“No, no,” replied the young lady, “Henry Davenport
has led them astray, and they are at this
moment searching the East rock, in the mistaken
idea that it contains this cave.”

Isabella Goffe had meanwhile approached her
husband who still sat in a recess, his brow leaning
thoughtfully on his hand, and manifesting an
appearance of perfect indifference, while Margaret
pronounced her fearful intelligence.

“Do you hear her?” said the lady, twining her
arm around him, and looking earnestly in his
countenance.

“Nay, Isabella,” replied the outcast, shaking
his head and regarding her with a smile of sorrowful
affection, “it is vain to attempt it. None
dare to harbor us, and even if they did, it would
only serve to draw on them the fearful blight that
rests on me and mine.”

“William,” continued the lady solemnly, a
shade of agony darkening her features, “will
you perish without an effort?”

“Efforts are vain, my precious Isabella. It is
the will of heaven that we should die; and surely
it is a light thing for us who have no hopes here,”
and he still leaned motionless against the rock.

“Now hear me, William Goffe,” exclaimed the
lady, in clear and unfaultering tones, “if you love
me, if you have ever loved me; nay if you have
not, by my own love for you, I beseech you cast
not madly away the life which God hath given
you,” and a smile of intense intreaty wreathed the
lip of the suppliant.

“Any thing, my blessed Isabella,” said her
husband, rising hastily up while his strong tones
trembled with emotion, “I will do and suffer
all things for your sake, even though it were to

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

live ages of these bitter moments,” and they now
approached the entrance of the cave.

Margaret Weldon was leaning against it, her
face deeply flushed; and the old man stood near
her, listening to her words.

“Do you hear, my son,” exclaimed the latter
as they approached, “do you see the path which
Providence has prepared for us. This kind young
lady offereth us a home and shelter so long as it
shall please Heaven to spare our existence.”

“Where, and how?” said the other in surprise.

“You shall hear it William, but there is no
time for explanation now. We must hasten our
retreat ere the pursuers discover their mistake.
Heaven reward you noble girl,” he added placing
his hand on the head of Margaret, “for that in
the home of your happiness you have not forgotten
the sorrowful; and the blessing of him that
was ready to perish shall surely come upon you.”

Meanwhile, Isabella Goffe with that look of
beautiful composure she so well knew how to assume,
was hastening the escape of her devoted
relatives. A forced smile still played on her
countenance, and, save its deathlike paleness,
there was no expression of the intense agony
which wrung the heart of the heroic wife.

“Farewell, my father,” she cried, throwing her
arm around the old man, as he lingered a moment
on the threshold. “It will be long ere we
meet again—we may never meet again,” she
added solemnly, and with a strong effort subduing
the sobs of her anguish. “Bless me, Oh, my
father,” and she fell upon his neck, while the old
man breathed forth a fervent petition that the
God of heaven would be to his cherished one as
a hiding place from the wrath of that fearful

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

tempest. Then turning away and leaning upon his
staff he moved rapidly downward.

But William Goffe still lingered at the door of
the cave. “You must not stay,” exclaimed the
lady, fervently. “Farewell, William. Long and
bright days may yet be in store for us, even on
earth; and if we see each other's faces no more
here, we will so live that we may meet in heaven.”
He folded her in his arms, his stern lip trembled,
and his eye grew dim with tears.

“Farewell, thou best and loveliest—thou art
indeed more meet to bloom amid the inheritance
of saints in light, than here—farewell, my own
precious Isabella, fare thee well,”—and wrapping
the mantle around his noble form, he turned abruptly
from the cave.

Margaret and the high souled Isabella were
still standing at the entrance, and gazing earnestly
upon the fast receding forms of the judges,
when the sound of a loud trampling in the path
beneath, arrested their attention. Two well
dressed cavaliers, whom they instantly recognized
as the royal pursuivants, were ascending the steep
acclivity. Near the foot of the mountain, the
quick eye of Isabella, familiar with every avenue
to the place of refuge, discovered their horses under
the shade of a large tree, awaiting their return.
As the cavaliers approached the summit,
their glances were directed frequently and earnestly
in various drections, resting at last on the
form of Isabella, for Margaret had retreated within
the cave. Mingled surprise and admiration
were visible on their countenances, as they now
obtained a nearer survey of the beautiful inhabitant
of the cliff; and as if they had expected to
find the Lady of the Mist, only the disguised

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

form of one of the regicides, they were evidently
confounded. The lady herself, with a reserved
and graceful dignity, seemed waiting their message.

“We are seeking,” said Kirk, as they paused a
few steps from the place she occupied, “we are
seeking to obey the mandate of his Majesty, by
arresting two condemned criminals, the regicides
Whalley and Goffe.”

“Then let me assure you, sir,” replied the lady,
in tones which, in spite of all efforts, betrayed
her emotion, “your excursion here is fruitless, I
am the sole inhabitant of the cave, and you must
seek elsewhere for your victims.”

“And how long,” inquired Kellond, who perceived
at once, by the manner of the lady, that
their conjectures were not groundless, “how long
since the said criminals effected their escape from
hence?—Shall we search the cave?” he continued,
turning to his companion, for Isabella Goffe now
maintained a haughty silence.

“It is in vain searching the cage, when the
bird has flown,” replied Kirk, following at the
same moment the direction of the lady's eye, as
she cast a troubled and involuntary glance upon
the distant road. “Tom Kellond, look ye there!”
he exclaimed, suddenly and eagerly pointing his
companion, as he spoke, to a point in the road
where it wound round a green and shaded hill,
on the side of which the forms of the fugitives
were at that moment distinctly visible.

“Can you tell us, madam,” rejoined Mr. Kellond
hastily, “if the persons you are gazing after
so earnestly, have anything to do with the objects
of our pursuit? Methinks they answer well the description.”
A flash of unutterable agony for a

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

moment lighted the beautiful eye of Isabella;
the next indeed a careless and haughty smile appeared
on her features, but it was too late—they
had read the meaning of her first glance, and
now without waiting for further inquiries, moved
swiftly down the rock.

“There is no hope for them, Margaret,—
they will surely perish,” exclaimed Isabella, as
Miss Weldon issued from the cave,—“they will
surely perish,”—and she folded her arms, and
gazed in silent and hopeless agony upon the distant
and beloved forms of the unconscious victims.

“But remember,” replied the young lady, “it
is only our superior height which enables us to
see them. Some time must elapse, ere they again
become visible to the pursuers; and perhaps they
may first be warned of their approach.”

“Ah, how slow—how slow ye move,” muttered
the lady, unconsciously addressing the objects of
her solicitude. “Would to heaven that my voice
were the thunder or the whirlwind, so it might
reach your ear. My father—William—my own
William,—fly—fly—I conjure you,”—and her
voice was choked with a burst of agony, too wild
for control. “Ha! Margaret, as I live, they are
waiting for their enemy,” she continued, after a
moment's pause; and Margaret perceived, with a
sensation of mingled astonishment and horror,
that the forms of the distant travelers were now
indeed apparently stationary.

The road at a short distance before them was
intersected by a small but rapid stream, over which
a bridge had been recently erected; and after
gazing, for a few moments, in every direction

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

around them, the persecuted judges again moved
onward.

“Where are they, Margaret,” said Isabella,
who having turned for a moment to watch the
progress of the pursuers, now looked in vain for
the forms of her husband and father—but neither
could her companion at all account for their sudden
disappearance. “Ah, I comprehend it now,”
continued the lady with a sudden burst of delight,—
“they are concealed beneath the bridge,—do
not doubt it—did you mark how suddenly they
vanished?” and in a delirium of fear and hope,
she leaned to watch the approaching crisis. In
descending the hill, the horsemen gradually
changed the quick gallop with which they had
first appeared, into a slower movement, occasionally
pausing and gazing earnestly around them.
They were evidently astonished to perceive that
the objects of their search were still no where in
sight, and, as Margaret had feared, unwilling to
believe that they could possibly have proceeded
with sufficient velocity to become invisible in the
distance.

“Merciful God! deliver them,” exclaimed the
lady, as Margaret essayed to support her sinking
form in her arms. The pursuers had at this moment
paused in the midst of the bridge, and were apparently
scrutinizing with much interest, the fair
and quiet landscape around them. “You cannot
bear it—dear Isabella,” said Margaret, “trust
them with heaven, and come into the cave.”

“Oh, hush—hush,” whispered Isabella, regarding
her a moment with that fearful smile with
which love had taught her to veil her wildest
agony, “I can bear any thing, Margaret,—do not
doubt me,” and again her eye rested upon the

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

pursuers. They were at that moment dismounting
from their horses, and after carefully fastening
their bridles to the railing of the bridge, and
proceeding to the other side, they began swiftly
to descend towards the margin of the stream.

“Ah, they are lost! After all, they are lost,”
murmured Isabella faintly. “I was wrong, Margaret,
I can not—no—I can not endure it,” and
with one long and agonizing sigh, her head drooped
motionless on her shoulder.

“They are gone—look up, my sweet friend, and
fear nothing,” said Miss Weldon, as she stood
with her arm around the lady, and fanning with
her light bonnet, her faded brow and cheek.
“They are going to search the wood beyond.
Ah! I knew they would never dream of such a
hiding place.” The pursuers were now indeed
winding their way along the margin of the stream
towards an extended wood, at no great distance,
whose thick and tangled underwood seemed
to present the most natural place of concealment.

A faint hue of life at this moment tinged the
cheek of the pale Isabella, and a joyful brightness
glistened in her eye, for now the beloved
beings, who had but just seemed lost to her forever,
suddenly appeared rising from the bank of
the stream. They passed swiftly over, and then
paused a moment, pointing to the horses which
their pursuers had tied to the bridge. After a
moment's consultation, the younger of the fugitives
turned again to the bridge, and loosening
the bridles, left the horses at liberty; and then
rapidly rejoined his companion. The steeds, as
if comprehending his wishes, quietly trotted

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

homeward, leaving their worthy riders to the free
employment of their respective powers of locomotion.
In what manner these were exercised,
doth not appear from our history; it is certain,
however, that the regicides pursued without discovery,
their northward journey.

CHAPTER VI.

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

It is impossible for the most vivid imagination,
to conceive the various reports which would probably
have originated from the events just described,
or rather from such fragments of those events
as might have found their way to the village, had
not the whole curiosity of the community been
suddenly diverted to a still more interesting subject.
It had been now for many hours, a matter
beyond doubt, that the wedding of Margaret Weldon
was that evening to be celebrated at the
dwelling of her aunt.

Preparations for the approaching festival, the
inquiry who were invited, who had failed of an
invitation, the probable dress and appearance of
the bride,—were all subjects too painfully and
engrossingly interesting to allow of any long digressions.

At an early hour a large party were assembled
in Mrs. Wilmot's best room, awaiting with anxious
glances, the entrance of the bride. The
room had been arranged in a style of taste and
rural elegance becoming so joyful an occasion; its
walls were hung with festooned wreaths of flowers,
and several large and beautiful bouquets
adorned the mantel-piece—opposite this was an
arched recess, profusely adorned, and as yet unoccupied.

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

Mrs. Wilmot had a few minutes since welcomed
her last guest, and all was now anxious and silent
expectation, interrupted indeed by an occasional
whispered conjecture of some of the
younger females of the party. All surmises and
queries, however, were now speedily silenced by
the entrance of the bridal train, and the ceremony
and prayers, much longer and more particular
than in these degenerate days, were performed
without interruption or embarrassment. Some
there were, indeed, who hinted at the excessive
paleness of the young bride, kindly hoping that her
choice had not so soon been repented; but our
readers who are acquainted with the circumstances
of her morning ramble, will certainly place
upon it a more charitable construction. We will
pass over the details of the merriment, that now
echoed through the apartment; and indeed the
whole wedding might have been consigned to a
similar oblivion, but for the sake of a singular
circumstance which occurred during its celebration,
forming a theme for fireside meditation for
months and even years afterwards.

In the midst of a confused hum of conversation
and as nearly as could be recollected, just after
the performance of the ceremony, it was suddenly
perceived by some of the less loquacious, that
there was in the company a stranger to whom not
one had been introduced. In a retired corner of
the room sat a female whose appearance was peculiar.
The entire want of ornament in her dress,
while it attracted the attention of some, was to
others the least striking peculiarity in her appearance;
for when her face, at first downcast as if
in mental absence, was raised, they saw a countenance
of strange and indescribable beauty, but

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

pale and sorrowful, as if the light of young hopes
had gone out there forever, leaving in its stead
high thoughts and holy purposes, but nought of
earth save its deep and tender affections. Such
as were most curious in noticing her dress, discovered,
as the breeze from the window slightly
disarranged the drapery which covered her neck,
that she wore a rich golden necklace. This circumstance
might have been forgotten had not
other incidents afterwards kept it in remembrance.

