TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER I

—'Are not these woods

More free from peril than the envious court?

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,

The season's difference; as the icy fang,

And churlish chiding of the wind,

Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,

This is no flattery; these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.

• • • • • •

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.'

'COME, Henry, my boy, it is time to get up and shake yourself, if you would see the sun rise in this forest, a thing you don't often do in the city,' said Bill Bushwhack to Henry Herbert. 'The sky's clear as a hound's tooth, the air keen as a razor, and the roosters are now crowing out in the clearings. Come, rouse up and see me yoke my team. Uncle Bob has the pork and molasses and hot cakes about ready to go upon the table.'

The young man turned over, brushed back his long dark hair from his eyes, and finally sat up and yawned, saying, 'I'm confounded sore, Bill, I travelled too much on my snow shoes I bought of that Indian, last week. I followed that moose track further than I was aware of until finding my way back.'

'Then you got on the track of a moose, did you?' asked Bill, smiling.

'I did, and followed it more than five miles I should think,' replied Henry. 'I had some hopes of getting a good shot at the fellow but his legs were too long for me.'

'Yes, and his nose and ears too quick for you,' said Bill. 'Why, the fellow could smell you ten gun-shots off, and hear much farther than you can. They are cunning, even too cunning sometimes for an Indian, and what do you think a city blood can do with them?'

'If I could get near enough to one I would show what business I have with him,' said Henry, rising and dressing himself.

'Ah, getting near enough, is the question,' replied Bill. 'They are not often taken except in the month of March when they are found in their yards, the snow deep and the crust hard.'

I should like to have a hunt for them when the season comes round right,' said Henry.

In the course of two or three weeks, you can have some fun, if you continue in the logging swamp,' said Bill. 'But I'm thinking you'll be homesick before that time, and be strutting about the city.'

No, I intend to stay and help run down the logs in the Spring,' said Henry.

I glory in your spunk,' said Bill. 'After the logs are down, I'll go to Boston with you.

Bill now went out to the hovel and yoked four handsome oxen as could be found in the forests of Maine that winter. He was one of the best teamsters in the swamps, and took excellent care of his cattle. Bill loved an ox as well as some gentlemen do a horse. No man could drive a team through the winter and have the oxen come out in the spring looking better than Bill Bushwhack. He seemed to be calculated by nature for such employment, and commanded the highest wages of any man in the woods.

Henry Herbert was the son, and only child of a Broker, who was supposed to be very wealthy. He had purchased a township of land in Maine, and fitted several logging teams for the purpose of lumbering operations, and of making the timber pay for the land.

His son Henry was sent down to keep the accounts and partially to oversee some branches of the business, being twenty-five years of age, and made a ready accountant in his father's office. True, he was ignorant of the business of lumbering, but then he was an active young man, wrote a good hand and was quick in figures. This was the first winter of his father's operations in this peculiar branch of business. It was an experiment. Henry was delighted with the idea of passing the winter in the 'logging swamps' as they are called, and went prepared for a winter's job. He was somewhat wild and romantic, and loved pleasure quite as well as he did hard work. There were six teams and hands enough to keep them employed.

The location was on the West Branch of the Penobscot river, where there was a valley of very good timber, although it was somewhat scattering. Portions of the land was broken and uneven, and the roads to the timber were somewhat difficult to be made.

An aged man by the name of Robert Ryder, familiarly called 'Uncle Bob,' was employed as cook for the establishment. The old man had served in that capacity several winters and was esteemed by the lumbermen a first rate cook. He owned a small farm in the upper settlements, or those on the outskirts of civilization. He did not wed until he was considerably advanced in life, and his union was blessed with one child, a daughter, seventeen years of age when these chronicles commence. The old man was proud of her, as well he might be, for she was exceedingly beautiful, both in face and form, and her motions were naturally graceful and easy, notwithstanding she was brought up in the woods far away from any thing like refined society.

The old man was not very remarkable for his good looks, being quite tall, thin, and stooping. His hair was very white, what there was of it, and the crown of his head was bald. He had roughed it through seventy-five winters. Exercise, good habits, and the pure air of the forests had given him the enjoyment of good health.

He was often joked by those who had seen his daughter Jane, upon his not being the father of the girl, and many really believed he was not her father, for she bore no re semblance to him, either in feature, form, or expression of countenance. She was a dark haired and dark eyed girl, of much spirit and animation, and of more than ordinary mental powers.

When the old man married, he didn't waste much time in courtship. He saw the woman in one of the back villages, fancied her, proposed, was accepted, and married, all in less than four weeks. The old man often spoke of that feat, and challenged any young man to beat it.

And he boasted, too, that his Jane was born in some less time than two hundred and seventy days. That was another feat of which he felt proud, and challenged any young, country or city bred man, to perform one like it. He was a funny old fellow, and full of his jokes.

In the winter season, the height of his ambition was to be in the logging swamps, and in the summer to cultivate a small patch of land and live with his wife and daughter. His dwelling-house was made of logs, but very convenient and comfortable. His wife and daughter kept affairs within in a very neat manner. True, their furniture was by no means expensive; yet every thing had a place, and every thing was in its place.—The wife was exceedingly pleasant, and once very handsome. There was always a shade of melancholy upon her countenance which would make her face more interesting to some observers than if she had been constantly smiling and appearing giddy and light-minded.

It was a mystery with many how she consented to wed such a looking and acting man as Robert Ryder; for he was entirely different from her in almost every respect. They neither looked alike, nor acted alike; and yet they lived happily together, apparently more so than most married persons.—They were never known to have any domestic quarrels.

The old man was often joked because his wife did not give birth to another child; but he generelly generally found some way to creep out of that difficulty, for he was fruitful in expedients, and always ready for an answer. Bill Bushwhack had often seen Uncle Bob's Jane, and he swore she was the handsomest gal in seven towns. Henry had heard of the fame of her beauty and desired to see her; but as yet, no convenient opportunity had presented itself. Her father had often spoken of having her visit the logging camps, a thing she very much desired herself.—Jane had quite a strong sprinkling of the romantic in the elements of her composition, and loved to wander in the forests. In the use of the gun she was very skillful, and was considered a good shot; and in killing trout in the ponds and streams in the vicinity where she lived, there were none who had better luck than she had. Of these wild sports she was very fond, and occasionally indulged herself in them. By those who were best acquainted with her, she was esteemed an excellent hearted girl, and called the 'Flower of the Forest,' a name which she well deserved so far as beauty is considered. Although she was wild and romantic, full of life and animation, talking, laughing and joking with any one who happened to be in her company, yet no one ever doubted her honesty and virtue.

Several young, smart and enterprizing backwoodsmen had attempted to court her, but when they made such attempts she was as shy as a wild duck. It would seem to any one from her lively manner, free conversation and apparent familiarity that she might be very easily courted and conquered, but those who made such attempts were always grieviously disappointed.

Soon as Henry had dressed himself, he went out to the hovel were his friend Bill was yoking the oxen preparatory to the day's labor.

See,' said Bill. 'Old buck and bright come out all steaming this morning, clear and cold as it is. Their eyes stuck out so that you might hang your cap on them.—They are in good heart and ready for the duties of the day. And there stand old star and line, chewing their cuds and waiting for the word. See how slick their hair looks, and honest their faces are. Blessed he Him who made oxen, I say. There's no creatures I love so well. What good dispositions they possess! How kind and willing to work. Seldom you see a contrary ox, but how many contrary horses there are?—The horse is well enough in his place, but give me the noble, honest ox.'

Well, Bill, I don't wonder at your taste, for youv'e always been teaming them,' said Henry. 'But for my part I like a good fast horse, one that will go a mile inside of three minutes.'

So should I, if I were going after the doctor,' replied Bill, smiling. 'Fast horses are well enough in their places, but give me the honest ox. By the way, Henry, didn't you hear old Uncle Bob say yesterday, he had some notion of bringing his Jane into the woods for a visit?'

No, did he?' replied Henry, looking anxiously at Bill.

Why, Henry, your eyes stick out like old buck's,' said Bill, laughing, and putting the last bow-pin in its place. 'I tell you, my boy, she is a sweet flower as ever grew in the forest, and I very much question, whether your far famed city can show us as fine a one.'

I hope the old man will bring her here,' said Henry.

If he should, it would be all day with you,' replied Bill, starting his oxen together and hooking a chain between them. 'Why, Henry, her bright eyes would burn a hole straight through to your heart and completely unfit you for business. I'll bet my goad stick that after you had seen her, you couldn't cast up a single column of figures correctly.'

Don't be alarmed about that,' replied Henry; Iv'e seen many beautiful girls in my day; besides, Bill, I'm now engaged to Moniria Montague, only daughter of a very rich father. And she is a splendid girl, too.'

I care not how splendid she is,' replied Bill. 'When you see Jane Ryder, you'll say you never saw a really beautiful girl before. I'm a good judge of beauty both in women and oxen. I know when they are built right for service. And when they are thus built they are always handsome.'

An old tin horn now sounded and called them to breakfast.

CHAPTER II

Good appetites and good cooking go well together. Lumbering a health-giving employment. The sports of lumbermen.—Good health and cheerful spirits. The game of old sledge.

A BREAKFAST in a logging camp, or any other meal, is, indeed, a luxury. The mode of cooking is far preferable to that found in our most fashionable hotels, or in the houses of the rich and aristocratic. True, the appetite is always sharpened by the pure and bracing winter air of our forests, and the salutary exercise of lumbering operations.—The lumberman sits down to his meal with a stomach well prepared to receive its food and nourishment, and properly to digest it. The thousand luxuries as they are called, found upon the tables of the rich and at our large hotels, have no charms for the stomach which is trained in the woods. I have known gentlemen carry with them into the forests many articles of luxury when on an angling or hunting excursion, and become somewhat surprised at their want of relish for such dainties after breathing the pure air of the forests and exercising in their wild sports for a few days. Such air and exercise give a healthy tone to the stomach, and prepare it for solid, wholesome food, unfitting it for dainties of any kind, and making it relish that only which yields true nourishment.—Rum and tobacco are not brought into this account. A habit acquired for these stimulating narcotic, deleterious articles is not easily lost in the forests or elsewhere, especially when they are at hand and used. But it is not so with a thousand other things which are esteemed as luxuries at home.—Salt pork, bread, beans and molasses are always luxuries in the woods, and potatoes never come amiss if they can be had.

The breakfast Uncle Bob had prepared this morning consisted of warm bread, fried salt pork, molasses and tea, articles usually found on the lumberman's breakfast table.—The molasses is mixed with the fat that comes from the fried pork, and eaten upon the bread instead of butter. Those who have used such a compound upon bread can testify to the fine relish with which they eat it.

Youv'e some excellent bread this morning,' said Henry, as he sopped a piece in his fat and molasses and ate it with an excellent relish.

This barrel of flour I'm now using is a good one,' replied Uncle Bob. 'Give me good flour and I will always give you good bread.'

This is decidedly lighter and sweeter bread than I ever ate at home or at a public house,' said Henry.

To be sure it is,' said Bill. 'We lumbermen always calculate to live better than you do at your city hotels. I wouldn't give Uncle Bob for all the city bakers in the world I wonder, Uncle Bob, if your Jane can make as good bread as her old father.'

Let my Jane alone for that,' said the old man. 'She hasn't lived though seventeen cold winters without learning to make bread and darn stockings. Jane knows a few things if she is my darter.'

Ah, that's the question,' replied Bill, laughing, and slyly winking at Henry.

What's the question?' asked the old man, placing another loaf of steaming bread upon the table.

Why, Uncle Bob, you know what I mean,' replied Bill.

Some of your old jokes,' said the old man, knowing very well what the teamster meant, and willing to avoid the subject.

Now, Uncle Bob, you know your hair is white, and Jane's is very dark,' said Bill.

Yours may be as white as mine, if you live as long as I have, and the devil don't take his own before that time,' replied the old man, laughing.

Come, come, old man, the keen air has sharpened your wit this morning,' said Bill.

How is it about your eyes? Yours are a light blue, and Jane's are as black as the raven's wing.'

Nonsense,' said the old man. 'Don't you know her mother's eyes are as black as a coal? Jane gets her eyes from her mother, and her wit from her father.'

Well said, Uncle Bob,' replied Bill.—'That's a cracking pretty loud this morning.'

You'd crack pretty loud, too, if you had such a darter,' said the old man.

I confess I should, if I knew certainly she was my daughter,' replied Bill.

Your'e full of your nonsense this morning,' said Uncle Bob.

I should like to see Jane, if she's so handsome as she is thought to be, said Henry.

Perhaps you'll have the opportunity,' said the old man. I expect she will be here one of these days before the sledding breaks up. The man who hauls the hay will bring her on. He can make a nest for her in the load of hay, and she'll come well enough. Jane's not afraid of snow storms or other trifles, I can tell ye, young man. She'd kill a hundred of your city gals in facing storms, and not wink at it. She'll beat you now in travelling upon snow-shoes. And as for shooting, she's a dead shot at any game that comes within her reach. I've seen her bring down five wild ducks on the wing at a single shot. And that's quite as much as you can say of your shooting.'

That's a fact,' replied Henry, smiling at the old man's boasting of his daughter's shooting exploits. I have never succeeded in doing quite so much as that.'

And you must remember, young man, there were but ten in the flock,' said the old man. 'I call that good shooting. Half will do pretty well. And as for paddling a birch canoe she'll beat the Indians themselves. I once saw her on a small lake back of our house once try with an Indian, and she beat him several rods in crossing the lake.'

I've no doubt of what you say,' replied Bill. 'But then all that don't prove that she is your daughter.'

Out with your nonsense, Bill, and start your team,' said Uncle Bob. 'Youv'e eaten breakfast enough for two men.'

Then you mustn't make your bread so good,' said the teamster, sopping another slice in the fat and molasses, and washing it down with his fourth cup of tea.

Breakfast was finished, and before the sun could be seen, the creaking of the logging sleds, the sounds of the woodmen's axes, and the crushing of falling trees could be heard all around.

Such music in a clear, still cold morning is pleasant to the ear, and makes one feel that no obstacles can stand before man's physical power. A hardier race of men than these lumbermen can be no where found.—They are always full of health and good humor. Dyspepsic, that miserable and often fatal disease, is not known among the lumbermen; and colds which frequently attack those in more refined and less laborious life, are seldom taken by these hardy backwoodsmen. Their health and spirits are generally good, and render them equal to almost any enterprize which they are called upon to undertake.

A life in the woods has more charms than most men dream of. True, the work is very hard and laborious, but there are strength and resolution to meet it without fear or shrinking.

The long evenings in the logging camps are not spent in sleep or idleness. It would seem that men who had been engaged all day cutting down stately trees, clearing roads, loading logs, and driving teams, would naturally seek rest and lie down soon after supper; but it is not generally so with these lumbermen. The day's labor seems to have no effect upon them; for they are wide awake and full of their fun and jokes until quite a late hour in the evening. The chequer board, old packs of smutty cards, and witty stories afford them much amusement during the long evenings in the camps. They don't seem to require so much sleep as those who pursue a less laborious business, or as those who idle away their valuable time. Although they are up long before the day dawns, yet they are never in a hurry to go to bed. Notwithstanding their hard labor they enjoy themselves better than workmen in other employments. There is something in the atmosphere of a logging camp which gives buoyancy to the spirits and imparts life and energy to the muscles. No doubt thousands sands of men of feeble health and debilitated constitutions would find themselves much more benefitted by a life in the logging camps than they do under the care of their physicians. It might seem hard for them at first, and they might think such a life would soon end their days; but the experience of many has proved directly the reverse.

Old Uncle Bob was exceedingly fond of playing cards, and, especially, of the game of Old Sledge, as it was called. He had one pack of cards that had been played with four winters; but it was now very difficult to discover the pictures upon them on account of the dirt and smut. Soon as his work was done, he might be seen with his old dirty pack in his hand, challenging any one for a game. Sometimes the old man would play for small stakes, a York shilling for a game, and occasionally, when he was excited, as high as a quarter. He never allowed himself to go for a larger sum. There was a limit; and whenever the old fellow put a stake down, he never went round or beyond it.

Come,' said the old man, addressing Henry, and holding his old greasy pack in his hand; my bread is rising and my work for the evening is done, and now I'll go ye a York shilling a game.'

I do not like your old cards,' replied Henry. 'I believe you know every card in the pack by their backs, youv'e played with them so much.'

I don't know a single card by the back; and it is as much as I can do to make out what they are by their faces.'

Well, I can read one side about as well as the other,' said Henry, smiling; 'Iv'e one new pack that's never been played with, and if you'll wash your greasy fingers I'll try you a few games with them.'

The old man agreed to the proposition, gave his hauds hands a good scrubbing, and sat down upon a moose hide, with the young man. Several of the crew were already engaged in playing cards and chequers. Bill, however, was not engaged, for he had just come from the hovel where he had been feeding and currying his oxen. He never forgot his team, for he would as soon forget his own supper as to forget to feed his team. The old man and Henry cut for deal, and put up their York shillings, while Bill squat down beside the young man. It was the old man's deal, and the first time he turned up a Jack.

'One to your nothing,' said the old man, laughing; I'm afraid you'll begin to think I know the cards by the back.'

'Don't crow before you are out of the woods,' replied Henry, throwing down the ace of trumps and catching the old man's ten. 'I reckon that's high game, making two to your one.'

'That's a fact, by George,' said the old man, while Henry threw down the tray.'

'That makes three to your own, I rather guess,' said Henry.

'It is so,' replied Uncle Bob. 'Your'e a lucky dog. Deal them. I conclude they don't do much of any thing else in Boston but play cards.'

'Old man, you'll lose your York shilling this time,' said Bill, laughing. 'Three to one makes a good beginning.'

'And a good beginning sometimes makes a bad ending,' the old man replied, throwing down the King of trumps and drawing Henry's Jack. 'There, that's high Jack which makes us three and three, and I've some more left into the bargain.'

The old man made four times that hand, and with the next went out, pocketing the money, and laughing so loud he might have been heard as far as the howling of a wolf.

'It is just like playing alone,' said the old man, laughing, and dealing off the cards very rapidly. 'These cards run off mighty nice and slick. I reckon I have dealt myself this time high, low, Jack and the game.'

We'll see about that,' replied Henry, throwing down the queen of trumps, and catching the old man's jack. 'Now the game begins to work well.'

Not so very well,' replied the old man. 'I had rather be beat any time than lose my Jack.'

You must take it this time,' said Bill, laughing; Henry will make just four times.'

He did so, and the next hand carried him out, and the old man didn't make one.

Skunked, by Judas!' exclaimed Bill. 'I smell him strong. We shall all have to leave the camp at this rate. I don't like to be in the presence of these speckled gentlemen.'

Don't be alarmed,' said the old man.—'It is a good while between this and twelve o'clock.'

But I'm afraid your money won't hold out,' said Bill.

They played on, and finally the old man came out with several York shillings more than he had when he sat down. In Old Sledge he was a hard customer. About midnight all hands turned in, and no sounds were heard but the howlings of the distant wolves.

CHAPTER III

A northeaster. The howling of a wolf.—The fatal shot. The teamster and his fair companion. The conflagration. Good courage, a characteristic of backwoodsmen.

THE next morning a northeast wind was howling round the camp and the snow was coming down in great abundance. A more severe storm is seldom witnessed even in the month of February in this high northern latitude. In the open land it was much more severe than it was in the forests where the trees break off the wind and prevent the snows from drifting into heaps. It seldom storms so hard in the woods as to prevent the lumbermen from working. Bill and Henry slept on their bunk side by side.

Hark!' said Bill, nudging Henry, and waking him. 'Don't you hear the wind roar among the trees? Wev'e got a snorter now all the way from Nova Scotia, Iv'e been expecting, wev'e had so much good weather.'

It does seem to come rather furiously,' said Henry.

I reckon you would find it so, if you were out on some hill in cleared land,' said Bill.

Now we shall catch it,' said Uncle Bob, rising up, and rubbing his eyes. 'It is one of the old fashioned nor'easters, such as they have away down east.'

Away down east,' repeated Henry, smiling. 'I thought we were pretty well down east.'

This isn't a priming,' said the old man. 'Down east is a long way from this. When one gets here, he has just began to go down east.'

This is far enough east for me,' replied Henry

I reckon you'd think so, if you had to face this storm,' said Uncle Bob.

Hark!' said Bill. 'Don't you hear that infernal wolf howl? He is quite near!'

Then I'll have a shot at him, storm or no storm,' said Henry, hurrying on his clothes and catching up his gun.

Perhaps you may get a chance at the rascal,' said Bill, hurrying on his own clothes, and following Henry to the door. 'Be very cautious! The rascal is more bold in a storm.'

I fear I can't see him, it is so dark,' said Henry.

O, it's not very dark except the snow be so thick you can't see,' said Bill. 'There's a moon. But heavens, it storms like Jehu! This is the greatest screamer wev'e had this winter. Let us stand a moment, and perhaps we may hear him howl again. The rascal is hungry.'

They stood at the door which was partially opened, Bill being directly behind Henry, looked over his head, for he was a head taller than the young man. Not two minutes elapsed before the wolf howled again.

Hush!' whispered Bill. 'He's between this and the hovel, I'd give a week's work if you could shoot the rascal. I hate a wolf. Be steady! I know where he is. He may come in right directly. Grace and mercy how the wind screams among the trees!—No wonder the wolf thinks no one will be after him in such a storm as this. Steady! I could see him now, if the snow didn't come so thick. There! there! I see him! He has just put his fore paws upon a log and is looking at the hovel!'

I can't see him?' whispered the young man, straining his eyes through the thick storm.

Let me have the gun, quick!' said Bill. 'Or he'll be off!'

Henry looked a moment, but couldn't see the wolf, and gave Bill his gun. A moment after, and the report of the gun mingled with the howlings of the northeaster.

He keels over!' exclaimed Bill, leaping by Henry, and running into the storm without hat or coat, followed by the young man. Sure enough the wolf had keeled over as Bill said, but he was far from being dead. Being shot through his hind quarters, he could not run, but he raised himself upon his fore legs and showed fight.

The rascal's not dead, but he can't run away,' said Bill. 'He has only the use of his fore legs. See him grin!'

I see him, but you'll not catch me any nearer to the snappish rascal,' said the young man.

Go and charge up your gun, and give him the second shot,' said Bill. 'Or I can knock him stiff with a sled stake.'

No, no, let me shoot him!' said Henry, running into the camp, and loading his gun with all possible haste, while Bill stood watching the animal amidst the peltings of the raging storm.

The young man soon returned and shot the creature dead upon the spot. It was a large gray wolf. The whole logging crew were now around, and several of them came out in the storm, and old Uncle Bob among them.

By George, he's a large fellow!' said the old man. 'But ye might have saved your second charge.'

No matter about saving a charge,' replied the young man, laughing, while Bill dragged the wolf to the door of the camp.

True, but when a fellow's lost several York shillings over night, it becomes him to be rather prudent in the morning,' said Uncle Bob, laughing.

Ah, Uncle Bob, I'll pay you for that, one of these long evenings,' replied the young man.

You can try,' said the old man. 'But I think you succeed better in shooting a wounded wolf than in playing Old Sledge with me.'

Come, uncle, now we have some fresh meat,' said Bill, 'can't you give us a good roast from the hind quarter of the wolf?'

I'll roast it if you'll eat it,' replied the cook, laughing.

But we must leave Uncle Bob and Bill to cook and eat the wolf, if they please, and ask the reader to go with us to another scene in the forest in which a female has a part to act.

Mr. Jonathan Curtis was employed to haul a certain quantity of hay from the nearest settlement for Mr. Herbert's teams. And had thus been employed with a two horse team ever since there was snow enough.—He usually came once a week and sometimes once in two weeks; he was the nearest neighbor to Uncle Bob, and the old man was always glad to see him and hear from home. Jane had been talking of coming with him for several weeks, and finally had started with him the day previous to the storm. With a loaded team it was two smart days' drive to the logging camps. The hay was loaded with special reference to Jane's journey. A nice cozy place was made in the fore part of the load where she could be seated and ride quite comfortably. There were no settlers on the way; but there was an old logging camp about half the distance where the teamsters stopped over night.—They were in this camp on the night when the storm commenced; and some time before daylight Mr. Curtis heard the howling of the storm. Jane, too, heard the old logs rattle about the camp, and rose from her buffalo robe, which was her only bed.

Dear me, Mr. Curtis,' she said. 'Now we shall catch it! A violent storm is now raging.'

I'm aware of it, but if the snow don't fill up the road we can get along well enough,' he replied.

O, I'm not frightened at a snow storm; but mother will be alarmed about us!' she replied.

Your mother knows I'm used to such things,' he said. 'If the storm don't abate we can remain here another day. We have enough to eat, and the horses won't starve while the load of hay lasts.'

I can get along well enough; but I wish the pleasant weather had continued one day more,' she said. 'I guess father would laugh, if he knew I was here in the old logging camp.'

He probably would,' replied Mr. Curtis, smiling at the courage of Jane.

The wind increased in violence and made the old bark rattle upon the roof of the camp. Curtis was afraid the roof might blow off; but he didn't communicate that fear to his beautiful companion.

I believe the storm increases,' said Curtis. 'Good gracious how the old roof rattles! I hope it will hold together; but I really fear the wind will tear it in pieces, and then we shall be obliged to go to the old hovel and take shelter with the horses.'

At that moment a whirling gust came sweeping by, and carried away a portion of one side of the roof.

There it goes!' exclaimed Jane, backing up against the wall to avoid the falling pieces. 'I reckon the wind is not strong enough to blow the walls down.'

Perhaps not, but I fear the fire Iv'e just kindled will trouble us more than the snow,' said the teamster.

Yes, it has caught against the opposite wall and we must clear out and let it burn,' said Jane, running to the door, and carrying what articles she could gather up in her flight.

Mr. Curtis did the same, and soon their things were all out, and the old camp was in a blaze. A portion of the timber was cedar, and the fire made a tremendous crackling. The hovel very fortunately stood where the flames could not blow upon it.—If it had stood farther east, it would have taken fire also, and left them in a very sad predicament; but it was safe from the fire.

Run to the hovel, Jane, while I secure our articles of furniture,' he said.

I will take my buffalo robe and blanket,' she said, catching up the articles, and running to the hovel.

It seemed as if the wind blew harder at every gust, and the snow came down thick and fast. It was not quite daylight, and the storm made the night somewhat dark; however, it was fortunately not so dark that they could not see.

The courageous Jane found her way into the hovel, but in doing so she was obliged to wade through a snow-drift almost as high as her head. But she was by no means faint hearted on the occasion, but soon found her self under a shelter with the horses. The animals neighed and seemed to welcome her to their house, which yet withstood the violence of the storm. She felt round and found a small bundle of hay and gave it to them.

You shall have enough to eat,' she said, as she threw some hay before them.

Soon, Curtis came running into the hovel to get out of the way of the storm.

Well, here we are, horses and all,' said Jane, laughing. 'Iv'e given the creatures an early breakfast. A good teamster always sees that his cattle are well fed before he eats himself.'

That's correct, Jane,' he replied. 'I think our morning meal will be rather a cold one, but we must make the best of it.'

I think we are making the best of it,' she replied. 'This hovel gives a very good shelter. I shall not complain so long as the old roof holds on.'

No danger of this flat roof, for it is heavily timbered,' he said. 'But are you not all covered with snow?'

I was, when I entered here, but I have shaken it off,' she replied, laughing.

Well, Jane, I like to hear you laugh, but it is a terrible storm,' he replied.

It is not so very cold,' she said. 'That's a favorable circumstance.'

It is so,' he replied. 'The storm is so violent, that I think it will blow itself out before noon.'

The storm continued to increase in violence until after sunrise when it seemed to abate a little; still the snow came down very fast. In the open land it drifted very much, but not so bad in the wood. Where they were, there was quite a clearing. Some one had commenced clearing up a farm, but for some reason he had abandoned the work.—The wind here had a fair rake, and drifted the snow more than it did where the trees had not been felled. So far as that was concerned their location was unfavorable.—Still the teamster and his fair companion were far from being disheartened. Jane was full of life and animation, and seemed to revel in the storm like a snowbird.

Before ten o'clock the wind had gone down, and the snow came very gently. It seemed rather a long squall than a regular northeast snow storm.

The horses were harnessed, and Jane took her seat under cover of the hay, and they started for the camps. About twenty miles were before them and the road somewhat filled up. The storm had made the road worse, and impeded their progress, still there was no difficulty in moving slowly along.—Jane sang some merry songs as the horses walked along, which echoed through the wood and made the journey the more agreeable.

At noon they halted, and fed themselves and horses in a valley through which run a small brook. Jane had never been so far before into the depths of the forests, and the further she went the better she liked it. Curtis told her she would make a first rate lumberman.

They proceeded on, but the miles are long in the woods, and night overtook them before they reached the camps. But there was a moon, and they hastened on with all possible speed.

CHAPTER IV

Games of the logging camp. A fresh arrival. The wild flower of the forest. The first buddings of love. The race. Felling Trees. Scenes in the woods, &c.

NOW, if youv'e a jack or ten, just place it on that,' said Henry to Uncle Bob, throwing down the ace of trumps.

By Judas, youv'e got my ten,' replied the old man, throwing it down, and looking at the young man to see if he had another high trump.

He's making havoc with you,' said Bill, laughing.

Now for poor jack,' said the young man, first holding up the king of trumps before the old man's eyes, and throwing it down.

You can't do that again to-night,' said Uncle Bob, reluctantly covering the king with his jack.

Bill and several other lookers on sent up a shout of laughter at the old man's expense, but he apparently paid no attention to them and continued the game, when the door of the camp was gently opened and Jane stood before them in all the freshness of her beauty. The storm, or the fatigues of the journey had not wilted her down, but she looked as bright and as fresh as if she had been sitting in a comfortable room for the last two days.—Uncle Bob rose and greeted her most cordially, and so did all the others. She related to them all the incidents of her journey, and they listened with marked attention, and no one more so than the young and handsome Henry.

Jane's deep blue eyes sparkled like diamonds, her long dark hair, hung in loose curls over her shoulders and bosom, and her cheeks glowed with the bloom of health.—Henry had heard much said in relation to her beauty, but he now was fully convinced that the half had never been told him. It seemed to him that he had never seen such a beautiful girl in his life; he had an eye for beauty, and now he feasted in silence upon her charms. Jane's voice, too, fell upon his ears like the sweetest music. It seemed to him to sound just as a woman's voice should sound. It was neither too high, nor too low, too full, nor too weak, but just right in all its intonations; he could scarcely keep his eyes from her; his heart beat with strange emotions, and he gazed upon her with as much surprise and delight as if she had been blown from the clouds during the late storm. A female of no more than a common share of personal beauty will always look handsome in a logging camp; but one possessing such charms as Jane possessed must, in such a place, appear almost angelic. Bill stood beside Henry, when Jane was describing the burning of the old camp, and relating some other incidents of her journey through the wood.

You must have had a tedious journey,' said the young man, addressing Jane.

Rather so,' she replied. 'But there was fun in it after all. The old burning camp made a glorious light for a few minutes, but it was soon all gone, and not a spark of fire to be seen. It burned up in the strong wind about as quick as a pile of shavings.'

I should have thought you would have been frightened,' said the young man.

Not in the least,' she replied. 'We knew the wind was favorable and kept the flames and flying pieces from the hovel and load of hay. When a portion of the old roof came off, there was a cracking and a small whirlwind upon the inside.'

I confess you had good courage,' said Henry, sympathizing with her for the seeming dangers she had passed.

There was no particular danger, for we were awake,' she replied.

Yes, Jane, I believe your'e always wide awake,' said Bill, smiling.

It is best to be when one is in an old logging hut on fire,' she said. 'I think such a fire would make the laziest man of your whole crew stir his stumps.'

