University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The week succeeding the logging bee was an extremely
busy one with the Elwoods, who still had a heavy task to perform
on their new field, before it could be considered properly
cleared or fitted for seeding and harrowing. Sixty days before,
that field was covered with a heavy growth of primitive forest,
standing in its native majesty, a mountain mass of green vigor
and sturdy life, and as seemingly invincible against the assaults
of man as it had been against those of the elements whose
fury it had so long withstood. But the busy and fatal axe had
done its work. That towering forest had been laid prostrate
with the earth, and the first process of the Herculean task of
converting the forest into the field had been completed. The
second and third process, also, in the burning of the slash and
the gathering the trunks of the trees into log-heaps, as we have
seen, had been in turn successfully accomplished. But the
fourth and last process still remained to be performed. Those
unseemly log-heaps, cumbering no inconsiderable portion of the
field, must be disposed of, to complete the work. This was
now the first task of the Elwoods, and time pressed for its
speedy execution. Accordingly, the next morning after the
bee, they sallied out, each with a blazing brand in his hand,
and commenced the work of firing the piles, — a work which,
unlike that of firing a combustible and readily catching slash,
required not only considerable time, but often the exercise of
much skill and patience. But they steadily persevered, and,
before sunset, had the gratification of beholding every one of
those many scores of huge log-piles, that thickly dotted the

ground, clearly within the grasp of the devouring element; and
afterwards of seeing that grasp grow stronger and stronger on
the solid material on which it had securely fastened, till, to the
eye of fancy, the dark old forest seemed by day to be reproduced
in the numerous, thickly-set columns of smoke that shot upward
and spread out into over-arching canopies above, while, with
the gathering darkness of the night, that forest seemed gradually
to take the form of a distant burning city in the manifold
tapering pillars of fire which everywhere rose from the field,
fiercely illuminating the dark and sombre wood-wall of the
surrounding forest, and dimly glimmering over the sleeping
waters of river and lake beyond.

They had now made the fire their servant, and got it safely
at work for them; but that servant, to insure its continued
and profitable action, must be constantly fed and fostered. The
logs, becoming by the action of the fire partially consumed, and,
by thus losing their contact with each other, ceasing to burn,
required, every few hours, to be rolled together, adjusted, and
repacked; when, being already thoroughly heated and still
partly on fire, they would soon burst out again into a brisk
blaze. This tending and re-packing of the piles demanded,
for many of the succeeding days, the constant attention of the
Elwoods; who, going out early each morning, and keeping up
their rounds at short intervals through the day and to a late
hour at night, assiduously pursued their object, till they had seen
every log-heap disappear from the field, and the last step of
their severe task fully accomplished.

Few of those who live in cities, villages, or other places
than those where agricultural pursuits prevail; few of those,
indeed, who have been tillers only of the subdued and time-mellowed
soils of the old States and countries, have any adequate
conception of the immense amount of hard labor required
to clear off the primitive forest, and prepare the land for the
first crop; nor have they, consequently, any just appreciation
of the degree of resolution, energy, and endurance necessary to

