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The horses of the travelers were fine and spirited, and
they made such good speed that a little after noon, the
north mountain having been crossed some time before,
they came in sight of “The Lock”—so father Von Horn,
now gathered to his fathers, had named his mountain
farm, because the Sleepy Creek and Third Hill mountain
“locked” there. The travelers ascended the steep road,
and soon drew up before the door of the mansion. It
was one of those broad, wandering, stone-built houses
which the original German population of the region
scattered throughout the Virginia valley; wholly for use,
somewhat for defense against Indians, scarcely in any
particular constructed with an eye to ornament. The
porch in front was large, the windows small and well
secured by heavy oaken shutters, and those of the second
floor looked out immediately from beneath the eaves.

A servant ran to take their horses, overwhelmed, it
seemed, with joy to see his master come back to the old
house, and at the door Doctor Courtlandt was received by
no less a personage than Mrs. Courtlandt, the severe, the
stately “Aunt Courtlandt” of his youth. The gray-haired
old lady received her nephew with extreme delight, clasping
him in her arms and affectionately kissing him with
a thousand inquiries after his health and spirits—which
latter subject elderly ladies usually place much stress
upon—then she turned and welcomed the young man
with equal pleasure and affection.

Doctor Courtlandt and his son had been absent for a

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long time; in fact they had left Virginia soon after Mrs.
Nina Courtlandt's death, which had taken place some
years before. The chief reason for this expatriation on
the part of Doctor Courtlandt and his son, will appear in
the course of our narrative. The old lady had willingly
acceded to her nephew's desire that she should keep his
house from rusting in his absence; and the doctor now
felt that he had gained more than he had expected.
Long tossed about among strangers—unknowing and unsympathizing—
the affectionate welcome of his aunt was
very pleasant to him. True, that stout heart was sufficient
in all things for itself, but this was far more pleasant
than the respectful greeting of the servants only.

The old lady, having cried over Max, and given him
several very affectionate kisses and embraces which he returned
as affectionately, busied herself about their dinner.

“I got your letter from New York, nephew,” she said,
“saying that you had returned, but I did not expect you
so soon.”

“And have you not been troubled very much, aunt,
with my affairs? I thank you a thousand times.”

“They have troubled me somewhat, especially that
overseer you left. He almost insisted upon following his
own crop system instead of mine; now you know I have
always been a capital farmer, and I would not yield.
The consequence has been one-fourth more in the crop.”

The doctor laughed.

“I never should have stood out half an hour against
you,” he said.

“Your dinner will soon be ready.”

“Are you hungry, Max?” asked the doctor, “I think
you look better after your ride.”

“I do feel better, sir,” the young man said, sadly.

Mrs. Courtlandt, standing behind him, shook her head
at the doctor; who sighed wearily. Then he roused
himself and assuming a gay tone, said:

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“Oh, you'll be as strong as an ox here in the mountains,
soon, my boy: what news, aunt? you wrote me
very lately that Barry and all were well. How singular
for Barry to turn minister. Does he preach regularly?”

“Yes; and they are all well. Alice and Caroline are
much improved; they are thought very pretty.”

“Why, they were children when we went to Europe.”

“But you have been gone a long time—a very long
time, nephew.”

“And is hunter John well?”

“Not so well; he is very old, you know. We are all
getting old—passing away.”

“Why, my dear aunt, you are younger than you were
ten years ago. Is she not, Max? Come, pay a compliment.”

Max smiled.

“You know I always thought aunt was young-looking,
sir,” he said.

“Well done, ma foi! aunt, you will find my boy very
much improved—an excellent scholar and an elegant
cavalier. It will be a pleasure to have him about you.”

“Max and myself were always great friends,” said
Mrs. Courtlandt, “and now dinner is ready.”

“I confess I am hungry,” said Doctor Courtlandt;
“come, Max.”

Max took scarcely any thing; the consequence was, the
doctor, spite of his manful declaration of hunger, could
swallow nothing. It was plain that all this gay bantering
was a mask which concealed some painful emotion.
They rose from the table and went out upon the porch,
where the pleasant October sun made the red forest
blaze. Far off, between the two mountains, stretched
Meadow Branch Valley, dotted now by more than one
white dwelling, from whose distant chimney light smoke
wreaths curled upward against the thick foliage. On the
slope of the eastern mountain, “Hunter John's,” cottage
was plainly visible.

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“How!” cried the doctor, taking a seat in one of the
wicker chairs upon the portico, “is not there some change
down there, aunt?”

“What, nephew?”

“In hunter John's house.”

“It is newly plastered.”

“Possible?”

“I think it an improvement.”

“Oh, certainly; but he is such an old-fashioned
character, such a stickler too, for things of the olden
time.”

“True; he is. You must ask him, however, why he
has altered his house. You know, Mrs. Myers died some
years ago.”

“Yes, yes; just after I went away. You mentioned
it. And Barry and dear Sally live with the old man.”

“He is very proud of having a real minister in the
house.”

“Oh, I must go at once and see them! I can not rest.
Come, Max, my boy; again en route.”

The young man rose listlessly.

At the same moment, the hoof-strokes of a galloping
horse were heard, and a negro mounted on a powerful
black horse, from whose back it seemed no time had been
permitted him to remove the wagon harness, approached
the Lock at full speed. The main road over the mountain
led by the door.

“Ho! my friend,” cried the doctor, “why all this
hurry, pray?”

“Miss'is sick, sir.”

“Who is your mistress?”

“Miss Emberton, sir.”

“What! at the Glades”

“Yes, sir—I must go on into town for the doctor.”

“I am a doctor. Is your mistress very sick?”

“Mortal sick, sir.”

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“I will then go myself,” said Doctor Courtlandt, “but
go on: do not turn back on that account. Go!”

The negro again pressed his horse into a gallop, and
went down the steep road at full speed.

“This interferes with our ride, Max,” said Doctor
Courtlandt: and raising his voice, “my horse!” he said.

A horse, fresh and spirited, was soon led to the door,
and Doctor Courtlandt, having rapidly but quietly filled
his valise with medicines, mounted and rode roundly in
the direction from which the servant had made his appearance.

He descended the western slope of the Sleepy Creek
Mountain, and in an hour of rapid riding arrived at the
Glades, whence he was destined to find not only a patient
but an old friend.

This was Josephine Emberton.

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