Old Uncle Bob now laughed heartily, and several others joined him, but Henry did not feel like enjoying loud laughter. His soul felt as if such noisy, boisterous rejoicing did not correspond with its feelings and emotions. He did not wish to be disturbed in the enjoyment of that complacent feeling in which Jane's peerless beauty had awakened in his breast. Like one hearing sweet music, he wished for silence and stillness. That this girl's beauty had made a deep impression upon his heart, there was no doubt. And he had never before seen a girl of such extraordinary beauty who did not seem conscious of her own charms. She did not seem to act as if she felt any more proud of her beauty than any one of the lumbermen did of his. She was perfectly natural in all her movements, and did not seem to know she was more beautiful than any other person.—That kind of indifference added much to her charms, especially in the estimation of this young man, who had been accustomed to the society of ladies who were much affected and took great pains to display their own charms; but Jane was entirely different in her manners and address, never appearing to be conscious of her beauty, nor making any attempts to display it. There was a simplicity in her manners which could not fail to excite the admiration of all shrewd observers of human nature. And this young man was by no means destitute of such powers. Although he was somewhat wild and romantic in the elements of his nature, yet he possessed the powers of discrimination in a greater degree than most young men of his age. Until Jane made her appearance in the camp that evening he always supposed he really loved Miss Monira Montague, the daughter and only child of Mr. Montague, a rich widower of Boston, who had given her every opportunity to acquire a fashionable education; and these privileges the young lady had improved to an extent equal to most daughters who move in the higher circles of life. Miss Montague was considered a beautiful and accomplished person, but few young ladies excelling her in personal beauty or fashionable accomplishments. She could play and sing well, draw very handsome views and converse fluently upon all the fashionable topics of the day; but when Henry compared her charms with Jane's, the wild flower of the forest, he felt the power of the latter in spite of all his former predictions. Jane appeared before him clothed with all a woman's charms, such as she had received from the hand of nature, and the simple culture of her mother.

Uncle Bob noticed that Henry's eyes were fastened on Jane, and the sight gave him no pain. He had even dared to think that his daughter might take captive the young man's heart, and become a fashionable woman in the city. The old man possessed a great share of vanity as well as some other better and more worthy qualities. And he had often told his wife that Jane need only to be seen by some city gentlemen to be loved; but she was not so fond of the city gentlemen as he appeared to be; and yet she would not let a good opportunity pass unimproved, when she thought her daughter might become the happy wife of a rich husband. She was more cautious and prudent in such matters than her husband was. She had pride and ambition, but they were of a higher grade than those that possessed him. In intellectual power and refinement she was greatly his superior, and even controlled him, whenever she believed he needed such an exercise of authority. He always treated her with great kindness and even doated upon her. It has been before intimated that it was a mystery how she came to wed such a man, but after all, it was, perhaps, the best course she could have adopted under the circumstances in which she was placed when she first became acquainted with her husband. These circumstances are not to be detailed in this stage of our narrative.

The old man had prepared a lodging place for Jane, separate and distinct from that occupied by the lumbermen, in which she found comfortable quarters.

The next morning after her arrival was bright, the air mild, the sky clear as a blue silk curtain, and the forests never presented more beautiful winter scenes. The late storm had purified the atmosphere, and every thing looked clean and beautiful.

O, how I love the woods!' said Jane, as she and Henry were standing outside the camp after the sun had risen just enough to show his bright face above the tallest forest trees.

I love them, too, or I should not have left the city and come all the way here,' replied Henry, gazing into her bright and beautiful face. 'I think you told me you had never seen the city.'

I never have, but mother thinks I shall one of these years,' she answered.

She has been in Boston, I presume,' said Henry, cautiously twirling one of the long bright curls of her hair with his finger, and feeling as if there was some electricity even in that.

I don't know certainly, but I think she lived there before she came into this State,' she answered, gently removing her hair from his fingers as if she thought it would be quite as well for him to let it alone.

She did it so quietly and naturally, and yet as though she meant something, that he for the moment felt ashamed of his familiarity with that lustrous appendage.

You think she lived in Boston!' he repeated, manifesting some surprise. 'Don't you know whether she did or not?'

I have heard her say much about Boston, but she never told me she lived there,' she answered. 'I have asked the question, but she always avoided it by asking some other. The truth is, Mr. Herbert, I know nothing of my mother's birth, parentage, or connections.'

That is singular,' he said. 'I think she would tell me if I could see her.'

Well, I think she wouldn't,' she replied, smiling. 'I don't see why she would be more willing to tell you than she is to tell father or me.'

Then your father don't know,' he said, manifesting still more surprise.

To be sure he knows no more about it than you or I,' she replied. 'I suppose that seems strange to you, does it not?'

It does, indeed!' he replied. 'I never heard any thing like it.'

Then you've learnt something new from a girl brought up in the woods,' she said, smiling, and looking very pleasantly into his handsome face.

True, I have,' he replied,' laughing, and carelessly taking her hand in his as if it was done more by accident than design.

She instantly withdrew her hand, and stepped back two paces beyond his reach.—He thought she was the coyest girl he ever met, but concealed his feelings from her.

There!' she said. 'Didn't you hear that big tree fall? I wish I had been there, for I love to see big, tall, fine trees tumble over.'

So do I, and I will accompany you to the place where they are chopping them down,' he said, gazing into her bright and lovely face, to see if she was provoked at his attempted familiarity.

I'll go, by George,' she replied, starting off into a logging road, and tripping along like a deer.

Don't go so fast,' he said, running to overtake her.

I guess you can keep up,' she replied, looking back with a smile, and hastening her speed.

She ran like a fox, and gained upon him at every step in spite of all his efforts. She ran about forty rods, and then slackened her speed, and he came up, panting and puffing like a wind-broken horse. She laughed, and asked him if he couldn't run faster than that. He told her he could not.

Then,' she continued; 'you are not fit for the woods. You ought to be able to outrun the wolf, and hold the deer good play. I can run faster than I did. I reckon you are not accustomed to these logging roads.'

I confess I never have been until this winter,' he replied, puffing, and laughing.

They soon were in a grove of stately pines where the choppers were at work, clearing out roads and felling the trees. It was fun for her, and as soon as a tree fell she would bound upon the trunk, and run along the branches of its top.

They remained there until several trees were chopped down, and then returned to the camp. The more he became acquainted with her, the more fond he was of being in her company. There were wild charms about her that he could not resist. He felt as if he could always live in the woods, if he could have her company.

CHAPTER V

Lover's eyes see no faults. Progress of small events. Straws show which way the wind blows. The contemplated angling excursion. A father's pride. How to make love, &c.

ANOTHER night passed, and the sun rose bright and clear. Finer weather and a purer air were never felt and breathed by mortals Jane assisted her father in the culinary department of the camp, and Henry was seen quite often there, more so than he ever had been before. The old cook was glad to see him about, for he believed Jane had thrown the silken cords of love round his heart, and Bill and some others thought so too. Henry was so far in for it, that he was delighted with the ease and grace of Jane when she was washing and wiping the tin dishes. In fact all her motions were beauty and, grace in his imagination. Although her fingers were not so white as his Monira's nor so richly jewelled, yet they were more beautifully formed, and made more graceful motions among the tin dishes than hers did in sweeping over the ivory keys of the Piana Forte; at least, such were his impressions when he saw her with the dish-cloth in hand. And when she arranged the dishes upon the rough board shelf, it seemed to him that all her motions were more graceful than Miss Montague's in the waltz or quadrille.

By heavens, she has the best command of all her muscles of any human being I ever saw,' replied the young man. 'She can run like a deer.'

I have always told you she couldn't be beat?' said Bill.

Yes; but I confess, I did not expect to see quite so much beauty and grace united in one girl,' answered Henry. 'There's none in the city who can compare with her.'

Iv'e no doubt of that,' said Bill. 'The more one sees her the more beautiful she appears. And I'm thinking you have come to the same conclusion.'

I have, I frankly confess,' replied the young man. 'I begin to think I love the wild creature.'

And I begin to think you do, too,' said Bill, laughing, and smoking away. 'Didn't I tell you she would take your heart captive?' Have you been able to imprint a lover's kiss upon her rosy lips?'

No, nor do any thing approximating to a consummation so devoutly to be wished, as Shakspeare says,' replied the young man. 'She will not even let me touch one of her fingers, nor play a single moment with one of her dark curls.'

Oh, there are two good reasons for that,' said Bill, looking very wise.

And what are they?' asked the young man.

In the first place, she don't love you yet,' replied the teamster. 'Youv'e got the start of her in that. She has conquered you, but her heart is untouched yet; besides, my opinion is that she don't know that you love her. When she finds that out a change will come over her.'

Then I will tell my love the first convenient opportunity,' said Henry.

Well, that you can do, but you must be careful how you introduce the subject,' said Bill. 'You must begin right so as to end right, or in other words, you must speak so that she will believe you.

I will take care of that; but what is your second reason that she will not let me touch one of her fingers, much less kiss her sweet lips?' asked the young man.

Her mother has given her instructions,' replied Bill. 'Her mother is a very shrewd woman. And I've no doubt but she once moved in the higher circles of life, among the grandees of the city. She must have been very handsome once, and she's very fine-looking now. It is one of the strangest things under the sun that she married Uncle Bob; but I suppose, some twenty years ago, he looked some better than he does now. Do you see any resemblance in Jane to her father?'

Not a bit,' replied the young man. 'And when you joke the old man upon the subject do you ever believe that she is not his daughter?'

I confess I don't like to pass such judgment on the mother, for she is one of the best hearted women I have ever seen,' replied Bill. 'There's some mystery about the affair, but I hardly know what to think—Some people really believe that he is not her father more than they are.'

Has she never given any history of her earlier days?' asked the young man.

Not as I could ever learn,' replied Bill. 'Upon that subject she has kept her lips sealed from every body in these diggins, even from her husband and daughter.'

Jane told me as much,' said the young man. 'I acknowledge that I should like to learn where she came from, and whose daughter she was.'

Your'e not alone in that wish,' replied Bill. 'Iv'e heard many persons express the same desire. There's Mrs. Curtis, the wife of him who brought Jane here, has been trying for years to get the secret from her mother; but she's just as far from it now as she was seventeen years ago. They are the nearest neighbors, and on the most friendly terms; but Mrs. Curtis can't begin to learn the first thing. She told me last fall before I came into the swamps, that Jane's mother said to her that it made no difference who her father or mother was, so far as her being a good wife and neighbor was concerned. The past, she said, she had buried, and only regarded the present and the future. That is the most that Mrs. Curtis could ever pump out of her.'

Does Mrs. Curtis believe that Uncle Bob is Jane's father?' asked the young man.

She would never express any opinion to me on the subject,' replied Bill. 'She has too much feeling and friendship for Jane's mother to express her belief, if she has, that her husband is not the father or her child. You know there is a kind of delicacy about the matter.'

Yes, I understand,' said Henry. 'But between you and me, I don't believe Uncle Bob is Jane's father any more than I believe you are.'

Well, you have a right to such an opinion and to express it, too,' said Bill, smiling. 'I think I should feel a little proud, if I was the father of such a girl. I don't blame the old man for feeling proud.'

Do you suppose the old man really believes she is his daughter?' asked Henry.

Iv'e no doubt of it at all,' replied Bill. 'I would not say any thing in earnest to make him believe otherwise. By the way to-morrow is the Sabbath, and I will show you the way to that trout pond you have heard me speak of. It is not distant much over three miles. If the weather continues pleasant, the snow-shoeing will be first rate. I wish Jane could go with us; but, however, she had not better go until, we have been and cut some holes through the ice, then she and you can go together and take a fine lot of trout. She understands the game, I can assure you.'

But do you think she would go?' asked the young man, looking quite anxious.

Go!' repeated Bill; 'go, yes, in a minute. You have seen her beautiful light snow-shoes, and she knows how to handle them as well as an Indian. I dare say she can travel two rods to your one upon them.—She has a short woolen dress and pantalettes, or pantaloons I might call them, which she wears with the snow-shoes. When you see her with that dress on and skipping over the snow upon her snow-shoes, she will use you up entirely. If you never loved her before, you will then. I never saw such graceful movements as she makes upon snow-shoes.'

By heavens, I should like to see her in such a costume.' said the young man.

No doubt you will have that pleasure,' replied Bill. 'But my pipe is out and my team have eaten their breakfast, and I must be off. We must do a heavy work to-day.'

The teamster went to the hovel to yoke his oxen, and left the young Bostonian to his own enthusiastic feelings and reflections. The more he saw of Jane and the more he heard said about her the more he loved her. He immediately went in where she was washing the breakfast dishes, and the old man was making preparations for dinner.

I shall give you some baked or roasted beans for dinner, just as you may please to call them,' said the old man.

I never ate so good beans as you cook,' replied Henry, taking every opportunity that offered to please the old man, especially since the arrival of Jane.

You may well say that, young man,' answered the old cook.

Father, you must not brag so much,' said Jane, smiling.

I only speak the truth,' replied the old man, laughing.

I can bear witness to your father's skill in cooking,' said Henry. 'And by the way, I wish I had some trout for him to cook.'

So do I,' replied Jane. 'I am informed there is a pond about two miles distant where the beautiful creatures may be easily caught.'

Did you ever kill any?' asked the young man.

Thousands of them,' she replied. 'O, how I love to sport!'

Bill Bushwhack is going to accompany me to that pond to-morrow, and show me the way so that I can find it any time, said the young man. 'We intend to cut some holes through the ice and prepare the way for angling at some future day.'

I should delight to go there some pleasant day,' she said.

Could you walk so far over the deep snow?' he inquired.

I will go,' said Jane. 'I guess you will find you would be quite as much fatigued as I should. I am used to travelling upon snow-shoes, and I think I can beat you.'

I don't know but you can, but I will try,' replied the excited young man.

Ah, young man, she will beat you three rods to two, and more than that she will kill three trouts to your one.'

Perhaps not,' she said. 'Some of the city gentlemen are good anglers, at least, so I have been informed.'

If you can beat me, you can beat almost any of the Bostonians,' said the young man. 'I am considered first rate in that sport; but perhaps, it does not become me to say so.'

Never mind about that, if you only tell the truth,' said the old man.

Well, we will try our skill,' she said.—There are some noble trout in that pond, so Mr. Curtis told me.'

Did you bring your hooks and lines?' asked her father.

O, certainly, I never forget them when I go into the woods where there are any trout streams or ponds,' she replied. 'I love fishing too well for that.'

You see what a wild creature she is,' said the old man. 'She never forgets her traps.'

So much the better,' replied Henry, rejoicing in the anticipation of going out on an angling excursion with such a bewitching creature.

He went in on purpose to ask her, and now that she accepted his offer he was highly gratified. He desired to see her in that snow-shoe costume of which his friend Bill had spoken. The old man was quite as much pleased as Henry was; for he believed things were working very favorable, and that the Bostonian was really fast getting in love with his daughter.

CHAPTER VI

A Sabbath in the forest. How the time is passed by lumbermen. The instinct of oxen. A jaunt to Otter Pond. Incidents on the way. The lay of the land. The game.

THE sound of the Church-going bell is not heard in the logging camps, and no preparations are made to worship in Sunday suits; but yet those who are religiously inclined have ample time and room enough to look up to Heaven and invoke a blessing on themselves and on the world. Here in the groves of stately trees is a Temple not made with hands, where the pure in heart can worship the Creator according to the dictates of enlightened consciences. Although it may be true that lumbermen in general are not religionists; yet there are always some engaged in that employment who keep the Sabbath day holy, and all refrain from labor, and give their cattle rest.

The weather continued fine, and this Sabbath morning was one of the most pleasant they had experienced during the whole winter Not a cloud obscured the bright sky, and scarcely a breath of air sighed through the tops of the pine trees. Even before ten o'clock in the morning the snow began to give under the warmth of the sun's rays, and spring-time seemed fast approaching.—It was about the middle of February, and the sun had made considerable advance towards the north, shortening the nights and lengthening the days.

After the teamster had taken care of his oxen and left them in fine trim for passing a day of rest, he and Henry tied on their snow-shoes and prepared for an excursion to Otter Pond, as it was called.

The morning is beautiful,' said Jane, as she, her father, and some others were standing in front of the camp, while Bill and Henry were preparing for the short journey.

It is glorious, and I hope we shall have just such weather for a month,' replied the young man; wishing she was going to accompany them.

A weather-breeder, if my old eyes don't deceive me,' said Uncle Bob, looking up to the heavens, and then surveying the southern horizon.

Don't prophecy evil, father,' said Jane, smiling. 'We shall probably have some more snow storms, but I hope not at present.'

So do I,' said the old man. 'But winter never rots in the skies, as my good old mother used to say.—'Iv'e seen many a morning as pleasant as this, and before night a screamer of a storm.'

I hope you don't expect to frighten us,' said Bill, rising up from a kneeling position in which he had been tying on his snow shoes. 'We can reach Otter Pond, in an hour, if we are disposed to do so, but we shall take it leisurely.'

No, no, Bill; you are about the last man I should attempt to frighten,' said the old cook. 'You have lived too long in the woods to be frightened at an—'

There! there!' interrupted Jane. 'I would not finish that sentence, if I were you.

A loud laugh echoed among the trees and died away down the valley of a brook which ran near the camp, from which they obtained their water. They started off, Henry, carrying a gun, and Bill a small pack in which were some pork and bread and a short-handled axe. Their course was in a northern direction. The snow was nearly four feet deep upon an average, and quite solid, so that they found the travelling very good. Crossing the valley of the brook, they ascended to the top of a high hill which commanded a fine view of the surrounding country. By climbing a tree, Otter Pond might have been seen about a mile towards the north; but Bill knew well the lay of the land and needed no such point of observation to direct his steps. Climbing this hill on snow-shoes made Henry breathe hard, and feel somewhat fatigued.

How think you Jane would climb this hill?' inquired Henry.

As easily as the deer,' replied his companion. 'She beats all creation on snow-shoes. I travelled with her once and found her a match for me, and I'm not considered slow.'

I should think not,' answered Henry, smiling, and breathing quite hard. 'I confess it makes me pant like a chased deer when the wolves are on his track.'

Hush!' said Bill, cocking his gun, and straining his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded. 'There, I had a glimpse of the rascal, but he saw me and took his back track.'

What was it?' anxiously inquired the young Bostonian.

A wolf, by heavens!' replied Bill. 'If we had known of his coming, concealed ourselves and kept still, we might have got a shot at him. He was following the rabbit, but he is a cunning scamp, and can see quite as far and hear as quick as we can.'

I wish we could have popped him over,' said the young man.

It is a rare thing to get a shot at them,' said Bill. 'They are sly fellows.'

They passed on among the hard-wood trees, and at last came to a beaten path.

What does this mean?' inquired Henry, looking down upon the path.

Moose tracks, by Judas!' replied Bill.—'A moose yard is close at hand!'

And can we get a shot at them?' asked Henry.

O, no, not until next month, when the crust becomes so hard as to cut their legs,' answered Bill. 'That's the time to take them; I didn't suppose they had a yard so near our camps. It is of no use to go after them now, for they can trot through this snow much faster than we can go over it.—A few warm days to melt and soften the snow and cold nights to make a crust, will give us the power over them, for they can't travel out of their well-trodden paths.'

Don't you think we could get a sight of them, if we should follow the path?' asked Henry.

No, they would see us much sooner than we could see them,' replied Bill, leading off towards the pond, and followed by the young man.

They soon passed over the good land and entered a thick cedar swamp, where the travelling was rather bad; but, however, they worked round among the trees and made pretty good headway. After crossing the swamp, they entered a grove of very large pine trees that extended to the pond they were in search of.

Ah, here's the place for our winter's operation,' said Bill, gazing up among the pines with the practiced eye of the lumberman. Here is some excellent timber, and the pond can't be far distant. I never was here but once before, and that was several years ago. I believe I remember about this clump of timber. The outlet of Otter Pond must be north from this, and not more than a half a mile distant. We'll continue our course; for I believe we are right.'

They continued on, and soon began to descend a gentle slope, the timber growing better as they proceeded. At last they came to a brook whose running waters told the teamster that they came from a pond not far distant.

They now followed up the brook eighty rods and came to Otter Pond which was near a mile long, and half a mile wide. It was romantically situated, being surrounded by hills that gently sloped to the water's edge, and which were covered with sappling pines. The prospect from the outlet was exceedingly beautiful, presenting an amphitheatre of hills clothed in perpetual green.

This is, indeed, a lovely spot,' said the young Bostonian, looking away across the ice to the hills that formed a beautiful outline upon the clear sky. 'Here is the site for a log cabin.'

True, it is,' replied Bill; 'Jane will be in raptures when her bright eyes gaze on this pine forest. We have seen nothing like it on the whole township.'

She must come with me and behold it', said Henry, smiling.

Hark!' said Bill; 'I heard a splashing in the water! Let us stand perfectly still.'

The pond was very deep and quite a space about the outlet was not frozen, and probably it seldom or never froze over. They stood still, and listened. Along the brook grew branches of thick elders quite up to the edge of the little lake, so that they could not obtain a very good view of the water that was not frozen. Soon they heard the splashing in the water again.

Otters, I'll bet my life!' whispered Bill cocking his gun and preparing to fire.

Henry did the same, and stood trembling upon his snow-shoes. Bill stooped down and strained his eyes up the brook to obtain a better view.

Three of 'em, by Judas, looking like great black dogs at play,' he said. 'We must make no noise, for they are mighty quick.'

Hadn't we better go towards them?' asked Henry.

Not a step,' whispered Bill. 'We must wait here, and perhaps they may come near enough for a shot. See, how the rascals play, first on the ice and then in the water! By Judas, how I should love to fire among them.'

I don't know but the old man was right when he called the morning a weather-breeder,' said Bill, casting his eyes towards the east. 'There are heavy banks of clouds, and it is quite hazy here. It will snow before we can reach home.'

They started of, and Bill slung the otter about his neck. Before they had proceeded a half a mile, the wind blew, and the snow came thick and fast. Such is the weather in the forests of Maine during the winter months. The morning is delightful, and the afternoon brings with it a violent snow storm. They hurried on; but Henry began to be weary, and they rested under a ledge of rocks for a short time, and then passed on. The storm was a furious one, but blew itself out soon after they reached the camp. It was a short, but violent snow-squall. Jane was the first to greet them on their arrival.

CHAPTER VII

The liens in lover's paths. The study of female character. Henry in a quandary. A question about sex. A teamster's theory of love. A long dialogue, &c.

THERE was a week of bad weather, of storm and sunshine, but more of the former. The young Bostonian was waiting impatiently for a suitable day to go to Otter Pond with Jane. It seemed to him that all the good weather had passed, and there would never be any other, but snow squalls and violent northeasters. He and Jane passed much of the time together, and it was evident that Henry was deeply in love; but whether she was they could not judge so well. Her conduct was the same as it was when she first arrived. No change had taken place. She was the same lively, animated, laughing, spirited girl. Henry himself could see no change in her conduct towards him; for she allowed him to take no more liberties with her than she did when she refused to let him play with a single curl of her hair, or hold for a moment her little finger. Several times he had watched for a favorable opportunity to press her hand to give the more emphasis to something he or she had said, or to give a keener zest to their laughing; but he was invariably foiled in all his attempst attempts , and she remained intact so far as he was considered. And he dilligently studied her character, and exercised all the philosophy of which he was master to find out what her disposition was; but he was farther from being satisfied, and more bewildered than he was at his first interview with her. He had done every thing within his power, except to tell her in so many words, to make her believe he loved her; but all his efforts proved unavailing. She seemed not to take any hints, and he began to lose all confidence in the old maxim which inculcates the doctrine that actions speak louder than words. Why it was that she could remain so apparently indifferent to all his actions which were prompted by the most ardent love, he could not make out; and his friend, the teamster, could not enlighten him. Even her father could discover no change in her conduct, while it was manifest to him there was a marked change in the young man's. Having made up his mind to tell her his love when they should visit Otter Pond together, he had forborne to say any thing to her upon the subject, except so far as his actions might interpret his feelings. The teamster often rallied him upon his love affair with Jane, and cracked his jokes without number; but nothing seemed to give him a clue to her conduct. One morning he was at the hovel while Bill was feeding his oxen, and was anxious to obtain his honest opinion whether he thought Jane loved him or not.

Now, friend Bill, what do you think of Jane?' he asked, quite seriously.

Think!' repeated Bill. 'Why, that she's the handsomest girl I ever saw!'

That is not what I mean,' replied Henry; exhibiting impatience in his manner. 'I mean, do you think she loves me now any more than she did the first time she ever saw me?'

That is more than I can tell,' answered the teamster; 'I confess I see not the least change in her conduct. And I always supposed that when the girls fall in love they would show it in their actions.'

So have I always thought,' said Henry.—'But I'll be hanged if it is so with Jane, if she has any more regard for me than she does for any one else.'

Havn't you been able yet to taste the honey of her lips?' asked Bill, laughing.

Taste the honey of her lips!' repeated the romantic lover. 'She will not permit me to touch even her little finger—not the first joint of it.'

Well, that is queer,' replied Bill. 'She's very different from some girls Iv'e seen.'

She's different from every female I have ever seen,' said Henry.

A thought has just struck me,' said Bill, scratching his head.

And what is that?' anxiously inquired Henry.

Who knnows knows but she may be a handsome boy instead of the beautiful girl we suppose her to be?' asked Bill, assuming a very wise look.

The young Bostonian was bewildered by that question and knew not what to say. At the first moment he was disposed to believe she might be a boy; but on reflection he concluded that could not be; or at any rate, he had doubts and misgivings.

'But did you ever see a boy have such long beautiful hair?' asked Henry.

'Why, a boy's hair will grow as long as a girl's if it is not cut off,' replied Bill.

'I don't know but it might,' said Henry; being still more bewildered.

'But there's another thing Iv'e thought of,' said Bill.

'And what is that?' inquired the young man.

'A certain fullness a few inches below her chin,' replied Bill, laughing.

Henry turned his eyes upon the teamster, but made no reply. For the moment, it seemed to him that Bill was treading on hallowed ground. He loved her so enthusiastically that he couldn't well bear such an allusion. Bill noted the peculiar expression upon his countenance, and thought he divined the cause.

'But after all, my young friend,' continued Bill, more seriously; 'I have seen soldiers stuffed out in front, and cotton wool is not a dear article.'

'There may be something in that,' replied Henry; beginning to think she might possibly be a boy.

'True, there may be,' said Bill. 'And who knows but they have been playing a trick upon you? Some of them down east chaps are pretty keen and have their eyeteeth cut thoroughly.'

Henry looked thoughtful and serious; not knowing but such a trick had been practiced upon him. If he had been thus duped, he very well knew that he should become the laughing stalk of all Down East. Now Bill was a great joker, and loved a bit of innocent fun as well as any other person. It must not be supposed that this young man was deficient in intellect, for such was not the fact. But when even a sensible young man falls desperately in love, he is very apt to become the butt of ridicule, and a subject upon whom his acquaintances feel at liberty to crack their jokes. Henry was precisely in that situation, and Bill, as well as some others of the camping crew, considered him fair game. It has been contended by some who ranked as philosophers, that when a young man or young woman begins to feel the talismantic power of the tender passion, for the time being, some of the faculties of the mind lose their accustomed acumen, and become somewhat blunted. When they are first brought into a state of love they seem partially to lose that sound discretion and intellectual sharpness which previously characterized them. However, that may be generally, it is true that Henry Herbert could not add up a column of figures so correctly and quickly since he had made the acquaintance of this wild and beautiful girl, as he could before. Love and simple arithmetic, to say nothing of the higher branches of mathematics, do not run smoothly together.

'No, no, Bill, I can't believe she is a boy,' said Henry, after a long pause. 'Her voice, her musical voice—no boy or man ever had such a voice.'

'Her voice is very pleasant; but then I cannot distinguish such a material difference between her voice and that of other persons as you seem to perceive. I like her voice, and love to hear her talk, and so I have many others. The truth is, I'm not especially in love with her, and you are. That makes all the difference in the world.'

'Now, Bill, upon your honor, have you ever heard any doubt her sex?' asked the young lover. Tell me the facts just as they are, or we are friends no longer.'

'I frankly confess I never have; but she acts so strangely with you, so very unlike a female, that the thought passed through my mind for the moment,' replied Bill. 'I know there are a good many roguish chaps at work below us, and the thought struck me for the moment that they might conceive the project of humbugging a Bostonian.'

'But you have known her previously,' said Henry.

'True, I have, and never considered her any thing but a girl,' replied Bill. 'And to be frank with you, I don't consider her any thing else now; but then I may have been deceived. Just make a wise, well-timed effort, and see if you can't prevail upon her to let you kiss her.'

'Iv'e made many such efforts, but in vain, and I shall make no more until I openly tell her the love I have for her,' said Henry.—'Soon as the weather permits I shall accompany her to Otter Pond, and there make a declaration of my feelings; and if that don't move her, nor make her countenance change and her eyes look soft, then I shall conclude that she ought not to wear petticoats.'

'Well, I think that is a wise course for you to pursue,' replied Bill. 'If she is of the feminine gender, when she does fall in love she will love mighty warmly; Iv'e no doubt of that. These girls that get into love so very quick and easily are not apt to love so long nor so deeply as those who have to be coaxed a good while before they show any symptoms of the tender sentiment.'

'I believe that doctrine,' said Henry.—'Iv'e seen girls of both classes. My own observation convinces me of the truth of your remarks.'

'I suppose you Boston chaps consider us who live away down here in the woods hardly up to par,' said Bill, smiling.

'If others think so, I don't,' replied Henry.' 'You all know enough.'

'I think we know better than we do,' said Bill. 'And I suppose that is the case with almost every body.'

'Probably that's quite true,' answered the young man. 'But think we shall have snow squalls to-day? It seems to me the weather looks more favorable this morning.'

'It does some what, but it is not yet settled,' answered Bill. 'We shall have one or two days more of squally weather, and then it may be pleasant again. February is unusually a squally month in these regions.—Jane does not talk of going home, does she?'

She said something about it yesterday; but I told her she couldn't be spared at present, replied Henry. 'The old man also said, she must stay awhile longer and help him cook and wash the dishes.'

Yes, yes, I understand that,' said Bill, slyly winking. 'The old man would be tickled to death to have you make a Boston lady of her. He's a proud old fellow, and has vanity enough to make a balloon of him.'

I think he is vain,' said Henry. 'But after all he seems to be honest.'

O, yes, perfectly so,' replied Bill. 'I shouldn't be afraid to trust him with uncounted money. Iv'e known him for years, and never heard aught against his character. He and his beautiful wife live very happily together. 'He is not rich, but then he has always had enough to eat and to wear; and that's about all your Boston nabobs can get in this world, and in the next they will not want even that. Some, however, are so outrageously wicked here that there they may want for a drop of water to cool their tongues.'

I shouldn't wonder,' replied the young man. 'Uncle Bob owns the place he lives on, does he not?'

O yes, and it is a beautiful location too,' replied Bill; 'his farm is small, but from his log house you can look over quite an extent of country. There is a small lake not more than a hundred rods back of his house where Jane has caught many a trout; and the outlet from it runs through the farm. It is a beautiful brook, and she often catches trout in it late in the spring. And she is a great hand to cultivate flowers. Her mother has taught her many fine things, wild and romantic as she appears to be. You would be pleased with a visit there, I can assure you, especially, in the summer months. Jane has a very elegant Indian canoe, and she makes it skim over the lake like a thing of life.'

I wonder Jane hasn't been courted before now,' said the young man.

She has been by a score of fellows, but never won,' replied Bill. 'She's not so easily won as some might imagine.'

I can swear to that,' answered Henry, half smiling.

The old tin horn now sounded and called them to breakfast. The sun was hardly up. At that season they did not yoke their teams quite so early as in the months of December and January; for the days were longer and the nights shorter

CHAPTER VIII

A second visit to Otter Pond. The partridge shooting. Trout killing. A trial of skill. Jane triumphant. A declaration of love The Otter hunt. Arrival at the camp, &c.