insure continued perseverance in subduing one piece of forest-land
after another, till a considerable opening is effected. It
is the labor of one man's life to clear up a new farm; and few
there be, among the multitudes found making the attempt, who
have the sustaining will and resolution — even if the pecuniary
ability is not wanting — to accomplish that formidable achievement.
Probably not one in five of all the first pioneer settlers
of a new country ever remain to become its permanent settlers.
The first set of emigrants, or pioneers, are seen beginning with
great resolution and energy, and persevering unfalteringly till
the usual ten-acre lot is cleared, the log-house thrown up, and
the settlement of the family effected. Another piece of forest
is the next year attacked, but with a far less determined will,
and the clearing prosecuted with a proportionate lack of energy
and resolution; and the job, after being suffered to linger along
for months beyond the usual period for completion, is finally
finished. But, in view of the hard labors and prolonged struggles
they have experienced in their two former trials for conquering
the wilderness, they too often now falter and hesitate
at a third attempt. Perhaps the lack of means to hire that
help, which would make the toil more endurable, comes also
into the case; and the result is that no new clearing is begun.
They live along a while as they are; but, for want of the first
crops of the newly-cleared land and the usual accessions to
their older fields, they soon find themselves on the retrograde,
and finally sell out to a new set of incoming settlers, who in
their turn begin with fresh vigor, and with more means generally
for prosecuting advantageously the work which had discouraged
or worn out their predecessors. But even of this
second set a large proportion fail to succeed, and, like the
former, eventually yield their places to more enterprising and
able men, who, with those of the two former sets of settlers
that had succeeded in overcoming the difficulties and retaining
their places, now join in making up the permanent settlers of
the country.

Such is generally the history of the early settlement of every
new country. Those who have endured the most hardship,
encountered the greatest difficulties, and performed the hardest
labor, do not generally reap the reward which might eventually
crown their toils, but leave that reward to be enjoyed by those
to whom such hardships and toils are comparatively unknown.
This seems hard and unjust; but, from the unequal conditions
and characters of men, it is doubtless a necessary state of
things, and one which, though it may occasionally be somewhat
modified, will never, probably, as a general thing, be very
essentially altered.

The Elwoods, having now thus brought the labors of clearing
to a successful close, next proceeded to the lighter and more
cleanly task of taking the incipient step towards securing the
ever-important first crop which was to reward them, in a good
part, for their arduous toils. Accordingly, the previously
engaged supply of winter wheat intended for seed was brought
home, the requisite help and ox-work enlisted, the seed sown,
and the harrows and hoes put in motion to insure its lodgment
beneath the surface of the broken soil. And, by the end of
the second day from its commencement, this task was also completed,
leaving our two persevering settlers only the work of
gathering in the small crops of grain and potatoes they had
succeeded in raising on their older grounds, to be performed
before leaving home on the contemplated trapping and hunting
expedition; the appointed day for which was still sufficiently
distant to allow them abundant time to do this, and also to make
all other of the necessary arrangements and preparations for
that, to them, novel and interesting event.

But how, in the meanwhile, stood that domestic drama of
love and its entanglements, which was destined to be deeply
interwoven with the other principal incidents of this singular
story? All on the surface seemed as bright and unruffled as
the halcyon waters of the sleeping ocean before the days of
storm have come to move and vex it. But how was it within

the vail of the heart and teeming mind, where the currents and
counter-currents of that subtle but powerful passion flow and
clash unseen, often gaining their full height and unmasterable
strength before any event shall occur to betray their existence
to the public. How was it there? We shall see.

While the events we have described in the last foregoing
chapters were transpiring, Mrs. Elwood held her peace, studiously
avoiding all allusion to what still constituted the burden
of her mind, — the thickening intimacy between her family and
the Gurleys; but, though she was silent on the subject, yet her
heart was not any the less sad, nor her thoughts any the less
busy. She had been made aware that a reconciliation had
taken place between her husband and Gaut Gurley; and she
had seen how artfully the latter had brought it about, and regained
his old fatal influence over the former. She believed
she fully understood the motives which actuated Gaut in all
these movements. And she now looked on in helpless anguish
of heart to see the toils thus drawn tighter and tighter around
the unconscious victims, and those victims, too, her husband and
son, with whose happiness and welfare her own was indissolubly
connected. She saw it with anguish, because her feelings never
for once were permitted even the alleviation of a doubt that it
could result in aught else than evil to her family. She could
not reason herself into any belief of Gaut's reformation. She
felt his black heart constantly throwing its shadow on to her
own; she felt this, but could not give to others, nor perhaps
even to herself, what might be deemed a satisfactory reason for
her impressions and forebodings; for in her was exemplified the
words of the poet:

Such thoughts were hers, — dim and flitting, indeed; but she
felt conscious of their continued presence, of their general

character, and deeply conscious what they portended. They
took one shape, moved in one course, and all pointed one
way, and that was to evil, — some great impending evil to the
two objects of her love and solicitude.