The low interrogations that now passed from
group to group, instead of satisfying only excited
to a higher point, the prevalent feeling of curiosity.
None could tell who the stranger was, or
whence she came. The curiosity of the company
was gradually tinged with superstition and heightened
to fear. And when some one, in a whisper,
at last interrogated the mistress of the mansion,
her evident evasion of the question by some indefinite
and purposely ambiguous reply, gave no
satisfaction. There was a slight check on the
merriment of the company. The tones of laughter
if no less loud than at first, were less free and
careless, and many a sidelong glance was directed
to the corner occupied by the stranger.

Indeed those who first discovered her presence,
afterwards asserted that at the first glance some
indescribable sensation struck to their hearts;
and it was said that those whose attention was
directed thither, if ever so gay at the moment,
became gradually reserved and gloomy.

At length, the eye of the stranger was lifted
with a new expression. Alice Weldon had just
entered the room, and the illuminated glance of
the lady followed her, as she glided among the

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

guests in the exuberance of childish happiness.
The thoughts of the more imaginative and nervous
among the observers, testified that there was
surely something mysteriously fascinating in the
smile, with which the object of so much curiosity,
watched every movement of the child, as
if anxious to catch her notice. Presently the
eye of the little one turned towards the corner,
where the stranger sat alone. That gaze
of delight arrested her attention; and, in a
moment, an answering smile played upon her
lip.

It was in vain that the lady who happened
to be nearest the child, sought with a violent
effort to engage her in something else. The
attempt was for a moment successful, but that
strangely winning smile seemed to attract her
with an irresistible influence. With a quick
movement she withdrew her hand from the
grasp that confined it, and in spite of the efforts
made to divert her attention, moved slowly
across the room. The smile deepened on
the lip of the stranger, as the lovely child now
hesitatingly approached her.

“You are a beautiful lady,” said the little
one, pausing at a short distance from her, as if
afraid to advance; “you are the prettiest lady
I have seen to night—shall I come and sit with
you?”

“Ah, come, come, sweet one,” replied the lady,
in a rich and trembling tone, while every feature
kindled with a look of intreaty.

Alice stood for a moment with her hand
in hers, and looked silently upwards on her
countenance. “Are you like Margaret?” she
at last said, with an air of perplexity, turning

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

at the same moment towards the bride, as if
seeking to institute a comparison between them.
“No, no, it is not Margaret,” she added looking
again at her new friend,—“Who are you
like?”

The stranger replied only by bending to press
the lips of the little girl to hers.

“You must love me as well as Margaret,”
she at length added, in the same subdued
and thrilling tone, “will you not, my precious
one?”

“Shall I love you better?” replied the child,
climbing suddenly into her embrance, and twining
her soft little arms around her, “shall I love you
better than Margaret, a thousand times better?”
and she pressed her lips to those of her new
found friend, until the lady seemed unable to repress
her emotion.

This was the last that was noticed of them.
The entrance of refreshments for a few moments
absorbed the attention, and when curious
eyes were again turned to the corner,
neither Alice nor the mysterious stranger, were
visible. The former, however, soon re-appeared
from a door which opened to the hall, and it
was at once percieved, that she wore on her
fair and rounded neck, the golden chain which
had before been discovered on the neck of the
stranger lady. It was also percieved that, on
her return, she manifested an appearance of
deep melancholy, and seating herself in the
place which the stranger had occupied, scarcely
smiled or spoke during the remainder of the
evening.

The influence of the stranger over the little
orphan, was not confined to the present occasion.

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

It was thought that a seriousness and unusual
pensiveness of disposition, was ever after discoverable
in her character.

The next morning the good ship Beaver sailed
for Liverpool, and from that time forth, nothing
more was seen or heard of “the Lady of
the Mist.”

CHAPTER VII.

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

The course of our history requires us to pass
over the fifteen ensuing years, without any particular
notice. During that time important changes
had taken place as well in the scene of this
story, as in the persons who are its actors. The
village was gradually becoming a large and flourishing
town, and many of the families which had
before occupied its chief places were no longer
to be found. Their heads had gone down to the
land of forgetfulness, their various members were
widely scattered, while another household gathered
around the hearth which had once been sacred
to their joys.

Mrs. Mary Wilmot, however, still lived, and in
the same place as at the close of the last chapter.
Time had not much altered its appearance. The
house was as white, and the gravel walks as clean,
and the flowers as blooming, as when fifteen years
ago, the fair Margaret had left the place for her
husband's residence. Another hand, indeed, now
taught the woodbine to climb in its wonted place,
and propped and trimmed the sweet-briar and
roses that adorned the court;—but they had lost
nothing by the exchange, that hand was as fair
and gentle, and the taste which arranged them,
as exquisite, as any that ever culled a blossom,

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

since the first fair tender of flowers brightened
the first garden with her beauty. Mrs. Wilmot
had not been deserted in her declining years. A
lovely and accomplished young lady, whom she
had reared from her early childhood, was now
her constant companion; and though there were
some who hesitated not to pronounce her a singular
and unaccountable being, the old lady found
in her all that was gentle, and patient, and lovely.
The charge, however, was not wholly groundless.

Alice Weldon had indeed exhibited on many
occasions, what had seemed wildness and eccentricity
of character, to those who had no clue to
the secret springs of her noble nature. A romantic
imagination, a set of ardent and enthusiastic
feelings, and a certain pure and fearless independence
of soul, together formed a character
which all might not love, and which only the few
with spirits like hers, could truly appreciate.
Alice Weldon had never exhibited to her companions,
or even cherished in her secret heart, any
selfish emotions of pride; on the contrary, a peculiar
sweetness of deportment on her part, had
ever marked their intercourse. But there was a
kind of unconscious superiority in the curl of her
rosy lip; she seemed to live in a world of fancy
and feeling, to them inaccessible; she was
more beautiful, more graceful, more intellectual
than her companions; and though not in
fact haughty or capricious, it was not strange
that as the character of the child became gradually
merged in that of the elegant, high spirited
and romantic young lady, these epithets began
freely to attach themselves to her name.

These evil dispositions were, in part, attributed

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

to that defective system of education which Mrs.
Wilmot had adopted with her niece. Alice Weldon
had ever been allowed the indulgence of all
her innocent tastes and feelings, without opposition
or restraint. Her love for the romantic had been
encouraged by frequent and lonely rambles
among the beautiful scenery in the outskirts of
the village. An exquisite taste for drawing, had
been improved by the lessons of a teacher who
had chanced to reside a few months in the colony.
Her thirst for poetry had been gratified by
a perusal of the best authors. The native melody
of her voice, untaught save by an occasional
attendance at the village singing school, was
warbled forth in a thousand plaintive airs; and
one could scarce ever pass the door of Mrs. Wilmot's
house at twilight, without listening to her
sweet and bird-like tones.

But by far the most important source of Alice
Weldon's singularities, was supposed by some to
lie in the rich golden chain that ever adorned her
person. The strange manner in which it had
been acquired, was not yet forgetten; and it was
still supposed to exert a mysterious influence
over all her thoughts and feelings. Indeed it
did appear as if some melancholy spell had been
secretly breathed over the heart of its possessor.
A brilliant gaiety of spirit was sometimes seen
bursting forth in every tone and look, like a rich
gleam of sunshine among clouds, and then again
retreating, as if at the bidding of that hidden influence.

It was pleasant June twilight, and Alice Weldon
was standing by the parlour window, her
head bowed down earnestly to catch the last
beams of daylight that lingered on the page.

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

But the shadows fell fast, and raising her eye to
the window, she perceived that she was the object
of an earnest and protracted gaze from a gentleman
who was at that moment slowly passing.
The stranger, for such he seemed, was tall, well
dressed, and prepossessing in his appearance. He
smiled, and as Alice imagined, bowed slightly
just as she averted his countenance. The circumstance
was surely a singular one, so much so,
that the young lady still continued by the window
absorbed in a profound reverie, until the voice
of Mrs. Wilmot summoned her to the table. Not
that the casual passing of a stranger, or even a
curious and protracted glance of the window,
were by any means unparalleled occurrences; nor
was the expression of admiration with which he
evidently surveyed her, altogether a thing unprecedented.
The stranger had indeed seemed peculiarly
gifted with those attractions of person,
which are usually counted upon as best suited to
win the heart of a young and romantic female;
but we will do our heroine the justice to say, that
for all this, the memory of the youth might have
passed away from her mind, as his manly form
faded from her vision. But that momentary
glance had aroused the sweet and thrilling
memories of childhood; there was something in
that smiling countenance, to remind her of one
whom she had once known and loved; and every
time that the image of the youthful stranger returned
to her fancy, there came with it, the dark
locks, the clear eye, and the sunny brow, of him
who had been the companion of her infancy.

The next day it became a well authenticated
piece of intelligence that Mr. Henry Davenport,
son of the former venerable pastor of the town

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

had come from Boston to take up his residence
in New-Haven having become the possessor of
the property left by the deceased patriarch in the
colony which had first numbered him among its
pillars. The addition of an educated and accomplished
young man to the society of the place
was a much more unfrequent and important event
than at the present day, and while none received
the intelligence with indifference, it cannot be
denied that to the minds of some, at least among
the young and fair, the event thus announced
was one of special interest. Many were anxious
to renew their acquaintance with the rich and
honored young man, whom they remembered only
as the active, high-spirited and amiable boy. It
was not strange that thus for a few weeks he was
fast becoming an object of some interest to the
fair ones of the village. A sudden check was
however put to any indiscreet admiration that
might have been lavished upon him by the intelligence
that Alice Weldon, amid the unobtrusive
seclusion of her aunt's dwelling, in the loveliness
of her youth and beauty, had won, irretrievably
won, the heart of the accomplished young Davenport.

It was a bright, bland, summer evening when
Henry Davenport first openly declared the history
of a long and devoted attachment. But there
is something in the development of the first love
of a young heart, altogether too sacred for the
leaves of a printed volume; and we have ever felt
that there was a kind of sacrilege done, when the
recesses of such a soul have been broken open,
and those sweet and holy affections which would
fain shrink even from their own consciousness or
are at best revealed to one alone, have been

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

poured out in passionate expressions for the gaze of the
many—the cold hearted, perhaps, the rude and
the curious. The incidents of the tale however
and the development of its characters, require
the introduction of the present scene, and we
must plead the above mentioned scruples, together
with some slight inexperience of our own, as
an apology for the blank in its description.

* * * * * * * * *

The blush had faded from the neck and brow
of the fair girl, but her head leaned on her hand,
and its living damask still glowed through the
slender fingers and the bright hair that fell over
them. There had been a few low and broken
words, but these were past, and now her voice
was clear and calm.

“Henry, they have told you that I was a romantic
and singular being, that my actions were
all guided by the influence of a mysterious and
secret charm. I am about to prove that these
things are true. To all that I may have said in
an unguarded moment, there is one unyielding
condition. You may think me unjust and capricious—
but”—

“Name it,” interrupted the youth hastily,
“Alice, if it is a deed for mortal arm, you have
but to name your condition.”

The young lady slowly unclasped the beautiful
ornament that adorned her neck, and placed it
in his hand. “Reveal to me the fate of the being
who gave me this.”

“Nay, Alice, you are trifling with my feelings,
he answered, gazing with surprise upon the costly
trinket, “this is unkind—you cannot be serious.”

“I am serious, Henry,” replied the lady. He

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

who would win my hand, must first penetrate, for
me, the mystery which involves the history of her
who gave this necklace,” and as she spoke she
pointed to a small and rudely inscribed motto
beneath the clasp.

“N' oubliez pas ta mere,” murmured the young
gentleman, holding it near the light. “What
means it Alice? I had thought that this was the
chain given you when a child by the strange lady
at your sister's wedding.”

“It is, Henry Davenport, it is the very same;
and I doubt not that lady was my mother. Nay
hear me, Henry. You call me Alice Weldon,
and you think me the sister of Margaret Russel,
and the niece of Mrs. Wilmot; but when I tell
you that in thus doing you are mistaking me for
another, perhaps you will credit my assertion:
The stranger who clasped this chain around my
neck, was, without doubt, my mother.”

“Explain yourself, Alice,” rejoined the other
in a tone of surprise and agitation. “You certainly
cannot expect me to comprehend your
meaning.”

“You doubtless remember,” continued the
young lady, the “circumstances of her mysterious
appearance.”

“They have often been related to me; but
until this moment, I had always believed it the
exaggeration of ungratified curiosity, which attached
such importance to the gift. Indeed I
had reason to imagine, that it was only presented
from motives of affection to your sister. Go
on Alice—your words are strange, and yet methinks
they tally well with some wild thoughts of
my own, many years ago.”

“I was but four years old,” continued Miss

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

Weldon, “when this singular occurrence took
place; but the impressions it produced, are still
vivid in my recollection. Ah, I can never forget
the thrilling ideas that rushed upon my mind, when
I first surveyed the stranger, as she sat in yonder
recess. But she was no stranger to me.”

“And you had seen her then before,” interrupted
her auditor.