THE morning is fine, and I think the weather will continue pleasant through the day; at least, I hope so,' said Jane to Henry, just as they were about to start for Otter Pond.

I hope so, too,' he replied, smiling at her animated countenance, and her short snow-shoe dress, as she called it.

The dress came but a few inches below her knees; but she wore woollen pants and moccasins that came up round her ancles as high almost as a man's boots; her dress came up high about her neck, and fitted close. It was made of thick woollen cloth and sat upon her symmetrical form very neatly; over her shoulders she wore a small cape from the same cloth, and round her waist a wide girdle made from an otter skin with the fur on, her cape, too, was fringed with the same for, and round her neck she wore a fur collar; her ankles looked remarkably neat, and so did her whole person; her head was covered with a handsome fur cap. Henry thought he never saw her look so beautiful. Although the cloth was rather coarse of which her dress was made; yet the style of it was so unique, and it fitted her graceful form so admirably, and withal looked so warm and comfortable, that he was charmed with it. It was evidently made for service and comfort; and yet there was a taste about the cut of it that would please any one. And her cap, too, set off her person most beautifully, and seemed the crowning glory of the whole snow-shoe costume. Jane's moccasins were made by an Indian woman, but she had lined them with fur. The bottom of her pants were buttoned over the legs of her moccasins, so that no snow could get within them.

Now, young man, look out or she will run away from you,' said Uncle Bob, being de lighted to see them about to start together.

O, father, we shall take it fair and easy,' said Jane, having just fastened on her snow-shoes. 'Just hand me my gun, if you please.'

The old man handed the gun to her which she shouldered as if she was used to the exercise. It was a beautiful gun, and a present from a Bostonian some two or three years previous. She was a rare shot, and seldom could any one beat her; for she had practiced a great deal at a mark as well as at game. Henry took his gun and a small pack, and off they started with three cheers from the lumbermen who had just eaten breakfast, and all ready to go to their work.

The sun had just risen, and the air was clear, but not cold. It was just the morning for such an excursion. Jane stepped off with peculiar grace and beauty. Every motion was as easy as those of an accomplished skater She skipped over the deep smooth snow apparently without any exertion. Henry placed himself by her side, and never was so happy in his life. It seemed to him he had the whole world with him and all its charms.—Jane did not hurry, but took an easy, graceful step.

They pursued nearly the same course as he and Bill did a few days previous. The snow-shoeing was now better than it was then, and they passed along without fatigue. The distance was not long, and they had an early start, so that they had no occasion to hurry.

I suppose you will carry all the game I may shoot,' she said, as they were passing up a hill.

O, certainly, unless you shoot a bear,' he replied.

Then you fall a little behind, and I will plump over a partridge or two,' she said.—'At this season of the year these beautiful birds love to get on the sunny side of the hills. See on yonder birch tree! There are four of them budding!'

By heavens, so there are!' he replied, gazing intently into the tree.

Soon as we approach near enough, I can kill the two lower ones at a single shot, and then you can fire at the next one above,' she said. 'That is the way to shoot these birds from a tree. They don't often fly when the lower ones are taken first.'

That was a new wrinkle to Henry. They advanced near enough, and quick as thought she fired and dropped two dead under the tree while the other two above sat motionless with upstretched necks.

Fire, while I load,' she said, loading her gun again.

Henry fired; but by some means missed No partridge fell or flew away.

You shot under,' she continued; 'I saw the twigs fly. Rather a bad shot at so good a mark.'

When they came to the outlet of Otter Pond she was delighted with the view, but more delighted when the beautiful lake appeared in sight. They had proceeded cautiously in the hope of seeing some otters, but none were to be seen.

Now, we'll take off our snow-shoes and prepare for the trout,' she said. 'And, if you don't work sharp I shall beat you. The trout always love to bite at my hook. You must cut some fir bushes to make seats; for it will be hard work to stand all the while we may be fishing.'

He very cheerfully obeyed her commands, and made some very comfortable seats with fir boughs. Much time did not elapse, before her hook was baited and dropped through the hole into the water. He hurried, also, and soon had his hook in the water. The holes were about two rods apart. As good luck would have it, Henry caught the first trout. It was a small one, however.

Not one quarter as large as mine,' she said a moment after he hauled his fish out upon the ice.

And she hauled up a two pounder, whose bright sides glittered in the rays of the sun. It was a beautiful silver-bellied trout, and made the young man's eyes stick out so that she might have almost hung her cap on them. She caught another about half as large before he felt a bite.

At last he caught one of middling size; but not, however, before she had killed two more. The luck was evidently all on her side, and proved the old cook's words true, that she would kill three to his one. They continued the sport some three hours, and killed quite as many as they could carry to the camps. The day was an exceedingly favorable one. The sign happened to be in the right place. They went to the shore and kindled a fire where they took some refreshment previous to their starting on their journey to the camp.

While they were engaged in fishing, Henry attempted several times to make a full declaration of his love; but she was so intent upon angling that he doubted whether the opportunity was a good one. There was a heavy burden upon his heart of which he desired to relieve himself. After they had partaken of their lunch, they were sitting upon the old trunk of a fallen pine a few feet a part.

I think wev'e had a good dinner,' she said. 'But it would have been better, if we had cooked a trout.'

Yes; but I had rather carry them all to the camp,' he replied. 'Now, Jane, I have something here which bears heavily.' And he placed his hand upon his heart, and fell on his knees before her. [See Engraving.]

You shouldn't have eaten so much then,' she replied, smiling.

It is not in the stomach but on my heart,' he said, in a tremulous voice. 'Let me say to you in all frankness and sincerity that I most dearly love you. You have made an impression on my heart which no other female has ever done.'

Well! I'm sure I intended to do no such thing,' she replied. 'Does your heart feel sore?'

Now, Jane, my dear Jane, don't trifle with me,' he replied. 'Have you not been aware that I loved you?'

Iv'e thought nothing about it,' she replied, appearing quite indifferent.

That is very strange,' he said, moving nearer to her, and gazing into her sparkling eyes.

From the first moment of your arrival at the camp I began to love you, and my love has been unceasing ever since.'

What, you! a handsome young fellow from the city, love me, a plain country girl brought up in the woods!' she said, manifesting much apparent surprise.

Yes, dear Jane, it is true as I hope for happiness here and hereafter,' he replied, letting his hand fall upon hers, and gazing anxiously into her face.

She suddenly withdrew her hand, and said. 'Mother has often told me that young men from Boston are very apt to love, or to pretend to, and that I mustn't believe any thing they say.'

O, Jane, you must believe me,' he answered in much earnestness.

I shall believe mother sooner than any body else,' she replied, rising up, and preparing to put on her snow-shoes. 'I think we had better be going. Good gracious.—See! There are some otters! Keep still! They do not see us. I can creep up behind that bunch of alders and get a shot perhaps. You keep perfectly still.'

She seized her gun and crept softly along to the alders without being discovered. A moment afterwards the report of her gun echoed through the wood, and the largest otter ceased to breather. She was all excitement, and ran to the otter and brought him up upon the ice. He was a noble fellow.

Now we have as much game as we can carry,' she said, smiling, and holding up the sleek otter.

He had told his love; but even a dead otter seemed to make more impression upon her heart than his most earnest declaration of love. They started for the camp; but they were so burdened with game that their progress was slow and fatiguing. On the way he attempted several times to speak of that which bore with more weight upon his heart; but there was something in her manner that rendered each attempt abortive.—Her character was now involved in more mystery than ever before so far as he could see. They arrived at the camp just as the workmen had all come in. There was much rejoicing over the game they had brought.—But Henry was troubled in spirit.

CHAPTER IX

The perplexities of a lover. A consultation with a father. Troubles increase. The mother must be visited. A new suggestion from the cunning teamster, &c.

THE old cook was on his high horse, and began to prepare a portion of the trout for supper; and one of the crew skinned the otter for Jane, while Bill lent a hand in picking the partridges. There were lively times in the camp that evening, and Jane was the heroine of the occasion.

After supper, Bill went out to feed his oxen, Henry followed him.

Well, my young friend, did you open your heart to the bewitching creature?' asked Bill, smiling, and feeling anxious to hear the result.

I did, but in rather an awkward manner, I confess,' replied Henry. 'Some how or other, I couldn't get at the affair just as I wanted to, she is so peculiar and different from any other girl I have ever seen.'

Well, how did she receive your declaration?' inquired the teamster.

With the most perfect indifference,' was the reply of the young lover.

I confess I can see no change in her,' said Bill. 'Didn't you get so far as to press her hand?'

Good heavens, I might as well attempt to put my hand upon a live otter in the brook as to touch her,' replied Henry.

I reckon she has been well instructed by her mother,' said Bill. 'But young girls do not always mind such instructions.'

That is true; but Jane does to the very letter,' replied the excited lover. 'I have never seen such an exhibition of female nature! I believe I shall talk with the old man.'

I think I should, if I were you,' replied Bill.

They now went back to the camp, and the evening was a jolly one. Cards, chequers, talking, laughing, joking and smoking constituted the fund from which they drew their amusement. But Henry was not in a mood to enjoy such frolicking; and yet he endeavored to appear as cheerful as possible.—It was nearly one o'clock, before the lumbermen retired.

Although Henry was tired with his journey to the pond, yet he passed a restless night, sleeping, dreaming and waking by turns.—He had come to the deliberate conclusion that he was most essentially in love; so much so, that his affianced Monira Montague was almost excluded from his thoughts; yet occasionally he thought of her accomplishments, and her love for him. He could not entirely forget her; yet her personal beauty could not be compared with Jane's. Besides, she was a well-educated, accomplished young lady, such as he had always been accustomed to associate with, and there was no novelty about it, nothing of a romantic nature, such as he found in the wild and beautiful Jane. One was governed by the conventional rules of polite and refined society, the other by the dictates of a pure nature. Monira pleased him, but Jane excited his admiration. The motions and manners of the latter had not been taught by a dancing master, but flowed freely from a symmetrically formed muscular formed organization. There seemed to be not a single muscle in her whole frame that did not bear its proportionate part of the exercise in every movement she made. An awkward motion could not well be made without giving her pain.—It was not so with Miss Montague; for she had been taught some motions which fashion had sanctioned, but which were not in accordance with a pure taste. There was in them an overstraining of nature, and when compared with the naturally graceful ones of Jane, they seemed rather awkward to the young Bostonian. He had often seen Monira in her most beautiful and fashionable dresses, but he had never seen one that charmed him so much as Jane's snow-shoe costume. True, the cloth of which it was made was coarse, but when enclosing her beauteous form, he admired it in a winter's day. During the night he dreamed that Monira came to the camp, dressed in her silks and satins, and talked with Jane, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. He thought he heard Jane tell her not to cry, for she did not love him who had professed to love her. That awoke him, and he was glad to find it a dream. When he arose in the morning, he was not refreshed by sleep, but felt still fatigued. And having brought a heavy burden from the pond, and not being accustomed to the use of snow-shoes, he was pretty well used up; but if his mind had not been troubled, and he had slept soundly, he would not have felt so sore in every limb.

Some time after breakfast when he found the old cook at leisure, he asked him to walk out a short time, for he desired to have some conversation with him out of the hearing of Jane. The old man suspected what he wanted, and cheerfully accompanied him.

I suppose you are aware that I love your daughter,' said Henry.

Well, Iv'e thought some actions squinted that way,' replied the old man. 'Do you really love her so that it will last?'

As long as my life,' replied Henry. 'But I fear she does not return my affection.'

Not return it, eh!' said the old cook.—'Have you told her your feelings?'

I did yesterday,' replied the young lover.' 'But she seemed not to care any thing about it.'

Jane's a wild creature, but she has a warm heart, or else she don't take after her old father,' said the cook. 'I can see no good reason why she should not love you; for you are a fine-looking young fellow! just such an one as I should think gals would love.'

Not such an one as your Jane will love, I fear,' replied Henry. 'Her mother has told her not to believe what young men say to her; and I believe her mother controls her.'

Faith, I reckon she does, and me, too, for that matter,' said the old man, laughing. 'She's a very smart woman; but few like her. She knows which side the bread is buttered. I can tell ye, young man, that ye havn't many women in Boston so handsome as she is. I suppose Jane takes after her mother more than she does after me, her old father. But then I was straighter when I married her than I am now. I was pretty fair-looking for an old bachelor. Some people pretend to wonder how she came to have me. But she knew I had a good heart and would treat her kindly; and faith, I have. We never have any quarrels about our fireside. All is peace and comfort.'

I'm glad to hear it,' said Henry, wishing the old man would not stray from the point which was so near his heart. 'I wish I could see your wife.'

Lord bless you, it's the easiest thing in the world,' said the old man. Just get upon Mr. Curtis' hay sled and your'e there in a day and evening, if you start early enough. I'm going to send Jane home in a few days, and you can go with her if you please. You shall be welcome to stop at my house a week or month, just as it may suit you. My wife will take good care of you, I'll warrant. She knows how to keep house, and some of my skill in cooking came from her. She will tell ye all about your loving Jane, and what is best to be done about it; I don't meddle much in such affairs.'

I think I will accept your invitation and go, if Jane has no objections,' said Henry.

Lord love ye, Jane won't object; for she says you are a nice fellow and good company,' said the old man.

Then she spoke in my favor,' did she?' anxiously inquired the excited lover.

She said what I have told you,' replied the old man. 'That's favorable, isn't it?'

Rather so,' answered Henry. 'But do you think she will ever regard me more than she does now?'

Wild birds are not caught at once,' said the old man, laughing. 'I don't know much about such things. My wife will tell you all about 'em. See her; Jane won't tell ye any thing until she sees her mother. And therein she's right. When a girl has such a mother as Jane has, she ought to mind what she's told.'

Henry could get no more out of the old man, and they separated. He found that Uncle Bob was as much under the control of his wife as Jane was. Of one thing he was certain; that is, that the old man was well pleased with the idea of his loving Jane.—Having gained the good will and consent of one parent, he was now anxious to hear what the other would say. He sought Jane to ascertain how she would like it to have him accompany her home.

Iv'e been talking with your father about accompanying you home when you go,' he said. 'How would you like my company?'

Suit yourself, and you will suit me,' she replied.

Does your mother like to see company?' he asked.

O, she is very fond of having people call upon her,' she replied. 'We always have enough to eat. But we live in a log house.'

I care nothing about that,' he replied. 'I have seen log houses before; but I have a desire to see your good mother.'

Well, you'll see a handsome woman when you do see her,' she replied.

I expect so,' he replied. 'When do you think of going home?'

Some time next week,' she replied. 'I have staid now about as long as I expected when I left home. Mother will be looking for me soon.'

They continued in conversation some time, but Henry never spoke of his love, and had not since the first time at Otter Pond. After much reflection upon the subject, he concluded to pestpone postpone it until he could see her mother. The warmth of his love did not grow cold, but rather increased in intensity the more he associated with her. She exercised a power over him which no other female ever had; and yet she did not seem to be conscious of it, or to make any efforts in that direction. Every thing she did was perfectly natural, and seemed to be without design She was romantic and even enthusiastic in every thing save in the affairs of love. In those she was apparently, and to him, most vexatiously indifferent. It seemed to him sometimes that she was neither of the feminine or masculine gender, especially so far as loving was concerned: The more he became acquainted with her the less he seemed to know about her heart. He had endeavored to read her, but he was completely at fault. She was either not capable of loving, or else she possessed consummate art to conceal her feelings. He could hardly believe the latter; for she was the most artless girl he had ever seen, and to believe the former required a stretch of credulity he did not possess; for it seemed impossible to him that such a beautiful female-form should not have a heart in it. The more he thought upon the subject the more bewildered and perplexed he was. He often talked with the cunning teamster; but Bill always plunged him deeper and deeper into darkness. Bill was roguish, yet a very honest fellow. He considered any one in love fair game for him to sport with. Henry often accompanied Bill, and rode upon the logging sled, and Jane sometimes did the same. After he had finished his conversation with Jane, he went out where Bill was loading his sled, and told him he had concluded to accompany Jane home.

'That's an excellent move; for you will then probably find out whether Jane is a boy or girl, or neither,' said Bill.

'Neither!' repeated Henry, with great seriousness. 'Neither! By heavens, Bill, that thought struck me not half an hour ago when I was talking with her.'

'Well, it would be queer, if she turns our neither boy nor girl,' said Bill, wishing to have a little fun at the lover's expense.—'They say there are some such creatures in the world.'

'My God!' exclaimed Henry. 'That would be dreadful! I know it it is said that such persons have been born.'

'Yes! Nature being in doubt whether to make man or woman, makes neither,' said Bill, laughing.

'By heavens, Bill, that is too serious a subject for laughter,' said Henry.

'I don't know but it is; but I'll be hanged if I can help laughing, replied Bill, laughing still louder.

They talked the matter over from the loading to the landing-place, and back; but Bill would give no positive opinion one way or the other.

Henry had now a more troublesome flea in his ear than he ever had before. He hardly knew what to think, or what to do, but one thing was certain. He knew he loved her, and that impression he could not erase from his heart.

CHAPTER X

The partridge hunt, again. Trial of skill. The Panther; the terror of the Indians. Cowardice of a Bostonian. Courage of a Maiden. The fatal shots. The excitement, &c.

THE day drew near when Jane was to start for home, accompanied by her lover; but they had not yet been out on their contemplated partridge hunt. For three days past the weather had been unfavorable; but a morning now came which appeared to be propitious, and Henry and his beloved Jane started forth all armed and equipped as circumstances required. Jane surveyed the ground in the vicinity of the camp. After proceeding about a half a mile, Jane pointed to a hill in a southern direction, and said,

'I think we had better course round the sunny side of yonder hill. We shall find some partridges there, I think. The lay of the land looks like it to me.'

'I leave it all to you,' he replied. 'I think your skill is better than mine.'

They swept off on their snow-shoes towards the sunny side of the hill with rapid strides. It was a good spot for a snow-shoe race, and Jane was determined to test the speed of her companion. He was aware of her drift, and governed himself accordingly. For a few rods they kept even pace; but soon Jane began to leave him in the rear, in spite of all his efforts to keep up with her. Faster and faster she swept off, until she gained several rods, when in his hurry and excitement, he let the nose of his snow-shoe catch against the limb of a small tree, and over he went, falling upon his side, and becoming so entangled with his snow-shoes and the small trees that he could not well gain a perpendicular position. She hurried back, laughing, seized his right hand and raised him up. That was the first time he ever felt the pressure of her hand, and was grateful for the small favor. He was now satisfied that her hand felt like a woman's hand, and attempted to hold it after he was fairly upon his feet again; but she instantly withdrew it when it was no longer needed to help him up.

'Snow-shoes are awkward things, if they are not handled right,' she said, laughing.

They passed along, and were soon upon the side hill, where the tracks of the birds were plainly visible. A few steps further, and two partridges rose from a small fir tree and directed their flight to the south. Quick as thought the report of her gun was heard, and one of the birds dropped dead upon the snow some eighty yards distant.

'There she drops,' said Jane, with sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks.

'Where?' anxiously inquired Henry; 'I scarcely saw them.'

'I had a glimpse, but long enough for a quick sight,' she replied, hastening towards the bird, followed by Henry.

'Well, I'll give up now,' he said, as he stooped down and picked up the game. 'That was a wonderful shot! And I can't see how it was done.'

'I should judge you were an old practiced hunter,' he said.

'I shot these birds when I was but ten years old, and have followed it every year since,' she replied. 'Seven years practice ought to give one some skill.'

'True, if you were a boy,' he said. 'But how a girl can acquire such skill, I'm at a loss to determine.'

'Why, havn't I eyes, and strong arms enough to hold a gun,' she asked.

'Yes, your eyes are bright enough, and I see you can hold your gun,' he replied.

Having passed along a few rods, she discovered another bird standing upon the trunk of a fallen tree. He rested his gun against a tree and killed the bird. He was much rejoiced at the feat he had performed. Although he thought he was a good shot, yet there was much room for improvement. They travelled on for some distance without seeing more birds. As they were crossing a small ravine, they discovered a large track in the snow which looked as if it had just been made.

Gracious heavens!' she exclaimed.—'That is the track of a panther! We must put some bullets in our guns instantly!'

A panther!' he repeated, while he felt the hair rising under his cap. 'Then let us make for the camp quick as possible!'

We will do so; but let us first be prepared for the worst,' she said; drawing her shot and putting in its place a brace of bullets.

He did the same, with a trembling hand, and they took their back track.

Keep a watch upon all the large trees; for he may be watching us,' she said. 'I don't like these creatures; but we must be firm, if we see him, or he will certainly kill one or both of us.'

They moved along cautiously over the ravine, gazing up into the trees and keeping a good look-out. Henry trembled, and the perspiration stood in large drops upon his forehead. He would have given all his father's township to have been safe in the camp, if it were his to give.

Don't be so frightened,' she said. 'You are enough to frighten any body. We must be courageous. Cowardice increases rather than lessens our danger.'

Cautiously Jane led the way, and Henry followed close upon her heels, treading softly as if he were afraid of waking the monster from his sleep. They now came upon the track again, which looked still fresher, and passed in the direction they were going.—Jane examined the cap on the tube of her gun to see that it would be sure to go off.

Here's the track again, and leading the same way we are going,' said Henry, in a trembling voice, scarcely above a whisper.

I know it,' said Jane, first peering ahead through the bushes and then gazing up into the trees. 'Perhaps the creature has gone down into yonder hollow. We'll keep up on the side hill and leave his track to the right.

I think we had better leave his track,' whispered Henry, gazing wildly around; but on no particular spot lest he might see the dreaded animal.

Hush!' said Jane. 'Stand perfectly still and cock your gun. Be ready! I see him!'

Where?' anxiously inquired the excited, trembling young man.

Yonder!' she replied, cocking her gun and gazing upon the beast.

At that moment the panther leaped up a large yellow birch, some twenty feet from the ground, and stretched himself out upon a strong limb. There he lay, gazing upon them and working his tail first one way and then the other as the cat does when she is watching a mouse.

Let us run back!' said Henry, gazing upon the monster. 'He will spring upon us!'

He will, if we retreat,' she replied, in a firm toned voice, looking directly into the face and eyes of the animal as he gazed into her's.

His tail was constantly in motion; but he moved not another muscle. Henry stood trembling as if he were ready to fall into pieces and drop into the earth. Jane saw at once that she could place no dependence upon her companion; for he was in such a trembling state that he couldn't hold his gun steady enough to hit a logging camp, much less put a bullet between the eyes of the panther. The distance between them and the panther was about sixty yards, near as Jane wished to be. She knew the beast was waiting for them to approach nearer that he might leap from the tree upon them.

What shall we do?' asked Henry, trembling and standing close at Jane's side as if he clung to her for protection.

Do!' she repeated. 'We must kill him, or he will us! Can you hold your gun steady enough to hit him?'

O, I know not!' was his whispered reply.

Well, I know you can't,' she said, taking his gun and leaning it against a large scrub pine tree beside which they stood. 'Let your gun stand there, so that if I miss him with mine, I can try yours! I wish I had a man with me.'

Such a remark from her at any other time, or under other circumstances, would have cut him to the quick; but he was then so excited that he hardly heard what she said.

Are you going to fire?' he tremblingly asked.

To be sure I am, and think I shall kill him,' she replied. 'But I may miss him!'

O, God, have mercy upon us!' he muttered, in trembling accents, while she deliberately brought her gun to her face and blazed away, placing her brace of bullets very nearly where she intended. Instantly dropping her gun, she seized Henry's, to be prepared for any emergency. When the bullets struck the animal he leaped towards them and fell upon the snow nearly thirty feet from the tree, where he bounced up and down in the struggles of death. She instantly fired again and put two bullets through his body, and he keeled over dead. Henry was holding upon Jane's dress in the greatest agony of fear.

There, that job is well done,' said Jane, leaning her back against the tree. 'You ought not to have touched my dress; for you came very near spoiling my best shot.'

Is he dead?' inquired Henry; still holding Jane's dress as if he was afraid to leave her.

Let go my dress and go and see,' she replied, while the perspiration stood on her face, and her heart beat violently.

She had so nerved herself for the occasion, that now all danger was passed, she felt quite exhausted. Henry still stood behind, keeping her person between himself and the beast, lest the creature might yet leap upon them.

Do go and see the creature!' she said. 'See where I hit him; I feel exhausted just now.'

Perhaps he's not dead, he replied, peeping out from behind her, and looking towards the animal.

Yes, he is stone dead,' she answered, manifesting disgust at his cowardice. 'Go and see.'

He started not until she led the way, which she soon did. Jane turned over the body and found where she had hit. She was delighted with her shots.

I frankly confess I was never so frightened in my life,' he replied. 'To you I feel indebted for my life, and the debt I will endeavor to pay.'

I think you promised to carry all the game I might shoot,' she said, smiling.

True, but I didn't dream of such a monster as this when I made the promise,' he said.

No, if you had, I shouldn't have had your company,' she replied, laughing.

I deserve all, and more than you can say,' he answered.

They now hurried down to the camp, and the news soon spread that Jane had shot a catamount. There was great excitement; and the old cook, when Jane told him what she had done, stood like a statue, only not quite so straight. Henry and three lumbermen went after and brought the dead animal to the camp. Jane was now looked upon as the greatest wonder of the whole region.

CHAPTER XI

Recollections of the panther hunt. The hunting party. The moose yard. Hunting moose. Two glorious shots. A Heroine, &c.

BEFORE Jane had an opportunity of telling the particulars about the panther hunt. Henry related all the circumstances, and he frankly acknowledged his want of courage in the affair. He thought it the best policy for him to tell the whole truth rather than let it come from her lips. He loved her now more fervently than he ever did before, firmly believing that he should have been torn into a thousand pieces and his blood sucked up by the savage panther if it had not been for Jane's courage, firmness and skill. The panther's skin was stretched upon the south side of the camp, and looked even terrible there, especially to the young Bostonian.—The head of the creature was handsomely skinned so that it made a good show in connection with the skin of the body. It was upwards of ten feet long from the tip of the tail to the end of the nose. Jane was highly complimented for her skill and courage in shooting the animal, by all the crew, and no one was more extravagant in his praises of that skill and courage than Henry himself.—It was a stroke of policy in him; for, by so doing, he disarmed ridicule of some of its stings, and made his cowardice less obnoxious. Uncle Bob was in his glory, and never felt so proud of Jane as he did when gazing upon the outstretched panther's skin.

Ah!' said the old man, as he stood examining the skin in company with Bill, Henry and Jane, and measuring its length, 'These catamounts are terrible beasts. The Indians are more afraid of them than they are of any other animal. I have never seen out one live one, and he was carrying off one of my sheep a year ago this winter.—And, perhaps, this fellow is the very one.—Well, he has got his pay now. Wasn't you terribly frightened, Jane?'

I hadn't any time to be scared,' she replied. 'I found I had something else to do; for I knew he would be likely to kill us if I didn't kill him! After I had shot him and knew he was dead, I felt some frightened, exhausted, or something else. I hardly know what.'

Didn't the rascal look kind of cunning on the limb of the tree, peeping at you and gently wagging his tail?' asked Bill, addressing Henry, and smiling.

I confess I hardly dared to look at him,' replied Henry. 'I saw his tail curling under the limb a few times, but I scarcely saw his savage face once.'

He did look as if he wanted some fresh meat,' said Jane. 'His eyes glistened, and his ears were laid back close to his head.'

Did you rest your gun when you fired?' asked the old man.'

O, no! I never do that,' she replied. 'I can shoot better without.

That's right,' said the old man. 'I was good with a gun before my eye sight failed me.'

The old man told the truth; for he used to be an excellent shot, and first taught Jane the use of the gun, until he had so far instructed her that she could beat him in taking game on the wing.

I know that, father,' she said. 'You taught me how to hold the gun.'

Who taught you, Henry?' asked Bill slyly, winking at Jane.

The less said about that the better,' replied Henry, forcing a smile upon his face. 'I shall never boast again about my skill in shooting until I have killed a panther.'

Then I fear you'll not boast in this world, said Bill, laughing.

I freely confess Iv'e no desire to see an other such a creature in the woods, either running upon the snow or watching on the limb of a tree,' said Henry. 'Do you, Jane?'

Not unless I have a man with me,' she replied, smiling.

Come, come, Jane, let that pass,' said Henry. 'Never strike a man after he is down.'

Well, I was really provoked with you when you caught hold of my dress as I was about to fire the second time,' she said.

I don't blame you at all,' answered Henry. 'But the creature did spring so furiously from the tree and bound up and down so upon the snow that I thought he would be upon us in a moment.'

I don't wonder you were frightened,' said the old man. 'And Jane would have been, if she hadn't been so intent on killing the monster. That kept her courage up until she had sent four bullets through him.'

He must have looked savage after the first fire,' said Bill.

There wasn't much time between the first and second fire,' said Jane. 'I wasn't long in getting the second aim, I can assure you. I fired when he was three feet above the snow; for I had a fair view of his side at the moment. I think Henry's gun is a good one, and better than mine for large game.'

It shall be yours,' said Henry, running into the camp, bringing it out and presenting it to her.

There, Jane, that's a grand present,' said the old cook. 'It is a much more costly gun than yours.'

I know that, father,' said Jane, taking the gun and running her hand over the highly finished barrel. 'It is a beautiful gun; but you will want it, Henry.'

No, no, your'e welcome to it,' replied Henry. 'I feel now as if I shall not shoot much more until I take lessons of you.'

By the way,' said Bill; 'I understand Jane, that you are going home this week.'

I suppose that is the calculation,' she replied.

I wish you could wait a few days longer, and go with us to that moose yard between here and Otter Pond,' said Bill. 'If this weather holds there will soon be a crust so that we can kill some moose.'

O, I should be delighted with that!' she replied. 'Why can't I stay, father?'

I don't know but you can, if Mr. Curtis don't finish hauling his hay,' replied the old man. 'We can send word to your mother.'

Curtis has several loads to haul yet,' said Bill.

It was finally agreed that Jane should stay and join in the moose hunt. Although Henry was anxious to see Jane's mother, yet he was glad to have her stay, for he desired to have some of the wild sport of hunting moose himself.

At last a suitable time came, and the party started off, led by Bill, who knew the ground. Jane, Henry, Bill and David Davis composed the party. Davis was an old experienced hand, and knew more about the sport than either of the others. They started before sunrise so as to have the whole day before them. There was a fine hard crust, and the snow-shoeing excellent. Davis had a dog that understood the business as well as his master. The name of the dog was Carlo. Bill and Davis hauled after them two hand-sleds for the purpose of taking the moose to the camp in case they found any. It was a fine morning, on the first of March, and all were in high glee. Jane was more than a match for either of them upon snow-shoes. They were not long in reaching the hardwood growth where Bill found the moose path.

They have been here recently,' said Davis, stooping down and examining some fresh tracks. 'See those young trees. The bark has just been peeled from them. That was done not longer ago than last night.'—The dog was all life; but his master held him by a string.

They passed along the track, and soon came to another that branched off in another direction. Hundreds of young trees were barked and some of them high up.

There are some tall fellows here,' said Bill. 'See how high they have gnawed the bark on that sappling!'

We shall find them,' said Davis. 'There's no mistaking the signs.'

How far off are they?' asked Jane, feeling anxious to see one.

They may be two miles from this,' replied Davis. 'Sometimes their paths are very long.'

Carlo smells them,' said Jane, patting the dog upon the head.

Yes, he knows they have been here as well as I do,' replied Davis.

They followed one of the beaten paths nearly a mile, and started one. He was lying down, but he rose so suddenly and trotted so quick that they hardly had a glimpse of him.

The dog was now all anxiety and begged to be let loose. His master untied the string, and away Carlo ran in silence, and was soon out of sight.