“But is there no hope?” she murmured aloud, in the fullness
of her heart, while deeply pondering the matter, one day,
as she sat alone at her open window, looking out on her husband
and son engaged in their harvest, which she knew they
were hurrying on to a close, before leaving her on the contemplated
long, and perhaps perilous, expedition into the wilderness,
— a circumstance that doubtless caused the subject, in the
thus awakened state of her anxieties, to weigh at this time
peculiarly heavy on her mind. “Is there no hope,” she repeated,
with a sigh, “that this impending calamity may in some part
be averted? Must they both be sacrificed? Must the faults
of the erring father be visited on the innocent son, who had
become the last hope of the mother's heart? Kind Heaven!
may not that son, at least, be delivered from the web of toils
into which he has so strangely fallen, and yet be saved?
Grant, O grant that hope — that one ray of hope — in this my
hour of darkness!”

But what sound was that which now fell upon her ear, as if
responsive to her ejaculation? It was a light tap or two on
the door, which, after the customary bidding of walk in had
been pronounced, was gently opened, when a young female of
extreme beauty and loveliness entered. Mrs. Elwood involuntarily
rose, and stood a moment, mute with surprise, in the
unexpected presence. Soon recovering, however, she invited
the fair stranger to a seat, still deeply wondering who she
could be and what had occasioned her visit.

“You are the good woman of the house? — the wife of the
new settler? — the mother of Mr. Claud Elwood?” asked the
stranger girl, pausing between each interrogatory, till she had
received an affirmative nod from Mrs. Elwood.

“Yes,” replied the latter kindly, but with an air of increasing

curiosity, “yes, I am Mrs. Elwood. Would you like to see my
son, Claud?”

“No,” rejoined the girl, in the same subdued and musical
accents. “No, it was not him, but you, I came to see and speak
with,” she added, carefully, withdrawing a screening handkerchief
from a light parcel she bore in her hand, and displaying
a small work-basket of exquisite make, which, advancing with
hesitating steps, she presented to the other, as she resumed:

“I came with this, good lady, to see if you would be suited
to have such an article?”

“It is very pretty,” said Mrs. Elwood, examining the workmanship
with admiration, “beautiful, indeed. Did you make it?”

“I did, lady,” said the other modestly.

“Well, it certainly does great credit to your skill and taste,”
rejoined the other. “I should, of course, be pleased to own it,
but I have little money to pay for such things. You ought to
sell it for quite a sum.”

“But I do not wish to sell it,” responded the girl, looking up
to Mrs. Elwood with an expostulating and wounded expression.
“I do not wish to take money for it; but hoped you would like
it well enough to accept it for a gift, — a small token.”

“O, I should,” said Mrs. Elwood, “if I was entitled to any
such present; but what have I ever done to deserve it of you?
I do not even know who you are, kind stranger.”

“They call me Fluella,” responded the other, the blood
slightly suffusing her fair, rounded cheek. “You have not
seen me, I know. You have not done me the great favor that
brings my gratitude. It is your brave son that has done both.”

“O, I understand now,” exclaimed Mrs. Elwood. “You are
the chief's daughter, whom Claud and Mr. Phillips helped out
of a difficulty and danger on the rapids, some time since. But
your token should be given to Claud, should it not?”

“It would be unsuitable, too much,” quickly replied the
maiden, in a low, hurried tone. “I could not do a thing like
that. But if you would accept such a small thing?”

“I cannot but appreciate and honor your delicacy,” returned
Mrs. Elwood, with a look of mingled admiration and respect.
“I think you must be an excellent girl; and I will accept your
present, — yes, thankfully, — and never forget the manner in
which it was bestowed.”