“I am almost certain that I had, and yet I cannot
remember the occasion, but I well know it
was no new face to me. It seemed rather like
one of those beautiful countenances that had
often looked down and smiled upon me in my
dreams, and my heart sprang forth to meet her,
impelled by some unaccountable influence. And
when she bade me farewell—we stood in the
porch together, and she folded me to her bosom
with such a passionate embrace, and wept over me
with such an agony of tenderness, calling me her
own precious and cherished one, and charging
me to remember and love her so long as I should
live in the world, that, were I to live for ages, I
could never forget her. Henry, I have remembered
her, and, in all her beauty and sorrowful
tenderness, her image is at this moment as fresh
before me as when she stood among the ivy, weeping
over me that last farewell. And yet, perhaps,
this beautiful memorial, which never for a
moment suffered the bright picture to grow dim,
contributed much to strengthen these impressions.
Thenceforth she was the idol of my fancy,
the bright spirit of my waking and slumbering
visions. I do not mean that, at that time, I had
even for a moment conjectured the relation which
subsists between us. The being that I then loved
was the creature of my imagination and dear to

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

me as furnishing an object to those mysterious
and secret yearnings, that had ever haunted my
solitude.”

“And did you never feel your curiosity excited
concerning her?”

“Often, and most painfully, but my inquiries
were all in vain. Aunt Wilmot has ever assured
me of her entire ignorance respecting her fate.
Two years ago as I was one morning arranging
the drawers of an old fashioned escrutoire, that
stood in my aunt's apartment, my hand accidentally
touched a secret spring which discovered
a department of the case I had never before
seen. I was delighted at the occurrence, because,
this ancient piece of furniture had remained
in the family for several generations, and I fancied
I was about to discover the secrets of some
past age. The first letter I seized upon, bore
the fragments of a black seal; and on opening
it I perceived that it was addressed to my aunt.
Delicacy would of course prevent my perusing
it, but, as I was closing it, my eye glanced unintentionally
upon the first lines, and I trembled
with amazement. You may read it, Henry, if
you will, for I copied it ere I left the apartment.”

The young man seized with avidity the folded
paper, which was now presented to him. It contained
the following sentences. “This will inform
you, madam, of the death of Alice Weldon,
youngest daughter of your deceased sister, Mrs.
Margaret Weldon. We were preparing, as our
last informed you, to send her to America according
to the provisions of the will, and indeed
had made arrangements to forward her in charge
of the gentlemen who hands you this letter,
when she was suddenly attacked with a violent

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

disease which on the 24th inst. terminated her
existence.” Mr. Davenport rose hastily from his
seat as he finished its perusal and began to walk
with a hurried and unconscious step. A flush
had meanwhile gathered on his cheek; and an
expression of mingled astonishment and delight
animated his countenance.

“And was there aught else, Alice—Alice Weldon,
for so I must and will call you, did this curious
letter contain any further information?”

“Only some tedious details which convinced
me that its writer was the executor of Mrs.
Weldon's estate; but I had no heart to examine
further. The date was precisely the time at
which I was supposed to have arrived in America,
and I was at once convinced that I had,
all my life, usurped a name and station to which
I had no claim. Hitherto orphan though I was,
I had deemed myself surrounded with endeared
and affectionate relatives; but now the delusion
was over, I was alone in the world—an isolated
being, and my hopes all clouded.”

“And why so Alice? What if this discovery
should reveal to you relations far nearer than
those it has annihilated, and teach you to claim
a parentage that princes might glory in. Ah, I
see it all now. There is, there cannot be the
shadow of a doubt—Alice Weldon, did you never
suspect yourself to be the daughter of”—

“Of whom?” repeated the young lady in low
and hushed tones, for she had waited in vain for
the conclusion of the sentence—he was still silent,
and her cheek became colorless as the white
rose that lay in her hair.

“I have done wrong. Forgive me, my gentle
Alice,” he at length replied, checking his

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

hurried movements, and his kindled eye softening
as he spoke, “Mrs. Wilmot, as well as Governor
Leet must have been privy to this strange
secret, and you say that they never hinted any
thing to you concerning it.”

“Never!”

“And have you never revealed to them this
singular discovery?”

“No; the thought was agony—till this night
the secret has been buried in my own heart, and
but for you it might have died with me. It did
indeed double my inquiries concerning the mysterious
visit of the stranger, but they were always
evaded, and indeed, Mrs. Wilmot seemed pained
whenever it was mentioned. For as I had felt
my relations to the beings around me suddenly
severed, my thoughts had gradually fastened, with
a new and strange devotion, upon that beautiful
image of memory, which seemed to me to concentrate
all that was lovely in human tenderness.
I endeavored to reason calmly, to divest myself
of enthusiasm, I remembered every tone and
look, the gust of tears, the passionate embrace;
and I could not but feel that there was a link in
our destinies, something strong as the ties of natural
affection. The translation of the little motto
you see on the clasp was at length obtained,
“Forget not thy mother.” There was no longer
a doubt. Yes, Henry, it was my own mother
who fifteen years since went forth from this house
in such bitterness. Who knows but that she may
still live—alone—unprotected—in peril and sorrow,
while I whose duty it is to soothe and comfort
her, am wasting my hours in careless case,
unmindful of one who charged me to love and
remember her. No, Henry, I will enter into no

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

new relations until I can fulfil those first and sacred
obligations, of which this gift is an enduring
token. I cannot be happy and I will not
mar with my own dark fortunes the destiny of
another.”

“But she may be dead,” replied the youth in
agitation. “Say nothing rashly, Alice. Remember,
fifteen years have past since you saw her.”

“I do. And now hear me, Henry—hear the
condition of my plighted troth. Unravel this
mystery—I know you have already a clue you
do not choose to confide to me—but I will not
urge you. Uuravel this mystery. Reveal to me
the fate of this mysterious being, and oh, if living,
restore her to me.”

“And then?”

“I will deem it my highest happiness to love
and honor you forever.”

“The curfew now slowly announced the hour
of nine, and Henry Davenport ere long departed
for his lodgings.

CHAPTER VIII.

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

On a cold moonlight winter evening, some
eighteen months after the events recorded in
the last chapter, a small sleigh was seen
blithely jingling over the road which forms
the southern entrance to the village of H—
The back seat was occupied by two ladies completely
enveloped in the folds of a huge buffalo
skin, and that in front by a single gentleman in
the capacity of driver.

“Drive faster, Richard, for heaven's sake,” exclaimed
one of the ladies in an impatient tone,
as they slackened their pace at the slight ascent
before them. “I say, Richard, if you do not set
us down somewhere, and that speedily, I will take
the reins myself.” “If one of these drifts would
suit your ladyship,” replied the other, turning
with a threatening air to the roadside, “I can
easily accomplish your wishes. Will you alight?”

“Ah, Richard, you will not laugh when you
find me frozen to death under the buffalo skin.
I tell you my fingers are icicles already.”

“Then they must be strikingly improved in
complexion,” replied the other with an air of extreme
indifference, but at that moment a loud
and triumphant shaking of the bells announced
that the horse with his dignified and leisurely
tread had at length completed the ascent. “Ah!
and here we are,” shouted the driver, pointing at

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

the same moment, with his whip, to the prospect
which had just become visible.

On the plain beneath, at no great distance, a
comfortable cluster of brown, red and white
houses, now appeared interrupting the bold ext
panse of snow and moonlight, while the fires and
candles gleaming through the distant windows
seemed to diffuse a delicious glow through the
hearts of the half frozen travellers.

“But, Richard, we have been so often deceived
with these log houses, and jack-a-lanterns, I don't
believe it is the real village.”

“Not the village, Susan. Why then my precious
sister, open your eyes. Do you not see the
steeple as plain as daylight at the northern extremity,
and a little to the right, the sparks from
the blacksmith's forge, they told us of, and did
we not pass the “Three mile mill,” half an
hour ago?”

Meanwhile they were darting down the hill,
with sufficient rapidity to compensate for the tediousness
of the ascent.

“What a hill for a slide,” said the talkative
young lady, turning for a moment to survey it, just
as they reached the plain. “I declare, I would like
nothing better than to be a child for fifteen minutes,
if it were only to enjoy another frolic in the
snow—and, as it is, I would risk my dignity for
a single slide from yonder summit. Ah, Alice,
you need not smile so contemptuously,” she continued,
turning to the lady who sat silently by
her, “I have known graver and wiser ladies than
yourself guilty of similar indiscretions. Even
that revered matron we are about to visit, aye,
and the madam of a parish—I remember the
day when she sprung on the sled and rode down

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

as blithely as any of us. But, I fancy, she failed
not of some grave rebukes on the subject. Do
you remember it, Richard? It was the night the
English travellers came, and whom should we
meet at the foot of the hill, but the worthy Mr.
Russel himself. But I beg your pardon, Richard,
I remember you always chose to ride by yourself.
It was Henry Davenport that was guiding the
sled.”

“And do you know,” interrupted the young
man, without regarding her previous remark, that
young Davenport has returned from England?”

“Returned!” exclaimed the silent young lady,
in a tone of thrilling emphasis, and starting as if
electrified. Richard did I hear you aright?
Henry Davenport returned?”

“Aye; so they say,” replied her companion, I
found an old friend of ours at the last inn, who
says he met him three days ago in the streets of
Boston, and never saw him looking better.”

“And is he going to New-Haven?” continued
the young lady in the same tone of eager inquiry.
“What did he say, tell me I pray you, Richard.”

“Indeed, cousin Alice,” replied the other, “I
was always bad at guessing, and as I happened to
be driving you quietly over the Connecticut
hills, at the time of their interview, it is impossible
for me to decide what were his veritable
words.”

“Did you not know,” said Susan, leaning
across the seat and speaking in a loud whisper,
“that about a year and a half since, it was reported
that Henry Davenport was engaged to
Alice, and it was all broken off so suddenly? I
am sure, Dick, you might have spared her feelings.”

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

The conversation had gradually become interesting,
and, before they were aware of it, they
found themselves entering the principal street of
H—. It was only seven o'clock, and the village
presented an appearance of considerable
animation. Sleighs were moving merrily along,
and the pleasant sound of the bells, the lights
from the windows of the dwelling houses, and
above all the illumination which glared from the
little grocery, dry good, and hardware store, in
the midst, produced the idea of busy and cheerful
enjoyment. The snow had been thrown in
piles on either side of the way, and some of the
inhabitants were now enjoying the comfortable
foot-paths thus furnished, in sallying forth for the
social evening visit. Near the center of the village,
the principal street was intersected by another
from the east, and it was on one of the
angles thus formed that our party at length drew
up before the large square house which had been
pointed out to them as the dwelling of Mr. Russel.
It was one of the most ancient in the village,
and having never been painted, it had acquired
from long exposure, that tinge of sombre brown
so redolent with gloomy associations,—and there
was an air of loneliness and desertion about it,
with the large old barns in the rear, particularly
when seen, as now, with their long and quiet shadows
lying in the moonlight. Every object exhibited
an air of perfect stillness, there were no
lights in the windows, and not even a dog to bark
their welcome.

“There's no wonder they call it a haunted
house,” said Susan in a voice tremulous with
vexation, and turning to her companion in the
sleigh, while Richard knocked loudly at the door.

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

“I am quite sure I never saw a house look
more like it.”

“They are not at home, sir,” said a tidy looking
woman, who had at length made her appearance.
“They are gone to the meeting—the minister's
meeting—and wont return till to-morrow. Will
you walk in?”

“Ah! that we will, good woman, if you have
such a thing as a fire,” replied the young man,
hastening at the same moment to assist the ladies
in alighting.

“If Mr. and Mrs. Russel are absent, I would
not stay in this house to-night for the world,”
whispered Susan to her companion, as they
mounted the steps, “and indeed I should not
wonder if we were carried off bodily before
morning,” she continued, in a still lower tone, as
they followed their conductress through a long
and extremely narrow hall. “Stranger things
have happened here, if all tales are true.”

The door which terminated the passage, was
at length thrown open, and the travelers were
ushered into a bright and pleasant little parlor,
the social aspect of which seemed to remove
all cause of discontent. There was a fresh blaze
on the hearth, and the light and glow of the apartment
contrasted strongly with the cold, pale moonlight
without. The guests had been expected.
A small table was already spread for their refreshment,
and the good Mrs. Ramsay now hastily
arranged chairs for them around the fire.

“Ah, this seems more like a christian dwelling,”
whispered Susan, in a low voice, as the
good dame left the apartment, “but, Richard, I
confess I do not exactly like the idea of staying
in the haunted house alone, or at least with

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

strangers. I would rather the minister were at
home.”

Richard's sarcastic reply was interrupted by
the re-appearance of Mrs. Ramsay, who seemed
indeed to act in a much higher capacity than
that of an ordinary domestic.

“Mrs. Russel bade me tell you to make
yourselves at home, if you came during her
absence; that is, if you are her sister and
cousins.”

