Imatges de pàgina
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The long ride is something out of my way, you know, and I feel unusually tired. I have that business to look over, besides. So, if you will excuse me, I'll wish you good-night."

“Certainly, certainly. Make yourself comfortable, by all means. There will be a man to attend to your wants. What a puny frame you've got, for all those long limbs, Dick! It would take many a ride to use me up in that way. You'd better get up in season to join me at my bath."

"Thank you, I have wit enough left to keep out of that. Good evening, Miss Genevieve."

Captain Alick had not observed her before. He turned, and drawing her forward under the light, so that its rays fell glowingly upon the graceful head with its gold brown curls, its fair transparent complexion, and soft violet-blue eyes, he said, in a significant tone:

"Dick, old boy, here is a charming vision to take with you into your gloomy chamber, and into your crooked lawyer puzzling and planning. Let it have a Christianizing influence!"

Richard Merton had good cause to remember that picture for many and many a day, and it was stamped indelibly upon his memory, though he half closed his keen gray eyes, as if to shut out a sight which pricked him painfully. He saw them after he had gone up into his chamber, dismissed his valet, and settled himself down to look over the obnoxious papers.

Again and again, between him and the written pages floated that pretty picture. The stalwart old navy captain, with his grand, rugged, honorable face, one arm thrown around the sylph figure in the fleecy snowy robe, with its broad black sash, its sweet innocent face upturned so confidingly and tenderly.

Many and many a night afterward the Honorable Richard Merton woke panting and trembling from a dream in which the smiling faces had suddenly changed into a solitary figure-a cold, stark, dripping corpse, with frozen glaring eye, and stiff menacing finger.

them down on the table, and took breath in a long-drawn inspiration.

"Just about what I thought they would be. It shows the wisdom of my management; it was the most judicious course that could have been taken. I was startled, I must admit, to find out this widow should prove to be the same girl. Why must the wench have so everlastingly turned up in my way? She is dead at last. The grim archer be praised for that! Hum! the case will not prove a very troublesome one, except for the perversity of this romantic old sea-dog. It's a snug property to lose, and there's no question but he will change the will, if I don't play skillfully. I must blind him a little-hold out a hope of compromise in case I am convinced of the actual legality of the marriage. It will be easy enough to pick flaws in the testimony, which will require further corroboration. But the girl shall never have the noble property, and poor Phil be turned off with a mere pittance. Never, never!"

So ran the soliloquy of the honorable gentleman. The last words were unconsciously spoken aloud.

If Tim, who had come in rather abruptly, to bring a glass of egg-nogg, with his master's compliments, overheard them, there was no sign of his interpreting them on his stolid countenance, as Mr. Richard's searching glance assured him, and the latter retired to his bed, undisturbed by the circumstance.

Meanwhile, below, in the cosy library, sat Captain Alick in the great armchair, and on a footstool at his feet, with her fair head against his knee, was the fairy-like Genevieve. Captain Alick's hand lingered fondly amid the shining curls, and the voice, with which he now and then addressed her, was broken and tremulous.

They had been talking about her mother. The blue eyes of the girl were like dewsprinkled violets, for the tears still clung to the long lashes.

"Ah, the parting with her was terrible!'' sighed Genevieve's low sweet voice. "I thought I should not live to bear it, yet now I am strangely comforted. She was so His lip curled scornfully now, unaware sad all her life, my poor mamma! How of the terrible power the vision should often have I wondered that my father's gain in the brief space of four-and-twenty death should have so completely broken hours. Unrolling the papers, he went her spirit. She only lived for my sake. O, through them rapidly, with absorbed atten- her tender devotion to me was a wondertion. When they were finished he flung ful thing! Yet I am content to forego it,

if she is happy at last. And, somehow, I cannot think of her as lying in that far-off Sicilian grave; perhaps it is because she sent me hither before the last hour, and so spared my beholding that cherished form laid in the cold ground. I cannot believe her dead; her living presence, her angelic love, seems to surround me everywhere. And in you, dear friend, I have found a second parent. I hope some day I shall be able to prove my gratitude. I have found you just what my mother promised me, a noble, generous, true-hearted father. O Captain Alick, you shall never repent your kindness!"

"No, my child, I never shall," answered Captain Alick, drawing his hand across his eyes, and speaking in an almost solemn tone.