Now we'll proceed,' said Davis, leading off, closely followed by Jane. 'Soon as Carlo comes up with the moose we shall hear him.'

It was not long before the loud barking of Carlo was heard. The sounds grew nearer.

Carlo has driven the moose into another track to the east of us,' said Davis, starting off in an eastern direction, followed by Jane, who soon passed him in spite of all his efforts. Her snow-shoes were lighter, and she had nothing but her gun to carry, while Davis had a pack upon his back, and hauled a hand-sled. Jane gained upon him very fast, and finally passed from his sight through the thick trees. The barking of the dog grew nearer and nearer, and she expected to see the moose every moment. She had travelled more than a half mile since she left the moose path, and was within a few rods of another beat. On came a cow moose and the dog close at her heels. Jane saw him, and fired. The moose bounded into the air and fell dead. She happened to shoot him through the heart. Davis came up and congratulated Jane on her success.

O, I had an excellent shot; but he was trotting like blazes,' she said. 'But I made allowance for her speed.'

Bill and Henry soon came up. Bill would have arrived sooner, but Henry would not permit Bill to leave him alone. It was a noble fat cow, and Davis bled her.

Now for her mate,' said Davis. 'Carlo will find him.'

They started off, and Carlo went ahead, seeming to know there was more game.—Jane, followed the dog and left the others behind. Davis, however, laid off his pack, and left his sled, and soon came up with Jane who had somewhat slackened her speed as she did not hear the barking of Carlo.

I don't hear Carlo,' she said. 'Think he'll find another one?'

To be sure he will,' replied Davis.—'There, don't you hear him now?'

They pressed on; but agreed to keep together. They travelled near a mile before they could hear the dog's barking more distinctly than they did at first. Soon, however, they heard him nearer and nearer as they advanced.

Carlo has driven the moose from the beat, and has him in the crust,' he said. 'Don't let us shoot him until the others come up.'

In the course of a half an hour they came up with the dog and moose. As Davis said, the moose was in the hard crust, and could make but slow headway. He would make a few plunges and then turn round and fight the dog. It was a bull moose of the largest size. They followed slowly along and saw the actions of the moose; for they were within a few rods off waiting for the others to come. Soon, Bill and Henry hove in sight.

Why don't you shoot him?' asked Henry, as he came in sight of the animal.

We thought we would let you see how Carlo plays him,' said Davis. 'We are sure of him.'

The dog would grab him by the gambrel , when the moose would turn and strike at him most furiously with his forefeet. After witnessing the sport awhile, it was agreed that Jane should have the first shot, and Henry the second, if she didn't kill him.—Jane fired, but poor Henry's chance was gone; for the moose fell back upon his haunches, and soon died.

'There's no chance for any one else after she fires, unless they shoot at a dead object,' said the young Bostonian, smiling.

Jane said she was satisfied and ready to go to the camp or home; for she had hunted enough for one winter. Bill told her that her panther hunt ought to have satisfied her. The moose were dressed and bound upon the sleds, and they found their way back to the camp, which they reached just as all hands had come in from work. There was great rejoicing and much good feasting that evening.

CHAPTER XII

The journey home. Incidents on the way.—Arrival home. Catechisms of a cautious mother. The emotions of a lover. How to live in a log cabin, &c.

'NOW whip up, Uncle Curtis,' said Jane, as she sat on her panther skin beside Henry Herbert on her way home. 'We have an early start, and how long will it take to go home?'

'If nothing breaks we shall arrive just after dark,' replied Mr. Curtis. 'The sleighing is excellent and the days now are quite long. I hope we shall not be obliged to stop on the way to burn another old logging camp. Ah. Jane, that was a terrible stormy morning!'

'Yes, it was,' she replied. 'And how glad the horses were to see us when we went into the hovel.'

'I don't wonder they were, according to your account of the affair,' said Henry. 'I should think you must have been very cold.'

'We had too much to think of to be cold,' she replied. 'I had no time then to be cold, no more than I had to be frightened when I shot the panther with you trembling behind me! O, I shall never forget that.'

'You'll forget it as soon as I shall,' he answered smiling. 'But, Jane, you mustn't joke me any more about that; for I have fully acknowledged every thing.'

'I know it; but then I must have a little fun once in a while,' she said. 'O, Uncle Curtis, I'll give you some of my moose meat when we get home.'

'I shall be very glad of some,' he said.—'I'm very fond of it.'

The lumbermen had wrapped up in the hide of the largest moose a fat hind quarter, and placed it upon the sled. The horses glided along, and soon the sun rose. The morning was clear and pleasant. They had ridden some five miles before sunrise. A short time after sunset they came in sight of the two houses.

'There, I can see our house!' said Jane. 'Mother is expecting us, and how glad she'll be, Iv'e been gone so long.'

'I guess she will rejoice to see you,' said Mr. Curtis 'She told me not to come home this time without you.'

Henry was a good deal excited as the horses drew up to the house; for he had long been anxious to see the woman who had given birth to such a daughter as Jane The mother expected the young Bostonian, and prepared accordingly. Every thing about the log house was in the nicest order. As the horses stopped before the door, Jane sprang out and was soon in her mother's arms. She then introduced Henry, who was received very politely. He was struck with her beauty notwithstanding her age, and the life she had lived in the woods.

Youv'e had a pleasant ride, I hope,' said the mother, addressing Henry.

Very fine,' he replied.' 'The day has been fine and the travelling good. We could not have selected a better day for our journey.'

So I should think,' she replied, eyeing him very closely.

After supper, which was served up in very neat style, Jane told over all her adventures, and when she related the story about the panther, the mother was greatly surprised, and trembled at the dangers her daughter had passed.

Henry told her frankly that he was indebted for his life to the courage and skill of her daughter. She excused him for all his conduct on the occasion, and wondered how Jane could have been thus nerved up to meet such dangers.

The evening was passed very pleasantly From the evening's conversation with Jane's mother, he came to the conclusion that she was an educated woman, and had once lived in fashionable style. Her manners, forms of expression, and her intelligence, all were evidence to his mind that she had once moved in a high circle and been acquainted with fashionable life. And he was not alone in that opinion; for Mr. Curtis and his wife, and many others entertained the same opinion. His love for Jane had become deep and strong; although he had not spoken of it to her since their angling excursion to Otter Pond. He could discover no change in her conduct towards him, and even now sometimes had suspicions in relation to her sex, still he always reasoned himself out of such suspicions when he calmly reflected upon the subject. But they would occasionally return to trouble his mind. The teamster, Bill, had ingeniously worked upon his mind out of mere fun, not supposing that he would really believe such things of Jane as he suggested. After a long and interesting conversation, he was shown into a small neat room, where he found comfortable quarters for the night. The more he endeavored to find out about Jane the deeper he became involved in mystery. At one moment he would believe that Uncle Bob was her father, at another, that he could not be. In that way he was harrassed through the night.

After Jane and her mother retired, the mother had much to say and many questions to ask. But that which bore with the most force upon her mind was the matter in which the young man was most deeply interested. She liked his appearance and was pleased with his address and intelligence. She knew very well that he had been accustomed to refined and polished society; for he showed that kind of breeding in all his movements.

How do you like the young man, Jane?' asked her mother, after they were safely ensconced in bed together.

O, he is very pleasant and excellent company except when a panther is to be killed,' replied Jane, throwing her arm round her mother's waist, and pressing her.

He's not so much used to the woods as you are,' said the mother. 'I don't at all wonder he was frightened. And it is unaccountable how you behaved so courageously.'

It is not unaccountable at all,' replied Jane. 'When I saw the creature leap into the tree, I made up my mind that either he or I must be killed, and so I acted.'

You did bravely, more so than half the men would under like circumstances,' said the mother. 'But has the young man said any thing to you about love?'

O, yes, he told a long story about that when we were at Otter Pond,' she replied.

And what did you say in return?' asked the mother.

I said that you told me not to believe what young men might say about love to me,' answered Jane. 'Didn't I do right?'

Certainly you did,' replied the mother.' 'I'm glad you so answered him. Did he ever offer to take hold of your hand?'

He has two or three times; but I never suffered him to hold it,' replied Jane.

In that you did perfectly right,' said the mother. 'Never suffer young men to take the least liberty with you. Not only be strictly virtuous, but so conduct yourself, that you be above suspicion even in their estimation.'

I will remember all that,' answered Jane. I think you once told me that the harder any thing is obtained the much higher it is prized.'

I did, and the remark was true, and will always remain true,' said the mother.

It is so in shooting,' said Jane. 'The more shy a partridge is, and the harder it is to get a shot at her, the better I feel when I have killed her. And mother, that is the reason why I feel more proud when Iv'e succeeded in shooting a black duck than in shooting a squirrel; for the squirrel is much the tamest.'

All very good reasoning, Jane, and I trust you will always be governed by such principles. We cannot always tell what motives actuate men; they may be good and they may be bad; and it becomes girls to be exceedingly cautious. Did the, young man ever attempt to kiss you?'

Never but once,' replied Jane. 'And I looked at him so at the time that he acted as if he was sorry he made the attempt.'

That is a good sign,' said the mother.—'He looks to me as if he was as an honest young man. I hope he is. You think he is handsome, do you not?'

O, yes, mother, he's the best looking young man I have ever seen,' replied Jane.

And he is good looking, and it seems he has behaved well,' said the mother.

O, mother, now I think of it, I overheard Bill Bushwhack tell Henry that some people thought I was not father's daughter.'

That's just like Bill; for he's always joking,' said the mother. 'You mustn't give any serious attention to such jokes; Bill would always say what he pleased.'

I know he does; but he is good hearted and kind,' replied Jane.

Indeed he is, and has always been a good friend to us,' answered the mother.

I always liked him,' said Jane. 'O, he has plagued Henry almost to death about that panther!'

Well, he ought not to; for the young man acknowledges he was cowardly on the occasion,' said the mother. 'Confessions, when they are honest and sincere, pay more than half the debt.'

I know he couldn't help being afraid,' replied Jane. 'And I should have pitied him if I had any time to think of it. When we first saw the track, he trembled so that I knew he couldn't be of any help, if we found the creature. If he had been courageous I shouldn't have been so much so; for I should have relied on him.'

Both were soon slumbering, and forgetting the exciting scenes of the past. This good mother had more in her thoughts than she expressed to her daughter. She was satisfied with the account Jane gave of her conduct. And she saw nothing in his which excited her suspicions that he was a young libertine.

CHAPTER XIII

Beautiful winter scenery. A most troublesome soliloquy. A change in the Heroine. A consultation with a cautious mother.—Various motives that prompt to marriage.

THE sun rose bright and clear, and the air was still and mild, reminding one of the glorious spring, when stern winter unlooses its icy fingers, and the brooks begin to run and the buds of the trees begin to swell.—The broiled partridges were almost ready for the breakfast table, and the moose steak was smoking upon the good handsome coals, before the young Bostonian rose from his bed. During the first part of the night his thoughts were too active to permit him to sleep soundly; and when he did sleep, his dreams often awoke him. Before he rose he reflected much on what the roguish teamster had told him in relation to Jane. He now looked upon the dark side of the picture.

What if she should turn out to be a boy after all?' he questioned himself, turning over and gazing upon the whitewashed beams over his head. 'It would place me in a most ridiculous attitude! I could never get rid of the joke! It would soon be all over Down East, reach Boston, and be published in some of the newspapers. But I will rise and dress myself; for I can now smell the sweet perfumes of broiled partridges, which quickens the appetite. When I tell this mother I love her daughter she will not be willing to carry the joke any farther, if joke it be; I think that must end it. Why do I have these vague, uncertain suspicions? Nature would never give such female charms to a boy, and much less to one of a doubtful sex. No, no, it can't be! And yet the girl, if girl she be; acts most strangely! Again, suppose she is a bona fide female? Who is her father? Can that crooked old cook be the father of such a girl? But I'll not perplex and confuse myself any more!'

He arose and dressed himself, and soon after heard a gentle knocking at his door; he opened it and there stood Jane, with her bright morning face, her hair flowing over her neck and shoulders in long, dark, rich clusters, a beautiful low-necked dress on that partially revealed her swelling bosom, and a heavenly smile upon her finely chisseled features. It seemed to him she was the most angelic creature he ever saw. O, if he could have had one taste of those rosy lips, he would have been happy! But it was forbidden fruit, and was all the more tempting for that.

Our breakfast is ready,' she said, smiling, and gracefully courtesying.

And so am I,' he replied. 'I have already had a foretaste. The broiling of partridges sends forth a most delicious odor.'

They are very nice ones,' she replied. 'And mother knows how to cook them, as well as we know how to shoot them.'

We!' he repeated, smiling. 'Now, Jane, don't reckon me in that category. I hardly killed enough to be entitled to the honor.'

He ate a sumptuous breakfast, and Jane appeared more like a beautiful girl than ever before; he could not see a single mark about her person to awaken a suspicion that she was not of the feminine gender, and that to a great extent too. She had dropped some of the airs which so gracefully befitted her for wild sports and the ruder society of the logging camp, and assumed others more becoming and refined. He was much astonished in the change that had come over her She was still lively and animated, and full or fun; but she appeared not as she did when her gun was upon her shoulder, and the snow-shoes under her feet. Now she seemed more lady-like and even more intelligent upon a variety of subjects than she did in the woods. He loved her before to the extent of his capacity, as he thought; but now it seemed to him that his affection for her was stronger than ever.

The mother's keen eye saw at a glance that the young man was bound in the silken cords of love, and needed not the instrumentality of his tongue to inform her of it. And it seemed to him that Jane regarded him with more tender sentiments than she had before. At any rate, he laid that flattering unction to his soul, and rejoiced in his heart that there was such an appearance on her part. After breakfast he walked out and took a view of the surrounding landscape. The prospects were beautiful; he could see in the distance the little lake on which Jane had enjoyed so much sport in her bark canoe with her gun and fishing rod. Beyond were some hills covered with evergreen trees and a carpet of deep snow from which were reflected the bright rays of the morning sun.—The gentle snow covered slopes of the valley through which a crystal brook coursed when released from its icy fetters; added much to the beauty of the scene. The log house, too, stood on elevated ground and commanded a fine prospect of the country for many miles round.

There are no such beautiful prospects, no such fine scenery in the city as now greet my eyes,' he said to himself. 'It seems to me I could be contented to live here always, provided I had Jane for a companion. Yes, or even farther into the depths of the forests, if she could be with me. The region about Otter Pond on my father's township is a delightful spot, where a fine farm might be cleared up. I have never loved the forests so well before. What are the crowds in State Street, and the money changing compared with a life in the woods? How pure the air, and how glorious the hills, valleys, streams and lakes of the forests? I feel as if I shall never be contented to live in the city again.'

Thus he communed with his own thoughts, and seriously contemplated a change in his life, provided Jane proved to be a female and reciprocated his affections.

As he stood gazing over the landscape and dreaming of his future life, Jane came out on her way to make a morning call on Mr. Curtis and his wife, their nearest neighbors. In fact, there was not another family within three miles.

A beautiful morning,' he said.

Delightful,' she replied. 'Yonder is the little lake I have spoken off. The trout would bite there, now.'

Well, then we must go some day,' he said.

I should be pleased to,' she replied. 'But there are now not so many as we found in Otter Pond, nor so large. I thin them out every spring. I have fished there ever since I was big enough to catch a grasshopper and carry a fishing rod.'

I'm aware that you must have practiced a good deal,' he replied, smiling.

I suppose you think so,' she replied, laughing, and lightly tripping over to the neighbors.

The young man soon entered the house, determined to have a private talk with the mother in relation to his love for Jane.

You have a delightful location here,' he said.

Nature has done her part well; but art has not yet effected much,' she replied. 'I should think such houses as we are obliged to occupy in the woods would seem strange to you.'

I like the mode of living, and have been thinking I would have a farm cleared up on my father's township and live upon it one of these years,' he said.

I fear such a life would be too dull for you,' she replied. 'There would not be excitement enough, I fear.'

I begin to think I desire to get rid of the excitements of a city life,' he said. 'Have you ever been in Boston?'

Not for several years,' she replied, while a shade of sorrow seemed to rest for a moment upon her fair, intelligent face; but he did not notice it.

I suppose I must acknowledge that I'm somewhat indebted to the influence of your daughter for the change that has come over me,' he said, in a voice slightly tremulous.

She's a wild girl when she's in the woods, but I trust she's a virtuous one,' she replied.

Pure and chaste as the ice that covers yonder little lake,' he replied. 'I've never met one more so, and that is the reason why she has won the affections of my heart.'

You do not mean to say that you love my daughter, do you?' she asked, showing an apparent surprise.

I frankly confess I do most sincerely love her,' he replied.

I should suppose you had formed acquaintance with many city ladies who are far more accomplished than my daughter,' she said.

I've seen none I love so well,' he replied.

It does not become me to dispute a young man's word; but you must excuse me if I exercise what may seem to you an unnecessary amount of caution,' she said.

I can readily see good reasons for excusing you,' he replied. 'You have a treasure, and do not desire to see it torn rudely from your possession. And be assured my intentions are honorable.'

I should hope so,' she answered. 'Men's motives are best known to themselves and to their God. You speak well when you say Jane is a treasure to me. She is so, and I should rather follow her body to the grave than see her become the victim of the base passions of men. You say your intentions are honorable.'

I do, and call on Heaven to witness the truth of what I say,' he answered, in a tone of voice and manner that showed his sincerity and how deeply he felt upon the subject.'

Enough! she quickly said; 'I would not have you swear by any thing, much less by that holy place to which we all hope to go. There are various motives that prompt men to marriage. Some wed for money—some to gratify pride and ambition—some for beauty, which is sure to fade—some to keep up certain relations in the higher walks of life—some to indulge their baser passions, and some, I trust, for true love.'

You have spoken the truth,' he replied.

I have no motive but that of love.'

I fear quite a large proportion of marriages in the city, especially, among the higher classes, is based on unworthy motives, and not on that mutual love which lasts while more corrupt things may fail.'

I have no doubt of that, and would avoid such dangerous rocks on my voyage through life,' he replied.

But Jane has not received that polite education which will fit her to become a gentleman's wife,' she said. 'My daughter is country born and bred.'

I love her the more for that,' he quickly answered.

I trust you find other qualities in her besides that manly courage she exhibited in the hour of danger when you supposed she saved your life as well as her own.'

O, madam, I loved her before that terrible hour,' he said. 'The first time I saw her there was something in her appearance and manner that made a deep impression upon my heart which cannot be erased.'

I would not attempt to disguise my opinon opinion that Jane has some claim to personal beauty; but like the wild flowers of the forest, it will fade. Time like the chilling frosts will wither it. Your affections must not be founded on that alone; for if they are, the time will surely come when they will cease to exist.'

'It is not her beauty alone; but her good heart and bright intellect that interests me,' he said. 'I know, madam, I love her deeply, sincerely, and I trust, wisely.'

'That last word conveys a volume of meaning,' she said. 'Yes, if you love her wisely, there is hope that there would be happiness in your union. Did you have any conversation with my husband upon the subject?'

'I did,' he replied, 'but he said the whole matter rested with you.'

'He is very kind,' she said, half smiling. 'And he has always been a kind husband.'

'I should think so; but he's much your elder in years,' he said.

'It is well that the husband should be older than the wife,' she replied, smiling, 'Perhaps you may think it strange that I married one so old; but I have never had any reason to regret our union.'

Jane now returned and broke off the conversation. The good mother was very well pleased with the young man, and he was quite as well pleased with her. The day passed most agreeably, and Jane appeared more and more to sink her wildness into the softness of a woman.

CHAPTER XIV

Another angling excursion. Peculiar traits of female character. The lover's prospects grow brighter. The mother favorably impressed. Propitious signs in the daughter.

THE next day Henry and Jane went to the lakelet, for the purpose of angling. The holes in the ice were cut, and they sat down and threw their hooks into the water. As good luck would have it, he caught the first trout, hooked the second, and lost it before she felt a bite.

The day was unusually fine, and the trout bit in that lakelet better than they had for two or three years past. They killed quite a large string of them. She beat him, but not so much as he had on other occasions, and he was much gratified with his good luck.

'My fortune grows a little better,' he said, smiling.

'I'm glad of it,' she replied. 'But you must beat me before you can say you have first rate luck.'

'True, indeed,' he answered. 'But before we quit this excellent sport, I have something to say to you of more importance to me than all the trout in Maine.'

'You have the privilege of saying just as much as you please, and be careful what you say on a subject so important.'

'It is one that concerns my happiness during my whole life,' he said. 'You will remember what I told you at Otter Pond?'

'O, yes, I remember it well,' she replied, laughing. 'Strange you should take such opportunities to talk of love to me when I'm acting more like a boy than like a girl.'—He suddenly started, and gazed anxiously upon her. She noticed his starting and humorously said, 'You're not frightened I trust; I know what Bill has told you.'

'That Bill is a roguish fellow,' he said.—'What did he tell me?'

'That I was a boy; and you were almost disposed to believe him,' she replied, laughing so loud that her voice echoed far over the ice.

'The dog!' he said; 'I'll pay him for that when I get back to the camp.'

The young man was now entirely relieved of all his doubts concerning her sex, and felt comparatively happy. A perplexing burden was removed from his heart.

'I suppose I act more like a girl when I carry my gun or fishing rod,' she said, again laughing quite loud.

Her laughing almost threw him from his balance, and he hardly knew what to say; but he finally persevered and questioned her about the feelings of his own heart. After saying many other things, he at last asked her if she thought she could reciprocate his affection, which he assured her was deep, ardent and sincere.

I don't think it is proper to answer such a question with a fishing rod in my hand,' she replied. 'It is strange that you can love such a wild girl as I am, when you are acquainted with so many fine ladies in the city. Soon as you go back to Boston, and mingle in the company of the city belles, you will forget the poor fishing girl who lives in a log cabin.'

I never can forget you, Jane,' he replied, seizing her hand, and pressing it to his lips in all the ardor of his romantic affection.

He was almost overcome with joy because she did not instantly withdraw her hand from his grasp. That he considered a great improvement on his former attempts to do the same thing.

Forget you, my dear Jane!' he repeated. 'As well might I forget to breathe this pure air Never! No! Never!'

Ah, you may think so now,' she answered withdrawing her hand, and smiling sweetly, not as a handsome boy smiles; but as a beautiful girl only can smile. 'Circumstances often change the minds of young men.'

But no circumstances can ever change my love, unless you frankly tell me you can never reciprocate it,' he said. But it would be a duty I owe myself to try to forget you when I become convinced that you can never love me.'

That may be so; but you have seen me only a few weeks, and as many weeks' absence may show you how mistaken you were when you supposed you loved me more than any other girl of your acquaintance. Mother says such changes have been brought about by even short absences in young men's minds.'

Absence will make me love you more ardently' he replied, again seizing her hand, and pressing it to his lips.

My hand is rough and weather-beaten, and no handsome rings on my fingers,' she said; gently withdrawing it from his nervous grasp. 'It is hardly so delicate as yours, and much less so than the jewelled hands of city ladies who do no work and are not exposed to rough weather, as I sometimes am.'

I care not for that,' he replied. 'No lady in the city has a hand so beautifully formed as yours. Give it to me with your heart, also, and I will put as many jewels on your fingers as you may please to have.'

Mother has given me a beautiful ring; but I seldom wear it,' she said; 'I don't need it with my gun and fishing rod.'

No, and you don't need it at any time; for it is an old, but true saying, that beauty unadorned, is adorned the most,' he replied.

And does not that sound a little like flattery?' she asked, smiling, and looking him full in the face. Mother has always told me I must beware of those who flatter. Flattery is a bad mark in a young gentleman. Don't you think it is?'

I confess I have not a high opinion of flatterers,' he replied. 'But I don't consider myself as belonging to that class. I have said nothing to you but that which I honestly believe is true; and if that can be called flattery so be it.'

You Bostonians have an ingenious way of creeping through small places,' she said. 'Young men born and brought up in the woods here are plain and honest; for they don't know how to flatter. There are thousands of tricks practised in the city which are not known away down here in the wild woods.'

How do you know that?' he asked, smiling. 'You have never been in the city, have you?'

No; but mother has told me all about it,' she answered. 'I know but little except what mother has told me. O, she's a good mother!'

She is, indeed!' he replied. 'She's an honest woman, and I highly respect her.—But she will not say I'm a flatterer; I know she will not do me such injustice. But to return to some of my first questions. I have frankly declared to you my sincere love, and may I hope that you will reciprocate it?'

You musn't ask me such questions in such a place as this, when I'm acting more like a boy than a girl,' she said, laughing. 'Come, I think we will go to the house. It is almost noon, and we have a string of fine trout. We must have some of them for dinner: I love them dearly.'

And so do I,' he replied. 'But will you answer my question when you lay your fishing rod aside?'

The sun is fast creeping to the south, and we'll go,' she said, smiling, and turning her bright eyes upon him in a very cunning manner.

Finding he could get no other answer to his question than what her eyes gave, he did not question her again upon that subject. She strung the trout upon a crotched stick, and he took them, and they started for the house. She was exceedingly lively on the way, and cracked a good many jokes, and some of them at his expense. She was very bewitching, without seeming to make an effort to be so. There was a marked difference in her manners and deportment when she was engaged in the wild sports, and when she was at the house in her mother's presence. And yet all her conduct and actions seemed perfectly natural, and well adapted to the time, place and circumstances in which she happened to be situated. He had never seen a better actress on the stage of human life. No wonder this young man was so deeply in love with such a natural, yet beautiful and bewitching creature. A less susceptible heart than his would have been deeply impressed with such an exhibition of fascinating qualities as this girl possessed.

A good trout dinner was soon prepared, and Henry ate a sumptuous meal. Jane, also, did ample justice to the luscious viands. The young man began to feel very much at home, and to wish he might continue until the trees leaved out; but his business called him to the camp again. He had his accounts to make out that every thing might appear on paper when the winter's work was done. However, he tarried nearly a week, and it was the most agreeable period of his life.—The good mother grew more and more in favor of him, and Jane acted less and less like a boy. Although she never told him whether she did or could reciprocate his affections in so many words; yet her actions told him that he had made an impression upon her heart. It was understood all round, when he left, that he and Jane were to see each other again. The mother gave her consent that he might visit her daughter as often as he pleased; for she believed his intentions were honorable; and so they were. Early on the morning when they parted, he was permitted to kiss Jane in the presence of her mother. The sweetness of that kiss lingered upon his lips until he reached the logging camp. He rode back on a load of hay with the same horses and driver he came out with.

CHAPTER XV

The lover's return to the camp. His welcome by the lumbermen. The teamster's jokes. Opinions of the old cook. His moral notions. The progress of events, &c.

THE young Bostonian was welcomed back to the camp with hearty good will. He was page: 52-53 a favorite among the whole logging crew; for he treated every one kindly and respectfully.

The first remark Bill Bushwhack made to Henry after his return was to ask him whether Jane was really a boy or a girl.

'Ah, Bill, I'll pay you for all that, if ever an opportunity happens,' said Henry.

'All what?' asked Bill, smiling, and being apparently surprised.

'You know well enough what I mean,' replied Henry. 'All your suggestions and doubts about Jane were made up out of whole cloth You never believed a word you said. Ah, Bill, I hope I shall find a time to pay you with interest.'

'Well, I'm glad you have made these doubtful matters certain,' replied Bill.

'There was never any doubt about it,' said Henry; at least, not in your mind.'

'But you were a little troubled yourself, were you not?' asked Bill, while a smile lurked about the corners of his mouth.

'I have no trouble now,' answered Henry, assuming a kind of triumphant look.

'Upon my soul, I'm glad to hear you say so,' replied the teamster. 'That Jane is a glorious girl. There are no gals in Boston who can compare with her for a moment. Our old cook will be more rejoiced than any of us. The old man's tongue has been running like a water wheel about you ever since you have been gone. His pride is flattered to think Jane is about to become a city lady. He has a good share of vanity among some better qualities of head and heart. But did you ascertain whether she is really the daughter of the old man or not?'

'Another of your jokes,' said the young man, smiling.

'No, no, Henry, that's no joke, as I'm a living teamster,' said Bill. Many persons really believe she is not his daughter. And I'll be hanged if I don't believe so myself more than half the time.'

'I confess there may be some mystery about that,' replied Henry, thoughtfully.—'Jane has not a single feature or expression like our old cook. I did not ask any questions in relation to that.'

'I suppose not; but never mind; Jane was not born until several months after her mother's marriage, and that makes it all right,' said Bill. 'I shouldn't wonder, if the truth could be ascertained, that Jane's real father is some city nabob. But no matter, she is a splendid girl and was born in wedlock. That is a plaster quite large enough to cover the wound.'

'True, she is not to be blamed; but I should ready like to know the truth,' said Henry.

'So should I, and so would hundreds of other people; but that's a sealed book,' replied the loquacious teamster. Didn't you find the mother a fine woman?'

'I did, indeed!' replied Henry. 'She is a splendid and really an accomplished woman. She was not brought up in the woods, but must have been once accustomed to move in polite and refined circles. There's a mystery about her, also, which I should like to have solved; but I love her daughter none the less for all that.'

'Of course not,' said Bill. I don't know but I should love her the more for it.—Perhaps the mother may disclose to you all those secrets which have so much troubled her neighbours and acquaintances down east.

'She may do so,' replied Henry. 'At any rate, I will try to lift the veil one of these days.'

They now separated, and Henry sought the old cook, and conversed with him. He had seen him once since his arrival, but had no private talk with him.

'Well, young man, I'm glad you and Jane had such a pleasant journey to my house, and found my good woman so well,' said the old man.

'I have had a glorious visit, and hope to make another, one of these days,' said Henry, gazing into the old cook's eyes to see if there was the least expression in them like Jane's; but he found not a particle of resemblance.

'Ah—yes—well—that's right,' said the cook. 'You found my good woman to talk well, did you? She knows how to use her tongue, and she can be polite too.'

'I consider her a very fine woman indeed,' replied Henry. 'A very handsome and intelligent woman.'

'Yes, and wonder how she came to marry such an old creature as I am,' said the cook, laughing, and looking very cunning.

'I was not thinking of that,' replied Henry, smiling.

'Perhaps not at the moment, but I dare say you thought of it more than forty times while you were at my house,' said the old man. 'And faith, I wonder at it myself almost every time I look into her handsome face and hear her talk so smoothly. But never mind, Providence orders all these things for the best.'

'I think so,' said Henry. 'And you have reason to be grateful that it was so ordered for you to wed such a good woman.'

'I can tell ye, young man, that I think I should never have been married unless I had found a handsome woman who would have me. Homely as I am, yet I love handsome women. And why shouldn't I? I can see no beauty when I shave myself, and certainly we homely folks ought to have some chance to see beauty in others if we cannot see it in ourselves. But let all that pass.—What did my good woman say about you and Jane? Did she seem to take a notion to ye? That is the question. She's mighty particular about Jane; more than she was about herself, perhaps you will say.'

And here the old cook broke out into a loud laugh, turned the dough over he was kneading, and pressed it harder upon the board.

But to be serious,' he continued; 'Did she give ye consent to court our darter?'

'I heard no objections in particular,' replied Henry.

'That's right, young man. Ye have my consent; for I believe ye are an honest chap. And Jane ought not to have any other.—Didn't she behave like a lady at home?'—Her mother has taught her good manners, and she has tried to teach me; but it is hard to learn an old dog new tricks. I treat them kindly, and that's better than all the polite manners in the world. Never did a cross word escape my lips against 'em. Ah, young man, we are patterns of domestic bliss, as they call it, although I say it myself. My good woman might have married a handsomer man, but not an honester one. And she believed it, when she married me, and believes it now, and, God helping me, she shall always believe it.'

'A noble resolution!' said Henry. 'May you always be as happy as you are now.'

'Thank you, young man. And may you and Jane be as happy as her mother and I am; that is, supposing you make a bargain to live together. The prospect looks that way, don't it?'