“I believe we can prove the fact to a demonstration,
good Mrs. Ramsay,” answered Richard,
gaily disencumbering himself of his superfluous
apparel, “and I for one shall make use of its privileges,
ghosts and goblins to the contrary notwithstanding.”

After a few meaning glances on the part of
Susan, the young ladies rose to follow his example,
thus presenting Mrs. Ramsay an opportunity
of more unobservedly satisfying her curiosity.
They were both expensively dressed; but the
discriminating eye of their observer, soon detected
a peculiar tastefulness in the apparel of the
younger. The mantle she had worn on her entrance,
had fallen from her shoulders, the dark
pelisse beneath revealing her light and graceful
figure. As she laid aside her veiled bonnet, the
waving curls beneath fell on a brow like marble,
high and fair, and darkly penciled; a gleam of
spiritual beauty looked out from her blue eyes,
softened and shaded with its drooping lashes;
while the melancholy cast of expression touching
every feature would have given interest, nay,
fascination, to a countenance of ordinary outline.
Nor was her companion destitute of personal attractions;
her form was graceful, a sparkling

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

bloom rested on her lip and cheek; and, in other
company, she might have been deemed beautiful.
But the light of genius and fancy, the bloom
of rich thoughts and feelings, will ever stamp on
the countenance of their possessor, a superior
and elevated loveliness.

Though the worthy Mrs. Ramsay had not arrived
at exactly the same conclusion, with that to
which we have conducted our readers, she was
evidently investigating the comparative merits of
the young ladies, with a spirit of determined
resolution. The result, however, appeared at first
satisfactory. “If I may make bold to say it,”
she at last said, turning to Susan with an air of
triumphant skill, “I expect you must be Madam
Russel's sister.”

“No; I have not that honor—only her cousin.”

“Then I will never trust a likeness again,”
muttered the other in a disappointed tone, turning
to the table to hide her vexation. “I am sure
the other young lady favors her no more than I
do. No body would dream of their being related.”
Guessing was certainly Mrs. Ramsay's
forte; and she now completed the arrangement
of the table, with an air which evinced her displeasure
at the failure.

Alice Weldon was the only one who seemed
not to relish the inviting repast. There was a
violent tremor in her whole frame, a strong and
visible excitement of feeling, and notwithstanding
her complaints of the effects of cold and weariness,
her gay companions ere long desired to know
its cause.

But at that moment, the wind moaned heavily
through a distant part of the building, and all

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

the unpleasant associations which the cheerful
appearance of the little parlor had for a time dispelled,
seemed to return with increased energy.
“It is nothing but the whistling of the wind,”
replied Mrs. Ramsay, as Susan rose suddenly
from her seat by the table, and earnestly demanded
its cause. “The shutters too are loose, and a
breeze from the north will always move them.”
But neither this explanation, nor the raillery of
her brother, had power to allay the excited fears
of the young lady. When the keen apprehension
of evil is once aroused, it needs no frightful
occurrence to continue and strengthen its influence.
The slightest sound, the most trivial
incident, is greedily converted into cause of alarm,
until the mind is wrought up to an intense and
perhaps intolerable pitch of emotion.

“If you had seen what I have seen,” said Mrs.
Ramsay, as the trio seated themselves by the fire,
“and if you had heard what I have heard, you
might well be afraid.” She paused as if for encouragement
to proceed.

“And prythee what have you seen?” replied
Richard, with a contemptuous smile, “be a little
more definite, I intreat you.”

“Why, to tell you the truth—to be plain with
you,” continued Mrs. Ramsay, approaching the
fireside, with a solemn and mysterious expression,
“you must know that this house, a certain part
of it I mean, is haunted. Those who find it for
their interest may deny it as they will, but I will
stand to it, the longest day I live—the house is a
haunted one.”

“What part of it, good Mrs. Ramsay?” cried
Susan, looking earnestly around the room, and

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

suppressing, for a moment, her quickened breathing.

“Do you see that door?” continued the other,
pointing to what seemed a small closet behind
Susan.

“What of it, Mrs. Ramsay?” exclaimed the
young lady, suddenly vacating her seat for one on
the opposite side of the fire.

“Nay, Susan,” interrupted Alice, now raising
her thoughtful and abstracted glance from the
embers. “You do wrong thus to agitate your
feelings. I cannot feel that there is cause for
your alarm.”

“Ah, you cannot,” replied the other with a
scornful smile. “Well, I will confess to you,
cousin Alice, my inferiority. I am not so much
wiser than the rest of this generation, as altogether
to defy supernatural beings. Perhaps if I were
as good as Richard and yourself, I might exhibit
more courage.”

“Perhaps you might, my dear,” replied the
youth calmly. “But as it is, we must intreat
Mrs. Ramsay to defer her frightful stories till
daylight.”

“Ah! and good reason,” retorted Susan, “you
dare not hear them.”

“Dare not?” repeated her brother contemptuously,
“You shall see. Good woman I will save
you the trouble of describing these apartments,”
and he moved with rapid steps towards the door
so mysteriously designated. But Richard was not
at heart ill-natured and the agonizing intreaties
of his siter at length prevailed. Perhaps too
some private misgivings of his own exerted their
due influence. Be this as it may, his character

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

was vindicated, and he now again approached the
fireside.

“And now, Mrs. Ramsay, do tell us all about
it,” continued Susan eagerly. “That mysterious
door. Where does it lead?”

“Heaven knows,” replied the old woman, devoutly
folding her eyelids. “Heaven knows—
not I. So long as I have lived in this house,
which is two years this coming Thanksgiving, I
have never lifted the latch, and heaven forbid I
ever should. But I have seen it opened. Aye,
with my own bodily eyes have I seen it—and that
too when the lock was turned and the key hanging
above the mantel-piece, as plain as it does
at this moment.” Mrs. Ramsay moved her chair
into the circle as she spoke, and Susan Leet drew
closer to her cousin.

“Did you see any one?” inquired the latter in a
faultering voice.

“Aye, as plainly as I see you at this moment.
I saw a face like the face of a human being,
but pale and ghastly, and the eyes were sunken”—

“Nay, Mrs. Ramsay,—tell me no more of these
things,” cried Susan, shuddering and turning to
Alice, who now indeed seemed herself to have
imbibed a portion of her own interest in the narration.
“Do, dear Alice, sing us a song, and let
us forget these horrible ideas.”

The request was immediately complied with,
and Miss Weldon rejoiced in an opportunity of
diverting her own attention from the fearfully
fascinating narrative. The song selected was
one calculated to arouse a far different train of
association, and Richard soon found means to introduce
subjects of conversation better suited to

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

his own mirthful spirit. The evening now wore
away without further recurrence to the subject of
their apprehensions; though an occasional glance
at the mysterious door, testified that Susan had
not entirely forgotten it.

It was now ten o'clock. Richard had a few
minutes ago retired; and the young ladies
drew their chairs more closely around the fire,
to enjoy for a few moments its delicious glow,
ere they ventured to brave the cold of their sleeping
apartment. If there is one time when young
females are more prone to indulge in fanciful
reveries than another, it is certainly this, when
the ceaseless hum, the absorbing cares or pleasures,
of the day, are past, and they sit quietly
down to commune with their own wild and happy
thoughts, without fear or distraction. Ah, how
many lovely hopes have sprung up in the brightness
of the winter's hearth, how many airy castles
have arisen to the eyes of beauty, and crumbled
and faded away, in its glowing crimson. But we
cannot transcribe the thoughts which now kindled
the eye of our heroine. It is a time when the
loved and the absent are remembered; and Alice
Weldon would not have breathed, even to the
cousin whose arm was around her, the secret
hopes which her fancy then cherished.

But these reveries were now unexpectedly disturbed
by the re-appearance of Mrs. Ramsay.
She came into the room with a hurried movement,
and Alice could not but think that there was a
singular expression on her features; but as she
seated herself silently by the fire, she forbore to
notice it.

“Do you hear that noise?” exclaimed Susan,
after a few moment's silence, and directing as

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

she spoke, a surprised and terrified glance around
the apartment. “For several minutes I have
heard that strange sound. Say, Mrs. Ramsay,
can you tell me where it is?”

“Not I,”—replied the old woman, while her
eye reflected back the whole quantum of terror
which Susan's had communicated,—“Do you hear
it, Miss Weldon?”

In the interval of profound silence which now
ensued, Alice could indeed faintly distinguish a
sound like that of a human groan, as if echoing
along some distant passage. All eyes were now
fixed intently upon the mysterious door, until the
cheek of Alice Weldon became as pale as that of
her more timid companions. The low repeated
groan, seemed gradually to grow more distinct,
as the increased effort of attention rendered the
effect more powerful.

“Does Mr. Russel never enter these strange
apartments?” murmured Alice faintly.

“Ah, that he does; and the more the sin, and
the shame say I, for him, a christian minister.”

“And do you believe,” continued Alice, “that
so true and holy a man as your minister, would
have dealings with the spirits of evil? Hark!—
Again!—Listen, Susan, that surely is the voice of
human suffering.”

Susan had arisen in the extremity of her terror
and was now leaning, pale and almost breathless,
against the corner of the mantel-piece. Mrs.
Ramsay sat trembling beside her. “Are you
sure,” continued Alice, glancing at the latter,
“that yonder key will indeed unlock this door?”

“Quite sure;—I know it. But what would
you do with it, Miss Alice?” she added in an

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

altered tone, as the young lady calmly approached
and took it from its resting place.

“Alice, Alice Weldon, what would you do?”
cried Susan, casting on her cousin a look of agonized
inquiry, as she stood for a moment gazing
thoughtfully towards the door.

“If it were not too bold a deed for a single girl,
Susan, I would open at once that mysterious
door. Oh, those fearful tones!” she added as
still another groan was borne on the air,—“They
pierce my heart, I cannot stay here, when there
is a chance of relieving the sufferer. Say, Mrs.
Ramsay, does Margaret, does Madam Russel herself
ever enter those apartments?”

“So they say,” replied Mrs. Ramsay, reluctantly.

“Susan, I will never believe that Margaret
hath done aught beneath the character of a christian
woman.”

“Oh do not depend on that,” replied her cousin
intreatingly, “dearest Alice, I assure you that
strange suspicions rested on her name, many
years ago, even before she left our village.”

“But you forget Susan, that you are speaking
to her sister. Margaret is no more connected
with unearthly beings than I am at this moment.”

Susan had, in the ardor of her emotion, laid her
hand upon her cousin's arm as if to prevent her
daring purpose, but at that moment she suddenly
withdrew it, as though those words had conveyed
to her some strange and fearful meaning; and
after gazing at her for a moment with an expression
which Alice could by no means comprehend,
she turned shuddering away from her.

“How can you, how dare you go?” said Mrs.
Ramsay, as the young lady slowly approached

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

the door, for at that moment the sound of a distant
tread was clearly perceptible. Alice paused
for a moment, and then placing the key in the
lock, the next, the dreaded door was open before
her.

She now found herself standing at the head of
a rude staircase; and the light she held in her
hand, streamed upon it, sufficiently to make visible
the darkness of a narrow subterranean passage
beneath. The damp air from below sent a
sudden chill through her frame; she paused a
moment, and throwing over her shoulders the
rich mantle which hung beside her, again set out
on her fearful errand. The staircase was steep
and difficult of descent, but her foot at length
rested on the flooring of earth below and she
moved quickly forward. The passage through
which she was now treading, was extremely narnow.
A stone wall on either side bounded her
vision, and the fearful glances she directed
down the dimly lighted vault, were equally confined
by an abrupt angle in the path before her.
But the undaunted girl still moved on; and, in a
few moments more, she had reached the corner and
was rapidly turning it. At that instant there was
a sudden darkness. A gust of chill air from beyond
had extinguished her lamp. It was in vain
that she sought to rekindle the lingering spark, it
only expired the more readily and she now found
herself involved in total darkness. To return
from whence she came, and that with all possible
speed, was the first terrified impulse; but, in the
confusion of the moment, she had lost the direction
of the parlor, and had now no possible guide to
her steps. At that instant, there appeared a faint
light shining high in the aperture of a wall at

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

some distance before her, forming what seemed
the outline of a door; but whether this would
conduct her again to the parlor, or to the mysterious
object of her search, was only a matter of
fearful conjecture. After groping for some time
in perfect silence, for the groans had now
entirely ceased, she found herself ascending
the ladder which led to the lighted apartment
above. Now there came from within the sound
of a heavy tread, and the young adventurer
paused—but the life blood came back to her
heart again, and with it her dauntless purpose;
the next moment, and she stood on the threshhold
above. The lock rattled to her touch—
there was the sound of a turning key within, and
the door of the apartment opened wide before
her. Amid the sudden and painful rush of light,
a form of commanding grace stood before her,
and a dark and sorrowful eye rested sternly on
hers. She would have spoken, but the words
died on her lip; she leaned tremblingly upon
the wall, and at length there came a low and
brief apology; but the stranger still gazed as if
heedless of its import. If the idea of supernatural
agency had for a moment intruded while
groping through the darkness below, it all vanished
beneath that silent gaze. There was a
touch of earth and its sorrows, on every object of
that lonely room, and her very soul was hushed
and awed, at the recollection that she had dared
to intrude upon its sacredness.