There was a little pause, and then he spoke again, more cheerfully.

"And you are contented, Genevieve? you do not find this retired, lonesome place gloomy for such young fresh spirits ?"

"Gloomy, no indeed! I am charmed with all things. I should be wicked enough, to be dull, after all your efforts to add to my enjoyment. I enjoy the pony so much! I had such a fine canter early this morning. And O, that reminds me of an adventure I met. I have seen Old Moll, as the housekeeper tells me she is called. You have such queer names in these parts. How like I was to laugh the first time you called Mrs. Bourne Widow Nancy, and now I do not mind it at all!"

While she was laughing in her pretty girlish way, Captain Alick looked down earnestly into her face.

canny ways; that she disappears strangely, and goes wandering, no one knows whither."

"There will always be such idle stories about so eccentric a person as Old Moll, but you can credit my assurance, you will always find her a true and faithful friend, if anything should happen to me."

"O Captain Thurston, why do you say that? what makes you look so grave and sad ?" cried Genevieve, the tears rising again. "What indeed would become of me, if I lost you?"

"It is very silly in me. Hush, my darling, don't cry again. I'm ashamed of myself. It's one of my old sailor superstitions; a strange gloom has come upon me, a dreary foreboding of evil. I will shake it off." And the noble old veteran laughed, and patted her cheek, and kissed her, and called her many fond and silly names, and thought he had cheated her into believing him jolly and merry again. But the same uneasy flicker was in his eye; ever and anon the grave weary cloud hung over his forehead. When she rose to say goodnight, he drew her gently towards him, put his hands upon her head, and gave her a solemn blessing.

When she had gone away, folding his hands behind him, Captain Alick walked to and fro for a long time, lost in a melancholy revery. Presently he went to the iron safe in one corner, unlocked it, and took from it a small box of papers. He selected one, and went to the table, reading it carefully through. He folded it up with a heavy sigh, and leaned his head upon his crossed arms, in the very attitude of a

"You have seen Moll, Genevieve? I grieved schoolboy. am very glad of that."

"I wonder why, Captain Thurston ?" "Because she was one of your mother's few trusty friends. Genevieve, my darling, if unforeseen events should happen, confide implicitly in Old Moll; trust her fearlessly, obey her, if need be, go to her in any trouble for assistance. If you should need protection, which Heaven forbid, but if such a direful time should come, and anything have happened to me, go to Old Moll without a question of her faithfulness, or the real goodness under a strange whimsical manner."

"The housekeeper spoke as if the strange woman was more feared than respected in the place. She says she has un

"I shall not feel so forlorn, so terribly down-hearted in the morning," muttered he, lifting his head again. "I shall laugh then at this nightmare."

Presently, as if a new idea had come to him, he drew towards him the inkstand, and then taking a formal-looking document, wrote hastily across it, in his bold legible chirography, a few lines. This done, he seemed somewhat relieved; replaced the paper in the safe, locked it carefully, and ringing the bell, summoned Tim to escort him to his bedchamber.

He came forth from it early in the morning, with a brighter face, and passed lightly the chamber door of his guest. Only a few of the household were yet astir. His

passage down stairs and out into the yard excited from these no surprise or comment. It had been his invariable habit for ten years to take this morning bath, whether in the balmy air of summer, or beneath the chilly winds of winter, if the ice did not forbid the indulgence. Tim followed, to carry the towels and unmoor the boat.

Captain Alick pushed off vigorously, and Tim sat down on the bank to await his return. The honest servant watched the dancing boat with exulting pride at his master's continued strength and dexterity; but presently grew a little sleepy, and yawned, as he lazily switched off the bright heads of the flowers growing on the bank, and so his attention was momentarily diverted.

He sprang to his feet, however, as there came over the water a faint halloo, and looked eagerly towards the motionless boat. The powerful swimmer had made his plunge; why did he not gain the boat? for certainly, if Tim's eyes served him right, the skiff was empty.

Tim darted along the bank to another boat moored near by, and in a moment had started gallantly to the rescue. The white foam flew from the flashing oars, the boat spun over the waves as if propelled by arms of iron. Tim's eager eyes darted over the water in wild horrified affright, as he came to the idly drifting boat, in which lay his master's empty clothing. He shrieked that master's name in a hoarse screaming voice, and then plunged frantically into the water. Again and again poor Tim explored the remorseless depths. In vain; and at last, with a wail of anguish, the faithful fellow, exhausted by his desperate efforts, sank helplessly upon the bottom of the boat, and lay there in a kind of stupor.