“Your words are in my heart, lady. I came, feeling much
doubtful; I return, much happy,” said the maiden, rising to
depart.

“Do not go yet,” interposed the matron, who was beginning
to feel a lively interest in the other; “do not go yet. Claud
should know you are here. I will call him,” she added, starting
for the door.

“O no, no, — do not, do not. He would not wish to be
troubled by one like me,” hurriedly entreated the maiden, with
a look of alarmed delicacy.

“O, you are mistaken. He would be pleased to see you, and
expect to be called,” said Mrs. Elwood, in a tone of gentle
remonstrance, while pausing at the unexpected objection. “But
it is unnecessary; for I see that he is already coming, and in a
moment will be here,” she added, glancing out of the window.

Having made the announcement, she turned encouragingly
to the maiden, to reässure her, believing her request that Claud
should not be called in proceeded entirely from over-diffidence.
But one glance of her quick and searching eye was sufficient
to apprise the former that there was a deeper cause for those
tender alarms. The cheeks of the beautiful girl were deeply
suffused with crimson, her bosom was heaving wildly, and her
whole frame was trembling like an aspen. As her eyes met
the surprised gaze of the matron, she became conscious that her
looks had betrayed the secret she was the most anxious to conceal;
and she cast an imploring look on the face of the other,
as if to entreat the mercy of shielding the weakness.

Mrs. Elwood understood the silent appeal; and, approaching
and laying her hand gently on the shoulder of the other, said,
in a low, kindly tone:

“Have no fears. You have made a friend of me.”

The girl silently removed the hand, brought it to her lips,
and, as a bright tear-drop fell upon it, kissed it eagerly. The
two then separated, and resumed their respective seats, to compose
themselves before the expected entrance should be made.

In a few moments Claud carelessly entered the house; but
stopped short in surprise, at the threshold, on so unexpectedly
seeing the well-remembered face and form of the heroine of
his late romantic adventure on the rapids, in the room with
his mother. But, almost instantly recovering his usual manner,
he gallantly advanced to the trembling maiden, took her by the
hand, and respectfully inquired about her welfare, and pleasantly
adverted to the singular circumstances under which they
had become acquainted. Soon becoming in a good measure
assured, by a reception so much more condescending and cordial
than she had dared hope for, from one whose image she
had been cherishing as that of some superior being, the grateful
and happy girl, now forgetful of her wish to depart, gradually
regained her natural ease and vivacity, and sustained her
part in the general conversation that now ensued, with an
intelligence and instinctive refinement of thought and expression
that equally charmed and surprised her listeners. She
at length, however, rose to depart, observing that her father,
who was in waiting for her at the landing, would chide her for
her long delay; when Claud offered to attend her to the lake.
To this she at first objected; but, on Claud's assurance that he
should be pleased with the walk, and that it would afford him
the opportunity of meeting her father, whom he had a curiosity
to see, she blushingly assented, and the couple sociably took
their way to the lake together, leaving Mrs. Elwood deeply
revolving in her mind the new train of thoughts that had been
awakened by the remarkable personal beauty and evident rare
qualities of her fair visitor, and the discovery of the state of
her feelings, — thoughts which the matron laid up in her heart,
but forbade her tongue to utter.

On reaching the landing, Fluella drew a bone whistle from
her pocket, and blew a blast so loud and shrill that the sound
seemed to penetrate the inmost depths of the surrounding forest.
The next moment a similar sound rose in response from
the woods, apparently about half a mile distant, on the right.

“He has heard me; that was my father's whistle. He has
been taking a short bout in the woods with his rifle, but will
now soon be here. And Mr. Elwood will wait, I know, for
the chief wishes to thank the brave that rescued his daughter,”
said the maiden, looking inquiringly at Claud.

“Yes,” replied Claud, “yes, certainly; for, even without
company, I am never tired of standing on this commanding
point, and looking out on this beautiful lake and its surrounding
scenery.”