'I confess it does so, unless Jane should refuse to receive my visits and attentions, replied Henry. 'She may not love me.'

'No fear of that,' said the old man, stopping his kneading, and looking Henry full in the face. 'She can't help loving such a handsome fellow as you are.'

'Now you flatter me,' said Henry, smiling, and admiring the old man's honest face.

'Not a bit of it, young man. They all say you look first rate, and will make Jane an excellent husband. You think she saved your life from the claws of that ugly panther, and now make her life happy. Never speak cross to her, nor run after other gals. Mind that; for if you should, Jane would look more terrible to you than she did at the panther when he lay on the limb wagging his tail and smacking his chops at ye. Jane is a noble girl although her old father says it noble girl although her old father says it; and I don't think you've got any handsomer gals in all your great city; I know you've none that has more courage than Jane.—Ah, young man, Jane can face any kind of music, from a German flute to a penny whistle. She's not easily beat in any thing. True, she hain't learn't some of your city gimcracks; but then I should like to see your city gals attempt to shoot a partridge on the wing, or stand boldly facing a panther, and shooting him. Ah, she has the courage and skill. And how do you think the city gals could travel with her on snow-shoes? I learnt her these things, while her mother learns her politeness.'

I have as high an opinion of your daughter as you can,' said Henry; feeling as if the old man would never come to the end of his eulogy. 'And I shall endeavor to make her happy.'

That's right; but let me say again, don't run after other girls; for Jane wouldn't bear that,' said the old man. 'That would kill her, or she would kill you.'

And not to be blamed,' said Henry. 'I ought to be shot if I ever do that.'

You talk like an honest, sensible fellow,' said the old man; 'And I've no doubt ye are; but if you're not, look out for Jane. Don't provoke her, for Heaven only knows where her wrath would end. True, I never saw her angry; but then I know she's got it in her.'

I should hope she has the power to show proper resentment,' replied Henry. 'But to turn to another subject. How much longer will the teams probably remain in the woods?'

That will depend very much on the weather,' replied the old man. If this month should be cold they may stay four or five weeks longer; but we may clear out before that time. The sun is getting high and the snow in the middle of the day be gins to melt. We are having fine weather now. A nice winter's work will be done, and I think your father has no reason to complain. Every thing has gone on like clock-work.'

I think the men have worked well,' said Henry.

Because they have been fed with well cooked victuals, you might have added,' said the cook, laughing at his own self-praise.

You have spoken the truth,' said Henry. 'We have lived like nabobs; but you must not be provoked when I say I liked the living a little better when I was at your house.'

Ah, my good woman knows how to cook, and Jane's no fool in the business,' said the old man. 'We live like kings and queens at home.'

I believe it,' replied Henry; 'I like your living better than that at any of our great public hotels.'

Not so much the smell of soap-grease about,' said the old cook laughing.

Thus they continued to converse for some time. Henry liked the old man, and respected him for his bluntness and honesty. And he would have loved him more if some doubts had not existed on his mind in relation to whether he was Jane's father or not. That question was constantly in his mind, especially when he was in the presence of the old man. He was satisfied that he really believed he was her father; and that was a source of great consolation to him. Had any one succeeded in awakening his suspicions that all was not right when he married, he might have been much troubled in spirit; for he was a man of pride and ambition.

CHAPTER XVI

New Scenes in the drama, and new Characters introduced upon the Stage. A short Comparison between Town and Country.—The Negro Servant and the ambitious Housekeeper.

THE curtain rises, and the scene changes from forest to city, from pine trees and logging camps to church steeples and splendid mansions; from snow-covered hills and dales, to bricks, mortar and paving-stones, and from streams and lakes to crowds of human beings and thousands of carriages.

The change may please the reader; but 'God made the country and man made the town,' and those that like the city best may live there.

Mr. Edward Montague, a wealthy widower and his only daughter, Monira, a beautiful and accomplished girl, engaged to Henry Herbert. Mr. Montague's wife had been dead some six or eight years. A maiden who had turned two corners and was fast approaching the third; or, in other words, was thirty-nine years of age. Her name was Caroline Clackley. She had kept Mr. Montague's house ever since his wife died. She was a very tall slim person, and withal ambitious and proud. Once she might have some claims to beauty; but time had laid its hand rather heavily upon her and whitened some of her hairs, but had not paralyzed her tongue; for that member continued as active and lively as ever whenever occasion called for its use, and sometimes when no such occasion occurred it would run on like a spinning wheel.

There was another servant in the family whose name was Sam Smoothley, a very cunning negro. Sam had lived with Mr. Montague nearly twenty years. Sam was a faithful servant and much esteemed by his master, but Miss Clackley did not fancy him. She always said she couldn't bear niggers. And when she came to take the charge of the widower's house, she asked him, if he wouldn't send away 'that nigger,' as she called Sam; but Mr. Montague told her he couldn't think of keeping house unless he had Sam to wait upon him; for he had lived with him a good many years.

The maiden finally concluded to come not withstanding that nigger remained under the same roof. Sam knew she hated the African race; but he managed prudently, and treated Miss Clackley very adroitly if not respectfully. True, once in a while he gave her a shot whenever she bore down on the race to which he belonged, that made her twinge.

Mr. Montague was very wealthy and had retired from his mercantile pursuits in which success had abundantly crowned all his efforts to become rich. He was a man of strong animal passions. And some thought his life had not been so pure as it ought to have been; still he was much respected for his many virtues. His daughter, Monira, had been educated in the best possible manner, and no pains or expense had been spared in giving her every advantage the city afforded. She was a fine looking girl; yet she was by no means faultless either in face or form.—There were some more beautiful than she was; yet a majority of the city girls did not look so well as she did. She was lively and animated in conversation and a very agreeable companion. Henry Herbert had paid marked attention to her for nearly two years, and their parents took it for granted that they were engaged to each other. And they were, so far as they well could be with out talking much about marriage. That subject had not particularly engaged their attention, although they had occasionally spoken of it. The day of marriage was so far ahead that they had not often alluded to it. They were both young, and she had not finished her education when he began to pay his addresses to her. Henry thought he loved her until he saw that forest flower of Maine. That Monira loved him there could be no doubt. She was a young lady of a good spirit, and not likely to pine away and die on account of the loss of any young man. Henry had written her several times after he first went into the forests of Maine; but she had not received a letter from him for some weeks. Sam went to the post office every evening. Having received no letter from Henry for nearly a month, she began to feel somewhat uneasy, as every young lady would under similar circumstances. Sam returned from the post office one evening with several letters in his hand; but they were all for her father except one, and that was for Miss Caroline Clackley. Monira met him at the door and the letters in his hand.

Now you've got a letter for me from all the way down east, Sam, haven't you?' she asked.

No, missus, we've got none for you dis time,' replied Sam, grinning. 'But got three for master and also one for Miss Caroline Clackley.'

And he pronounced the maiden's name very slowly, and run his fore finger along the letters as he read them, laughing during the process as if he would almost split his sides.

Our housekeeper has got a lub letter, I reckons,' continued Sam, showing his ivory and the whites of his eyes. 'She bin specting one some time. Some old bachelor be making lub to her. I think I smell the lavender on de letter now.'

Why, Sam, you're disposed to be quite funny to-night,' she said, smiling. 'I presume the letter is from her sister; for she has one in Philadelphia.'

O, no, missus,' said Sam, holding up the letter in the light of the hall lamp, and tracing the name with his long black finger. 'No post mark on it. And see how round and nice the letters are turned! It must be a real lub letter; for she's bin thinking dat very ting dis some time past.'

Nonsense, Sam!' she said; 'People as old as she is don't receive love letters.'

I reckons it wouldn't do to tell her dat,' replied Sam; 'She would snap her small gray eyes and rattle her tongue like a water mill. She tinks she's as young as any body now she's got some stuff and colored her hair wid it.'

And the good humored African laughed loudly at his own wit. He didn't fancy Miss Caroline Clackley, because she felt herself above him and all the colored population.—He gave his young mistress her father's letters, and slipped the housekeeper's into his pocket, and then deliberately walked into the kitchen and sat down.

Have you been to the post office, Sam?' asked the housekeeper.

To be sure I have,' he replied. 'I goes ebery evening jist as regular as dey come.'

Did you inquire if there was a letter for me?' she asked.

I hab inquired so many times, it's no use,' said Sam looking very wise. 'No body won't write you a lub letter; you hab seen so many winters.'

Sam, you grow saucy every day of your life,' she said; straightening up her tall, slender form, and placing her right foot firmly on the floor.

O, don't rise higher; for you look just like a lamp-post now,' he said, grinning from ear to ear, and snapping his thumb and finger.

O, I hate all the nigger race,' she said, snapping her small gray eyes.

And all the colored population hate you,' he replied. 'De niggers, as ye call 'em, don't hab to buy stuff to color their hair, nor tongs to curl it; for it always be black, shining and curly.'

Get out, you black plague you,' she said I wish in mercy I could live in some place where there are no niggers.'

Den ye wouldn't lib in heaven; for dere plenty ob niggers dere I reckons,' said Sam.

Gracious Lord, what blasphemy that is!' exclaimed the enraged housekeeper.

Ole Nick get all de old maids,' said Sam, laughing.

She seized a broom, and threatened to strike him; but he had no fear of that; for such motions had been made a good many times, but no execution ever done.

I'll strike your curly pate, if you don't hold your tongue,' she said.

Dat would not make one single hair black or white,' he replied, laughing. 'Ye couldn't strike hard enough to crack a louse, even if ye pounded ye'r own scull.'

Well, I don't wish to hear more of your saucy tongue to-night,' she said.

Den ye musn't say any thing to me,' he replied. 'My tongue doesn't run half as fast as yours, no time of day or night. I think ye must talk in yer sleep, 'specially when you dreaming 'bout dat lub letter ye 'spects to come one of dese days.'

Shut up your black clamshell,' she replied, looking very cross at him.

Seems to me I feel sum ting burn in my pocket now,' he said, thrusting his hand into his pocket and holding it.

I wish there was a coal of fire there,' she answered.

Me tinks it is sum ting better dan dat,' he said, pulling out the letter. 'It must be hotter dan a coal of fire to kindle de flame ob lub in yer ole heart.'

What! a letter!' she exclaimed, looking anxiously at the missive.

Yes, take de ting, for it burns my thumb and finger,' he replied, throwing the letter at her, and laughing. 'Now kiss him fore ye break the seal. Don't let your ole heart bust his narrow bounds; keep him quiet till ye read the 'pistle through.'

She turned her twinkling eyes upon him, lit a lamp and hurried to her chamber, leaving the negro to his own reflections.

Heaven bless her ole soul,' said Sam to himself, and laughing merrily. 'How her little gray eyes did snap? She no lub niggers! I reckons there's no lub lost. She try to make me believe she hab a lub letter; I don't believes it. But if she has, it is from sum ole dried stick that wants nursing. She hab any body to lub her! He! he! he!—Yah! yah! yah! No sich ting in de book: I knows her. She wants to make Massur Montague believe she hab offers, so that he may offer hisself to her. Yah! yah! Massur offer hisself to such an ole critter! Nebber! Massur lub chicken better dan ole hen, dat's a fac. He always did, and may be, he does now. Jist likely as not she wrote de letter herself and put him in de post office. She be jist such a cunning ole critter. I knows her like a book. Lived with her long eneuf to read ebbery leaf in her ole heart. She not lub the niggers! No nigger would hab her for a wife I knows, if he would, he no nigger at all, and I wouldn't own him for a brodder. Massur offer hisself to her! He! he! Yah! yah! yah!'

Thus soliloquized this son of Africa. And there was more truth than poetry in his thoughts; for this ambitious housekeeper had conceived the absurd notion that Mr. Montague might finally conclude to make a wife of her. Ever since she had taken the charge of his domestic affairs she had been laying her plans to bring about that result; but she had done it so slily that he did not ever suspect her, until Sam hinted the fact to him.—After that he watched her more closely and found some evidence to justify his negro servant in throwing out such hints. Montague laughed heartily when Sam first made the hint; and did not give any credit to his servant for his sagacity and shrewdness but since he gave him full justice.

Miss Clackley was a native of Philadelphia, but had lived several years in New York before she came to Boston. She understood housekeeping very thoroughly, and Mr. Montague esteemed her for such qualities, and paid her liberally for the exercise of them; to make her a sharer of his fortunes. At first he thought Sam told him the story because he disliked her so much; but afterwards he had different impressions, and gave his servant his due.

By some means or other Miss Clackley conceived the notion that negroes were fit for nothing but slaves, a notion which many, higher in life than she, have cherished very much to the injury of the colored race. She often wished, and sometimes expressed the wish that she could wed a Southern gentleman with a plantation and negro slaves; and then she would give the negroes their due. Sam once heard her throw out such an intimation, and ever since that he had contrived all the means in his power to annoy her and not offend his master. He was cautious and prudent, and did not go beyond the bounds of a decent kind of fun, so that she could bring no charge against him which the master would be likely to regard. She knew very well that Mr. Montague highly esteemed the services of Sam, and that she could no drive him from the house unless she could bring some serious charge against him; and Sam was too cunning to give her such a chance.

The housekeeper had taken all the pains she was capable of, and had exerted all her powers to please Monira. There was nothing she would not do for the accomplished daughter; and Sam duly appreciated her motives. He knew what her object was, and suspected her from the commencement of her housekeeping. Miss Clackley's motives were all selfish, and pointed to one object, and that was to win a husband in the person of Mr. Montague.

Sam was a favorite of Monira as well as of her father. Many a time she had listened to the smooth stories about the housekeeper, and laughed until her sides would ache.—Sam told Monira long before he did her father what was nearest the heart of Miss Clackley.

The truth is, this negro hated the housekeeper, and exerted all his ingenuity to annoy her, and lower her in the estimation of both father and daughter. And he succeeded even better than most white men could have done in the same kind of work.

CHAPTER XVII

Emotions occasioned by the absence of a lover. The humor of a father. The Quaker's love letter. Cunning of a housekeeper. A glance at a dandy, &c.

HAVE you received a letter recently from Henry?' asked Monira Montague, addressing Mrs. Herbert, the mother of Henry.

We have not,' answered the mother.—'It has been nearly three weeks since he has written. You have received none, have you?'

Not a word for the same length of time,' replied Monira. 'I fear something may have happened to him, it has been so long since he has written.'

Mr. Herbert now entered the room, and heard what Monira said.

I suppose you fear the bears down there in the woods have eaten him up,' said Mr. Herbert, smiling. 'You need not be at all alarmed on that account; for the bears hive up in the winter, and don't roam in the forests.'

I wasn't thinking of the bears,' said Monira, smiling, and partially hiding her face. 'But some of those great pine trees he wrote about may have fallen upon him.'

I reckon he stands clear of them,' he said. 'Henry, is a cautious boy, and Iv'e sometimes thought his caution almost bordered on cowardice. I conclude he derives such qualities from his mother'

Yes, the women must bear every thing,' said his wife, laughing. 'The men have no defects. They are all swans and the women are all geese.'

Not quite so bad as that, wife,' he replied.' 'But I think they havn't quite so much courage as the men; they're always fearing something has happened, or will happen. I conclude Henry is quite busy now, as it draws near the close of the logging season.'

Strange he likes to stay there all this winter without coming home once,' said Monira. 'He must like the forests better than I do.'

Well, he writes he is much pleased with his situation,' said the father. 'I should love to be there myself. The air is pure, and the exercise gives one a good appetite for pork, bread and beans. What do you think, Monira, of the pork fat and molasses he writes he uses instead of butter?'

Good gracious!' she exclaimed; 'I should think that mixture would make any one but a real lumberman sick at the stomach. It almost made me sick when I read about it. The dose must be a terrible one!'

It might be until we become accustomed to it,' he replied. 'But I assure you the exercise in the woods gives a man a keen appetite. Henry writes, too, that old Uncle Bob as he calls him, is an excellent cook. I dare say they live sumptuously and enjoy themselves quite as well as we do.'

I don't know but they do,' replied Monira. 'I should admire to be in their camp, and see how they live.'

Perhaps another winter we may go down and pay them a visit,' he replied.

I'm sure I should not wish to take such a jaunt,' said the wife.

No, because you would be afraid of the wolves and catamounts,' he said.

Well, I don't know who wouldn't be afraid of such ugly creatures,' she answered.

Those creatures don't hive up in winter as you say bears do!' said Monira.

There, Monira, you begin to be alarmed about them, do you?' he asked, smiling, and smoothing back her hair from her high and polished forehead. 'He carried a good gun with him, and must defend himself. Be patient; I think we shall have a letter from him soon.'

He ought to write oftener,' said the wife. 'It would occupy but a few minutes to write to us whether he's dead or alive.'

If he were sick or dead, we should soon hear about it,' replied Mr. Herbert. There are enough there to inform us. It is not likely that the whole have died or been killed by the wild beasts.'

O, now I think of it,' said Monira. 'Don't you think our housekeeper has received a love letter.'

A love letter!' repeated Mr. Herbert, laughing. 'From what loving swain?'

From a rich Quaker gentleman in Philadelphia,' she replied. 'She told me of it this morhing morning ; but told me not to let father know it. She says the Quaker is rich, and that she used to be acquainted with him before she left that city.'

'Well, he must be an old dried up Quaker I should think,' he replied, smiling.

'Why, husband, how you talk,' said the wife. 'I'm sure Miss Clackley is a very spruce, nice body, and a good housekeeper. I see no impropriety in a man's making such a proposition to her.'

'She and a modest, silent Quaker would make a curious match,' he said. 'She would talk the old fellow to death before the honey moon was past.'

'There's always some fault to be found in the ladies,' said the wife.

'Such old maids do often possess a few,' he replied, laughing. 'But the idea of a rich Broadbrim's marrying Miss Clackley, is rather funny I confess.'

'O, if yuu you could hear our Sam make his remarks, you would die of laughing,' said Monira. 'He makes all the fun he can about it. And don't you think he told me he believed she wrote the letter herself.'

'That negro is a cunning fellow, and I shouldn't wonder if he had hit the nail on the head,' he said.

'And what particular motive has your wonderful sagacity and shrewdness discovered?' asked his wife.

'Mr. Montague is rich, has a fine house and splendid furniture,' he replied.

'And what of all that?' she inquired, looking him full in the face.

'And the best of all, he is a widower,' he replied.

Monira now broke out into a loud laugh, and said—

'That is just what our Sam told me in his sly way. Did you ever, Mrs. Herbert?'

'These single ladies of an uncertain age have some serious kinks in their heads, and often soft places in their hearts,' he replied.

'Why, husband, you talk very strangely,' said his wife.

'And, my dear, it is because I tell the truth; for truth is stranger than fiction,' he answered. 'Do you blame Miss Clackley for setting her cap for such a good looking man as Mr. Montague? Why, if she could catch him in her net, she would be the mistress of a fine establishment.'

'Gracious me, Mr. Herbert!' exclaimed Monira. 'Don't talk so, for pity's sake. I don't think she will ever become my mother-in-law.'

'Nor I neither,' he replied. 'But then, women often strive for a great many things in this world which they never obtain. Miss Clackley has quite an ambitious heart in her slender frame. I have known it for quite a long time. You may think I'm joking, but upon my honor, I believe she is setting her cap for Mr. Montague.'

'I don't believe any such thing,' said the wife. 'She has more common sense.'

'Common sense hasn't much to do with love affairs sometimes, do you think it has, Monira?' he asked, laughing, and patting her shoulder.

'I should hope it had,' she replied.

'Well, it may have in some cases; but when an old maid sets her heart on being married, I hardly think there is much common sense in the affair,' he said.

'Old maids, as you call them, have as much right to get married, if they can, as any body else,' said Mrs. Herbert.

'I don't question their right, nor even their desires,' he said. 'But to think of Mr. Montague's housekeeper becoming a lady Quakeress, rather makes me laugh. You'll see how it is one of these days. I have an engagement, and must be off.'

He took his hat and cane and went on 'Change, leaving the ladies to themselves.

'My husband has some strange notions in his head in regard to your housekeeper,' said the wife. 'I saw him this morning talking and laughing with your negro this morning in the street. And now I think of it, that's the reason why he is so very wise to-day. He loves to joke with Sam.'

'I believe almost every body does,' replied Monira. 'I'm sure father does, and so do I sometimes.'

'I reckon Miss Clackley is an exception,' said Mrs. Herbert. 'She is not fond of hearing his jokes.'

'Indeed she is not, answered Monira. 'I believe she hates him more and more every day of her life.'

'Have you written to Henry recently?' asked the mother.

'I have not, and shall wait until I receive a letter from him,' replied Monira.

'I think we must receive a letter shortly,' said the mother.

'I hope so,' replied Monira. 'I declare I must be going; I have several calls to make before I go home. I have tarried longer here than I was aware off.'

She now took her leave and called on Mrs. Simpson and her daughter Elizabeth. Monira and Elizabeth were bosom friends, and often together. Having been to the same school for some two or three years, they had formed a very strong attachment for each other. Elizabeth was the younger of the two, and a very lively, animated girl. They seldom concealed any thing from each other.

'Good morning,' said Elizabeth, running to the door to meet her friend. 'I suppose you have come to tell me you have received tidings from him who is away down east, as they call it.'

'Not a word have I received from him since I last saw you,' replied Monira.

'If he didn't write soon I would send him a pretty sharp letter, if I were you,' said Elizabeth. 'If my beau should neglect me so long; I reckon he would hear very soon from me.'

'Ah, you can talk; but wait until you get one,' said Monira. 'That might make some difference.'

'I don't believe it would the least in the world,' said Elizabeth. 'When I have a beau he must walk straight up to the mark, or I would dismiss him. And don't you think I received a note last evening from Edwin Hunter?'

'What, that snivelled up dandy!' said Monira.

'The same,' replied Elizabeth; 'O, he's terribly in love with me, and praises my black eyes, and all that. Come, go up into my chamber and I'll show you the beautiful gilt-edged note, and my answer to it, which I have not yet sent. Mother told me not to send it until she had seen it.'

They now went up into the chamber, and there had fun enough over the dandy's love note. They talked and laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks. Young men might have learnt a lesson, if they could have seen them and heard their conversation.—Poor Edwin was completely used up; and so has many a young man been when he has addressed a rose-scented love letter to a Miss who did not like him. Beware young gentlemen; for these Misses always have confidantes.

CHAPTER XVIII

The housekeeper and negro. The return of the widower. A maiden's cunning movements. Reading of a Quaker's love letter. The disappointment. A servant's humor, &c.

THE next morning after Miss Caroline Clackley received her love letter from the Philadelphia Quaker, she sought a private interview with Mr. Montague. The negro servant was suspicious that she desired such an interview, and watched her motions accordingly. He had become a great annoyance to the maiden, insomuch that she really hated him, as she did all the race to which he belonged. He had intimated to her his belief that she wrote the letter herself. In the morning as soon as she came down from her chamber, Sam began to grin, and she to frown.

Me suppose that you hab pleasant dreams last night,' said Sam, turning out the whites of his eyes and showing his ivory. 'Did you hab much of de palpitation ob your ole heart? Or is it too dried up to beat hard?'

Get out, you nigger,' she said, stamping her right foot and looking daggers at him. 'I wish you were on a Southern plantation under the lash of a severe master. That is the place for all niggers. They are not fit to enjoy liberty. Get out, and let me hear no more.'

I couldn't tink of sich a ting, no how,' said Sam, laughing at the threats of the excited maiden, and whistling a negro melody. 'Did he put a good deal of lub and murder in de letter? I reckons you write dat lub letter yourself. But it's no use. Dat putty won't stick no how.'

She gave him a severe look and left the room, intending to have a private conversation with the master of the house but the negro had so disturbed her nerves she gave it up for that day; and the next, Mr. Montague went into the country and was absent two or three days. During his absence Sam annoyed her more than ever, which only increased her desires to become the mistress of the establishment, when she could exercise an authority she did not then possess. Soon as Mr. Montague returned she found an opportunity to converse with him in private, as Monira was out and Sam had gone on some errand.

Havn't you been absent longer than you expected, Mr. Montague?' she asked, smiling, and appearing glad to welcome him home.

One day longer,' he replied; thinking she spoke unusually soft and delicate.

I suppose I ought to have told you something before you went your journey into the country, but could not find a convenient opportunity, for that nigger is always round, listening to that which is none of his business. He annoys me dreadfully.'

You musn't pay any attention to him,' he replied, concealing a smile which he felt rising from his heart to his face. 'He likes fun, and just so long as you mind him and he finds that he can plague you, he will do so. Now the better way for you is to pretend you don't hear him.'

I suppose it would; but then he tries one's patience dreadfully,' she replied. 'I will endeavor for the future to treat him with silent contempt.'

Take that course and he will soon hold his tongue,' he answered. 'But what is that you wish to tell me?'

O, yes, that's rather a painful subject, and I hardly know what to do,' she replied, partially covering her face with her left hand; but leaving one gray eye at liberty to scan his face.

But what is it that can be so painful?' he asked, looking at her and having hard work to keep from laughing outright.

You know, Mr. Montague, I have kept your house a good while, and of course must be much attached to the place,' she replied, in a kind of trembling voice. 'When I have a good place I always hate to leave it; I'm quite apt to become attached to a place where I have lived some time. You have always treated me kindly and generously, and I have tried to keep your house as it should be kept. There are many things to see to; but I have endeavored to see that every thing was in its place.'

I have no fault to find with you,' he replied. 'I always find my house in good condition and ready at any time for the reception of company. If it had not been so, I should have long ago changed my housekeeper.'

You ought to, indeed,' she answered, feeling somewhat encouraged, and her hopes becoming more buoyant. 'If such a house as yours is not well kept, and such nice furniture well taken care of, they would soon go to rack and ruin. I don't see but everything looks as nice as it did when your good wife died.'

You have done your duty faithfully, and I trust I have generously paid you for it,' he replied, putting his handkerehief handkerchief to his face to hide a smile which he could not control with all the efforts he could make.'

'O, indeed you have, and that's what makes me hate to leave your house, she said. 'O dear, I hardly know what to do!'

She appeared to be considerably distressed in her mind, and acted well her part. He did not at once reply; and there was a short pause, during which he was exercising all his powers of self-control to repress his smiles.

At last he said. 'You don't expect to leave do you?'

'Indeed, Mr. Montague, I hardly know what to say, I'm so much attached to your house, and you and Monira treat me so kindly,' she replied. 'But I have received a—'

She could proceed no further at the moment; but buried her face in her handkerchief to conceal the emotions that were agitating her heart.

'What have you received?' he asked, really enjoying an unsuppressed smile, while her keen eyes were so covered that she could not see it.

'Here,' she said, in a feeble, agitated voice, pulling a letter from her bosom, and handing it to him. 'Read this, and it will tell you all. I know I can trust you with the secret.'

He opened, and read as follows—

'MY DEAR MISS CAROLINE CLACKLEY:

'I hope you will pardon me for addressing o you this letter. We have not seen each other for some years; but since thee was in Philadelphia a great change has taken place in my circumstances. My business has been very prosperous, and now I feel anxious for a partner to share with me the pleasures of life, and to divide its sorrows; and looking about for such a partner, the emotions of my heart direct me to thee. I have known thee from earliest childhood, and am satisfied that I could live more happily with thee than any other woman I have ever been acquainted with. Thee has known me too, and thee can judge of the feelings of thine own heart. I have a good house in Chestnut Street which I have recently purchased, and I can assure thee I'm tired of boarding out, and living, as it were, alone. My business has been so prosperous that I have money enough to support us in good style. I think it is the duty of every man, to take a wife when he has the means to support her. I am now, thanks to a kind Providence, in that condition which warrants me in seeking a partner. It would not be becoming in one of my age to write too warmly about love to thee; but I can lay my hand upon my heart and say truly that I cherish very strong affections for thee. In earlier life thou madest an impression upon my heart which time has not obliterated. Marriage, I'm fully sensible, is a very important contract, the most important of any one we can make in life, and ought not to be entered into without much deliberation and serious thought. I have given to the subject that calm deliberation and serious thought its importance demands; and now offer thee my hand and my heart; I feel as if we could live happily together. If I did not so feel, I should not have addressed thee this letter. I trust thee will give the subject the same deliberation and thought I have given to it; and when thou hast made up thy mind I trust I shall hear from thee.

'I am thy true, well-wisher,

'SILAS SANDERS.'

While Mr. Montague was reading the above missile of what purported to be a good Quaker's honest love, Sam had returned, and placed himself at a door which stood a very little ajar. There he stood motionless as a statue, peering through the narrow space with his large eyes, and listening attentively to all that might be said.

'God a marcy!' mentally exclaimed this curious, listening negro. 'Massar be reading the lub letter which she writ herself, dat's a fact. He hab hard work to keep from laughing. And how de ole maid sits with her arms on her bosom and face in de hankerchief; I reckons massar smell de rat. He take her for his buzzum companion!'

And the last thought came very near making the negro burst out into loud laughter; but he controlled himself as best he could under the circumstances and anxiously listened, that he might catch some of the conversation that might pass between them after the reading of the letter.

Having finished reading, Mr. Montague handed her back the letter. She received it with a trembling hand, and uncovered one eye that she might note the workings of his face. Not a word was said for a short space, during which the maiden was exceedingly agitated. The negro's single eye was upon her and his ears were open to catch the first word that might be uttered by either. At last Mr. Montague spoke.

'A Quaker, I perceive by the style of his letter,' said Montague.

'Yes, sir, he belongs to that denomination of Christians,' she replied.

'Gorry mighty!' said Sam to himself.—'How de old maid would look dressed in drab! And de Quaker cap on her head would make her nose look more picked than ebber.'

'How old is the Quaker gentleman?' asked Montague, repressing a smile.

'O, Mr. Montague, he's ten years older than you are!' she replied, uncovering her other gray eye to have a more full view of the expression of his countenance.

'Heaven bless de pair!' said Sam to himself. 'De ole varses say de truth, I reckons, or dey will hab a cool time on't.

'If love be a flame kindled by desire,

De ole sticks' best, because dey be drier.'

Sam would have burst into loud laughing, but for his strong thick lips which he violently compressed and prevented the outbreak. But he was full almost to bursting.

Mr. Montague remained silent, for the good reason that he didn't know what to say; but she was every moment anxiously expecting something to escape his lips which might lighten the burden that pressed so heavily upon her heart.

'Don't you think Mr. Silas Sanders is too old for me?' she asked, after a long and somewhat distressing pause.

'Indeed I could not say,' he replied.—'That depends very much on circumstances. Some men are younger at three score years and ten than others who have not lived more than a half a century. Much, very much depends on the constitution of a man. Time lays its hand lightly on some while on others it falls more heavily.'

'It is well for the husband to be a few years older than his wife; but too great a disparity in years is not so well,' she replied. 'Now Mr. Silas Sanders is twenty years older than I am; but if he were but ten, I should feel differently.'

Now this maiden had an object in fixing upon ten years as the maximum; for that was the precise number of years Mr. Montague had lived longer than she had. He began to see her drift, and remained silent.

The negro was almost tickled to death, and could hardly contain himself. A sort of a low blubber did once escape his thick lips; but he instantly cut it short.

'I know of no person, Mr. Montague, whose advice I would take sooner than yours upon this important question,' continued Miss Clackley. 'I hope you will advise me for the best; I'm so attached to your house and daughter that I feel very reluctant to leave them; but I ought to do that which is the best for me. I havn't seen Mr. Silas Sanders for several years, and know not how he may look now. As you say, time has much more effect on some than it has upon others. I have thought upon the subject; but I'm afraid if I leave here, I shall feel as if I was away from home. O, dear me, I wish I knew what was best! Sometimes I wish I could see Mr. Silas Sanders; and then again when I come to think how long I have kept your house, and how natural every thing looks in it, I feel as if I couldn't see him. If I hadn't come to live with you I might have thought more favorably of his proposition; but it seems to me, I should feel strangely if I go to Philadelphia.'

