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Half an hour after the dispersion of the company, the
household of father Von Horn, were gathered around his
broad board, upon which was spread an excellent meal.
Actors (even actors in private theatricals) are, it is well-known,
very partial to suppers, and Max seemed to have
gained an excellent appetite, for material things, from
feeding so full of grief, in his character of Romeo.

Little Sally, who sat demurely by her pleased father's
side, divided the honors of the evening, with our hero.

“How well she did play!” cried Max, with his mouthful,
“I was astonished, to hear her speak her part so
well; the best of it is, too, that the whole was her own,
I did not teach her. Why Sally you did not seem in the
least abashed: I declare, I have a great mind to come
round and kiss you, only Barry would challenge me to
mortal combat. Barry, what did you interrupt the performance
in that way for?”

Barry blushed, and stammered out some indistinct
words.

“Let Barry alone Max,” said father Von Horn, “he
was right, and I honor him for his chivalric conduct.”

“Chivalric, sir?

“Certainly: did he not think the child had killed
herself?”

“I most nigh thought so myself,” said hunter John,
laughing: “and I was near doing as much as Barry.”

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“How well she did it!” said Nina.

“And Mr. Max most scared me, when he was fighting,
you know: I most screamed.”

“Screamed? What for?” asked Max.

“You seemed so much in earnest, Mr. Max,” said
Sally, nestling close to her father, with her little bright
eyes fixed upon the young man.

“In earnest!” cried Max, “why, I was in earnest.
At that moment, my dear Sally, I was Romeo, at the
tomb of Juliet. I was Romeo, though, from the beginning.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“I mean, I forgot the company and all, after the first
minute, my dear,” said Max.

“Wasn't you scared?”

“The moment before I appeared, my charming Juliet—
but not afterward. I did feel like laughing, when I
saw that mischievous young lady, Miss Josephine smiling
at me: but think of Romeo's laughing, on being told of
your untimely end, little Sally.”

“You mean Juliet's, sir,” said Sally, laughing.

“You are Juliet—and I don't think it could have been
played better. I had no idea you could do it so well.
When you screamed, you know, I was very near reviving,
and telling you not to be afraid, that I wasn't dead.
And when you `kissed my lips,' as the play says—to
get some of the poison—for you know, you kissed me
Sally—”

“Indeed I didn't, sir—I only made pretense.”

“Listen to the little prude. By this hand you kissed
me.”

“Oh, Mr. Max!”

“Don't mind him, Sally,” said Nina, “he always tells
stories.”

“By-the-by, Nina,” said Max.

“Well, sir?”

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“You did yourself considerable credit,” said Max,
patronizingly.

“Thank you, sir!”

“You did, indeed. True, Sally and myself were the
prominent objects of interest, but I did not see more
than a dozen persons yawning while you were going
through your part.”

“Yawning!” said Nina, indignantly.

“Max, you joke eternally,” said father Von Horn,
who listened to this jesting conversation with great amusement;
“I say Nina, that you played excellently—quite as
well as my nephew.”

“Well, neighbor,” said hunter John, “I don't repent
comin' down to the play. I didn't know even what that
was, till I saw 'em at it—but I soon made out the matter
it was about, because little Sally was to be in it, you
know, neighbor. Well, we old folks have much to learn.
The young people are gettin' ahead of us. I must go
back to my mountain valley, and tell the old dame all
about it—how the child did her part,” he added, looking
with tender affection on the little bright face leaning upon
his shoulder. “I'm glad to have seen if—I can now say,
I have seen a regular play. Think of that.”

“But you are not going back at once, neighbor?” asked
father Von Horn.

“Yes, yes! I'm most afraid the game will get too
pert, and think the old hunter's gun is witched, neighbor.
Then, I can't breathe this low country air long, from living
so entirely up in the hills. I'm tired of so many
houses—but you won't think I'm tired of you all; or of
you, daughter.”

“Father, please stay a little longer—please,” said little
Sally.

“I can't, daughter, I must go to-morrow: I'm feeling
that a deer hunt is in my blood.”

“A deer hunt!” said Max, “I would give any thing

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in the world to go and hunt a few days with you,
sir!”