It was only a momentary glimpse indeed which
Alice directed to the objects of the apartment.
It contained no windows, the faint light of the
mouldering fire flickered upon the walls, and the
lamp burned dimly in its socket. A case of

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books stood near the door;—there was a low
table in the center of the apartment, and scattered
around it a few cushioned chairs with covers
of faded green. A couch stood near the fire,
of like ancient and worn materials, and here
indeed the quick glance of Alice rested. A wide
cloak fell carelessly over it, and its folds were
heaving to the low and quickened breathings of
human agony. It was no fancy then; that deep
groan had borne its own true and fearful meaning,
and there lay the suffering and dying one.
And yet the pity which had prompted the effort,
almost vanished amid the deep emotions
that now thrilled her heart. It was the face of
an old man, and very pale, the eyes were closed
as in slumber, and every feature was thin and
worn as if with long and bitter suffering. Yet
there was around those features the peaceful
beauty of holiness, a smile was on the thin and
faded lip, and in every furrow of that noble brow
were the records of the battle fought, the victory
won, and the diadem laid up above, incorruptible
and unfading; it seemed as if the
brightness of heaven were near, and the agony
of earth almost ended. But Alice was still conscious
that the other inmate of the apartment
had not ceased to regard her with fixed and painful
earnestness. He was indeed silent, but a
strong flush, mantling high even among the
dark locks that shaded his temples, betrayed no
trivial emotion.

“Forgive my intrusion, sir,” said Alice in low
and trembling tones, “it was not for idle curiosity—
indeed, sir, I will prove that it was not; only
tell me how I can in any way serve you, or”—

The stranger was evidently about to speak,

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but at that moment a low and protracted groan
burst from the couch of the invalid. Though
the sound of heavy steps and opening doors, had
not aroused him from that deathlike lethargy;
the faint tones of that sweet and murmured voice,
seemed to have recalled him to the consciousness
of suffering—his eye roamed wildly over the
apartment. In a moment his companion was beside
him gently bathing his temples, and evidently
stifling his own deep sighs with words of consolation.
But there was no reply—for the eye
of the invalid now rested on the spot where the
beautiful young stranger was leaning, her face
bright with emotion, and the drapery of her scarlet
mantle streaming from her shoulders. There
was something irresistibly attractive in that beseeching
glance, and she almost unconsciously
drew near the couch.

“Now the blessing of the God of heaven be on
thee, my Isabel, my own lost and beautiful one,”
said the old man in slow but unfaultering tones,
as Alice Weldon advanced towards him. I knew
thou wouldst not forsake us altogether. I told
thee, William, she would come again to us,
though it were only to soothe our dying moments
Give me thy hand, my sweet daughter Isabel,
let these eyes look once more on thee. Ah, once
more, for surely there is nothing else on earth
that I would not now close them on joyfully and
forever.”

Alice cast upon the other a glance of anxious
inquiry, as she placed her fair hand in that of the
aged invalid. But there was nothing there, to
check her amazement; all that had appeared
strange and mysterious in the exclamations of
the sufferer, seemed more than confirmed in his

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countenance. The old man still continued to
gaze wistfully upon her.

“Methinks the long years that have rolled so
wearily over us, have fallen but lightly on thee,
my noble daughter. I am old, and worn with
grief, and even William's dark locks are sprinkled
with snow; but thou dost seem more young, and
far more blooming, than when we left thee in the
cave of the mountain. Say, Isabel, is it that
thou hast wandered free and happy among the
fresh breezes of the earth, that thine eye is so
bright, and thy cheek so blooming? But no—no,
he added mournfully—it cannot be. They told
me that my Isabel lay in the dark prisons beyond
the ocean.” And he closed his eyes as if to
shut out the bewildering image.

A tear trembled in the eye of Alice, as, with a
look of earnest inquiry, she once more raised it
to the countenance of the stranger. “Tell me
your name, young maiden,” exclaimed the latter
in a voice of uncontrollable emotion, “and haply
I may read you his meaning.”

“They call me Alice Weldon,” replied the
trembling girl, while a strong rush of associations
overpowered her spirit.

“Then wonder not that visions of that beloved
one are kindled. Thy mother was his own
and only daughter, and thou art mine.” There
was a moment of doubt—of deep incredulous
wonder, and Alice gazed in silence. But the
springs of natural affection are hidden and mysterious;
and it was not long ere she threw her
arm around the neck of him whom but now
she had deemed a stranger, calling him her father,
and weeping over him with wild and

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passionate tenderness, as if from her earliest childhood
she had loved his name.

The old man seemed only in part to have comprehended
the recognition that had taken place;
and his thoughts still wandered with painful earnnestness,
to the memory of that heroic being
whose living image seemed before him. “Oh
I had prayed that I might see her again,” he
murmured in weak and sunken tones,” and I had
forgotten that the illusions of earth are not yet
over.”

Only half an hour had elapsed since Alice had
departed on her mysterious expedition, when she
again found herself traversing the subterranean
passage. There seemed a perfect silence within
the little parlor as she ascended the staircase, only
the ticking of the clock was plainly perceptible.
Mrs. Ramsay was sitting precisely in the same
place as when she had left her, and close beside
her was Susan whose countenance exhibited the
same emotion as before, save that there was an
expression of even deeper terror in her eye as it
glanced upon the opening door. Alice instantly
perceived, that during her absence, the party
had received a singular addition. On the opposite
side of the fire sat a stranger, a tall and elegantly
proportioned female. She wore a pelisse
and bonnet of rich black velvet, and a ribbon
of the same hue, fastened around her throat with
a small diamond clasp. The lady had evidently
passed the noon of life; and here and there a
solitary line of silver mingled among the dark
hair that was parted on her forehead. Her face
seemed throughout of the pure and colorless tint
of marble; and so perfectly regular was the contour
of her features, that it seemed rather like

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some exquisite production of the chisel, than
like a form of life and motion. A faint smile
lingered on her lip; and there was a certain
wildness and indescribable sweetness of expression
in the brilliancy of her soft dark eye, as it
beamed upon the admiring Alice.

The young lady waited a moment, as if for
some introduction to this stranger, but there was
an uninterrupted silence; and a meaning glance
at that moment interchanged between Mrs. Ramsay
and her cousin, suddenly convinced her that
she was to them an object of aversion and fear.
There were no inquiries as to the success of her
errand; and she now sat down, without attempting
to interrupt the awkward silence.

Several minutes had elapsed, and Alice was
still vainly endeavoring to account for the appearance
of the stranger at this untimely hour,
when a sudden and startling knock on the outer
door diffused a general thrill throughout the
company. Susan started up hastily, and seizing
a mantle from the chair beside her, stood resolutely,
as if prepared for any emergency.

“Where are you going?” said her cousin in
surprise.

“To take up my abode with christian people,
for the night, if indeed there are any such in the
vicinity. No, Alice, you need not urge me,”
continued the young lady with a flush of indignant
spirit, “I would not stay in this house another
hour, even if you would tie around my neck
that golden charm which gives you so much
courage. Do you see,” she added in a whisper
to Mrs. Ramsay, “how that strange being's eye
flashes at the very name of a charm.”

“Are you not going to the door, Mrs.

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Ramsay?” continued Alice, without replying to her
cousin, for at that moment another loud and rapid
knock intimated the impatience of those
without.

“Not I, ma'am,” replied the resolute dame,
gathering courage. “Gentle or simple, they
must e'en wait till morning—we've queer comers
enough for the night already.” And she
cast a timid and suspicious glance upon the
stranger. “At least,” she added in an under
tone, “if worse comes to worse, there's a kind
of people that can e'en come through the key
hole.”

The stranger was evidently embarrassed, she
looked earnestly for a moment upon the young
ladies, upon each alternately, and seemed about
to speak; but a third knock, more violent than
either of the preceding, now rang through the
building.

“It is a bitter night, Mrs. Ramsay,” said Alice,
rising hastily and seizing a light from the shelf.
It would sound ill too, that a traveler had perished
at the minister's door for want of a hand to
open it,” and casting as she passed, a single and
earnest glance upon the dark eyed stranger, she proceeded
through the narrow hall to the outer door
of the dwelling. After some little embarrassment,
the bar was at length removed, the key
turned, and the door thrown open.

“For the love of mercy,” exclaimed a tall and
closely muffled traveler, who stood knocking his
boots against the stones, in the extremity of his
impatience, but the words died quickly away;
and the next moment, the hand of Alice Weldon
was grasped in his, a tone of joyful greeting rung
in her ear, and he who had dared for her the deep,

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and the dangers of a foreign clime, and the pride
and grandeur of a princely court, was standing
once more beside her.

“And now do I claim my reward,” cried Henry
Davenport, as they entered the parlor together,
for Mrs. Ramsay and Susan had made good their
retreat; but the stranger still sat by the fire.

“The condition,” replied the young lady in a
low and agitated voice, her eye glancing upon
the stranger with a look of trembling interest.
A bright flush was kindling on that pale cheek,
and the wild and joyful meaning of that beaming
eye was no longer a mystery. The next
moment, Alice Weldon lay folded in that lady's
arms, the warm tears of a mother's love were
on her cheek, the rich music of a mother's voice
fell on her ear; and dreams, and fears, and wishes,
were all faded in one bright reality. The
tale of mystery was soon unravelled; and though
the kindness which had sought to shield her
from the misfortunes of her family was not unappreciated,
a tide of deeper pleasure filled her
spirit, when she learned that he who had that
night folded her in a father's embrace, was
none other than the noble outcast, whose story
of high devotion had so often kindled her
fancy.

Isabel Goffe had not in vain, sixteen years
since, summoned up the strength of woman's
courage, for a hopeless and almost desperate
effort. Her errand across the deep had not
been in vain. Long years had indeed been
wasted in the silence of her prison walls, until
the beautiful and smiling infant whose memory
had gladened its loneliness, could scarcely be recognized,
even by a mother's eye, in the elegant

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and graceful being who now hung over her. But
it was not in vain. The eloquence of the wife and
daughter at last prevailed even at the foot of the
English throne; and she now came with an assurance
of secret pardon to the sorrowing exiles.
Was it then too late? Oh no—it was a moment
worth ages of the heartless existence of many whom
the world call happy, when the heroic Isabel
kneeled that night in the lone chamber of
death. And a nobler and costlier legacy than
the gold of Peru, was in those words of blessing,
with which the tried spirit of her father, at last
burst away free and happy to its home in heaven.

Three months after these occurrences, the
beautiful house and grounds of the deceased Mrs.
Wilmot, were purchased by an English gentleman
of fortune, recently arrived in the colony of
New-Haven. Walter Goldsmith, (for such was
the name of the new comer,) was a man of commanding
person and manners, much esteemed
among the inhabitants for his benevolence, the
high and pure morality of his life, and more than
all for those strong principles of holiness, which
evidently formed the springs of his existence. He
was however reserved, and somewhat unsocial in
his habits, and seemed almost exclusively devoted
to the happiness of an extremely amiable and
beautiful wife, who had accompanied him to his
new residence.

Little was known, among the colonists, of the
former condition of the emigrants. They were
supposed, however, to have been in some way
connected with the deceased Mrs. Wilmot, as
her favorite niece resided wholly in their family.
Alice Weldon indeed addressed them by the endearing
appellations of parents, and certainly

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there are few stronger attachments than that
which was here mutually exhibited. It was also
noticed by some, that there was a striking similarity
of person between Miss Weldon and her
beautiful adopted mother. The mystery however
was never duly investigated; the extreme reserve
of Mrs. Goldsmith's manners on this and many
other subjects, prevented those communications
which might have been desired.

Henry Davenport obtained, the ensuing autumn,
the hand of the lovely Miss Weldon; but
as her new guardians refused to be separated from
the object of their affection, he concluded, at
their earnest solicitation, to establish himself beneath
the same roof.

It was not until many years after, when at the
close of a long and happy life, Walter Goldsmith
was laid by the grave of the regicide, and only
the simple initials, W. G. appeared on the rude
tombstone which marked his resting place, that a
secret report prevailed through the village, that
he was other than he had seemed, and that the
name of Goldsmith had long concealed among
them the family of the devoted and high souled
Goffe.

THE FAIR PILGRIM

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THE FAIR PILGRIM. CHAPTER I.

