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Inside, all was quite as old-fashioned as without. The
fireplace was broad and large; and in addition to the
long rifle, there hung above it, fishing-rods, almanacs, and
bundles of pepper pods: and in the middle an old Dutch
clock ticked cheerfully. The chairs were of wicker-work,
and the table of heavy oak. In one corner a flight of stairs
wound up to the small rooms above; beyond this flight of
stairs, a half opened door permitted a glimpse of an apartment,
which, from its great neatness and simplicity, was
inhabited by a child apparently, most probably by a young
girl, since taste was every where very evident in its decorations;—
a taste of that refined and elegant description
which it is never the good fortune of the ruder sex to possess.
The very arrangement of the simple furniture, the
light in which the few cheaply-framed pictures were hung,
the small hanging shelves of books, all nearly in their
places, the chair, with its pretty calico covering, the little
table, the lingering flowers so gracefully trained around
the window—all gave the traveler good reason to believe
that the occupant of the small chamber was a female.
The large apartment in which he found himself, had a
wholly different character; and just as plainly—with its
large chair, and guns, and hunting-horns—was the
mountaineer's; though, certainly, not his sleeping-room,
which adjoined it.

The traveler seemed to be satisfied, with the single

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glance he had cast upon these objects. His eye, trained
to observe quickly and thoroughly, after completing its
survey of the apartment, no longer fixed itself upon these
material surroundings.

“Sit down, Doctor,” said the mountaineer, “we are all
very plain people in this neighborhood, but you are welcome
to all we have. From foreign parts, I judge?”

“Why do you judge so, host?”

“From your way of talking,” said the hunter, laughing
silently, “and—”

“Why do you stop?” the traveler said, smiling too;
“from what else?”

“From your dress, guest.”

“Ah!” said thoughtfully the stranger, “there it is.
Why dress—what is dress, that people should judge so
much from it of the individual's character. 'Tis the
fault of the age—externals, externals.”

Then seeing that his host had not followed him in his
musings.

“You are right so far, sir,” he said, “I am from foreign
countries; but I trust that my heart is what it
always was—silk stockings and velvet have not changed
me, God be thanked!”

There was so much frankness in the stranger's voice,
and his face, ornamented by its light colored beard and
mustache, assumed—spite of those martial appendages—
an expression so mild and gentle, that the mountaineer,
yielding to the fascination of his manner, stretched out
his arm, and cordially shook his guest by the hand.

“We'll be good friends, I see, guest,” he replied, “and
now, I know you will be satisfied with our rough fare.
Come, supper is on the table.”

The supper was spread upon the broad table, and the
cheerful and smiling old dame, did the honors at its head,
pouring out for the traveler goblets of foaming milk, and
huge cups of coffee—a great luxury at the time—and

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foreing him to test in turn the flavor of half a dozen different
sorts of bread. The traveler thought he had never
tasted richer butter, or finer venison.

They allowed him to finish his supper before again
speaking; and then his host led the way to the grassplat,
which ornamented the knoll in front of the house. There
setting seats, he invited his guest to smoke with him;
which Doctor Thomas very readily assented to; but pleading
the force of habit, took from his pocket a cigar. The
mountaineer admitted the validity of this excuse, lighting
his old pipe made of a corn-cob, with a stem of reed;
and so they sat in pleasant converse;—the hunter, with
a calm, quiet smile on his old rugged face, stroking from
time to time his favorite stag-hound lying at his feet—
the stranger with a thoughtful, musing manner, which
terminated many times in revery; but not a mournful
revery it was plain—rather well-pleased and hopeful.

His eyes were fixed admiringly on the broad belts of
pines, now in deep shadow, and the rosy flush slowly
dying away on the top of the mountain, when his host said
quietly, but much more gently than he had yet spoken.

“There is my daughter.”

At the same moment, a young girl came singing up the
knoll from the banks of the brook.

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