“Ah! then you think, Mr. Elwood,” exclaimed Fluella, with
a countenance sparkling with animation, “you think of our
woods life, like one of your great writers, whom I have read to
remember, and who so prettily says:

One would almost think this wise writer must be one of
my people, he describes our ways of becoming instructed so
truly; for we Indians, Mr. Elwood, read few other books than
those we see opened to us on the face of nature, or hear or
read few other sermons than those in the outspread pages of
the bright lake, the green woods, and the grand mountain.”

“You Indians!” said Elwood, looking at the other with a
playful yet half-chiding expression. “Why, Fluella, should a
stranger look at your fair skin, hear you conversing so well in
our language, and quoting so appropriately from our books, he
would hardly believe you an Indian, I think, unless you told
him.”

“Then I would tell him, Mr. Elwood,” responded the maiden,
with dignity, and a scarcely perceptible spice of offended pride

in her manner. “I am one, — on my father's side, at least,
wholly so; and, for the first ten or twelve years of my life, was
but a child of the woods and the wigwam; and I will never
shame at my origin, so far as that matters.”

“But you did not learn to read in the wigwam, Fluella?'
said Claud, inquiringly.

“No,” replied the girl; the proud air she had assumed, while
speaking of her origin, quickly subsiding into one of meekness.
No; but I supposed that Mr. Phillips, who knows, might have
told you that, for many years past, I have lived much with
your people, learned their ways, been to their schools, and
read their books. And, in owning my natural red father, may
be I should have also said, I have a good white father, who has
done every thing for the poor, ignorant, Indian girl.”

“But where does this good and generous white father live,
and what is his name?” asked Claud.

“He lives near the seaside city,” answered she, demurely;
“I may say so far. But I do not name him, ever. We think
it not best. But, if he comes here sometime, as he may, you
shall see him, Mr. Elwood.”

At this point of the dialogue, the attention of its participants
was arrested by the sound of breaking twigs and other indications
of the near approach of some one from the forest; and,
the next moment, emerging through the thick underbrush,
which he parted by the muzzle of his rifle as he made his way,
the expected visitant came into view. Seemingly unmindful
of the presence of others near by, or of the curious and scrutinizing
gaze of Claud, he advanced with a firm, elastic tread,
and stately bearing, exhibiting a strong, erect frame, a large,
intellectual head, and handsomely moulded features, with a
countenance of a grave and thoughtful cast, but now and then
enlivened by the keenly-glancing black eyes by which it was
particularly distinguished. With the exception of moccasins
and wampum belt, he was garbed in a good English dress; and,
so far as his exterior was in question, might have easily been

mistaken, at a little distance, for some amateur hunter from the
cities; while, from the vigor of his movements, and other general
appearance, he might have equally well passed for a man
of the middle age, had not the frosts of time, which were profusely
sprinkled over his temples, and other visible parts of his
head, betrayed the secret of his advanced age.

“My daughter is not alone,” he said, in very fair English
utterance, coming to a stand ten or twelve yards distant from
the young couple.

“No,” promptly replied the daughter, assuming the dignified
tone and attitude usual among those engaged in the ceremonies
of some formal presentation, or public introduction. “No,
but my father will be pleased to learn that this is the Mr. Claud
Elwood, who did your daughter such good service in her
dangers on the rapids, and whom she has now conducted here,
that he might have the opportunity to see the chief, and receive
the thanks which it is more fitting for the father than the
daughter to bestow.”

“My daughter's words are good,” said the chief. “The
young brave has our thanks to last; but the Red Man's thanks
are acted, the White Man's spoken. Does the young man
understand the creed of our people?”

Fluella looked at Claud as if he was the one to answer the
question, and he accordingly remarked:

“I have ever heard, chief, that your people always notice
a benefit done to them, and that he who does them one secures
their lasting gratitude.”