She came to a pause, and the negro was really afraid that, if he stood at the door much longer, he should make a noise and so expose himself.

'Gorry mighty!' mentally exclaimed Sam. 'I should tink de ole maid would feel berry strangely along side ob dat old Quaker, who is most a hundred years old! His ole white head and her false hair and teeth. Gorry mighty, I shall hab one fit if I stay here, dat's a fact.'

And Sam, lest he should expose himself, stole softly away, and repaired to the kitchen where he gave full vent to his laughter, till the tears run out of his large eyes and streamed down his ebony cheeks.

'I hope you will give me your advice,' she said, carefully watching every motion of his facial muscles, and sighing loud enough to be heard.

'Really, Miss Clackley, I don't feel competent to advise you upon such a subject,' he said. 'Besides, I have always made it a rule of my life not to advise any one except my own daughter, in relation to marriage. That rule I have invariably adhered to, and I cannot break over it now.

That ended the conversation, and Miss Caroline Clackley repaired to her chamber to reflect upon the next move which was best to make.

CHAPTER XIX

The scene changes. The last load of lumber. Breaking up a logging establishment.—Journey out of the woods. The snow squall. Sudden death. The funeral. Hospitality of lumbermen.

TIME passed on, and yet Monira received page: 66-67 no letter from her lover. March had flown, and April had come with its showers to bring forth the flowers of May, and no tidings from the young Bostonian away down east in the State of Maine. His father had written to him; for he expected the teams were about leaving the 'swamps.' But Henry had been too busy to write home.—After he had received his father's letter, he began to think it was time to write, not only to his father, but also to Monira, and let her know that a change had come over the spirit of his dream. So far as the logging business was concerned, he was posted up and could give his father a correct account of the winter's operations; but how to word a letter to Monira Montague was a much more difficult task. He was not so well posted up in that, and the affair gave him considerable trouble. After much perplexing reflection upon the subject, he wrote her what he believed it to be his duty to write under the circumstances in which he was placed. He had once more visited Jane and her mother, and was received most graciously and kindly. He found that his love for that flower of the forest was no idle dream of his fancy. That he loved her deeply and sincerely his second visit convinced him beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Previous to his seeing this wild, romantic, and beautiful girl, he could not have been made to believe that the charms of any female could have wrought such a spell upon him as this girl's had. He was not aware before that he had so much romance in the elements of his composition; but he now felt that he could never be happy without the society of his beloved Jane. In his opinion that was a fixed fact, and he governed himself accordingly. He had completely made up his mind to make her his partner for life. Although her conduct had been so mysterious during his first acquaintance with her, yet she now appeared to him as a lovely girl. And even her singular actions while in the woods, her courage in danger, her skill in, and love of, wild sports, had endeared her to him, and first struck the tender chords of his romantic heart. But there was a mystery still hanging over the mother which he was anxious to solve.—That she was even a fashionably educated woman, and once moved in fashionable and refined society he could not doubt; for her manners and conversation proved it beyond any doubt or question in his own mind.

The weather was growing warm, and the snow fast melting away, and Bill, the accomplished teamster, was driving his last load of logs to the landing, and whistling some merry melody over the close of his winter's labors. Henry was on the bob-sled, trying to whistle, too.

'Well, there are the logs on the sled Iv'e been trying to find all winter,' said Bill.—'Now Iv'e found 'em, thanks to Providence It has been a good winter for business, and I think your father will have no reason to complain. Wev'e got in a fine lot of lumber. A large portion of it is clear stuff, and will bring a round price at Bangor.'

'We have been very fortunate,' replied Henry; 'I wish father could see the logs They look better than gold to me.'

'Ah, Henry, youv'e acquired quite a taste for pine trees and forest flowers,' said Bill. laughing. 'Did she appear as lovely as ever when you saw her last week? Uncle Bob is almost tickled to death to think you have been to see his daughter the second time Daughter, did I say? She's no more his daughter than she's mine.'

'Do you really think so?' asked Henry.

'I havn't any doubt about it myself,' replied Bill; 'But then I wouldn't let the old man know I think so.'

'I confess I havn't much doubt on the subject,' said Henry. 'I hope her mother will some day reveal the secret to me, if there is any.'

'Then you have made up your mind to make a wife of her, have you?' asked Bill.

'I reckon I shall not try to live without her,' replied Henry, smiling.

'I would if I were you,' said Bill. 'She's the most beautiful creature I ever saw.'

They had now arrived at the landing, and the last logs were unloaded.

'There they go,' said Bill, laughing, and starting up his team. 'Now wev'e nothing to do but to pack up and find our way out of the woods before the ice breaks up and the brooks begin to run. I suppose you will remain at Uncle Bob's until the spring freshets come, and then help us run down with the logs. I can tell you, there is fun and excitement in river-driving.'

'Yes, and a deal of hard and even dangerous work, too,' said Henry.

'I see how it is,' said Bill. 'Your'e going to back out. Well, I suppose it will be more pleasant to stay at Uncle Bob's than to be chasing logs down the river, and breaking jams, and, perhaps, getting a wet jacket, if not being drowned.'

'I'm very much in your way of thinking,' replied Henry. 'I conclude I shall hang round the outskirts of the woods until the robbins come and the sparrows sing.'

'Nothing more likely,' replied the teamster, smiling. 'I think I should do the same thing if I were in your situation. But when do you intend to take the bewitching creature to Boston and show the good people of the city what beautiful flowers grow in the forests of Maine?

'I intend to do so this spring, if her mother will let me,' replied Henry.

'I reckon she'll let you,' said Bill, 'if she's satisfied of your honesty, and I presume she is.'

They had now gone back to the camp, and all hands were engaged in packing up for a start out of the woods the next morning.—Evening came and there was great rejoicing until a late hour of the night. Uncle Bob had made his last loaf, and was on his high horse.

The next morning they took an early breakfast, the sleds were loaded, and the teams started. They were a happy crew as ever left the logging swamps. Some of them had sweethearts to visit as well as young Henry, and others had wives and little children whom they were anxious to embrace once more.

Not one of the crew had been sick a single day during the whole winter, but all had gained flesh. They were full of fun and frolic. And Uncle Bob was as active as they youngest of the group. As they passed along, the woods resounded with their merry songs and loud laughter, and the rabbits would dart from the covert of one bush to another, and partridges might be heard drumming in the distance upon the trunks of fallen pines more than a century old. The day was pleasant, and all hearts rejoiced in anticipation of 'home, sweet home.'

But alas, how sudden are the changes in this world! The next day in the afternoon a violent snow squall came which blew with great violence, screaming through the leafless branches of the trees like the wind through the shrouds of a vessel in a storm at sea.—Uncle Bob was behind the teams walking along, and singing merrily some old familiar song, and anticipating the pleasure of embracing his wife and daughter, while the wind raged and the trees were falling in every direction. Lumbermen are not easily frightened at a storm in the woods. And this sudden and violent snow squall seemed rather to increase their spirits than to diminish them. The harder the wind blew the louder was their singing and laughing.

Uncle Bob will be blown away, if he don't get upon the sled, he is so thin, and light,' said Bill.

No fear of me,' said Uncle Bob.' 'Iv'e seen worse squalls than this.'

At that moment the cracking of a dry pine tree was heard, and Uncle Bob started to get upon the sled, when the tree came down and crushed him to the earth. If he had not hurried to reach the sled it would have fallen across the road between him and the sled, and his life would have been saved. But, alas! the jolly old man was a helpless corpse under the tree. In it's fall, it struck him upon the head, and killed him instantly. He uttered no groan, and scarcely moved a muscle after he was struck down. The teams stopped, and the tree had to be cut twice before the body could be removed. At last they succeeded in placing the lifeless remains of the old man upon one of the sleds. No more singing nor loud laughter was heard during the remainder of the journey. Just at nightfall they reached the house, and Jane came running out to greet her father and the crew. It was not so dark but she could see grief and sorrow upon their countenances; but she discovered not the cause, and stood trembling beside Henry, while her mother was looking through the window.

Where is father?' asked Jane, in a voice of trembling, that showed she was laboring under some fearful apprehensions.

Let us go in, and I will tell you,' said Henry, taking her trembling hand, and leading her into the house.

Is he sick or dead?' she asked, while he was leading her in.

He made no reply; but led her into the house when the anxious wife saw at a glance there was trouble.

Gracious Heavens!' exclaimed the excited woman. 'What has happened? Where is my husband?'

Henry, now with the tears flowing down his manly cheeks told the sad tale in as soothing a manner as he could assume for the melancholy occasion. The wife and daughter were greatly afflicted; but they behaved in a becoming manner, and did not shrink as some more weak-minded women might have done under the pressure of like circumstances; and yet their grief was deep and sincere. The deepest river flows the most silently, while shallow streams make more noise.

The death of the old man was sincerely mourned by all the crew; and deep and heartfelt sympathy was exercised by these lumbermen towards the bereaved wife and daughter. They looked rough upon the outside, but within they had hearts to feel for other's woes.

Although they were anxious to reach their respective homes after so long an absence; yet they did not leave until they assisted in the burial of their old friend and companion. And a more solemn funeral is seldom witnessed in any city or town than that one.—The grave was dug in the spot which the old man in his life-time designated as the place where he desired to be buried. It was under the branches of a large sugar maple tree that stood on elevated ground a few rods south of the house. It was a beautiful spot and commanded a fine view of the surrounding landscape. Not a man left until the earthly remains of then old cook were decently interred. Henry Herbert walked with Jane to the grave as one of the chief mourners.

The scene was solemn, and produced much sadness for miles around. Almost every family within the distance of ten miles were there and followed the remains of the old man to the grave.

There is a sincerity among the backwood's people which cannot be found in what is called more refined society. Let any one fall into distress in such a region and he is sure not only to have the sympathy of the whole neighborhood, but their assistance also.—How different is the case in large boarding houses or public hotels in the cities. A person might sicken and even die in one of those establishments without exciting the least sympathy or attention, except, perhaps, from a particular friend or relative; but in back settlements human want or human distress always help and relief. And the generous hospitality of such places is worthy of remark. Their log houses are always open, or the latch-string is always upon the outside, and even strangers are heartily received, fed and lodged without money and without price.—They take delight in doing such acts of kindness; there is a hearty sincerity in their hospitality which makes one feel that he is entirely welcome; nothing is given grudgingly. And it is seldom that one hears apologies made because their viands are not better, or the accommodations in their houses are not more convenient. Their language is, 'such as we have we give freely to thee,' and no questions are asked or answered so far as the table, bed or room is concerned. Members of more refined communities might learn some valuable lessons from these apparently ignorant and uncultivated people. And in all the logging camps there is the same kind of generous hospitality. No stranger need remain hungry or thirsty in such regions; for his wants will always be generously and freely supplied.

After the funeral of the old man, the lumbermen started for their several homes; and there was many a wet eye at parting. Henry remained to console the mother and almost worship the daughter. From this place he wrote his father a letter detailing the circumstances of the old cook's death and burial, giving some account of the bereaved woman and her daughter. He described them both as being extraordinary persons; and even hinted that he cherished some peculiar feelings for the daughter. He felt it to be his duty to break the ice to his father, so that he and his mother might not be too much taken by surprise when they ascertained all the facts in relation to his affection for Jane.

Day after day flew rapidly away, and the young and ardent lover was not ready to leave; two weeks had passed since the burial of the old man, and still he lingered in that house of mourning without forming any determination about the time when he should leave. He had found that kind of society which pleased more than any he had ever associated with before. We leave him in that log cabin, enjoying the sweets of his new-born affection.

CHAPTER XX

The negro brings the long expected letter.—Sam's wit. He annoys the housekeeper. The contents of the letter. How they are received. A daughter's firmness. A father's joy, &c.

NOW, Sam, I know youv'e got a letter, from the smiles on your shining face,' said Monira Montague to the negro servant, as he came from the post office.

Gorry mighty, Missus, dat's a face,' he said, presenting her a letter, and grinning as if he were as glad as she was. 'Dat is de etter I hab bin arter dese six weeks, and het come at last. I knew he'd come some night fore de snow all melted away in de woods away down that where de sun fust rises. I hope he be chuck full of lub; and not de Quaker's lub nider. Yah! yah! yah! You no write dat letter yourself. It's a true ginowine lub letter, and he come from de warm heart and not from de crazy brain.'

Monira could wait no longer to hear Sam's lingo; but took a lamp and hurried to her chamber, and Sam went grinning into the kitchen where Miss Caroline Clackley was superintending some domestic affairs.

Young Missus jist hab a real ginowine lub letter from de warm heart ob a young man, and not from de ole Quaker who hab one foot in de grave and 'tother no bisness out.'

O, you black rascal!' exclaimed Miss Clackley, snapping her eyes and clinching her hands until her finger nails made deep dents in her palms.

And gorry mighty,' he continued, grinning, and not minding the epithet she bestowed on him. 'Missus no write it hisself, nider. It's ginowine and no mistake, dat's a fac. Post-marked away down east.—Some folks hab lub letters, and no post mark on 'em at all; what de gemmum call de drop letters. Ah, ole maid, ye can't come it over dis child, no how. Yah! yah! yah!'

O, you black brute!' she exclaimed, in a great rage, trotting out of the room, and hurrying to her chamber to examine her Quaker love letter

It had just got through her hair that she had made a sad mistake in not putting the letter in an envelope; for then she could say she had destroyed the envelope and contradict the negroe's story.

That black scoundrel will be the death of me yet!' she said to herself. 'I wonder if he has said any thing to Mr. Montague about it? I think he didn't notice it was a drop letter when he read it. O, I hope not. If he did, it is all over with me, I fear.—I'm provoked enough to poison that nigger. Strange Mr. Montague hasn't said any thing to me about my going away. He hasn't opened his mouth upon the subject since he read the letter! That is very strange! It can't be he wants me to leave his house; for I'm sure I don't know where he can get an other housekeeper who will do as I have done. I will ask him if he wishes me to leave. O, if he suspects I wrote the letter myself, what shall I do? No, no, I can't believe he suspects that? And yet, Sam may have put it into his head.'

Thus she communed with her own troubled spirit while Monira was reading her letter, and as much troubled as the housekeeper was. After she reached her chamber, she broke the seal and read the following letter:—

MONIRA,—I suppose you think it is very strange that I have neglected writing you so long; but there are reasons for that neglect. I know not whether, you have considered my past attentions as amounting to an engagement or not; I hope you do not so consider them. It is a very difficult matter for one to understand or know his own heart, much less the heart of another person. I don't know whether you love me or not.—The human heart is a strange book, and often very difficult to be read and understood. I confess most frankly that I did not know my own heart when I left the city for those cold regions of the North. It is said that absence will test one's affection. I know full well that you are good enough for me. Yes, I may say truly, you are too good, and deserve a better husband than I should be. Heaven knows I never had a single intention or wish to wound your feelings. Nor do I now have such a wish or intention; but time and absence often work changes in all. The few months I have passed away from your society have convinced me beyond the possibility of a doubt, that I do not cherish that love and affection for you which will warrant me in entering the married state with you. Believing thus, it becomes my imperative duty to give you notice of the fact that you may govern yourself accordingly. I make this declaration from the purest of motives; and I trust you will duly appreciate them.—Would it not be more unjust to you to conceal my real sentiments and feelings when I have tested them by every means within my power than thus frankly to declare them?—Surely you would not wish me to show you marked attention any longer after you know I do not love you as a young man ought to love her whom he expects to make the sharer of his joys and sorrows during life. I know your good sense too well to believe that for a single moment. But you ask, why I have thus been attentive to you? Could I have been honest and sincere? The answer is, that I was. With you I was better pleased than with any other young lady of my acquaintance, and even imagined I loved you; but absence from you has convinced me that I knew not my own heart. Now suppose absence had the same effect upon you; would it not be your duty to declare it to me frankly and without any reservation? Most surely it would be your imperative duty as it is now mine. God knows I have been as sincere and honest in my attentions to yon as I am now in making the declaration which you have read above. I sincerely regret to be compelled by a sense of duty to write this letter; but the duty I owe to you urges me to do so, to say nothing of the duty I owe myself. You are too worthy to take the hand of any young man unless you can have his whole heart along with it. I hope and trust you will pardon me for all I have done, and I think you will, when you believe I acted from honest motives, but under mistaken and false views of my own heart.—My task is done; but it has been the severest one of my life. May Heaven bless you, and give you a more worthy husband than I should be.

With great respect, I remain your friend,

HENRY HERBERT.'

Monira read the above letter through three times until she had almost committed every line to memory. The first reading brought tears to her eyes, the second made her tremble in every muscle, and the third braced up her nerves to bear the sad disappointment as best she could. The young man did well not to state in his letter that he had formed the acquaintance of another girl whom he did sincerely and truly love. Her knowledge of that fact, might, and probably would, have made the matter worse.

So,' she said to herself, after the third reading of the letter; 'he has at last found out he does not love me! Well, shall I grieve myself to death because Henry Herbert does not love me? No! Iv'e too much spirit and pride for that. I did love him, unless my heart has deceived me. He writes a manly, frank letter, and every line of it seems to breathe forth truth and sincerity. I would exercise my reason and judgment. Surely he has done right in thus declaring to me the real sentiments of his heart. He says absence tests the strength of one's affection. Well, it is so, I suppose. I will try to forget him. I ought not to feel any hostility and bitterness towards him, if he writes the truth, and I ought to believe him. He says he's better pleased with me than with any other girl and thought he loved me; I believe that. He further says, that absence from my society has convinced him that his own heart deceived him, and that he did not love me as much as he thought he did, nor as he ought to love to warrant our union. This is harder to believe; but why should I doubt his word? He is too good a fellow to utter falsehoods; I have never known him to utter one. The whole truth is. I never had won his whole heart. The feelings and sentiments which possessed his heart wore the semblance of love; but were not love. O, Love, what art thou? Have I ever known thee? Does my heart feel thy magic power? No wonder thou art been represented blind? How much is said about thee in this world? Is there any such sentiment of the human heart as love? If the heart loves once can it love again? Do widows and widowers love when they enter into marriage the second time? And if they do, did they love their first husbands and wives? Is the human heart so created that it can never love a second time? Why should it be when death so often separates lovers? God is merciful and kind, and why should He thus create and subject it to such sorrows? Ah, these are questions which I am too young and inexperienced to answer. Well, Henry Herbert is no longer my lover, and, Heaven helping me, I will endeavor to bear with fortitude this sad disappointment.'

She carefully folded up the letter and laid it away, fully resolved to call upon all the powers within her, and not be crushed to earth by such a misfortune. Her resolution was a reasonable one, and such as the circumstances of the case warranted. But how many young ladies would have shown so much calm reason and exercised so much sound discretion under similar circumstances as this ambitious and accomplished girl did? She was a model for her sex, and took the only rational view of the subject she could have taken.

Moniara did not say any thing to her father that night in relation to the letter she had received; but the next morning he noticed she was unusually serious, and asked her the cause, inquiring if she was indisposed.

I'm not sick, dear father,' she replied.—'Do I look so?'

I can't say as you look really sick,' he answered. 'But it seems to me that you are not so cheerful and smiling as usual.'

Perhaps I'm not; but I will endeavor to be,' she replied, forcing a smile upon her face.

I fear. my daughter, you have had some disagreeable news,' he said.

What makes you think so?' she asked, endeavoring to assume a cheerful aspect.

Sam told me this morning that you received a letter last evening from away down east,' he replied. 'Is Henry Herbet unwell, or has any thing happened to him?'

I believe he is in usual health, at least he did not write any thing to the contrary,' she answered. 'But I think something has happened to him.'

And pray, what is that?' he inquired, manifesting some anxiety.

Why, father, he has found out that his own heart deceived him,' she replied.

Indeed!' he said. 'That is quite a discovery for a young man to make in the forest. But what mean you, Monira.'

I mean, that he once thought he loved me; but now finds he was really mistaken,' she said.

Once thought he loved you!' repeated the father, gazing upon her in astonishment. 'Once thought he loved you! And now finds he was mistaken!'

Yes, father, precisely that!' she replied, 'We read that the heart is deceitful above all things, and Henry has found it out by a few months' experience down east.'

And Monira really laughed, notwithstanding there was a heavy burden upon her heart but she was determined to shake it off, and be herself again.

I should like to see that letter if you have no objections,' he said.

Not the least in the world,' she replied, going after the letter and bringing it to her father.

He read it very carefully through, and sat in silence a few moments, holding the letter in his hand, and reflecting upon its contents.

Well, father, don't you think that is a pretty candid, open, frank letter?' she asked, assuming quite a cheerful look and manner.

I confess it is,' he replied, gazing upon her face to see if he could find any traces of grief and sorrow among her smiles.

Iv'e no doubt he has told the truth in that letter, and it is fortunate for both of us that we have found it out before marriage,' she said. 'It would have been quite too late after marriage.'

Monira, I rejoice that you exercise so much reason and sound judgment under such circumstances,' he replied. 'I, too, must believe he has told the truth; and he is more entitled to credit than to censure for thus frankly declaring it.'

That's just what I think, father,' she replied. 'I will endeavor to forget him.'

I hope so; and we'll take a journey to the Springs as soon as the warm season approaches,' he replied, kissing his daughter, and rejoicing in the resolution she manifested.

He was much astonished at the contents of the young man's letter; but more at the firmness and sound reason that his daughter manifested.

CHAPTER XXI

A dandy's rose-scented love letter. Two young ladies conspire to reform a dandy The power of dress in shaping human characters, &c.

THE next day Elizabeth Simpson came running into Mr. Montague's house and bearing in her bosom another love note in a highly ornamented envelope from Edwin Hunter; that incorrigible dandy who would not take no for an answer. Monira was in her chamber and Elizabeth hurried up to consult her.

O, Monira, don't you think that silly Edwin has written me another love note which is more strongly rose-scented and more beautifully embellished than his first one notwithstanding I wrote him such an answer,' said Elizabeth.

Surely, he's a very persevering young gentleman,' replied Monira, smiling.

Persevering young gentleman, indeed!' repeated Elizabeth 'He acts like a fool.'

They say all men so act when they are in love,' answered Monira.

Then I desire no acquaintance with them,' said Elizabeth, being much excited, and yet after all somewhat pleased with the idea of being warmly loved. Elizabeth Simpson had a good deal of human nature in the elements of her composition; yes, a good deal of female nature too. Although she viewed young Hunter as a dandy of the first water, yet she couldn't well help being pleased that one fellow loved her. He wrote the first love letter she ever received, and the female heart can never feel perfectly indifferent when its possessor first learns that she is beloved.

You mustn't be in too much of a hurry to condemn all men for the folly of one,' said Monira. 'Now Edwin is a good-hearted fellow, no doubt, and his father is very wealthy. But let me see the letter.'

Elizabeth pulled out from her bosom the following letter, and handed to her friend.

MY DEAR ELIZABETH,—I received your answer to my first note, and you cannot imagine how sorrowful it made me feel.—If I know my own heart, I love you deeply and sincerely. Never will you meet another young man who loves you so ardently as I do. Pardon me for thus expressing my love or you. Can I be blamed for my love? I did not make it. It came upon my heart even before I was aware of it. I now feel it deeply. You have made an impression on me which I have no power to obliterate. It will remain with me through life. I shall never be happy in this world unless I live with you. My words are few, but they contain volumes of meaning.

'From your true and sincere lover,

Edwin.'

'There, did you ever see the like of that?' asked Elizabeth, after her friend had read this love missile.

'It is short and sweet,' replied Monira, smiling.

'Short and sweet!' repeated Elizabeth.—'It is short, but I havn't any thing to say about its sweetness.'

'The sweetness consists in its sincerity,' said Monira. 'Sincerity is every thing in love affairs. Now Edwin may yet make a likely man, and no doubt he would be an exceedingly kind husband. His dandyism will wear off one of these days. I think you could entirely cure him of that weakness.'

'You wouldn't have such a fellow, would you?' asked Elizabeth.

'None have ever loved me, therefore I can't say,' replied Monira.

'No, Henry Herbert is a very different young man from Edwin Hunter,' said Elizabeth.

'But Henry has never loved me,' said Monira, smiling.

'Never loved you!' repeated Elizabeth.

'Never!' was the brief reply of the calm Monira.

'What mean you?' asked her excited and wondering companion.

'Read that letter, and you will know all,' replied Monira, handing her the letter she had received from young Herbert, and appearing quite calm.

The excited Elizabeth read it through, and was greatly astonished.

'There, you see how easily the human heart deceives us,' continued Monira.

'Is it possible that Henry Herbert wrote this letter?' asked Elizabeth who had a much more romantic notion of love than her friend had.

'He certainly did, and wrote what he believed to be the truth too,' replied Monira.

'I was never so astonished in my life!' said Elizabeth. 'Why, every body believed that he loved you as well as he did his own eyes.'

'And he thought so too; but a few months have cured him of that self-delusion,' said Monira. 'Oh, Elizabeth, it is as Henry wrote, and his own experience has proved we don't know our own hearts.'

'I should be so provoked with him,' said Elizabeth.

'Provoked with him! repeated the rational Monira, smiling. 'You hardly know what you are saying. Why should I be provoked to anger? He once thought he loved me; and now he finds he was mistaken. Shall I be angry with him for that? No bad motives have actuated him in either case. He was not in fault when he imagined he loved me, neither is he now when he knows his heart deceived him. I have reason to be thankful that he has made the discovery before our marriage.'

'But what will you do?' asked Elizabeth, wondering what she could do under similar circumstances.

'Do!' repeated Monira. 'Do! Why, love and marry some other young man, if I should happen to become acquainted with one.'

'O, dear me, I could never love but once,' said Elizabeth.

'You must wait until you love some one the first time before you can judge whether you can love a second time,' replied Monira. 'There are a thousand theories in our heads about these matters which our after experience scatters to the four winds of heaven. Our knowledge must flow from experience. We may imagine a thousand things in which there is no reality. Henry has learnt a lesson from his own experience, and I'm in a fair way to learn one. We must live and learn; I find there is much truth in those five words of one syllable, and let us remember them, and not imagine we know every thing.'

'Well, I confess you talk strangely,' said Elizabeth, wondering how her friend could be so calm under the pressure of such trying circumstances; for it seemed to her that she should either pine away in grief or scold herself to death in anger.

Such was the difference in the organization and temperament of these young ladies. One wanted to love, and if she did, she thought she could never love again; the other had loved once, and hoped she might a second time. Elizabeth was an impulsive, inexperienced girl; while Monira had had some lessons from that best of all school-masters, and possessed a sedate considerate mind.

'No doubt my conversation appears very strange to you,' replied Monira. 'But such opinions and sentiments as I now advance may not appear so strange to you one of these days. You will find that experience is a better schoolmaster than impulsive feelings or false theories. And now let me say to you that Edwin Hunter, although a dandy, is not so bad a fellow after all. He loves you so tenderly and warmly that you might mould him into almost any shape you please. I really believe he is honest, and that is a good foundation for other virtues.'

'It seems to me you have changed your opinion of him quite recently,' said Elizabeth. 'But a short time ago, you laughed at his follies as much as I did.'

'True, I did; but then I was not so thoughtful as I am now,' said Monira. 'I hardly gave his character any consideration at all, except his dandyism ; but now I can see that he has honesty, and that his peculiar follies may be cured and by your influence too. And would it not be pleasant for you to see a beau constantly improving under your management and tuition?'

'It seems to me I should rather have a beau ready made as they say of clothing than undertake to rip one in pieces and make him over,' said Elizabeth, laughing at her own wit.

'O, you will not be under the necessity of ripping him in pieces as you call it,' replied Monira. 'All you will be obliged to do is to strip off some of the foolish ornaments.—The cloth is good and the garment well cut, it is only injured by two great a profusion of decorations. Those can easily be taken off without injury to the garment. It is often the case that our dresses are spoilt in making up when the cloth is good, and they then need only some alteration to make them fit to wear. Now if Edwin was my beau, I would begin at his upper-lip and make him shave off his silly mustache. I would then indnce induce him to wear pants of one color and to throw away his fancy-striped and many colored ones; then make him take off his fancy vest, and put on a plain one, and lastly induce him to wear boots full as large as his feet, so that he could walk without acting as if his feet were pinched and his toes were sore. And I should desire also that he might exchange his watch seal and finger-rings for much smaller ones. Now Edwin has a very handsome face and a good form, but the fancy-tailors and barbers have spoilt him.—Now change his outer man as I have suggested and he would appear very well, indeed.'

'But, perhaps, I could have no influence over him,' said Elizabeth.

'You need indulge no fears on that account count,' replied Monira. 'A woman, can influence a man who sincerely loves her as I have no doubt Edwin does you.'

To change his dress would greatly improve him,' said Elizabeth.

Indeed it would, not only his appearance, but his manners, also,' said Monira. 'A peculiar kind of dress has a wonderful effect upon some young fellows, for they all the time imagine they must mince along and make their movements correspond exactly with the cut and fashion of their garments. Now Edwin can never be changed, but with a change in his wardrobe. He must be put into decent clothes. When that is done, he will begin to walk more like a man, talk more like a man and smile more like a man.'

Well, Monira, you have preached quite a sermon,' said Elizabeth, feeling as if she should like to try some experiments upon Edwin.

Edwin furnishes a good text for a sermon,' replied, Monira. 'Now let me say to what I have been thinking.'

And what is that?' asked Elizabeth.

Write him an answer to his second love note, and say to him that you can have no fellowship with dandies; for they are the creatures you loathe and despise. And further write him that if he will entirely change his dress, put on a decent suit of clothes and let the barber shave off the hair upon his upper-lip, and cut off his soap-locks and curls, you will permit him to call and see you. And you might also request him to wear a much smaller ring upon his little finger, and sport a watch seal about quarter as large as the one he wears now. And further you might add that if he wishes to carry a cane he must carry something besides a whipstick, a cane on which he can lean for support and with which he might defend himself in case of an assault upon his person.'

Elizabeth took leave of her friend and hurried home to write the reformatory epistle to the young dandy. Monira was honest and sincere in the advice she gave her friend; for she really believed that the young man had a good heart; but that he had been greatly injured by a desire to appear genteel and strut in the very pink and mode of the fashion.

CHAPTER XXII

The housekeeper's wish. The negro servant's recollections. His talk with his master Something about negro slavery. A touching story, &c.

MISS CAROLINE CLACKLEY was exceedingly anxious to bring the subject which was so near her heart again to the attention of Mr. Montague. It seemed to her that he was pefectly perfectly indifferent whether she remained his housekeeper or removed to the City of Brotherly Love and became the wife of a Quaker. To her it was very strange that he should seem to be thus indifferent; for she flattered herself that she was much esteemed by him as his housekeeper. In that she was right; for she understood domestic affairs well, and did her duty faithfully, and yet there was a lack of moral principle in her organization. The negro servant whom she hated so intensely was really more honest than she was and possessed of much more ready wit and shrewdness. Sam Smoothley always made himself agreeable to every one who treated him well and spoke favorably of the race to which he belonged.

This faithful, honest, cunning negro sought the first convenient opportunity he could find for an interview with his master in relation to the love letter he had brought from the post office for Miss Clackley. Much time did not elapse after he slyly listened to the conversation upon the same letter between her and his master. He did not, however, let his master known that he had overheard that conversation, because he felt rather ashamed of it. Sam was not in the habit of listening and concealing himself for that purpose; but he hated the housekeeper so intensely that he could not well resist the temptation.

'Massar Montague,' said Sam, 'did you know de housekeeper receive a lub letter?'

'Yes, Sam, she said something about it to me, yesterday,' replied his master.

'Gorry mighty! did she?' asked Sam, grinning from ear to ear. 'And did she say a Quaker sent it from Philadelphia?'

'Yes, and let me read the letter,' replied his master. 'But you mustn't let her know what I have told you.'