As strength returned, he roused himself, and rowed slowly and disconsolately back, while the empty boat, which had so long been guided by the hand so helpless now, drifted behind him.

A ghastly face was it which poor Tim presented to the startled household, and terrible tidings were those he bore. A wild tumult of lamentation and weeping roused Richard Merton, sleeping calmly in the chamber above.

He was met on the threshold by Tim's wretched story. I dare not picture what thoughts leaped madly through the mind of this man, who had been so tenderly beloved

by the dead master of Thurston Cottage. I shrink in loathing of such base ingratitude, such treacherous friendship. But his face was grave and solemn with decorous sadness. He asked pertinent questions concerning the hopelessness of further search, and commended the arrangement which had sent a band of the stoutest swimmers to explore the lake. He spoke soothing, comforting words to still the grief of the faithful servants, for Captain Alick was not a master to be carelessly deplored. He expressed in words which drew tears from all, his own bereavement, and then, and not till then, he asked the question which had been printing its fiery letters on his brain, through the whole.

"Had his beloved relative left the house that night? Had he sent for any solicitor, or drawn up any instrument himself, that it might be his melancholy pleasure to see faithfully carried out his dear friend's last wishes ?"

"Ah sir," sobbed Tim, "it's little he thought of this. He told me 1 was to go over after breakfast for the lawyer, that he wanted to make a change in his will. I'm sure there is one now, but what there was he didn't like I'm sure it's out of my power to tell."

Richard Merton drew a long breath.

"Nothing must be touched until the lawyer comes. What a sorrowful ending is this to my visit!"

And with his cambric handkerchief over his face, the honorable gentleman withdrew again to his chamber.

In another room poor Genevieve was sobbing in the good housekeeper's arms. The sudden blow had completely prostrated her hitherto elastic spirits.

"O, what will become of me now, what will become of me now?" murmured she, despairingly.

"And not a sparrow falleth to the ground unmarked," said a deep voice at the door.

The sobbing woman turned with a start of alarm. There on the threshold stood the strange, weird figure of Old Moll.

"I hear that death is abroad, and I have come to listen to his preaching. A good man is gone-a mighty oak has fallen. Well may you weep, yet let your tears be free from bitterness. Is it true, Nancy Bourne, that the cold waves cover the form of Alick Thurston ?" asked the woman, pushing away the straggling, snow-white

locks which streamed from her singular bonnet-a huge calash of green silk.

"It is true," answered the housekeeper, with a fresh gush of tears.

"The Lord have mercy upon us all!" ejaculated Moll, in a solemn voice. "Mysterious are his ways, and past finding out."

"It's little enough he thought of this, when he left us so bright and cheery this morning-my dear, noble Captain Alick," wailed the poor widow Nancy. "He was the best friend I had in the world!'

"I have lost everything with him!" added Genevieve, drooping her head again to Mrs. Bourne's shoulder.

The old woman looked at them gravely, and then dashed away a tear from her swarthy check, while she said in a peculiar, deep, hoarse voice:

"Be comforted, children. We must all die; for the just man, it is only gain, and such we can hope was Alick Thurston."

"Can hope!" exclaimed the worthy housekeeper, in indignation. "If there is any one to doubt that angel's goodness, it should not be you, Old Moll, you whom he has befriended against all the ill-will of the town."

"I know, I know, he was a true friend. I shall not soon see his like. But wherefore indulge in unavailing grief? I tell thee, old woman, Old Moll's is not a heart to harbor ingratitude."

A servant came to the door for the housekeeper, just then, and for a moment Old Moll was left alone with Genevieve. The girl was startled, as the swarthy wrinkled face was bent down hastily to hers and the deep voice whispered:

"Child of Miriam, doubt not the goodwill of Old Moll. Believe none of their shameful charges. He knew me better; knew my mission, my devotion to you and to him. He confided to me what was closely kept from all else. He promised me to make a new will, and secure you from poverty. Has he done it ?"

"I do not know. I cannot tell, I am sure," faltered Miriam's daughter. "O, I cannot think of such things, now. I can only remember that I have lost his tender love, his fostering care-that I am all alone, utterly desolate."