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As lovely a morning as ever rose on the loveliness
of an English village, was tinging, with its
rosy light, the cottages and magnificent turrets
that adorned the valley of D—. Doubtless,
to some, the appellation of village suggests
only the picture of one of those smiling groups
of human dwellings, which adorn our American
landscapes,—nothing, however, could differ more
widely from the present scene. Not only the castle,
the chapel, and the shady park appeared in their
ancient grandeur, as the monuments of aristocratic
pride and power; but for miles around the
humble cottages of the villagers, nay, even their
inhabitants were nearly all only so many appendages
to the dignity of the one noble family,
whose residence graced the vale. Among the
few houses which appeared to maintain an
independent existence, there was one, which,
from the neatness of its structure, and the
beauty of the surrounding grounds, was well
fitted to excite attention. It was situated at

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a considerable distance from the castle, in the
midst of a beautiful coppice. Behind it rose
a high, wooded bank, and the verdure which
enameled the turf in the shady walk, was every
where enriched and deepened by the meanderings
of a brook, whose blue wave, here and there,
gleamed up from among the trees. Every circumstance
which renders rural life beautiful,
seemed here to exist in delightful combination.
Nature's melody was not wanting. The voices
of birds were uttered low and sweet from the
boughs, the bleating of lambs on the hill, the
notes of a thousand bright insects, and the murmurs
of the little brook, all came on the ear in
rich and mingled music. The house was of wood,
large and neatly painted; but the ivy which had
crept over the porch, and the moss which had
here and there overgrown the sloping roof, gave
it a venerable air.

The windows of one of the front apartments
were thrown open, and amid the grateful coolness
which pervaded it, several elderly men of dignified
and respectable appearance sat eagerly conversing
together.

“Sir Richard, did you mention aught to the
king concerning the charter?” said one who leaned
upon the window seat.

“The subject,” replied the baronet, “was but
slightly touched upon. I deemed it impolitic to
urge the matter as yet, for I saw that the impious
Laud, that most cruel enemy of the Puritans,
watched my steps. But Strafford is on our
side. He cares not whether we die or prosper,
so he doth but gain gold and honor for himself.
He hath promised me that he will favor our petitition,
when a fitting opportunity presents.

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

Meanwhile, my brethren,” continued the baronet, “let
us render thanksgiving that this great and difficult
undertaking of ours, doth seem so nearly accomplished.
The proprietary grant hath been
easily and firmly secured. The ships are prepared
for departure, and as far as our resources
have allowed, fitted out with all things needful
for so perilous a journey. All that remaineth is
that you, my brethren, do gird on your spiritual
armor and go forth to your work.”

The silence which succeeded this declaration
remained for some time uninterrupted. The
emotions it had excited were too deep for words,
and each spirit seemed quietly searching its own
mysterious depths, for those treasures of strength,
and that holiness of purpose, which their noble
enterprise demanded.

“It is time, then, that the day of departure
should be appointed,” said one after some minutes
silence.

“Three days from this, if it seems fitting to
you all,” replied Sir Richard Saltonstall. “What
say you, Endicott?”

“It is well, Sir Richard. Our plans admit of
little delay; but, Wilson,” he added, turning to
the gentleman by the window, “can your scattered
flock so soon be gathered together?”

“They are all at this moment, apprised of a
speedy departure, and are, I doubt not, ready for
the summons. And yet not all,” he continued
hesitatingly, “One tender lamb of the fold is as
yet ignorant of our purpose.”

“And why?” exclaimed the baronet, in surprise.
“When the Father of mercies hath opened
so clear and glorious a path for his people,
why should man presume to veil its light?

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Reverend Sir, you say the lamb is a tender one,
will you leave it to the ravening wolves that are
now spoiling God's heritage?”

“Sir Richard,” replied the clergyman calmly,
“she of whom I speak, hath stronger ties than we
to bind her here. As for us, our wives and our
children are going with us; but she must leave
kindred as well as home. She must come forth
not from the shadows of the Presbyterian faith, but
from amid the clouds and darkness of this pompous
hierarchy. Sir Richard, I know that the
lady serves God in purity of spirit, and her heart
is with his people, but she hath been bred amid
the splendor and luxury of a magnificent home,
and the first spring flower is not more frail and
delicate. And you will better comprehend my
meaning, when I tell you that the lady Eveline,
the daughter of the noble Earl who dwells in yonder
castle, is the one of whom I speak.”

There was an expression of universal surprise
as the clergyman said these words. “But, Wilson,”
exclaimed Sir Richard, “the Earl, her father,
is the friend of our arch enemy, the bigoted and
persecuting primate. Doth he permit his daughter
the indulgence of her religious principles?”

“I fear not,” replied the clergyman, shaking
his head sorrowfully. “The lady is compelled to
join in rites and ceremonies which her soul abhors,
and I have often heard her long for the green
pastures, and still waters, where none might make
her afraid.”

“And yet,” said Endicott, reproachfully, “you
refused to lead her beside them. My brother,
you have done what to my feeble vision seems
wrong. You should have told the lady your

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purpose, and the God whom she hath chosen,
would have been her counselor.”

“I have perhaps been too much guided by
my own wisdom,” replied the pastor, “and God
may choose to prove it foolishness. Brethren,
do you counsel me, even now, to apprise the lady
of our departure?”

“We do, we do,” exclaimed several voices at
once. “Heaven will point to her the path in
which she should go?”

“Then,” continued Mr. Wilson, “I will this
moment forward a message which shall convey to
her the necessary intelligence. Sir Richard, you
know the lady well. Will you not yourself indite
the epistle?” and he arranged on the table before
him the materials for writing.

“But,” replied Saltonstall, “is there any one
beneath your roof, who would venture to place it
in the hand of the Lady Eveline? The task, methinks
would be an extremely difficult one.”

“It would, Sir Richard. Nevertheless I will
seek to provide you with a messenger. There is
but one to whom I could trust the embassy,”
and as he spoke the clergyman left the apartment.

Just as the baronet had completed his task, a
graceful girl with a sweet and modest countenance,
opened the door, and approached with a
sort of hesitating air the table by which he wrote.
A loose scarf was thrown over her neat and simple
dress, and a bonnet in part concealed her
features. She blushed, and paused a moment.
“My father told me, sir, you had a message to
one of the ladies of the castle. Shall I carry it
thither?”

“Sir Richard was folding the letter, and he

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

cast on her a benignant glance. “Ellen Wilson,
you are kind in offering to perform this duty.
But have you ever seen the noble sisters of the
castle? For remember, you must place the note
in the lady Eveline's own hand.”

“I once saw them both,” replied Ellen, “it is
two years since, but I can remember them at this
moment as though it were but yesterday. They
had lost themselves in a ramble on our hill, and
I led them through the coppice. But the lady
Eveline was much taller than her sister, and her
tone and look were both so different from the
other's, I am sure I could not mistake her even
now.”

“And do not return, my child,” said Sir Richard,
as he placed the letter in her hand, “until
the lady hath read the epistle, for she will doubtless
give you her reply.”

The heart of Ellen Wilson beat with an unwonted
violence, as after a long and pleasant
walk, she found herself standing within the enclosure
which surrounded the castle. Though
her whole life had been past within half an hour's
walk of the place, she had never but once before
ventured within these noble domains, and that
was in her early childhood. The mother of the
noble sisters, who had now long slept in the tomb,
was then a young and beautiful matron; and the
affectionate kiss which she had here imprinted on
the cheek of the little wanderer, was at this moment
distinctly remembered. But other and
more agitating reflections, soon presented themselves.
Aside from the appalling grandeur of the
place, and the high rank of those upon whom she
was about to intrude, the heart of the simple girl

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was awed with the recollection of her errand, and
its probable effects.

She had come to invite the daughter of that
proud Earl, openly to renounce the faith of her
father, her rank, her home, and all that she held
dear, and to become a pilgrim to a distant wilderness.
But it was no time for faultering purposes;
and the heart of Ellen Wilson had lately been
taught to lay aside, together with the indulgence
of earthly hope, that fear which bringeth a snare,
and after requesting of the porter who opened the
inner gate, permission to speak with the lady
Eveline, she soon found herself traversing with
haste, the immense halls of the castle. These
were furnished in a style of ancient and costly
magnificence, and she could scarce refrain from
pausing to return the gaze of the fine pictured
countenances, which now in rapid succession met
her eye. At last the servant paused, and throwing
open the door of a splendid apartment bade her
enter.

A hasty glance assured her that she was not yet
in the presence of the noble inhabitants of the
castle, and the servant, after informing her that
he would immediately communicate to the lady
Eveline her request, left the room through a door
which commucicated with a still larger apartment.
For the moment which it remained open, she had
caught a glimpse of several forms within, and
the sound of their voices at the same time met
her ear. In a few moments, the servant again
appeared.

“The lady is at this time engaged. Her brother
and the Marquis of B—have just returned
from London, and she is now in their presence.
In less than an hour,” he added, “she may be

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ready to see you. You can wait for her in this
apartment.”

The condition seemed so slight in comparison
with an entire denial, that Ellen concluded without
hesitation to accept of it. Just as the servant
had again left the room, a sound of near voices
caused her to raise her eye, and she perceived
with surprise, that the door from which he had
last entered, still remained partly open. A distinct
view of the persons within, at once presented
itself.

The lofty walls were adorned with the richest
tapestry which ancient art could produce. Immense
mirrors, superb sofas and tables, the rich
damask curtains, all burst with the imposing grace
of novelty upon her bewildered eye, and even the
pure light of heaven itself seemed to have caught
a strange voluptuousness, as it stole in rosy beams
through the richly colored glass.

An elderly man whom Ellen at once recognised
as the proprietor of this noble dwelling, was near
one of the windows. On the same sofa sat a
young cavalier gaily and fashionably dressed, and
another still whom she knew to be the young heir
of D—, was pacing the floor.

But objects of far higher interest than these,
soon met her eye. Seated on a low sofa in a
distant part of the room, the two beautiful ladies
of the castle appeared, engaged in that branch of
needle-work which was then deemed a meet occupation,
for females of high rank and fortune.
They were both apparently very young and from
any thing in their appearance, it would have
been difficult to have determined which was the
elder. One was taller and fairer than the other,
and as her head bent over the embroidery frame,

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the bright brown hair, parted away from behind,
fell curling beautifully over the snowy arch of her
long and graceful neck. There was a fresh bloom
on the cheek of both the maidens, but that on the
countenance of the taller was not so vivid as the
other's, and her lip too had a pale and rosy hue
in comparison with the full bright coral of her
sister's, and in her eye, and on her brow, and
over her whole mien, there were the marks of an
unfettered and noble spirit, which Ellen knew to
be none other than the lady Eveline's.

The voice of the Earl now caught her attention.

“Any more news, at court, my son? The puriritans—
how prosper they? Hath our worthy prelate
given any new proofs of zeal against these
heretics?”

“No, but Charles has given new proofs of his
folly,” replied the youth hastily. “It is rumored
that to the most hypocritical and ranting set of
them all, he is about to convey a charter transferring
the powers of government from the Grand
Council of Plymouth to the colonists themselves.”

“What colonists, what mean you, George?”
rejoined the Earl with a look of impatient surprise.
“Do you speak of the Plymouth colony?”

“No, my Lord,” replied the young Marquis,
“he refers to a more extensive scheme of folly
which Sir Richard Saltonsall has lately projected.
It seems that the honest puritans are at
length wearied of the good offices of the Archbishop,
and intend making their escape to America,
to join their Plymouth brethren. Saltonstall
has lately purchased a large tract of the Grand
Council and is about to despatch thither a fresh
cargo of hypocrites.”

“And why,” rejoined the Earl angrily, “is the

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

Duke of Lenox so desirous of establishing this
hated religion in the very heart of his possessions?
One would think the colony already
there, enough to give a godly savor to the land.”

“Ah,” replied the young nobleman “I believe
the council are quite in despair concerning their
great territories, and willing to part with them
as they best can,” but continued he, “my Lord
you need not fear their increase. You could not
have placed them in a better place. If all tales
are true, the bears and Indians will soon cool their
enthusiasm. I fancy the Archbishop himself
could never have found a more effectual method.”

“You say truly,” replied the Earl with bitterness.
“A better place could not have been
found for them; and when you have dealt as
long with these stubborn rebels as myself, you
will not need to be told that the more they are
persecuted, the more they flourish.”

“And may not this, my father, indicate the
goodness of their cause?” said the lady Eveline,
as she raised her flushed countenance from her
work.

“A thousand pardons, my blessed little puritan,”
exclaimed her brother, hastily approaching
her. “I certainly forgot your presence. And
you, my Lord,” he continued turning to the
young nobleman, “come and kneel, as you value
the lady's favor.”

A frown of displeasure at the same time gathered
on the countenance of the Earl. “A young
female who is wiser than all her relatives, is surely
an object worthy of admiration; but, Eveline,
why not place the climax to your devotion by
joining this pious pilgrimage?”

“And if I should,” replied the lady calmly,

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“I should only exhibit a far less noble example
of devotedness, than did those holy females who
are already enduring the hardships of the wilderness.”

“But surely, Lady Eveline,” said the Marquis,
“you do not mean to say that you favor the
opinions of the Puritans?”

“Even more;” replied the lady while a pale
blush suffused her countenance, “I have made
their opinions my own.”