“Come then, my boy.”

“But my law—uncle says—”

“I'm afraid you are neglecting it, Max,” said father
Von Horn.

“Yes sir, lately, I know—”

“With all this playing and visiting, and other things,
Coke and Blackstone stand a bad chance.”

“Well, sir, I suppose I ought—”

“No—if you have set your heart on going, you may as
well go.”

“I go in the morning,” said hunter John.

“Well, neighbor, if you must, you must,” the old man
said; “and I suppose Max might as well go and get this
acting out of his head. Now for prayers.”

Prayers were said, and every one retired to rest. On
the stairs Max passed Nina, who went up last, carrying
in her dainty hand her japanned candlestick.

“I say, Nina,” said Max, “don't be married before I
get back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, Messrs. Huddleshingle and Lyttelton are both
smitten with you, Miss Nina. While you were acting I
saw them—you know I was in the green-room, peeping
through the curtain, there was a hole—”

“What did you see, you goose?” said Nina, smiling.

“I saw the beforementioned gentlemen devouring my
amiable and handsome cousin with their glances. I really
thought Hans Huddleshingle was going to make his fat,
pinky eyes into saucers—”

“Foolishness!”

“And as for Mr. William Lyttelton—”

“What of him, pray?”

“He could not have gazed more attentively or showed
more profound satisfaction, if he had just found some

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favorable authority in one of his cases, and was gloating over
its graces and attractions. Nina, I am getting jealous:
Nina, I am going away, and I can fancy the delight
which the absence of so formidable a rival as myself will
afford those sprightly and agreeable gentlemen. But
Nina, I go in full confidence—in confidence as strong as
ever Romeo felt in the faith of gentle Juliet, whom, by-the-by,
you much resemble. Think of me often, Juliet—
Nina, I should say,” Max continued dolefully, and casting
a tender glance upon his cousin; “think of me often; not
in the dim watches of the night alone, when `even the stars
do wink as 'twere with over-watching,' but even when
the `garish day' is bright, and you are surrounded by
the most gallant cavaliers—the sprightly Lyttelton, and
gay Huddleshingle. I am not afraid, my Nina; I have
no fear that you will espouse a walking lawbook, or ever
write your name Nina Huddleshingle! But still, I pray
you, think of me—of me, your most devoted, your most
loving—”

The closing of Nina's door, clipped off the remainder
of this most eloquent speech. Max also retired.

On the next day, hunter John, immediately after
breakfast, had his horse brought, and declared that he
must set out—though Meadow Branch valley was scarcely
ten miles distant. He was evidently restless at the very
thought of the great mountains, which, indeed, possess
a mighty influence over those who have experienced their
fascination. Hunter John, had been less than a week in
Martinsburg, but was already country-sick.

Max made ready to accompany him; leaving with Nina
many messages, and running about, with all the delight
of a boy who has a holiday granted him, and the vision
of woods and mountain-slopes before him. Romeo and
Juliet; Josephine; Monsieur Pantoufle's fencing lessons—
all were forgotten, and Max, with his impulsive

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temperament, saw for the moment nothing but guns, and hunting
knives, and powder-flasks:—heard but the barking
of the dogs, which frisking and wagging their tails, and
leaping about, uttered at intervals, sonorous bayings, eloquent
of mountain-side adventure.

If Max forgot Romeo and Juliet, however, hunter
John, only half imitated him. He remembered Juliet.
Father Von Horn's hand passed through the ordeal of the
hunter's iron grasp, Nina and Barry were told good-by:
and then the quondam Juliet—little Sally—ran to get
the last word from him: and kiss him, crying at his
going away. The old mountaineer raised the little form
to his heart and held her there—a mere flower, a blossom
so light was she—and again the old, gray, storm-beaten
brow, rested on the bright rippling gold, and the red, tender
cheek. He sat the child down: she covered her face, and
began to cry. But Max jested with her, and made her
laugh, and the dogs bayed more loudly, and good-by being
said again, they mounted their horses.

“To the mountains!” cried Max, with sparkling eyes,
“Oh, what a glorious sight, the fall woods are—and the
deer!”

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