"Hush, hush, my child, that is false. You have Old Moll, a faithful devoted friend, who will watch over you, who will work for you, who will love you always." "Who are you?" exclaimed Genevieve,

conscious of a strange thrill stealing into her heart, at the earnest, impassioned tone.

"I am your mother's best friend, and yours, sweet child. Fear not! Have courage! However dark your future may seem, Old Moll shall sometime prove a fairy godmother, and bring you joy and peace."

There was no time for Genevieve to reply. The housekeeper, followed by one of the maids, entered the room, and Old Moll, holding up a warning finger to repress the girl's answer, fell back to her old position.

In a few hours the house was filled with a crowd of shocked and sympathizing, or curious acquaintances. The lawyer had also arrived, and was closely closeted with Richard Merton. The fact was dismally realized now by the whole household. The genial, generous, kind-hearted master of Thurston Cottage was gone!

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

"AULD ROBIN GRAY."-Of the origin of this favorite song a pleasant story is told. There was an old Scotch air (not, however, to which the song is now sung, for that we owe to an English clergyman) of which Lady Anne Bernard was very fond, and which Soph Johnstone was in the habit of singing to words that were far from choice. It struck Lady Anne that she could supply the air with a tale of virtuous distress in humble life with which all could sympathize. Robin Gray was the name of a shepherd at Balcarres, who was familiar with the children of the house. He had once arrested them in their flight to an indulgent neighbor's. Lady Anne revenged this arrest by seizing the old man's name, and preventing it from passing into forgetfulness. While she was in the act of heaping misfortunes on the heroine, Jeanie, her sister Elizabeth, twelve or thirteen years her junior, strayed into the little room, and saw "Sister Anne" at her escritoire. have been writing a ballad, my dear," the frank elder sister told her little confidant, "and I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea, broken her father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, and gave her Auld Robin for a lover, but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow in the four lines. Help me, I pray."-"Steal the cow, Sister Anne," said the little Elizabeth.-The cow was immediately lifted, and the song completed.

"I

THE ANGEL OF THE WILDERNESS.

A TRAPPER'S STORY.

BY WILLIAM H. BUSHNELL.

These scars on my face? These seams on my brow?
How did I get them? The story is old.

Years ago? Yes, and when younger than now

I thought not of danger-was reckless and bold. Would like to hear it? 'Twere better, far, told Out in the prairie-amid scenes of strifeAmbushed in timber-hid by a stream,

And watching for Indians with rifle and knife.

Tell it? 'Twould seem strange in an hour like this,
Far from the buffalo, wolf and the deer,

Where to keep safe your scalp is the work of a man,
And each breath is deep drawn, and each moment a fea
But as you will.

The story is this:

Camping one night by a swift rushing flood

A mountain born stream, pearly and clear,

Though often stained with the crimson of blood,

All alone by myself, I fancied I heard

The plash of a paddle, dipped swiftly and strong;
Not like that of a trapper, an Indian or guide,
But one who for life was crowding along;

Who saw safety ahead, who, scanty of breath,

Knew like wolves on the trail were torture and death!

From the roots of the pine, where my bed I had madeFrom the thick needled branches I'd placed as a screen,

I peered in the darkness, and saw a canoe

Speeding down like an otter the rushes between;

A canoe madly driven-a girl young and tall,
Whose black hair streamed out behind like a pall.

One word in the tongue of the savage I breathed;

She stopped, trembled, answered, then leaped to my side, And the first glance I had of her face and her eyes,

Made me know that for her I could live or have died!

A squaw? No, by heaven! her skin was as white

As the snow, never stained, on the top of the mountain, That only grows rosy by kiss of the sun

Or the breast of the swan newly washed in the fountain. A squaw? Not a dark drop of red blood within

Her veins could be found to give taint to her skin.

Few and low were our words. A captive, she fled
From the war-painted, black-hearted, thieving Pawnee,

Who turn the fair garden of God into hell,

Make the prairies a graveyard-the rivers a sea
Of blood, of which but the least faintest trace
Is worth more than all of their thrice accursed race.
Would I save her? I promised to do it cr die!

One kiss, and I swift stole away with my prize.
I could not but take it, no more could have you,
If you'd looked but just once in her radiant eyes;

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