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Max, forgetful for the time of his “negotiation,” was
about to enter the old ante-revolutionary building (“where
the court-house stands,” the act incorporating Martinsburg
says), when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a
hearty and firm voice uttered the words, “Well, Max,
how is it with you to-day?”

He who had thus arrested Max, was a tall, gaunt,
powerful man, of a slightly stooping figure, clad in a
hunting shirt, and old weather-beaten slouched hat, originally
brown, now of no particular color, but a mixture of
all. Leaning quietly on the railing of the court-house,
he alternately raised and lowered with two fingers, an
enormous rifle—the butt of which rested on his Indian
moccasin—as if it were but a straw. The hunter—for
such he plainly was—seemed verging upon sixty; his
beard was grizzled, his hair already gray. From beneath
his shaggy eyebrows flashed a pair of keen gray eyes;
and his lips were thin and firm. There was nothing disagreeable,
however, in his face, rather the contrary; a
quiet, simple smile seemed the natural expression of his
countenance and in the keenness of the eye there was
nothing threatening, though much to show that the owner
had latent in his character something that once aroused
would make him “dangerous.”

He held out his hand to the young man, and inclosed
his delicate fingers in his iron grasp.

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“How is it with you, Max?” he said.

“Thank you, sir, I am very well,” said Max, respectfully,
“I hope all are well in Meadow Branch.”

“Yes—all well,” replied the hunter; “and your uncle
told me to say that you, and Nina, and Barry, might look
to see him in a day or two.”

“Oh! then he will be down to the play!” said Max,
joyfully.

The mountaineer smiled.

“Yes—he's nigh done on his farm, and the hands can
get along without him for a time, I reckon. He was
telling me of your and Sally's play—though I don't know
as yet what that is.”

“It's from Shakespeare, sir”

“Anan?” said the hunter, inclining his ear.

“It is part of a play from Shakspeare, sir—`Romeo
and Juliet.”'

“Ah, you young folks are mightily ahead of us old
people. I've heard tell of Shakspeare, but I never did
see what you call a play.”

“But you have seen a great deal of reality—if not a
play, sir.”

This was said with a modest laugh and some little
embarrassment. There were but two or three persons in
existence who were complimented by any diffidence, felt on
the part of Mr. Max Courtlandt in their company; the
old hunter was one of these—a man whom Max respected
much. When he ventured on a joke, therefore, Mr. Max,
uttered a profoundly respectful laugh.

“Reality? Ah, you mean the old times. Well, there
was mighty little play that's true, when Injuns were
about.”

“I've heard you tell of those times often, sir, when
you used to come over to uncle's, and sit by the fire with
me on your knee; a long, long time ago.”

“Yes; I've been getting old this many a day. We

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old fellows are fond of running on about the old times
gone by so long. They were hard days, and I never
want to see 'em back.”

“Oh! but I have wished I lived then, a thousand
times.”

“Why?”

“What a splendid, glorious life, so full of joyful adventures!”
exclaimed Max, with sparkling eyes.

“Anan?” said the hunter.

Max blushed.

“I mean, we live so tamely and easily now.”

The hunter shook his head.

“I remember when that street was covered with thick
pine growth—and often and over I've stood on the rock
where that stone house over the bridge is, and seen
nothing but the court-house here, and a few poor cabins.
Is it worse now? No, no, much better.”

“But the adventures you had, sir.”

“The adventures were plenty enough—you could not
stir without your gun!”

“The Indians, sir?”

“Injuns, Max—blood-thirsty child-killers.”

The hunter's eye flashed, and his brown, weather-beaten
face, flushed.

“I have never got over that,” he said, “and though
the whole earth is most nigh changed, and there's no
danger, you see my old gun travels about with me like it
used to. But here we are, diggin' into the times gone,
and I don't know even how my Sally is. I've just come
from the valley, and was waiting till her school was out.”

“It is nearly time, sir. You will see her coming
down the street soon, toward the run where the girls
play.”

“I must go and make her tell me all about the play
you are going to have. I know it's right though, because
neighbor Von Horn said it was.”

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“Oh! sir—”

“Why, there is my Sally,” the hunter said, with an
expression of quiet pleasure on his old face; “who's with
her?—my old eyes are getting bad.”

“Barry, sir.”

“I must see Barry, too—Barry's a good boy. Come
Max; they don't see us.”

And they left the court-house just as that legal gentleman,
Mr. Lyttelton, compared by Max to a solemn owl,
began to shake the walls with his indignant thunder.

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