“And it is a part of your religion, I presume,”
exclaimed her father angrily, “to disgrace those
who have the misfortune to be connected with
you, by the avowal of your creed.”

The indignant glow of a proud spirit for a
moment colored the lady's cheek, but there
was evidently some controlling principle within,
which forbade the indulgence of earthly passions;
for ere she had essayed to reply to her
father's words, the flush was gone, and instead of
it a smile of heavenly sweetness, such as became
a follower of the “lowly in heart.” “I cannot,
my father, indeed, I cannot refuse a portion
of the obloquy which rests upon my religion.
Would it not be ungenerous, for me to deny my
principles, because I feared the disgrace attached
to them?”

“I admire the Lady Eveline's spirit,” exclaimed
the young Marquis with animation. “I deem
it unfair, my Lord, to quarrel with any religion
whose precepts distil upon us in such gentle
glances and from such lips as just now pleaded
for the puritans. I fear I shall become a puritan
myself, if I linger long in this fair presence. Say
George, is it not dangerous?”

“Disturb me not,” said the youth, in a tone of

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affected pathos, as he stood with his eyes fixed
upon the lady, “I am even now painting to myself
the form of the fair devotee wandering about
among the caves and mountains of the new world.
But, my beloved sister thou must lay aside the
needle from those small and lily hands of thine,
for to my best knowledge the heroines of America
do wield the hoe instead thereof, and thou
must doff that costly robe, simple and plain
though it be, did not the martyrs of old wander
forth in sheep skins, and goat skins? And that
coronal of pearls, that shines so brightly among
thy tresses, it is not good. Do we not hear of
the holy women of old, how they sought to adorn
themselves not with gold and pearls and costly
array”—

“Would to heaven, George,” exclaimed the
lady interrupting him, “that I had instead thereof
the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,” and
then again repressing the bright crimson which
mantled her cheek, she bent her head over the
frame to conceal the tear of wounded feeling.

But there appeared to Ellen something peculiarly
touching in the idea which the young nobleman
had expressed in such tones of irony.
There was a frailty, an exquisite delicacy in the
form and features of the noble girl and an air of
elegance in her simple and costly attire, which
seemed all unmeet for the trials which she doubted
not would soon be her portion.

The Lady Julia had, till now, borne no part
in this agitating conversation; but on catching
a sudden glimpse of her sister's moistened eye, a
look of tenderness lighted her countenance. “I
pray you forgive us, my noble brother,” she exclaimed,
looking coldly upon the young Lord,

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

“if we do not duly admire your costly politeness.
My sister and myself have lived much in retirement
of late, and scarce know how to appreciate
the lofty polish which the court of Charles has
given you. I pray you forgive us.” The beautiful
lip of the young lady curled with an expression
of disdain and after speaking a moment to
her sister in a low voice, they rose together and
left the apartment.

There was silence for several moments, after
the door had closed upon them, and when at
length it was interrupted by the Earl; the voice
was so low that Ellen could scarcely distinguish
his words. She was just indulging in a feeling
of secret impatience, when the sound of a light
tread caught her ear, and turning, she beheld approaching
from a distant door, the tall, light figure
of the Lady Eveline. She came close to the
blushing girl and her tone was low and sweet.

“I was told that you waited to speak with me,
young maiden. Am I mistaken? But if it is
aught of a private nature,” she added, casting
a sudden glance at the open door, while Ellen
hastened to present the letter, “this is no fitting
place for it. Will you come with me?”
Ellen rose, and after following the footsteps of
the young lady through a long suite of apartments,
they stood at last in an elegant reading
room, the favorite resort of the young Eveline.
“And now you may speak freely,” she said, as
she placed her chair by the side of a small mahogany
table at the same time seating herself
near her, “I believe I know you already. Are
you not Ellen Wilson—the same who once gave
us such a fine ramble in the coppice?”

Ellen replied in the affirmative, and placed the

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

letter of Sir Richard in her hand. The lady unfolded
it, and glanced slowly over its contents.
But as she proceeded, a new and sudden light
seemed to kindle in her blue eye, the paleness of
her brow extended itself over the whole countenance.
And when, at length, she slowly folded
it again with an appearance of assumed composure
so colorless was her lip and cheek, that Ellen
feared each moment to see her fall fainting
from her chair. But still the paper remained in
her hand, and she seemed pressing its folds with
greater exactness. “Madam, the news which
this letter conveys are sudden and strange. It
has come upon me unawares. My faith is weak,
and I dreamed not that it would so soon be put
to the test. Three days from this, if I read aright,
the pilgrims set sail. The time is short—too
short for all I have to do. I fear, Ellen Wilson,
I cannot so soon give up all I love.”

“You need not, dear lady,” said Ellen, in a
timid voice, “He whom you have not long loved
better than all others, will still be with you.
Lady Eveline is not his grace sufficient for you?”

“Surely, Ellen, your father is of the puritans,”
replied the lady gazing with admiration
upon her fresh and smiling countenance. “And
you are going forth to danger and suffering with
a cheerful spirit. Oh that I also might have
grace to do the will of my heavenly Father joyfully.

There was an expression of agony on the pale
face of the noble maiden, and Ellen dared not
witness that fearful conflict of feeling. “Lady,”
she said, “God himself will make you know your
duty. Methinks it cannot be his will that you
should thus abandon your home and kindred.”

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There was still another pause, and then the lady
rose. “Ellen Wilson, come to me again to-morrow
evening at sunset, and I will tell you my
decision.” Ellen felt the pressure of her hand
in parting, it was cold and moist, and trembled
violently; she could scarcely refrain from tears,
as she followed the servant through the long and
splendid apartments, and remembered the agony
of their beautiful mistress.

CHAPTER II.

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The alarming paleness which the countenance
of the Lady Eveline exhibited during the remainder
of the day, was a subject of much remark in
the castle; and the bitterness with which the
young Marquis reproached her brother for his unkind
jesting, showed that his interest in the lady's
peace was of a peculiar nature. What rendered
her melancholy still more touching, was an apparent
and studied effort on her part to appear
with her usual cheerfulness.

On the afternoon of the second day, the lady
after having with much difficulty escaped from
the gay company below, appeared pacing with a
quick and agitated step the floor of that lofty gallery
which terminated in the sleeping apartment
of the sisters. The time which had been appointed
for making known her decision was almost
arrived, and as yet nothing but a succession
of dark and agonized feelings had crossed her
mind—an indistinct impression of stern duty
urging her to the renunciation of every earthly
hope. But she felt that it was wrong—it was
not what the mighty decision before her

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

demanded; and she now entered her apartment and
closed the door with a firm resolution that she
would calmly and dispassionately listen to the
still small voice of truth, and come no more out,
until she had fully resolved whether the earth was
henceforth to be to her a wilderness, and the
voice of sister, kindred, and the home of her
childhood, with all the hopes of a gay and beautiful
imagination, were henceforth to be to her but
as remembered dreams. The lady felt that her soul
was weakened with the pressure of sorrow, and
she sought for a portion of the undying energy of
Him who “fainteth not, neither is weary.” And
was it for her to withold from God the influence
of her high name, was it for her, in the pride of
human greatness, to turn away from Him who now
spake as it were from heaven, demanding the example
of her faith, her exertions and her whole
life for the honor of his despised and afflicted
church, whose name was a reproach among her
people? And was it for her on whom the deep
vow was resting, to live not for herself nor for
the few fleeting days of time, but for the vast,
shadowless and immortal existence beyond,—was
it for her to cling with fond affection around the
elegances and endearments of her home?—that
home too where her religion was a by-word and
whose strong influences were hourly urging her
from heaven and holiness?

The prayer had not been vainly said, and amid
weeping and untold agony, the beautiful lady of
D— at last resolved to give up all for God.
And now a light burst in upon her spirit, calm and
peaceful as the light of heaven. She thought of
her sister, her beloved Julia, dearer to her than
her own soul, her motherless sister; she thought

[figure description] Blank Leaf.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

and painful exertions, still her soul was comforted
with the thought of her last glorious rest in heaven.
The long vista of futurity seemed open before
her, and with a kindling eye she trod the
apartment, till the might and grandeur of earth
had passed away, and the lofty halls of her fathers
crumbled with years, and the ivy and the
moss had mantled their ruins, and she beheld a
free and glorious nation bright with the light of
heaven's own truth, planted by the exertions of
that pilgrim band, who now, amid weakness and
sorrow and fear, were about to traverse the deep.
Surely a low grave among them on that distant
shore, was far more noble than a resting
place in the tombs of her ancestors.

The light of the setting sun was already straying
through the crimson curtains, when the Lady
Eveline remembered her request to Ellen Wilson,
and determining to go forth and meet her
in the avenue, she hastened to prepare herself
for her walk. She had already crossed the gallery,
and was descending the superb staircase
which led to the outer hall, when a glimpse of
the young Marquis leaning thoughtfully against
the entrance arrested her steps. She wished to
avoid him, but it was too late. He had caught
a view of her, and now demanded the privilege
of accompanying her in her walk. The lady was
embarrassed, she could not refuse, and they descended
together through the winding avenue
which led from the castle.

“You are surely well again, my Lady,” said the
Marquis, glancing with surprise on her countenance
now lighted up with a glow and brightness
altogether unusual. There were still traces of
tears on her cheek, her eye beamed with the

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

fervor of intense feeling, and a smile of that
peace which the world cannot give played on
her lip.

Here was an object which of all others, human
love clings to most tenderly, and the impassioned
words which the young nobleman uttered,
showed that his heart confessed its power.

The lady had desired earnestly that this bitter
trial might be spared her; for it was too true
that there had been moments, when she had
dreamed, even in this very avenue, of giving
her young heart with all its affections to him who
now so earnestly solicited it, and beautiful had
the long life before her seemed, when she had
thought of devoting it to his happiness. But this
was all over. She knew that he was in heart a
hater of the puritans and a despiser of their faith,
and that however his young affection for her
might now soften his feelings of contempt for her
religion, such affection was but a broken reed to
lean upon—all was over—and now some other love
must brighten the grandeur of his princely home.

She had told the Marquis of this, with a noble
firmness; and they were leaning silently upon
the gate, watching the brilliant and fading
hues of the western clouds, when the form of
Ellen Wilson approaching the remote extremity
of the avenue drew their attention. Her eye
was fixed upon them and she seemed in doubt
whether to approach.

“Yonder girl has a message for me, my Lord,”
exclaimed Eveline, opening the gate, “I must
leave you for a moment to receive her errand.”

“What message shall I bear to my father's
house?” said Ellen as the lady approached her,

[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]

“there are many there, anxiously awaiting your
decision.”

“Say that I will go with them,” replied the
lady, calmly. “Ellen, at what hour do we leave
the valley?”

“At eleven, my lady, and at two we sail. The
moon will be bright, and ere the morning dawns,
we shall have gone far on our long way. And
my father bade me tell you also, that if you had
aught to carry with you, it must this evening be
conveyed to the ship. If you will send it to the
cottage, Lady, it shall be safely done.”

“It is well—it is well,” repeated Eveline, with
quickness, endeavoring to subdue some painful
emotions. “At eleven, Ellen, I will be in your
father's cottage. Is there aught else?”

“Nothing,” replied Ellen, but she turned a
moment with a glistening eye, “only dear lady,
God will bless those who love him, better than
father, and sister, and houses, and lands, and I
know you will be blessed when you have forsaken
them all for his sake.”

The ties of christian love are strong; and the
high born lady bent to kiss the lip of one, who
was henceforth to be her sister, and the companion
of her pilgrimage.

The Marquis still waited for her at the gate;
and after pursuing their walk a little farther on
the lawn, they returned to the castle. Eveline
immediately retired to her dressing room for the
purpose of making the necessary preparation for
her voyage. This was quickly done. From the
mass of rich dresses which her wardrobe contained,
a box of her simplest clothing was soon selected;
and this, with another containing a few
choice books and letters, a small portrait of her

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mother and sister, and a casket of costly gems,
the gift of her father, and of themselves sufficient
to purchase the supply of her future wants,
was all that this noble heiress chose for her portion,
from the boundless wealth of her father. After
this painful duty was accomplished, she directed
a servant to convey them to the cottage at
the foot of the coppice, and in a few moments
after, she descended to the sitting-room below.

The Lady Julia was this evening splendidly
dressed, and to the eye of her sister she had
never looked more lovely, her voice too thrilled
with affection's music, and every tone seemed to
bury itself in her spirit. Her father and brother
were there, and unkind though they had often
been, the heart of the Lady Eveline was not one
in which such ties could be lightly severed, and
every time she met their glance, or heard their
voices addressing her, a tear would involuntarily
tremble in her eye, that she whom they looked
upon as daughter and sister, would soon be to
them as a forgotten exile.

The gay Marquis appeared this evening
strangely melancholy; and when at length the
young ladies arose to retire, he accompained
them to the door. A hasty summons from a distant
estate had just arrived, and as he was to leave
the castle early the ensuing morning, he availed
himself of this opportunity to bid them adieu.