'Mum's de word with dis nigger,' said Sam, looking very sly, and placing his large black hand upon his protruded lips. 'Dis child know how to keep a secret.'

'I have always found you true,' said Montague. 'And if you should prove a traitor, you would leave my service without much ceremony.'

'I knows dat, massar, berry well,' said Sam. 'But did you see the post mark on de letter?'

'I didn't notice any; but presume it was post marked at Philadelphia,' replied his master.

'Gorry mighty, massur, dat lub letter she wrote herself,' said Sam, grinning. 'It was what dey calls de drop-letter. No post mark on him.'

'Are you sure of that?' asked his master, beginning to smell a rat.

'Sure as I'm living and my skin is black,' replied Sam. 'I took particular notice of it under a bright lamp, dat's a fac, massar. She wrote de letter herself and drop him in de post office.'

'What could be her object, Sam?' asked Montague, smiling.

'She want to hab you, massar,' replied Sam, laughing quite loud in his peculiar way. 'I knows her like de book. She be mighty glad to be de missus of dis establishment.'

But how would writing that letter help her?' asked the master.

'Ah, massar, she wants to make you tink odder gemmum arter her, and so make you bite de quicker. Sometimes pull de bait away from de fish and he'll swim after it de quicker cause he fraid he shall lose de fly.'

Montague laughed heartily until the tears ran down his cheeks.

'Yes, massar, 'pend on't, she be playing wid de hook and line,' continued Sam,—'And hopes you'll bite and then she catch you. But I tink her bait too ole for you.—Massar lub chicken better dan he does ole hen. I told her so once, and gorry mighty, how her little gray eyes did snap at dis nigger. She would hab bit me, if she hab not been fraid of de pisen of de black skin.—Dis child will bet a year's work dat she rite de lub letter herself. She be mighty cunning; but dere be one under dis roof that knows her from de head to de foot. I no bisness to gib advice to massar; but I hope you will tell her to go, if she desire to hab a Quaker. Dat't what I'd do. O, massar, how dat would make her ole heart feel.'

'Ah, Sam, I see you don't seem to like each other,' said Montague. 'I reckon she will never fall in love with you.'

'Fall in lub wid me!' repeated Sam, rolling out the whites of his eyes and showing two rows of ivory. 'Gorry mighty, massar, I should rather go back into slavery, plant de cotton and eat de hoe cake than be tied to her apron-string. No, no, massar, you don't catch dis nigger sitting in dat pew, no how. I have seen too many handsome yaller gals for dat. She fall in lub wid me!'

'I hope you and she will get along without much quarrelling,' said Montague.

'O, I nebber quarrel wid de woman,' said Sam. 'I nebber lift a hand to strike her, and if she strikes me in her rage, it wouldn't hurt much I reckons.'

'I think she will not attempt to knock you down,' said the master, smiling.

I hope not,' answered Sam. 'If she does I must dodge de blow, dat's all.'

Yes, that you can do,' said Montague.—'I suppose you provoke her a good deal; but you must contrive to live more quietly together, if possible.'

O, massar, I can almost make her laugh sometimes, but I confess I don't try dat berry often,' said the negro.

I think not,' replied the master, leaving Sam to his own reflections.

She court massar, and tink of habbing him!' said Sam to himself, laughing, and going about his work.

The negro was well-pleased with the conversation he had holden with his master, and believed if ever Miss Clackley showed him the letter again, that he would look after the post mark.

CHAPTER XXIII

A dandy's dormitory. A letter of severe instructions. Scene in a barber's shop.—The improvement in a dandy's looks. All for love, &c.

IN a genteely furnished chamber in a large handsome house, sat Edwin Hunter, intently re-perusing a letter which he had taken from the post office a short time previous. He had read the letter on his way home; but he was not satisfied with the first reading, and so repaired to his chamber to look out over again and thoroughly digest its contents.

The chamber like his own person was furnished in dandy style and highly perfumed. Several bottles of differently labeled cologne water were standing on a toilet-table, some very small and others quite capacious. A large mirror hung against the wall big enough to reflect his image from hat to boots. Several pairs of white kid gloves were lying upon the top of a rose-wood bureau which he had expressly made for his chamber. It was a splendid piece of cabinet work and highly polished as the case of a piano forte. Several canes were also standing up in one corner of the room of different sizes, and beautifully wrought heads. His wardrobe was made of black walnut wood; for he allowed no article of furniture in his room made from the old-fashioned mahogany. There was a marble-topped centre table covered with elegantly bound books the contents of which the owner knew but little of. It was enough for him to see gilt-edged leaves and brilliant covers. He was dressed in pants of large stripes and gaudy colors, a flashy velvet vest, and a snuff-brown coat with bright buttons, which were all cut and made in the extreme of fashion and some of them expensively stitched. Dress was his god, and he taxed his brains more in the selection of articles for his wardrobe than he did for any thing else. He had for some two or three years been coaxing hair to grow upon his upper-lip, and his barber had lent his aid to the same important work. He had different kinds of hair oil, some for his beard and some for his hair. His mustache had just began to make a little and darken his upper-lip.

When he entered his chamber his first exercise was to moisten his pocket handkerchief with some highly scented cologne and hold it to his nose; his movement was to parade himself before the mirror and very minutely to examine his person from head to foot. He then laid his gloves and cane upon the bureau, strutted a few times across the room, dangling his heavy watch-seal and flourishing his perfumed handkerchief, and then sat down in a velvet, black walnut rocking chair. After rocking a few moments very gracefully, he took out of his pocket the following letter, and began to read, but not in a very high-toned voice.

TO EDWIN HUNTER,—I was not a little surprised to receive your second note after my answer to your first. I had supposed my answer to your first note would have closed our correspondence; but you seem to proceed on the principle 'that faint heart never won fair lady.' (Capital! Bravo! he exclaimed to himself, and read on.) Permit me to say in all soberness and sincerity that I perfectly abhor the whole race of dandies from monkies down to young men. (He here took an extra snuff of his scented handkerchief, and said, 'pon my honor as a gentleman that's rather severe; but I'll read on.) With such creatures I can never think of associating. It seems to me that they are the most useless animals upon God's footstool. The former chattering from limb to limb on the trees, and the latter strut about the streets, drawing-rooms, theatres and saloons as if the world was made for them, and all the people to gaze at them. Tailors and barbers make them, while their heads contain no knowledge but that of fashionable suits, and their hands perform no useful labor. (Well, that's rather severe, too, he continued. But why should my hands labor when I have funds enough? Miss Simpson is a little out there; but he reads on.) No matter how much money a man may possess, he ought not to be a drone, a useless thing in the world. His hands ought to do some useful work or his head think some useful thoughts. He must not worship fine feathers, for remember, the peacock does the same, but he cannot sing and make sweet music. (There's an idea, 'pon my honor," he said. "She compares me with a peacock! That's rather severe, too; but what else does the beautiful creature say?") You say you love me most sincerely. I will not be so rude and unmannerly as to doubt your word, and yet I may be permitted to say that I am not aware of any reasons for your doing so. I have concluded to permit you to call upon me in the character of a suitor when we can talk more upon the subject; but before you visit me, I must insist upon your complying with the following conditions, namely: In the first place you must ask your barber to shave the hair entirely from your upper lip, cut your hair shorter, and curl it less!—(Shave off my mustache which I have taken so much pains and incurred so much expense to cultivate! That's very severe, 'pon my honor. I thought the ladies loved such things. That request is really hard. How I should look without a mustache! My friends would hardly know me." And he rose and looked in the mirror, and smoothed back the hair each way from the centre of his upper lip, and tried to make it curl like a pig's tail over either corner of his mouth. He sat down and read farther.) You must also dress yourself in cloth of one color, black I should prefer, and dispense with all flashy or gaudy colors. And your garments must not be cut in the extreme of fashion. Your boots must be large enough for your feet, so that you can walk off like a man and not go mincing about as if your toes were sore. And I further demand as a condition that you dispense with white kid gloves, except on certain occasions. To sum up all in a few words, you must entirely change your wardrobe and manners, and be no longer a dandy. You will at once perceive that the above requests are reasonable, because I told you in the beginning of this letter that I hate a dandy. How then can I consistently receive a visit from you, unless you comply with my requests as above expressed, and entirely cast aside your dandy dresses and ornaments and with them the actions and feelings of a dandy. I believe it is true that a man's dress exercises much influence over him. And who can tell but a change of your dress may effect a change in your mind and manners? And if such a change is wrought in your person, it is possible I may receive your addresses; but I can never consent to hold any farther correspondence with you without that change And here I close my note. ELIZABETH.'

He again rose, walked across the room, freshly perfumed his handkerchief, examined his person in the mirror, sat down and thus soliloquized:

That beautiful angelic creature writes as if she meant just what she writes, but the conditions she imposes upon me are hard and severe, 'pon my honor. But I cannot win her heart unless I do as she directs. I thought the ladies liked such fine clothes as I wear. I love her, and it seems to me I cannot be happy without her. I could get a new suit of clothes, but it is hard to part with my mustache; for it would take a long while for it to grow again. I wonder if she would not dispense with that condition? No, she will not; for her words are positive.—Strange she makes such demands upon me! O, dear, I hate to change myself into a common fellow. Why does she cherish such strange notions? But I must descend from the height of fashion, even if I make myself look like a common country fellow; for I must win her, or there's no happiness for me in this world! I must comply with her requests, hard and severe as they seem to me. I wonder what Mr. Bogle, my barber, will say, when I ask him to shave off my beautiful mustache, which just begins to make me look like a foreigner? And what will Mr. Shearman, my tailor, say, when I request him to cut and make me a common suit from black broadcloth? But it must all be done, or the beautiful Elizabeth can never be mine. I don't mind the new suit; but my mustache, there's the rub. A faint heart never won a fair lady.'

He now hurried his steps to the barber's shop, when the following brief dialouge dialogue took place between him and his barber.

'I wish you to shave off my mustache,' he said, first looking in a mirror, and then seating himself in the arm chair.

'Shave off your mustache!'. repeated the barber, in evident surprise. 'Why, Edwin, it just begins to assume a fine shape and fashionable appearance. The last time I shaved you, I thought you would have in a few months one of the handsomest mustaches in the whole city. I'm really surprised that you desire to lose it after we have exerted ourselves to bring it to such a state of perfection. The loss of it will make you look very odd.'

'I'm aware of all that; but it must come off, 'pon my honor as a gentleman,' replied the dandy. I hate to have my face made so bare; but I assure you it must be done. There's no help for it.'

'But what urgent reason is there for it?' asked the barber, turning aside his head to conceal a smile.

'The fair ladies do not like mustaches,' replied Edwin.

'How have you obtained such information?' inquired the barber.

'I've got it in black and white, 'pon my honor,' answered Edwin.

'Got it in black and white!' repeated the knight of the razor. 'What do you mean by that? Has it appeared in the newspapers? I have seen no such article.'

'Not in the public journals; but in private correspondence,' replied the dandy.—'Yes, in private correspondence My mustache must come off, and no more questions asked.'

'O, very well, just as you say,' answered the barber, not venturing to farther catechize his customer, and sharpening one of his best razors.

It was not long before the hair upon the dandy's upper lip was mixed with soap and plastered upon a square bit of paper that was placed upon Edwin's shoulder.

'There, the deed is done,' said the barber, washing his customer's face with some highly scented cologne, and began to sprinkle some on his hair.

'Stay!' said Edwin. 'You must cut my hair shorter about my neck and temples, so that no curls can be seen.'

'It seems to me I would not, if I were you, have my hair cut much shorter,' said the barber. 'It now curls very beautifully.'

'I'm aware of that; but the curls must all come off,' said Edwin. 'They must positively come off.'

'Is that also in the private correspondence?' asked the barber, smiling.

'It is positively, 'pon my honor,' replied the dandy

The barber now trimmed off the hair according to directions; and Edwin rose and paraded himself before a mirror, and at first shrank back as if he saw a disgusting object reflected there.

''Pon my honor as a gentleman, barber, you have changed my looks most wonderfully,' said the astonished dandy. 'I'm almost metamorphosed into a country bumpkin. 'Pon my honor, my friends will hardly recognize me.'

'I hope I have not exceeded your directions,' said the barber, laughing in his sleeve.

'Not in the least,' replied Edwin. 'You have done perfectly right, and in accordance with the spirit and letter of the private correspondence. I must now go and be measured for a suit of clothes of black broadcloth.'

'Your'e not going to turn preacher, are you?' asked the barber, laughing.

'Not exactly,' replied Edwin, leaving the barber's shop, and directing his steps to a tailor's establishment where he was measured for the desired suit, very much to the astonishment of the knight of the shears. After that he repaired to the shoemaker's and purchased a very reasonable kind of boots for his pinched feet. He now went to his chamber and cudgeled his brains to write a note to his beloved Elizabeth Simpson.

CHAPTER XXIV

The quandary of an old maid. The declaration. About housekeeping. The fate of the insincere and heartless. The negro's good guessing. Attempt at reconciliation.

'MR. MONTAGUE, I'm in great perplexity of mind,' said Miss Caroline Clackley, one afternoon, when Monira was out making some calls, and the negro, Sam, had gone upon an errand for his master.

'I'm sorry to hear it, answered Mr. Montague. 'What is the trouble?'

'About that letter, Mr. Montague, I received from the gentleman in my native city,' she replied, partially covering her face with her handkerchief . 'I wish I knew what to do? I wish he was ten years younger!—Dear me, the thoughts of the affair trouble me exceedingly! Mr. Montague, there is a good deal in such a remark. The slattern always says to herself, I won't clean up that place, because it will become soon dirty again; forgetting it won't be old dirt.'

'That was a very wise remark of your mother,' he replied. 'I was always quite sure you had a good mother. Ah, Miss Clackley, it is the mother that makes the child.'

'Indeed it is, Mr. Montague,' she answered. 'My mother was an extraordinary housekeeper. She was the most particular woman I ever saw, and yet she went about the house very quietly, looking into every hole and corner. A cobweb could not escape the eye of my mother; for she would at once see it in the most sly corner of the house, and then it would be brushed away instantly. But, Mr. Montague, what shall I do? I suppose I must write that good Quaker, very soon. O, I wish he was ten years younger! Dear me, I'm greatly perplexed! Sometimes I wish he had never written to me. I suppose he is very wealthy; but then he's so old! and yet he is an excellent hearted man. Mr. Montague, you must advise me; for you are the only person on whom I can rely for advice and direction in such a matter.'

I told you the other day, Miss Clackley, what my rule of life is,' he replied. 'I dare not advise any one in such an important matter. Besides, I have not the means of judging so well as you have. No, no, Miss Clackley, I cannot advise you.'

Dear me!' she said, fixing her small sharp eyes on him, and sighing quite hard. 'I know not what to do!'

Well, Miss Clackley, I'm not qualified to tell you,' he replied. 'You must do that which you think is best for you.'

She buried her face in her handkerchief, and apparently wept; but the reader may be assured that tears did not flow very abundantly from her eyes.

For some moments not a word was uttered, and Mr. Montague rose to leave the room; but she was not so deeply buried in grief that she did not watch his motions, or could not observe them.

Now an important moment had arrived which she was resolved not to let pass unimproved. Uncovering one of her eyes so that she could see him; and sighing so loud that she might have been heard in an adjoining room, she spoke, in a trembling, sobbing voice.

'O, Mr. Montague, I wish you knew the emotions of my heart! How can I accept the offer of one man's hand, when another has my heart!'

'That is a pretty plain case, and if I were you, I would not do it,' he said.—'Who has your heart while another seeks your hand?'

'O, Mr. Montague, I dare not tell you.' she replied, sighing still louder, and casting her eyes upon him in a fixed gaze. 'Dear me, how strangely I feel!'

Mr. Montague knew well enough what was passing in her mind, and could hardly restrain himself from laughing in her face. If he had not known it was nothing but acting on her part, he might have felt some sympathy for her; for he was not a hard-hearted, cruel man. His sympathies were often easily enlistened in behalf of human grief and misery, when made apparent to him; and yet in earlier life he had caused such grief and misery for the gratifications of his unrestrained passions. He sometimes repented of his past conduct; but still he was not a thoroughly reformed man.

'What makes you feel so strangely?' he asked, concealing a smile, which he felt.

'O, Mr. Montague, I may as well tell you first as last,' she replied, moving her head and body backward and forward, and covering her face with her handkerchief. I hope you will pardon me when I say that you have made an impression upon my heart which I can never forget. Dear me!'

And she sighed bitterly and kept up her motion, and even increased it. There was nothing said for some moments. The secret had come out at last; proving the negro servant to be a true prophet, and exciting the disgust of Mr. Montague. He gazed upon her in silence as she reeled to and fro as if she was in the utmost agony. He was at a loss for something to say, not wishing to afflict the afflicted, nor yet giving her any encouragement for further hope in the case.

'Dear me!' she continued, after quite a long and distressing pause—distressing to her, at least. 'I wish those words had never escaped my lips! O, dear me! how strange is human life.'

'I wish you had never uttered them,' he replied.

'O, Lord, forgive me! she exclaimed; 'O, how oppressed I am!'

'Miss Clackley,' he said, in a firm tone of voice. I have been once married, and have never yet seen the woman I should be willing to make my second wife, and probably I never shall behold her face and form. A second marriage is very far from my thoughts'

'O, dear!' she exclaimed, while he left the room and walked out.

'There, what a fool I have been!' she mentally exclaimed, walking across the room and wringing he hands. 'Now I wish I had never said a word to him on the subject.—He will never have me, I might have known better; for he is too fond of young girls ever to think of me. O, if that nigger should find out what I have done! But his master will never tell him; and yet sometimes it seems to me that some how he finds out every thing. The devil must help the black imp.'

At that moment Sam entered the room, grinning, and saw at a glance that the housekeeper was unusually excited. Now was his opportunity for a little sport at her expense; for he seldom neglected a good opportunity to harrass her.

'What de trouble now?' asked the negro, grinning very broadly.

'None of your business, you black imp,' she replied, in a voice, choked with rage

'Bin making lub to massar, I reckons,' said the negro. 'And he stand no sich nonsense! Yah! yah! yah!'

'O Heavens!' she exclaimed, again leaving the room, while Sam broke out into a fit of loud laughing, which she heard for some time after she went out of the negro's presence. Her attempts at reconciliation proved abortive; for Sam could not be easily soft-soaped by her whom he disliked so much.

CHAPTER XXV

The dandy's letter in which he promises to make great sacrifices all for love. The strange work of reformation. Letter from a lover down east, &c.

'AS true as you live, I have just received another note from Edwin Hunter,' said Elizabeth Simpson to Monira Montague.

'And how does he take the advice you gave him?' asked Monira, smiling.

'He agrees to all the conditions,' replied Elizabeth. 'And I expect a visit from him as soon as the tailor finishes his suit.—Don't that beat all. Here's his letter!'

Monira took the letter, and read as follows:—

'MY DEAR ELIZABETH—I received your very kind note, and hasten to answer it as soon as I made up my mind to comply with its conditions. At first your demands seemed to me to be very severe; but on reflection I concluded to make the sacrifice. And what young gentleman will not make any sacrifice to please the lady whom he loves and adores? That I love you most ardently my heart bears witness; and I trust, when you come to see me in my new suit you will reciprocate my affection. You will hardly know me, I shall be so much changed. My barber has cut my hair and shaved off my mustache, according to your direction. And I can assure you, my dear Elizabeth, that operation made such a change in my appearance that I hardly recognized myself in my large mirror. And when I put on my new suit I shall still be more changed in looks than ever. I hope my appearance will please you; but I shall be very awkward at first, and hardly know how to move. I have already purchased my hat and boots which are much larger than I ever wore before. They make me appear strangely; but I care not so long as I can please you, my dear Elizabeth. The whole world may laugh; but I shall be happy if you are satisfied with me. I shall call on you soon.

'Your lover,

EDWIN.

We will now turn to another scene. Mr. Herbert had received one letter from Henry about the time Monira received hers; but the one he wrote from the house of the lamented Uncle Bob had not come to hand.—Monira had shown her letter to Henry's parents who were quite as much astounded as she was. They could not conjecture the reason for the change in his mind which had taken place. They had always been highly gratified with the idea of the contemplated match; and now that it was broken off they were exceedingly anxious to learn the cause, Henry had always been a very steady, sober, industrious young man; and such a change in his mind would naturally excite the wonder of his parents. Often did they converse upon the subject; but without coming to any satisfactory conclusion.

Some few evenings after they had read Henry's letter to Monira, they sat in the parlor talking over the affair, and endeavoring to conjecture how it happened that their son could have taken such a turn in his love.

'Iv'e been thinking, husband,' said Mrs. Herbert, 'that Henry will feel different when he returns and again sees Monira. I'm sure he always appeared to be very much attached to her.'

'That was my opinion,' replied the husband. 'He has taken some strange freak into his head, that's certain. I hope he will view the matter in a different light when he arrives home.'

A servant now entered the room, bearing several letters from the post office, which Mr. Herbert run over, while his wife looked at the superscriptions of each.

'There's one from Henry,' she said. 'Do read that first.'

He did so, and read the following letter:—

'MY DEAR FATHER,—You may be somewhat surprised to receive such a letter from me as I am about to write; but my duty compels me to write it whether it pleases you or not. No person can avoid his own feelings and emotions. I suppose you have heard ere this reaches you that I have written a letter to hat good girl, Monira Montague, in which I informed her that my own heart deceived me, and that I have ascertained I do not cherish that affection for her which would justify our marriage. Perhaps you may have read that letter, and if so, it is not now necessary for me to speak of it more particularly. You may be assured I have been governed by no other than honest motives in writing to her as I did. It was a duty I owed her as well as myself. Now, I suppose you may wish to know how this change has come over me. It is proper that I should tell you, and keep nothing back.—My dear father, strange as it may appear to you, yet it is most true, that I have fallen in company with a young lady whose charms have taught me that I have never deeply and truly loved Monira Montague; but this girl I do love, most sincerely and passionately.—Her name is Jane Ryder, and she is the daughter of Mr. Robert Ryder, who acted as cook in our camp the winter past. She came into the woods to see her father, and I have fallen in love with, and can never be happy unless I make her my lawful wife.—Her father was killed by a falling tree as we were coming out of the woods. We brought the body to his house and decently buried it on the little farm he owned and tilled during the summer seasons. He was an aged and an honest man, and his death is lamented by all the crew. Jane's mother is a very superior woman, and she and her daughter live in a small, neat log house where I am writing this note. True, they live in the humble walks of life, but the young lady who has won my heart is one of extraordinary beauty. I have never seen a girl of so much personal beauty as she possesses, and I think you and mother would say so if you should see her. She is as good as she is beautiful.—Until I saw this girl I never deeply and truly loved; I hope you will see her at some future time and justify me in my choice. She has no money, and can boast of no high family connections; but I love her for her beauty and her worth. Thus much I have deemed it my duty to write you. More I could not say; but this must suffice for the present.

'Your dutiful son,

'            HENRY HERBERT.

'Gracious Heavens!' exclaimed the excited mother. 'Fallen in love with a girl born in a log house away in the woods.—Did ever any body hear the like of that!'

'Keep cool, my dear,' said the husband. 'I have confidence in our son, yet.'

'Confidence in him!' she repeated. 'Why, it is the strangest thing I ever heard of!—It seems to me he must be joking; I don't believe she is half so beautiful as Monira.'

Thus they conversed; but the wife could not be reconciled. She was half inclined to believe that her son had become deranged; but the father was more calm and rational, and his pride not so easily shocked.

CHAPTER XXVI

The negro's prophecies. The housekeeper gives up the Quaker. The meeting of parents. The mother's fears, and the father's calmness, &c.

'MASSAR, what tink I said to our housekeeper todder day?' asked the negro, Sam, rolling the whites of his eyes, and looking very cunning.

'I don't know, Sam, you say so many things to her that it is quite impossible to keep the run of them,' replied Mr. Montague. 'What did you say?'

'I said, massar, that she had been making lub to you,' answered the negro, laughing.

'You are pretty good for guessing, Sam, I confess,' said his master. 'But be quiet as you can and have as little trouble as possible. I want you to take these letters to the post office.'

The negro started on his errand, and soon after Miss Caroline Clackley made her very modest appearance. Mr. Montague knew from her manner and the expression of her countenance that she had something important to communicate to him; but he endeavored to appear as if he noticed nothing unusual.

'O, Mr. Montague, while I think of it, I have finally concluded to write to Philadelphia and inform that gentleman that I could not accept his proposition,' she said. 'I seriously reflected upon the matter, and finally concluded it would not be right for me to marry a man I did not love. Don't you think I was right?'

'Of course you acted wisely, if you thought you could not be happy with him,' he replied.

'He is two old; but an excellent man, and no doubt would have treated me kindly,' she said. 'But I could not make up my mind to have him. Perhaps if I had never kept your house I might have felt differently.'

Very good advice,' he said, smiling. 'I should have more money than I now have, if I had always been governed by such advice; but when bad speculations are made it is throwing away good money after bad.'

Mr. Montague now left the housekeeper rubbing the chairs and making things shine again. He passed out and made a call on Mr. Herbert and his wife. He had not seen them since Monira received her letter from Henry.

I'm really glad to see you, Mr. Montague,' said Mrs. Herbert. 'Strange things have happened since we last met, the strangest I ever heard off; I can't be reconciled to it.'

O, such things will sometimes happen in this world,' said Mr. Montague.

My wife lays it more to heart than your daughter appears to,' said Mr. Herbert.—'Monira behaves like a Christian and a philosopher, and I'm glad she views the affair so calmly and rationally. She is a model of firmness and independence.'

Has he ever written to you upon the subject?' asked Montague.

He has,' replied Herbert. 'I received a letter quite recently, and you may see it; but I trust you will not name the circumstance to your daughter.'

Mr. Montague now carefully read the letter through, and was much surprised at its contents; for he had not supposed Henry had found a new flame.

There,' said Mrs. Herbert, did you ever hear the like of that?'

I confess I'm somewhat surprised,' replied Montague.

I confess there is something singular in the sudden turn Henry has taken,' said Mr. Montague. 'I really hope he will let us see his new flame.'

I'm really afraid Henry has become deranged,' she said. 'I was just saying to my husband that he ought to start off immediately and find him. I suppose he is hived up in the log house with her and her extraordinary mother. If I were his father I would go immediately after him. It seems to me the boy must be crazy, or he would not act so.'

His letter to Monira don't exhibit much evidence of his being crazy,' said Mr. Herbert.

Indeed it does not,' said Mr. Montague. 'That is a very honorable letter, and I do not think a crazy person could have written such an one.'

Mr. Montague now took his leave; and the agitated wife continued to urge her husband to make the journey down east in search of their son. The more she thought of the matter, the more anxious she became. Her husband found it a difficult task to reconcile her to the affair. He was quite calm and collected; and still had confidence in his son. It is true, he thought Henry had cut up a singular shine; still he hoped it would turn out for the best.

CHAPTER XXVII

The scene changes. Indian names. Lovers' angling. Hopes more buoyant. Thoughts of home. Talk of marriage. The propriety of consulting parents, &c.

WHAT is the name of this very beautiful basket?' asked Henry Herbert, as he sat fishing through the ice, with his beloved Jane by his side, on the pond not far from the log house where she was born and brought up.

An old Indian once told me it is Lapoonoc,' she replied. 'But it is not generally called by that name. The hunters gave it the name of "Deer-pond," and it is better known by that than by the Indian name.'

O, that's a nice fellow,' he said, gazing upon the trout, as the fish was flapping his tail upon the ice. 'I wish father could have that trout for dinner. He would pronounce him a great luxury.'

I wish he could,' she replied. 'But it is too far to send them, except when the weather is very cold; and then I don't think they are so good as they are when first taken out of the water. Freezing hurts their flavor. Father always said so.'

I think just so,' he replied. 'I never ate any trout in Boston that tasted half so rich to me as those I have eaten in the woods.'

Do you think mother will go to Boston?' she asked.

I have no doubt of it,' he answered.—'She must go, I cannot take no for an answer.'

She has never given me to understand that she will go,' said Jane. 'But I hope she will finally conclude to go.'

Suppose she will not, you will go with me, won't you?' he asked.

O, I couldn't think of going without mother,' she replied. 'Besides, she wouldn't let me, if I were disposed to accompany you. I want to see the city; but then after all, I think I should like the beautiful scenes of woods, lakes and rivers better than I should so many houses all packed together. It seems as if any one could hardly breathe in such a place.'

I don't think the atmosphere is quite so pure and refreshing as it is here,' he replied. 'I have never enjoyed such good health as I have the winter past. I have gained quite ten pounds in weight.'

Perhaps you will conclude to make a farm on your father's township and live there,' she said, smiling.

I should be willing to live there or any where else, if I can have your company,' he said.

It does not require much of an effort to say that,' she answered, laughing. 'Young men have glib tongues, and can talk very readily, as mother has often told me.'

Ah, your mother is a shrewd woman; but she believes I speak nothing but the truth, he replied.

I hope she does,' replied Jane, gazing into Henry's honest face, and very sweetly smiling.

He could not resist that sweet look, and kissed her fair cheek. She did not turn the other cheek, nor offer him her lips; but modestly declined any further ceremony of that kind. It was not the first kiss he had impressed upon her rosy cheek; and yet we must do her the justice to say, that such demonstrations had been few, and far between.

Never did a girl manage a lover with more skill, prudence and modesty than she managed him. In every one of her movements she not only exhibited the excellent training she had received from her mother, but also her native modesty and firm virtue. A more virtuous girl never breathed the air of this world. No temptation could successfully assail it. Under the peculiar training she had received, she was proof against all temptation.

Her lover no longer cherished any doubts in relation to the sex to which she belonged; but he had many doubts and misgivings upon the subject. He dared not, of course, put the question to the mother, for that would imply her guilt; still he was anxious to have the mystery solved, and hoped the mother would at some future day voluntarily divulge the secret, if any secret there was. If the old cook was not her father, he believed the mother would at a proper and convenient time, give him all the desired information upon the subject.

Having killed several trout, and dinner time approaching, the lovers started for the house. The day was bright and beautiful, and in the open land the snow began to melt away quite fast and to settle in the woods. Henry had given up the idea of assisting in driving the logs down the river, and indulged a strong hope that Jane and her mother would accompany him to the city. He had several times spoken upon the subject, but the mother had never given him any satisfactory answers, still she had not absolutely refused. The truth is, there was a severe struggle in her own mind in relation to the affair. She would like to visit Boston; but there were objections in her own mind of which the world was ignorant. For many years past she had striven to forget the city and all its scenes. The reasons for her thus striving do not appear.

After they had reached the house, he sought an opportunity of having some private conversation with the mother. He found that opportunity while Jane was preparing the trout for dinner.

You and Jane had very good luck this morning,' said the mother. 'It is a fine day. The snow will soon be gone, and the grass to look green. The spring here is beautiful; for as soon as the snow is gone, every thing seems to start suddenly into life. I have often thought that we had but two seasons here, summer and winter. True, the winter is the longer of the two; but then the summer is beautiful enough to make it up.'

I was never in this region before the winter past,' he said. 'But Iv'e been seriously thinking it is time for me to go home. I have tarried here now longer than I intended when I came out of the woods; but I confess I hardly knew how to leave unless you and Jane accompany me to the city. I hope you will be able to remove all objections, if any now exist in your mind.'

I have seriously reflected upon the subject, and should be pleased to gratify you; but I confess I hardly know what to say to you,' she replied. 'The expense attending the journey would be considerable and I do not feel able to incur it. And surely I have no disposition to burden you with it.'

I entreat you not to say one word about that,' he said. 'The expense must not form any part of your objections. It is not of the least consequence. I would not value ten times the amount for the sake of having you go.'

