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It was nearly midnight when father Von Horn, that
worthy and much-beloved German patriarch gave the
signal for separating. He rose and called to him his
daughter Nina, and Barry. But it was some time before
Barry could be found, inasmuch as he and Sally Myers
had stolen away from the company (now uproarious and
extravagant with their blindman's buff, and boot-binding
and other rough games), and in the quiet moonlight were
gazing into each other's eyes and talking the usual nonsense
of lovers alone and by moonlight.

The company we said was uproarious; some of the
young men, it must be confessed, had paid too exclusive
devotion to the great bowl of punch which, with arms
akimbo and smiling countenance, stood ready to welcome
all comers on a side table. The consequence of this indiscretion
was deplorable. Many maidens on that night
quarreled with their sweethearts for their want of attention,
and many more declared that this was the last party
they would ever attend riding behind their chosen cavaliers.
It was afterward, however, observed that these
complaints ended in nothing, and that the next party was
as well attended, and in the same fashion as this one at
Hunter John's; and this leads us irresistibly to the conclusion
that beaux are indispensably necessary to young
ladies every where; and that young ladies, where a

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merrymaking is in question, have much Christian charity and
forgiveness.

It was a gay scene—the parting of the company; and
only the pencil of some artist-humorist could convey an
adequate idea of the strange mountain vehicles which
drew up to the door to receive their guests. The young
ladies experienced much difficulty in mounting gracefully
behind their swains—the moonlight being so very clear,
and ankles cased in white stockings so painfully visible:
but at last the guests were all mounted, or snugly ensconced
in their carryalls and light wagons, and began to
take their departure with many good-by's and many parting
words. Old father Von Horn lingered last—that
worthy father Von Horn who, shaking his broad chest
with internal laughter waited patiently for Barry, and
would not see or laugh at Sally's blushes, when coming
in with the young man she found the old man and Nina
waiting for him!

Doctor Thomas had made himself very officious in
assisting the young ladies to their seats behind their
cavaliers—and we are bound as faithful historians, to say
that he was much more ready and polite when young and
pretty girls needed his services. His officiousness was
not, however, by any means disagreeable to the damsels
who had to endure it. There was much grace, and unbounded
politeness in the doctor's manner and tone; and
the young ladies in question had rather neglected their
ordinary beaux throughout the evening for the handsome
stranger. More than one small hand grasped his own
with friendly warmth; and more than one voice at parting
emphasized the first syllable of “good-by” at parting.
These the sarcastic stranger greeted with a suppressed
chuckle as they disappeared. He found at last that no
lady but Mrs. Nina Lyttelton remained, and he assisted
her to her vehicle, or rather her father's with extraordinary
attention; the reward for which was an urgent

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invitation to visit her at her father's, “just up where the
mountains came together.” The doctor bowed and promised.
As he turned, his quick eye pierced the deep
shadow of the doorway, and he saw Barry and the young
girl exchange a tender kiss.

“Where's Barry?” cried father Von Horn, shaking
with merriment.

“Here, Uncle,” said the young man; and bidding his
host and hostess good-by, he took his place beside Nina.
The carryall then rolled off; and Doctor Thomas going to
the chestnut to which he had tied his horse, mounted and
riding up to the door, also took his leave. He was going
back, he said, to Mrs. Courtlandt's; she had promised him
a lodging for a few days, and he had found it always the
best policy not to disappoint the ladies. With this gallant
speech, and a friendly bow to his entertainers, he
took his departure.

Pursuing the road running along the bank of the brook,
the stranger gave himself up to merry thoughts—to judge
from his amused smile. The night invited him to meditation.
Nothing stirred the calm hour but the hoof-strokes
of his horse, the bubbling of the streamlet, and the far
away dying shouts of the merrily-galloping revelers scattering
to their homes. The Doctor mused.

“A fine evening I have had,” he said half aloud, “and
a pretty place I am now going to—the house of a witch.
I rather like that Mrs. Lyttelton. `Like her?' I think I
shall fall in love with her—yes, I am determined to do so
on the first favorable opportunity. What a charming
child is Sally—never have I seen so much beauty of character
united to so much grace; she'll make a good wife.
And that handsome Barry! A perfect hero, and would
have eaten me whole at a word; I'm glad I tried him. It
was a sudden thought. And now, Doctor Thomas, you
have a bloody duel on your hands—you have lost none of
your folly; you are now at twenty-five—more or less—

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just as foolish as at eighteen, when—yes! You couldn't
rest till you had got a duel on your hands;” the stranger
chuckled, “yes, an awful encounter, for there's no `back
out' in Barry—my young hero!”

And giving rein to his horse the stranger went along
rapidly; weary of his musings, it seemed, and desirous
only of a good bed to rest in after the long evening and
the trying exercise of the reels he had gone through.

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