, and two tears from those
tender eyes fell on the letters he had written. They
turned and left the place.