“The young man,” rejoined the chief, considerately, “has
heard words that make, sometime, too much; they make true,
the good-doer doing no wrong to us after. But when he takes
advantage of our gratitude he wipes out the debt; he does
more, — he stands to be punished like one an enemy always.”

The maiden here cast an uneasy glance at Claud, and a
deprecating one at her father, at the unnecessary caution, as
she believed it, which she perceived the latter intended to convey

by his words to the former. But, to her relief, Claud did
not appear as if he thought the remarks had any application to
himself, for he frankly responded:

“Your distinction is a just one, chief. Your views about
these matters are my own views. Your creed is a good creed,
so far as the remembrance of benefits is concerned; and I wish
I could see it observed as generally among my people as I
believe it to be among yours. But, chief, your daughter makes
too much out of my assistance, the other day. I did only a
common duty, — what I should have been a coward not to have
done. I have no claim for any particular gratitude from her
or you.”

“Our gratitude was strong before; the young man now
makes stronger,” remarked the other, exchanging appreciating
glances with his daughter.

“No, chief,” resumed Claud, “I did not come here to boast
of that small service, nor claim any thanks for it, but to see a
sagamore, who could give me the knowledge of the Red Man
which I would like to possess; to see one who, in times gone
by, was as a king in this lake country. His own history, and
that of his people especially, I would like to hear. They
must be full of interest and instruction to an inquirer like me.
Will not the chief relate it briefly? I have leisure, — my ears
are open to his words.”

“Would the young man know the history of Wenongonet,
alone?” said the other, with a musing and melancholy air.
“It may be told easier than by words. Does the young man
see on yonder hill that tall, green pine, which stands braced on
the rocks, and laughs at the storms, because it is strong and not
afraid?”

“I do.”

“That is Wenongonet fifty winters ago. Now, does the
young man see that tall, dry pine, in the quiet valley below,
with a slender young tree shooting up, and tenderly spreading

its green branches around that aged trunk, so it would shield
its bare sides in the colds of winter, and fan its leafless head in
the heats of summer?”

“Yes, I see that, also.”

“That dry tree, already tottering to its fall, is Wenongonet
now.”

“But what is the young tree with which you have coupled
it?”

“The young man has eyes,” said the speaker, glancing affectionately
at his blushing daughter.

“But the young man,” he resumed after a thoughtful pause,
“would know more of the history of the Red Men who once
held the country as their own? Let him read it in the history
of his own people, turned about to the opposite. Let him call
the white man's increase from a little beginning, the red man's
decrease from a great, — the white man's victories, the red
man's defeats, — the white man's flourishing, the red man's
fading; and he will have the history of the red men, and the
reasons of their sad history, in this country.

“Two hundred year-seasons ago, the Abenaques were the
great nation of the east. From the sea to the mountains
they were the lords of Mavoshen.[1] They were a nation of
warriors and a wise and active people. But, of all the four
tribes — the Sokokis, the Anasquanticooks, the Kenabas, the
Wawenocks — who made up this great nation, the Sokokis
were the wisest and bravest. Wenongonet is proud when he
thinks of them. They were his tribe. All the land that sent
its waters through the Sawocotuc[2] to the sea was theirs. They
stood with their warriors at the outposts against the crowding
white settlers from the west and south. They were pleased to