I know you are sincere in what you say, but I never believed in riding a free horse too hard,' she said, smiling. 'I'm poor, but, I trust, contented with my lot. We cannot always live in this world. The time allotted us all is short. To look back on a life well spent is a great reward, indeed, greater than any reward earth can give. We all have our faults and failings; but we must strive to make amends for them. Follies committed in youth must be repented of in after life if we would hope for any thing like permanent happiness. I have seen more phases of human life than those which are met in this back country; but here I have been contented to live, and here I shall be willing to die. Jane is now the only tie that binds me to earth. And should you or she ever sustain a more clear and tender relation to each other than you now do, I trust neither will ever regret it. I have become satisfied that you are exercised by pure motives in relation to your conduct towards Jane.'

Indeed I am, and would willingly make any sacrifices to insure her happiness,' he said. 'My wish is to wed her as soon as convenient, and would do so before I leave the city, but I wish to consult my parents upon the subject, before such a consummation takes place.'

I commend you for such views,' she replied. 'But cannot you go home, consult them, and return again at some future convenient opportunity.'

I would do so, but I'm exceedingly anxious that my parents may see the girl whom I have selected for my partner in life before the knot is tied,' he said.

That is but a reasonable anxiety,' she replied. 'I will give the subject still more reflection. I'm anxious to gratify you in all reasonable requests, and perhaps I may do so.

Thank Heaven!' he said. 'Then I may indulge a hope.'

At that moment Jane entered the room, having prepared the trout for the frying pan; and her mother passed out to complete the work Jane had commenced. He told Jane that he believed she and her mother would go with him to the city before many days passed. She was rejoiced at such a prospect; but she made no outward demonstrations of that joy. She possessed remarkable powers of self-control, which she exercised on all proper occasions.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Another letter from down east. The mother's solicitude. The reformed dandy's first appearance. His reception. Matrimonial prospects, &c.

TIME passed on, and the Spring began to open and the buds upon the trees to swell. Henry's mother grew more and more anxious about his absence. She had prevailed upon her husband to start after Henry, if they did not hear from him in the course of a week; but before that week expired, the father received the following letter:—

DEAR FATHER,—I suppose you and my dear mother are anxious to hear from a long absent son. I now have the pleasure of informing you that I shall start on my journey home, to-morrow. Lest mother should feel uneasy, I write that I'm not yet married.—Before that happens I feel it to be my duty to consult my parents upon the subject, and let them behold the girl whom I have selected for my partner during life. She and her mother will accompany me to the city, when I hope every thing will be made smooth. That I deeply and sincerely love the girl, my own heart's emotions bear me witness.—And I trust you and mother will justify me in the choice I have made when you see the beloved of my heart. O, I wish you could have dined upon the trout which Jane and I killed yesterday! They made a most delicious meal. Jane always beats me both in shooting and angling. I hope to see you in a few days.

Your dutiful son,

HENRY.'

'Gracious heavens!' exclaimed Mrs. Herbert, after her husband had read the above letter in her hearing. 'What an arrival that will be! Mother and daughter, both.'

'Be calm, my dear,' said the husband, smiling. 'I told you we should hear from Henry. Now we shall have an opportunity of seeing the girl and her mother.'

'Jane always beats me in shooting and angling!' repeated the agitated mother; her mind still running on the letter and not regarding what her husband said. 'Hunting and fishing! Good gracious! Does Henry suppose that we wish to see such a wild savage girl as that? If she is a hunter and a fisher, I think he had better keep her in the woods where the game is.'

'Ah, wife, I trust you will feel quite differently one of these days,' he said.

'I guess Mr. Montague and his daughter, too, will laugh when they hear of the hunter and fisher, Henry is going to bring home,' she replied. 'O, I regret most bitterly that he ever went into the logging swamps. It was a very foolish thing in sending him there, and I always knew it.'

'Let us wait patiently and see,' said the husband, smiling. 'Don't let us borrow trouble; for it comes full fast enough in this world.'

'I guess we shall have no need to borrow trouble after Henry comes with his company forth from the log cabin,' she said. 'We shall have enough of it then. I am sorry that Henry has become so foolish and romantic. For my part I think he had better remain in the woods and let his wife hunt and fish for a living. That is the best thing he can do. There's nothing here his wife can do.'

Having in vain attempted to reconcile his wife, he took his hat and cane and walked out, leaving her to her own reflections which were bitter enough. He had some doubts and misgivings about Henry's choice; still he was determined not to exhibit them to his wife; for that would have greatly increased her troubles. He was fully resolved to make the best of the affair, and show no solicitude upon the subject.

We will now ask the reader to witness another scene, and once more enter the rose-scented chamber of Edwin Hunter, the loving dandy.

The tailor had finished his new suit, and the dandy was in the act of putting it on, preparatory to his visit to his beloved Elizabeth, whose instructions he had so implicitly obeyed thus far. It seemed to him that his pants were altogether too large; for he could scarcely feel them. He had been in the habit of wearing such articles about as tight as his skin, and consequently, he felt as if he was lost in his new ones. However he bore it all for the sake of his beloved. His coat was after the same fashion, and hung about as loosely upon him as a shirt on a handspike, to use a common phrase. The tailor had been a little roguish and cut the garments rather larger than was necessary according to the instructions of Elizabeth Simpson.

After thus examining his person and soliloquizing, he sallied forth from his chamber, and soon reached the street that led to the residence of his beloved Elizabeth. He walked along, and it seemed to him that every person he met gazed upon him with much curiosity. He thought he never knew so many people stare at him while walking in the streets as on this occasion. And several he imagined smiled at him whom he met. One group of ladies he was quite sure laughed aloud at him; but he hurried along and made as much noise as a horse upon the sidewalk, at least so the clamping of his boots sounded in his ears.

At last he stood upon the steps of the door, and with trembling hand, seized the knob of the bell wire and notified the inmates that one sought admission. But before we record his entrance and reception, the reader may be told that Monira Montague happened to be there on that evening. She and Elizabeth were in the parlor together, talking about him, and having some sport over his letter.

You certainly have accomplished what no other person could,' said Monira. 'No living soul, but you, could have made that fellow give up his dandyism.'

O, I wish he would come this very evening, now you are here, and father and mother are at an evening party,' said Elizabeth. 'I want to see how he will look in his new suit. I reckon he will appear awkward until he becomes accustomed to it. I expected he would call before now. It may be has given up the enterprize.'

Not a bit of it,' replied Monira. 'You'll see him before long, and I have no doubt he will be greatly improved in his looks.'

If he is not, I shall have nothing to say to him,' said Elizabeth. 'You know I hate a dandy quite as much as I do a monkey; and wed one as soon as I would the other.'

There, the door-bell rings, and who knows but the very fellow has come?' asked Monira.

The servant went to the door, and soon the reformed dandy was ushered in. It was a hard task upon the girls to restrain themselves selves from laughing; but they exerted all their powers, and succeeded beyond their fears.

Good evening, ladies,' he said, bowing very gracefully, and shaking each by the hand. 'I hope you recognize me, but I can hardly do so myself.'

Recognize you!' repeated Elizabeth.—'Indeed we do.'

Yes, and we never saw you look so well before,' said Monira, smiling.

I'm always delighted to please the ladies,' he replied. 'It is a very beautiful evening Summer will soon be upon us.'

The evening wore away and they had a very pleasant time. The reformed dandy did really appear much better than usual, and seemed to converse with more sense upon the various topics that were introduced.—Having thrown off the dandy's costume, he also threw off the dandy's silly talk and manners. Elizabeth was much better pleased with him than she expected to be, and so was Monira, who was strongly impressed with the belief that they would make a match.

CHAPTER XXIX

Starting on a journey. Sleighing and bare ground. Replenishing a wardrobe. The stage coach ride. Surprise of two gentlemen. The boarding house. Great sensation, &c.

THE log cabin was fastened up, and Henry Herbert, Jane and her mother, started for Boston. The travelling was bad, and their progress was slow. As they proceeded South, bare spots of ground became more frequent, until they were obliged to take wheels.

Five days elapsed before they reached the city of Portland, where they tarried a day or two for the purpose of replenishing the wardrobe of Jane. Henry was determined that Jane should not appear in Boston until she was dressed in becoming style. He exhibited excellent taste in the choice of what she should wear when she entered his native city.

Her dress was exceedingly plain, but of fine fabric. She wore no ornaments, not even a ring upon her finger, although she had a very beautiful one, which her mother gave her. It was his choice that she should be entirely unadorned, and that course met her mother's approbation; for well she knew that beauty unadorned is admired the most. Henry was all life and animation; for it seemed to him that Jane grew more and more beautiful the farther she advanced towards Boston.

Jane's wardrobe was completed very much to the gratification of her lover, and also according to the wishes of her mother. Their journey from Portland to Boston was very pleasant. Jane was very lively, and occasionally her wit would flash out, and make the miles then almost as short as railroads do now; at least they seemed so to the enthusiastic Henry.

I suppose we shall find no good hunting and fishing in Boston, shall we?' asked Jane, soon after they left Salem and began to almost breathe the city air.

O, no, we have but one lakelet in the city, and that is called the "Frog Pond,"' replied Henry.

The Frog Pond!' replied Jane, laughing. 'I suppose your city anglers practice in that before they venture upon the rivers and lakes of Maine, do they not?'

I can't say but some may do so,' replied Henry, smiling.

There were two Boston gentlemen in the stage with them who were greatly struck with Jane's beauty.

That's the most surpassingly beautiful girl I have ever seen,' whispered one of the gentlemen to the other.

She is, indeed, all that,' replied the other, gazing upon her bright face in perfect wonder and astonishment.

They were strangers to Henry; still he was satisfied they were residents of Boston.

Jane, you must be careful what you say about the city folks,' said her mother.

Why, mother, I have not slandered them, I trust,' said Jane, catching the eyes of one of the gentlemen, and almost looking him out of countenance. 'Angling is an art that requires considerable practice. By the way, Henry, I conclude there are no panthers in Boston.'

There, Jane, you promised not to speak of that panther hunt, again,' he replied.

The curiosity of one of the gentlemen was so much excited that he ventured to address Henry.

You have not had a panther hunt down east, have you, sir?' he asked.

Well, sir, not exactly a panther hunt,' replied Henry. 'But this lady and I were in the woods of Maine, hunting for partridges, and we found one of the creatures upon a tree, which she shot.'

She shot it!' repeated the gentleman, in much surprise. 'I should have thought she would have been frightened and retreated from such a monster.'

We had no time to be frightened, sir,' replied Jane. 'Retreating was out of the question. Had we attempted to make our escape he would then have pounced upon us.'

Come, Jane, it seems to me, that you have said enough about hunting and shooting,' said her mother. 'The gentleman will think you belong to the race of the Aborigines of our country.'

Her face must very much change, ma'am, before I could form such an opinion,' replied the gentleman, smiling. 'But if it would not be asking too much, I should like to hear the particulars in relation to the shooting of that panther.'

He can tell the story, if he pleases,' said Jane, pointing to Henry.

I will do so on the condition that I may leave myself out of the affair,' replied Henry.

You may act as you please about that,' said the gentleman, smiling. 'I infer you were somewhat frightened on the occasion. And no wonder. I think I should have been myself, and have taken to my heels.'

If you had, the panther would probably have been upon your back before you had proceeded many steps,' said Jane. 'And I can assure you, sir, the animal would not have been a very agreeable burden upon a man's back.'

I think he would have created a rather unpleasant sensation,' said the gentleman.—'But I should like to hear the story.'

Henry now related all the particulars, and did not even save himself in the relation of the circumstances attending the event. He came out, and frankly acknowledged his cowardice, and giving Jane all the credit of saving the lives of both.

The gentlemen listened to the story with the deepest interest, and wondered how a female of such surpssing surpassing beauty could possess courage and skill enough to perform such a feat. One of the gentlemen was connected with the Boston Press; but Henry was ignorant of the fact.

They passed along, and reached the city of Boston just at nightfall. Henry did not take his company to his father's house; but hired rooms in a genteel boarding house.—The mother preferred that course; for she did not wish to be introduced to Mr. Herbert and his wife until she had passed one night in the city, at least. The boarding house was situated in a fashionable street, and kept in a very genteel manner by a widow lady who had once seen better days; but the loss of her husband and adverse fortune had compelled her to seek a livelihood by keeping a boarding house, as many other poor widows had done before her. Henry tarried and took tea with them before he went to his father's. At the supper table there were some twenty gentlemen and ladies who were all well dressed and well mannered. When Jane made her appearance and took a seat at the table beside her mother and Henry, all eyes were turned upon her. Such a staring was hardly ever witnessed unless some very celebrated character happened to be present. She was dressed very neatly, but not gaudily. Not a single gold ornament was to be seen about her person. No jewels sparkled in the brilliant gas light. Her dark hair hung in rich clusters over her neck and shoulders, and her deep blue eyes sparkled with heaven's own light. Her form was symmetry itself, and the expression of her countenance such as almost to intoxicate the young men who sat at the table. They gazed upon her with perfect astonishment, and the ladies present were no less astonished. Much whispering at the table passed from one to another; and all wondered where such a beautiful, unadorned girl could come from. To sum up all in a few words, a great sensation was created.

CHAPTER XXX

The arrival home of the son. The happy meeting. The mother's anxiety. The father's introduction to his son's beloved.—A brief story of the mother's life. The whole secret not told.

IT seems to me, husband, that Henry has had time enough since he started to reach home,' said Mrs. Herbert.

'I think he will be here soon; but the travelling must be bad down east,' replied the husband. 'Down there it is neither sleighing nor wheeling, but about half way between.'

At that moment they heard the door-bell ring, and immediately after the voice of Henry, talking with the servant. They rose to go out to meet him; but before they could do so their son entered the parlor, full of smiles and pleasant looks.

'Why, my son!' exclaimed his mother, embracing and kissing him. 'Is this you?'

'It is nobody else, dear mother,' he replied, returning her affectionate kiss, and at the same time shaking his father's hand.—It was a joyful meeting.

'You must have had a tedious journey, the travelling is so bad,' she said.

'A very pleasant journey, indeed,' he replied. 'We came safely through without accident of any kind.'

'We!' repeated the agitated mother, and gazing upon him most anxiously. 'We!—'Then you did not come alone?'

'O, no, mother, I had excellent company all the way,' he answered.

'But, my son, where are your companions!' asked the father.

'At a good boarding house,' replied the son.

'Why did you not bring them here?' inquired the father, smiling. 'Your mother is anxious to see that wild flower of the forest you have written us about.'

'No, husband, don't tell any fibs,' added his wife. 'It happens this time, at least, that the man has more curiosity than the woman. Henry, I'm astonished at what you have done!'

'I couldn't help it,' he replied. 'The Fates so ordered it. I have been apprehensive you would borrow a good deal of unnecessary trouble; but I trust you will yet be satisfied when you come to see that wild flower father speaks off.'

There, wife, Henry talks just as I told you he would,' said the husband, smiling.—'He is not crazy after all. Your mother, Henry, began to think you had lost your senses, and was anxious to have me go after you.'

I believe I have all the powers of mind in fair exercise,' he said, laughing.

One would hardly suppose so, considering what you have done,' she replied.

O, mother, I feel as if I had done right, and I trust you will think so yet,' he replied. 'It is true I have brought a young lady from the forests of Maine, whom I love most deeply, and hope yet to marry, with yours and father's consent.'

They continued the conversation about Jane and the winter's lumbering until a late hour when they retired. In the morning, the father rose before Henry and was reading a morning paper when the latter entered the room. The mother soon after came down.

See here, Henry,' said the father. 'This paper gives quite an interesting account of a beautiful young lady who killed a panther in the forests of Maine. Did you hear any thing about it down east?'

It was my beloved Jane who shot that panther, and saved her own life and mine, too,' replied Henry. I was telling the story to some gentlemen in the stage, yesterday, and I presume one of them was an editor, but I knew it not.'

Gracious heavens!' exclaimed the mother. 'That girl shoot a panther! She must be a wild Indian girl, then!'

Yes, father, after breakfast, I wish you to go with me and I will introduce you,' said Henry. You can then tell whether it will do for mother to see the girl.'

That was cheerfully agreed to; for Mr. Herbert was really anxious to have an interview with the mother and daughter. After breakfast, Henry and his father went to the boarding house. Jane was up and dressed, as the vulgar phrase goes, and her mother was in quite as good spirits as could be expected of one in her very peculiar situation. Henry and his father were ushered into a private parlor and there waited until the mother and daughter made their appearance.—Jane was dressed in a neat morning gown, plain, simple, beautiful, with no sort of decorations, except those which Nature had given her. She never appeared more beautiful and bewitching in her life. All her motions were easy and graceful, and her countenance was exceedingly bright and animated. When she entered the room, leaning upon the arm of her mother, Mr. Herbert was at once struck with wonder and astonishment. He felt as if the half had not been told him; and thought she was the most beautiful and angelic female he had ever behold during his pilgrimage on earth. And her mother, too, far exceeded his expectations.

Henry made the introduction in an easy, graceful manner, and the manners and address of the mother and daughter were so polished and refined that Mr. Herbert could hardly believe his own eyes. And was perfectly satisfied with the choice his son had made.

The conversation continued long and animated, and the more Mr. Herbert gazed upon them and heard their conversation, the more they challenged his admiration. It was agreed that they should go to his house that forenoon. Before he took his leave of them, the mother desired a few moment's conversation with him. And Jane and Henry repaired to another room.

I hope, sir, you will pardon me for seeking this private interview with you,' said the mother.

O, certainly, madame, I'm very happy to grant it,' he replied. 'I feel a deep interest in the welfare of my son as you do in that of your daughter.'

I have a few words to say to you which are intended for your ear alone,' she said.—'What I shall state will be simply a few facts in relation to the history of my own life. And if I do not call names, I trust you will pardon me. It is my duty, sir, to say something to you in relation to myself and daughter, and if I do not go into particulars I feel that you will excuse me.'

O, certainly, madame,' he replied. 'You can tell me just as much as you think it is proper for me to know, and I will not ask any further questions.'

I thank you kindly, sir,' she replied.—'My native city is New York, I had but one sister, and no brothers. We were brought up and educated in fashionable life. My father was once a man of much wealth; but he died, and reverses of fortune greatly reduced our property. Yet we had enough to give us a prudent living. My sister married, and soon after my mother died. My sister and her husband removed to this city, and I came with them. My sister's husband first paid attention to me, and we expected to be married; but the course of true love never runs smooth. We agreed to quit and give up our anticipated union for reasons which it is not necessary for me to mention. He then courted and married my sister in a few weeks from the time we agreed to separate. The match was too suddenly made; for he never loved my sister as he did me. But it took place, and they lived together apparently as happy as most married persons. At that time I was excitable, and so was he. A trifle offended us, and the same separated us. The time came, however, when we both sincerely regretted the circumstance; but it was too late to remedy it. Time proved to us that we mutually loved and ought to have been married. But not to be tedious in my narrative, I lived with my sister and her husband in this city. And it was a sad misfortune I did so live. Pardon me, sir, when I say, that my situation was such that I felt it my imperative duty to leave, and hide myself from men's civilized and refined society. I had some money, enough to support me a few years with prudence and economy. I suddenly left my sister and her husband, and determined never to let them know my fate. Her happiness I regarded more than I did my own. I left under a pretence of going to New York; but instead of that, I journeyed to one of the back settlements of Maine, where I soon made the acquaintance of a very plain, honest man, several years my senior, and married him.—In a few months from that time, I gave birth to the daughter whom you have just seen. My husband and myself, lived happily together. He believed he was the father of that daughter, and died in that belief. May heaven have mercy upon his soul! He was a kind-hearted man, and had he not been struck down by a falling tree while on his way from your camps to his humble home, I should not have been here to tell you a brief story of my life. That your son loves my daughter I firmly believe, and whether she is worthy of such a husband it is for you to judge. It was with great reluctance that I accompanied him to this city. I have done so at his most earnest solicitation. My story is told, and I trust you will pardon me for relating it thus briefly.'

He thanked her most kindly, and esteemed her most highly. He took his leave and hurried home to tell his wife; not the story of the woman's life; but how much delighted he was with mother and daughter. His wife could hardly believe the extravagant praises he bestowed upon the girl whom their son had chosen for his life partner. He was much more enthusiastic in his commendations of the girl than his son had ever been. He was so full of the matter that his wife began to feel quite a curiosity to see the 'log cabin girl,' as she called Jane. Mr. Herbert was much excited, more so than she had ever before seen him, even at the rise or fall of stocks. Henry's course he entirely approved, and was ready to give his hearty consent to the marriage.

CHAPTER XXXI

The denouement. Strange developments.—Old affairs brought to light.

NOW, my dear, let us have a good dinner to-day,' said Mr. Herbert, 'I expect our son and his company will be here very soon.—Prepare yourself to see one of the most beautiful girls you ever beheld.'

I hope she will not come with her gun upon her shoulder and her fishing-rod in her hand,' replied the agitated wife.

I wish she would come with a nice string of trout in her hand, such as she has killed in the brooks of Maine,' he added. 'Now, wife, I have not been joking. Depend upon it, you'll say, when you see her, that she is the most beautiful girl you have ever set eyes upon.'

I think your'e about as crazy as Henry is, since you have seen the wonderful fisher girl,' she said.

And her mother, too, is a splendid woman,' he continued. 'Yes, a refined and polished lady. And you'll say so before we sit down at the dinner table.'

A refined and polished lady, the wife of a logging camp cook' she said. 'Do you think, husband, it is best to have some pork fat and molasses on the table?'

Never mind, my dear, you'll sing another song ere much time passes,' he replied.—'There, the carriage is driven up, and they have come.'

True, they had come, and Henry was assisting them to alight when Mr. Herbert went to the door to greet them. Mrs. Herbert stood gazing through the window anxious to get a glimpse of them before they entered the house.

Welcome,' said Mr. Herbert, assisting Jane's mother in, while Henry was waiting on his beloved.

Tis not so pleasant riding over these pavements as it is to travel on a good crust with snow-shoes,' said Jane to Henry.

It is not quite so smooth,' he replied.—'But then there are no panthers here.'

Jane laughed, and they entered the parlor when Henry introduced Jane, and Mr. Herbert introduced her mother to his wife.—Mrs. Herbert was quite as much surprised at the appearance of her guests as her husband was when he was first introduced to them at the boarding house. Jane and her mother appeared quite at home, and behaved in a very genteel, graceful manner. Jane did not stare at the rich furniture, nor ask any questions in relation to it, as Mrs. Herbert anticipated and predicted.

The conversation was lively, and Jane was animated, and even witty at times. Mrs. Herbert after a while left the room to see about the preparation for dinner, and her husband followed her; for he was anxious to know what his wife thought of their guests.

Well, wife, what do you think now?' he asked. 'Do they look as if they fed on pork fat and molasses, instead of butter and cream?'

Iv'e no time to talk now,' she replied.—'I must see to our cook.'

Yes, but you can just express to me your opinion,' he added, smiling.

They appear very well,' she said, half smiling.

But that's not enough to seem,' he continued. 'Give your honest opinion. Isn't that girl beautiful, refined, and bewitching? Do you thing Henry is crazy, now?'

I confess, husband, she is exceedingly beautiful, and her mother looks and behaves like a woman of rank and fashion,' she replied

There, that's honest and frank,' he replied. 'I knew you must confess it.'

But let me say further that I don't believe lieve they came from away down east and out of a log cabin,' she added. Henry has been playing some trick upon us, and I'm suspicious that you have been in the secret.'

Upon my honor, it is not so,' he replied. 'They came from the place where Henry said they came, and Jane was born and brought up in a log cabin. You may depend upon the truth of that.'

Well, it is very remarkable, truly,' she added. 'I confess I am greatly surprised, and have never seen any thing like it. They appear well educated ladies, and conduct themselves as if they had always been accustomed to very genteel society. It is hard for me to believe that woman has been the wife of an old cook in the logging swamps, down east.'

Nevertheless, my dear, it is true,' he said. 'Perhaps you may know more one of these days'

Well, I should like to have the mystery cleared up,' she replied. 'How do you think Monira will feel when she sees Henry's girl?'

I can hardly tell, but I trust she will continue her brave, good conduct,' he answered. 'Iv'e been thinking of asking Mr. Montague to call this afternoon. You know he expressed much anxiety to see what kind of a stick our son had picked up in the woods.'

I think it would be well enough,' she answered, going into the culinary department, and her husband returned to the parlor.

When he entered, Jane was laughing over the account in the newspaper concerning her shooting the panther. Her laugh was very musical. No one could hear her without joining in her laugh.

The dinner hour came, and the best of viands were placed upon the table. Mrs. Herbert perceived that Jane handled her knife and fork as genteely and behaved as well at the table as Monira Montague, or any other well-bred and fashionably educated young lady.

The dinner passed off in fine style, and all were highly gratified. June cracked her jokes, laughed, talked, and seemed as much at home as she ever did in a log cabin, or on her snow-shoes She told over several of her hunting and fishing stories much to the amusement of Mrs. Herbert and her husband. After dinner Mr. Herbert called on Mr. Montague; he was quite anxious that Mr. Montague should see Jane.

Well, the beautiful wild flower of the forest has at last arrived,' said Mr. Herbert. 'Would you like to see her?'

Indeed I should,' replied Montague. 'Is she at your house?'

Yes, and her mother, too,' answered Herbert. 'They are splendid women, and my wife acknowledges the corn.'

I'll drop into your house in a short time,' added Montague.

How does Monira seem to feel?' asked Mr. Herbert.

First rate,' answered her father. 'Monira's a brave girl.'

That she is,' added Herbert. 'I have been satisfied all the time that my son had found extraordinary game down in the woods of Maine. And indeed he has. The girl is surpassingly beautiful.'

I must see her,' said Montague. 'My curiosity is much excited.'

Do come over soon as convenient,' said Herbert, starting on his way back.

In less than an hour the door-bell rang, and Mr. Montague was ushered into the parlor. Just as Mr. Herbert was about to introduce Mr Montague to Jane's mother, the latter shrieked, and sank down upon a sofa. For a moment all stood like statues except Jane, who ran to her mother and inquired what was the matter.

Don't ask me any questions now,' said the mother, in an agitated voice. 'I shall be better soon.'

At first Mr. Montague did not recognize her; but the moment he heard her voice, although uttered in a shriek, he knew her.

Gracious heavens!' exclaimed Montague. 'Jane Searsmont, is that you!'

It is,' she replied, rising up, and gazing full in his face.

My God!' he exclaimed, hastening to her, and folding her in his arms. 'I am happy now. I thought you were dead years ago.'

No, no, Mr. Montague, I'm not dead, thank heaven,' she replied. 'My sister, your wife, is she living?'

Ah, no; she has been dead some years,' he replied sorrowfully.

During the above conversation, Mr. Herbert, his wife and son stood gazing upon them, in the utmost astonishment, while Jane was holding upon the skirts of her mother's dress, and not knowing what to think.—Jane had been somewhat suspicious for some year or two that some startling disclosures might be made. Her mother had intimated as much. Henry began to feel his suspicions excited, and Mr. Herbert understood the mystery. Mr. Montague now turned his eyes upon Jane. And her mother noticed him and immediately said. 'That girl is our daughter!'

Heavens!' he exclaimed, rushing towards Jane, and embracing her. 'My daughter! I own and bless you! How mysterious are the ways of Providence'

Then Jane is Monira's sister,' said Henry, in a trembling voice.

She is!' replied Mr. Montague. 'And Jane's mother is the aunt of Monira. And I here in the presence of you all publicly own Jane as my daughter.'

Such a meeting does not often happen in this world. Mr. Montague immediately went home and informed Monira of all that had transpired that afternoon. This good-hearted, resolute girl bore it all with perfect resignation, and expressed a desire to see her sister who had been so strangely found. In the evening they were introduced to each other at Mr. Montague's in presence of Jane's mother. A friendship sprang up at once between them, much to the joy and satisfaction of their parents. Jane soon learned the engagement that had existed between Henry and Monira, previous to his leaving for the lumbering regions.

Henry shall be yours,' said Jane. 'You have the first right to him. I yield him up to you.'

I can never take the casket without the jewel,' replied Monira. 'You have won his heart, and his hand shall go with it. He is yours, and may heaven bless your union.—He's an honest young man, and that is more than can be said of all young men of the city. Take him, and may heaven bless you both.'

Monira, is right,' said her father. 'The young man must be yours, Jane; for you have won his heart, and a noble, generous one it is too. I leave it to your mother to say, if I'm not right.'

Let Henry, Jane and Monira settle it between themselves,' said Jane's mother, smiling. 'I confess it is a remarkable development of human life, such as I never expected to witness.'

It is so, indeed,' replied Mr. Montague.

Henry now entered the room, it being the first time he had seen Monira, since his reurn return home. They cordially shook hands.

'Ah, Henry,' said Monira. 'You didn't write all the particulars, about your change of mind. I now see how it was, and don'; wonder at it. Take her, for she is worthy of you.'

And Monira placed Henry's hand in Jane's, and bid them God speed.

'May the choicest of heaven's blessings descend upon your head,—noble-hearted, generous girl,' said Henry, in a voice that told how deeply he felt, and how sincerely he spoke.

'May God bless you all,' said Mr. Montague. 'And may we all so conduct ourselves hereafter, that we shall deserve God's blessing.'

It was a happy, joyful meeting for all; for even Monira was happy, notwithstanding the peculiar circumstancees circumstances in which she was placed.

When the negro, Sam, learned what had happened, he was overjoyed, and immediately communicated to Miss Caroline Clackley the impression he received from the affair, and ventured one of his prophesies.—Sam told the housekeeper that his master had found an old flame, and would soon be married, and that she could pack off to her native city as soon as she pleased, and hunt up her old Quaker, if he could be found in the land of the living. She was awfully provoked as usual when the negro assailed her.

The reader need not be told that the negro's prediction turned out to be true. Mr. Montague did wed the mother of Jane. The ashes and cinders of their old affection were soon kindled into a new flame, and their days passed happily and pleasantly along.

Miss Caroline Clackley left the service of Mr. Montague; for she could never play second fiddle to any woman in the affairs of housekeeping. She went to her sister's in Philadelphia; but whether she ever found her old Quaker lover or not, these records do not show

Henry and Jane were united in marriage in a few weeks after her mother had become the wife of Mr. Montague.

The following summer they all visited Saratoga Springs, where Monira won the heart of a rich merchant of New York city, and married him after a very short courtship. This gentleman was worthy of such a noble-hearted, generous wife.

Late in the summer. Henry and Jane journeyed east, and visited the log cabin where she was born, and erected a marble grave-stone over the remains of Uncle Bob, upon which were engraved the following words:—

'Here rest the ashes of an honest man, and a good cook. Reader, despise not his humble calling; but see to it that thou fillest thy place as well as he did his. Act well thy part; for in that all the honor lies.'

Henry purchased a tract of land adjoining the small farm once owned by Uncle Bob, and erected some fine buildings near the log cabin. In a few years he had a splendid and productive farm where he and his wife resided through the summer seasons. It was a beautiful residence. His wife was a splendid woman, and wore her honors in a very sensible, rational manner. He also purchased a small farm near his, and gave it to the negro, Sam Smoothley, who got married to a very worthy, handsome mulatto woman.

A few years after his marriage, the traveller might have seen in passing by Sam's neat little house, some half dozen little woolly-headed boys and girls, bright and active, playing on the green in front of their father's house, and enjoying life as abundantly as any of Gods' creatures.

Elizabeth Simpson, with the assistance of Monira Montague, succeeded in completely reforming the dandy, Edwin Hunter, and became his wife.

Young Hunter became a sensible man, a kind husband, and a useful member of society. Let not the ladies be discouraged when dandies can be reformed. To reform a dandy may be a harder task than to reform a drunkard; but yet it can be done, as these chronicles have shown; therefore, ladies, there is a work for you to do; and one of your own sex has set an example worthy of being followed.

THE END