stand there, because it was the post of danger and of honor in
the nation. And there they bravely kept their stand against
that wide front of war, and took the battle on themselves, till
the snows of more than a hundred winters were made red by
their rifles and tomahawks. But those who court death must
often fall into his embrace. So with the Sokokis. They were
at first a great and many people; but they wasted and fell, as
time, the bringer of new and strange things, wore away, before
the thick and more thick coming of their greedy and pushing
foes, — by their fire-water in peace and their bullets in war,
till the many became few, the great small. What the bloody
Church, with his swarm of picked warriors, had left after his
four terrible comings with fire and slaughter, the bold Lovewell
finished, on that black day when the great Paugus and all the
flower of the tribe found red graves round their ancient stronghold
and home, — their beloved Pegwacket.[3] This was the
last time the tribe was ever assembled as a separate people.
The name of the Sokokis, at which so many pale faces had
been made paler, was buried in the graves of the brave warriors
who had here died to defend its glory. The feeble remnant,
panic-struck and heart-broken, fled northward, and, like
the withered leaves of the forest flying before the strong east
wind, were scattered and swept over the mountains into Canada;
all but the family of Paugus, who took their stand on these
lakes, where his son, Waurumba, took the empty title of chief,
and, dying, left it still more empty to Wonongonet, the last of
the long line of sagamores, — the last ever to stand here to tell
the young white man the story of their greatness, and the fate
of their tribe.”

On concluding his story, the chief turned to his daughter and
significantly pointed to the lengthening shadows of the trees on

the water, with a motion of his head towards their home up
the lakes.

“The chief thinks,” said Fluella, arousing herself from the
thoughtful attitude in which she had been silently listening to
the conversation, — “the chief thinks it time we were on the
water, on our way home. We shall have now to bid Mr. Elwood
a good-evening.”

So saying, she stepped lightly into the canoe and took her
seat. She was immediately followed by the chief, who, quickly
handling his oar, sent the light craft, with a single stroke, some
rods into the lake, when, partially turning its bow towards the
spot where Claud was standing on the shore, he said:

“Should the young man ever stray from his companions in
the hunt, or find himself weary, or wet, or cold, or in want of
food, when out on the borders of the Molechunk-a-munk, let
him feel, and doubt not, that he will be welcome to the lodge of
Wenongonet.”

“And, if Mr. Elwood should be in the vicinity of our lake
this fall, and not happen to be in a so very sad condition, he
might, perhaps, find a good welcome on calling, — so, especially,
if he come before the time of the first snows,” added Fluella,
playfully at first, but with a slight suffusion of the cheek as
she proceeded to the close.

“I thank the chief,” responded Claud with a respectful bow.
“And I thank you, my fair friend,” he continued, turning more
familiarly to Fluella. “I hope to come, some time. But why
do you speak of the first snows?”

“O, the birds take wing for a warmer country about that time,
and perhaps some who have not wings may be off with them,”
replied Fluella, in the same tone of playfulness and emotion.

A stately bow from the father, and another with a sweetly
eloquent smile from the daughter, completed, on their part, the
ceremonies of the adieu; when the canoe was headed round,
and, by the easy and powerful paddle-strokes of the still vigorous
old man, sent bounding over the waters of the glassy lake.

Slowly and thoughtfully Claud turned and took his way
homeward. “Who could have expected,” he soliloquized, “to
witness such an exhibition of intellect and exalted tone of feeling
in one of that despised race, as that proud old man displayed,
in his eloquently-told story? And that daughter! Well, what
is she to me? My faith is given to another. But why feel
this strange interest? Yet, after all, it is probably nothing but
what any one would naturally feel in the surprise occasioned
on beholding such qualities in such a place and person. No,
no, it can be nothing more; and I will whistle it to the winds.”

And he accordingly quickened his steps, and literally began
to whistle a lively tune, by way of silencing the unbidden sensation
which he felt conscious had often, since he first met this
fair daughter of the wilds, been lurking within. But, though
he thus resolved and reasoned the intruding feeling into nothing,
yet he felt he would not like to have Avis Gurley know how
often the sparkling countenance and witching smile of this new
and beautiful face had been found mingling themselves with
the previously exclusive images of his dreams. But, if they
did so before this second interview, would they do it less now?
His head resolutely answered, “Yes, less, till they are banished.”
His heart softly whispered, “No.” And we will not anticipate
by disclosing whether head or heart was to prove the better
prophet.