The Lady Julia's compliments were uttered in
that easy and graceful manner which the slightness
of the occasion seemed to demand; but her
sister, for a moment, appeared singularly embarrassed.
Her cheek at once became deadly
pale and then the blood mounting suddenly, gave
it so rosy a tinge, that Julia gazed upon her in

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

surprise. “Sister, shall we go?” she said, gently
drawing her away.

“Farewell, Lady Eveline,” exclaimed the Marquis.
Ah! that farewell, he dreamed not that
it was forever.

But the door was closed. Eveline felt they
were to meet no more on earth, and she was now
almost unconsciously traversing the hall with her
sister's arm in hers.

The following morning was spent by the Lady
Eveline in the solitude of her reading room. She
was principally engaged in writing an affectionate
letter to her father, in which she prayed for
the continuance of his affection, his forgiveness
and blessing, when she should be far away on her
lonely exile, and another of exquisite tenderness,
addressed to her sister, in which she laid open to
her all her sorrows, and told her of the stern conflict
of duty and feeling; and besought her by
all the tenderness of their early love to remember
her until death. The letters were both moistened
with many tears, ere they were consigned
to their temporary concealment.

The day stole rapidly away, like the other days
of earth; noontide, sunset, and the fading twilight
were all gone, and now amid the shadows
of the starry evening, the moon was just lifting her
unclouded light. As it first began to gleam
through the windows of the castle, the Lady
Eveline was slowly walking along the wide gallery,
while her sister still lingered a moment in the
dressing room, to complete the arrangement of
her toilet. Far different were their reflections.
When that light which now fell from the lofty
windows of the gallery upon the form of Eveline
should fade away in the grey beams of morning,

[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]

—oh where would she be then? The thoughts
that overpowered her heart were too bitter for
endurance, and she hastily approached the door
of the dressing room.

“Dear Julia are you not ready yet? Methinks
you are long.”

“I cannot help it, Eveline,” replied the other
in a half vexed and half sportive tone, “I have
been lecturing this awkward curl these fifteen
minutes, and it will not mind me. See how ungracefully
it falls! And do you know there is a
great deal of company below this evening, and
the young French Count that George has told us
so much of? There, Eveline, does it look better?”
and as she spoke she held the lamp to her
face and turned full upon her sister.

“You look well, very well,” replied Eveline,
almost unconscious of what she said, while she
gazed upon the countenance of the lovely young
lady. “Yes, you look very, very beautiful,” continued
her sister, gazing wildly upon her.

“So then you are laughing at me,” replied
Julia, blushing and placing the lamp again on
the dressing table. “I shall never ask you again,
if I am becomingly dressed.”

“No, no,” thought Eveline, “never.”

“But, sister, upon my word no one can accuse you
of vanity,” continued the young lady. “I do not
believe you have looked in your mirror since
morning. A plain white dress, not a single ornament,
and your long curls all in your neck with
nothing to confine them. And yet, Eveline, that
Puritan dress is so becoming, I will not go one
step until you are remodeled, lest the Count should
say I had stolen your gems in very spite. Nay,
no resistance. Sit down upon this sofa, and let

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me see if I cannot spoil that look—what did the
Marquis call it, Eveline? Oh, `simplicity, sweet
simplicity.” '

“You speak foolishly, Julia,” replied the lady,
while her sister prepared to fulfil her threats—
“It matters little now what robes I wear”—

“Ah, Eveline, taste, and heart and all gone?
If I remember aright, they have been missing since
morning. It looks a little suspicious of that young
Marquis, sister.” She paused a moment, but Eveline
had no heart to reply.

“There, that blue sash is quite becoming, Lady
Eveline, I have tied it behind in a true lover's
knot, and these curls begin to look extremely
graceful beneath my magic touch. And not the
least symptom of a bracelet,” she continued with
increased vivacity. “One would suppose you
were dressed for a fine night's slumber, instead
of the drawing room. But do not look so sad
about it, you may wear these amethysts of mine.
Now, my lady, look in the glass,” she added
taking her hand, “and pay the compliments due
to my skill and taste.

“It is beautiful, very beautiful,” repeated Eveline,
her thoughts still dwelling on the bitterness
of her approaching destiny.

“You are in the complimentary mood this evening,
my grave sister, but come, we must hasten
down. We have waited too long already.” And
arm-in-arm they now moved quickly through the
gallery and were soon standing in the brilliantly
illuminated drawing room.

All seemed in fine spirits, save the Lady Eveline,
and if she was sad, it was not for want of attempts
at cheerfulness. Her gay brother, notwithstanding,
rallied her much upon her

[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]

mournful visage, but as the evening advanced and her
paleness every moment increased, he became
alarmed, and Eveline soon saw him directing her
father's eye to her, from a distant part of the
room. The Earl instantly approached.

“You look ill, daughter,” he said to her. “Do
not weary yourself by sitting here. Indeed, Eveline,”
he added, in a tone of unwonted feeling,
“I fear you are much indisposed.”

“Oh, no,” replied the lady, with a sudden effort,
“I am quite well. George will tell you I
have been laughing with him all the evening. But
my walk this afternoon, was long and I am unusually
fatigued.

“Then,” replied the Earl, “you must retire to
your own apartment and stay till you can come
forth with a fresh bloom. Do not wait for ceremony,”
he added, “I will excuse your absence.
Good night, daughter.”

The lady looked silently up, for a moment, on
her father's countenance, as if with that one glance
she was seeking to stamp it forever on her memory;—
“Good night, my father, good night,” she
repeated in a low and solemn voice, and she
seemed waiting for the parting kiss, as she had
been wont to do in her childhood. For a moment
her father's lip met her's, it was for the last
time, and a thrill of strange anguish rushed through
her frame.

George was standing by the door as she passed.

“There, Eveline, am I not a dear and precious
brother, to procure your banishment from the parlor
in such season?”

“Oh, yes, George,” said the lady interrupting
him, in a tone of thrilling emphasis, “you are
dear and precious.” She would have said more,

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but her voice trembled, the gay smile faded from
her lip; her brother's hand rested a moment in
hers, and there beamed from her countenance
such a look of sorrow and holy tenderness, as
long years had not power to efface from the memory
of the youth.

Just as the door was closing, Lady Evelin
caught a glimpse of her sister. She was sitting
in a distant recess, conversing gaily amid a group
of admirers. Her whole countenance was bright
with gladness, and a keener pang pierced the
heart of her sister, as the door closed upon this
last best object of her earthly affection.

It was nearly ten when the Lady reached her
apartment. One short hour was all that remained,—
one hour more and the places which knew
her now, would know her no more. She leaned
her head upon her pillow—the firm restraint which
had hitherto borne down her feelings, now gave
way, and the lady wept bitterly. Suddenly she
felt a light arm flung around her. “Dear sister,
why do you weep?” said the gentle tones of the
Lady Julia, as she gazed with surprise upon her
tearful countenance.

“Oh, Julia, my heart is broken, I cannot bear
it, indeed I cannot,”—and she leaned her pale,
wet cheek on her sister's shoulder.

“And why,” exclaimed the lovely girl, as she
pressed her lip affectionately to hers. “Why will
you not tell me your sorrows? Have I ever refused
you my sympathy?—Once, indeed, when I
thought you enthusiastic and bewildered with the
doctrines of the Puritans, I blamed you—but
surely that can have no connection with your
present sorrows.”

There was something in her last words which

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aroused the lady from her reverie; she now rose
calmly from her sister's arms, and throwing back
the curls from her pale forehead, endeavored, with
a smile beautifully serene, to conceal the agony
of her spirit. Oh, deeply was that image written
on the heart of the sister, when months and years
rolled on and she saw her no more.

“Julia, excuse my weakness—my spirits are
low to-night—my heart throbs painfully. I need
repose, dear sister.”

“But, Eveline, you look extremely pale. Let
me call my father.”

“No, sister, do not concern yourself,” replied
the lady,—“I thank you for your kindness, Julia,
for all your kindness,” and she turned to the dressing
table to conceal her emotion.

In less than half an hour, the younger sister lay
asleep on her pillow, but Eveline still slowly
paced the apartment. She was clad in a habit of
dark, rich velvet, and the fanciful dress and ornaments
she had that evening worn, together with
her sister's, and many other gay articles of apparel
were lying on the sofas around her.

The taper threw a feeble gleam on the various
objects of the room; the last echo of retiring steps
had ceased, and there was a stillness throughout
the castle. With a trembling step she approached,
to take one last farewell of the beloved sleeper.
The warm tear which dropped on the cheek of
the dreaming girl for a moment aroused her.

“Eveline, is it you?” she murmured, “why do
you wait so long?” Then again closing her eye,
she turned her face upon the pillow, and the lady
saw her no more.

Ellen Wilson was standing at the foot of the
avenue, when she beheld in the distance the form

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of the Lady Eveline, coming forth for the last
time from the halls of her fathers. There was
something deeply affecting in the sight of such
devotedness in one so young; and Ellen could
not but weep. But there was no tear on the
lady's cheek. The bitterness of the sacrifice was
past; her step was firm, her eye bright, and her
brow calm with the fervency of devotion. Once
indeed, when they had reached the boundary of
her father's domain, the lady turned—she leaned
a moment on the wall and gazed for the last time
on the loved scenes of her early years. The
venerable castle, long avenue, and the shady park,
were lying in the solemn moonlight. For an instant,
her eye lingered on the high window where
the light was still burning in the Lady Julia's
apartment; and then again they walked swiftly
onward.

Ellen Wilson was also of the Pilgrims, and as
her feet pressed the soft grass of the beautiful
coppice, where she had played in childhood, her
heart knew its own bitterness.

Lights were moving swiftly through the cottage,
and the lady soon found herself seated in the midst
of that stern and sorrowful band whose kindness
was henceforth to be to her instead of the strong
ties of earthly love.

All was now ready. Carriages were waiting
at the door. But they lingered a moment longer.
The heads of the Pilgrims were bowed in prayer.
Little children with golden curls, and hoary age,
youth and manhood kneeled together; and their
mingled spirits, and “the warm blood of their slain
affections,” ascended to heaven in grateful oblation.
All that they asked was granted. Dauntless
courage, unwavering fortitude, love to God and

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man, and hopes full of immortality, fell on them
like the dew of heaven.

The lady was soon seated in a closed carriage
by the side of Ellen Wilson, and she gazed with a
tearless eye from the window, till her native valley,
and its lofty turrets had quite faded in the distance,
and ere the bell had tolled through the castle
the second hour of the morning, she was standing
far away on the deck of the vessel which was
soon to bear her to her destined home.

CHAPTER III.

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When the joyful sound of “Land—land in
sight,” was echoed in the ear of the wearied voyagers,
the Lady Eveline was sitting in her cabin
engaged in those refined and elevating studies,
which during her voyage she had found means to
prosecute. Ellen was seated on a low stool, beside
her, busily occupied with her needle, and
from time to time her eye glanced on an open
book which lay in the chair before her. There
were many other females present, but as the cabin
was large, it allowed them to scatter themselves
in various groups, as best suited their tastes.

“Do you hear it, my Lady?” said Ellen, throwing
down her work, and gazing earnestly on her.
“Was it not land they cried?”

They listened again, there was no mistake.
The loud “huzza for land,” echoed in the hoarse
voices of the sailors above them, and Ellen, with
many of the females, immediately hastened upon
deck. The former, however, soon returned with
a look of much disappointment, assuring her
friend that the object of their curiosity was only
visible through a glass and on the top of the mast.
This was nothing more than the lady had expected;

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and had it been otherwise, she found that without
some preparation of heart, she could not even
now look unmoved upon the land of her voluntary
exile.

It was midnight, when the ships conveying the
Pilgrims approached the shore of their destination.
Ellen Wilson and her noble friend were standing
together on the deck, gazing silently before them
as they slowly neared the rock-bound coast. The
deck was crowded with Pilgrims, all looking
eagerly forward to catch a glimpse of their future
home. The dim light of the stars only, illumined
the scene; and even this was in part obscured, by
a few cold and broken clouds, that swept cheerlessly
across the heavens. Nothing could be discerned
but a faint outline of forest, rock and vale;
and the awful gloom which seemed to rest upon
them, the noise of the sailors, shouting and running
to and fro, and the damp midnight breeze
which moaned over the wave, all sent an icy chill
through the hearts of that gazing band. How
often amid the silence of midnight had this
long expected vision arisen before their sight.
Was it still a dream? Oh, no, the warmth of fancy
was gone, and over it all, there was a touch of
cold reality which fancy never brings. If there
had been enthusiasm, it was over now; if the
coloring of an ardent imagination had ever been
thrown over their enterprise, it all faded as they
leaned forward, and gazed on that dim shore, and
remembered that this dismal forest was now their
only home, and the cold blue heaven their only
covering. If tears dropped on the wave, it was not
strange; for some were thinking of the quiet and
loveliness of the pleasant firesides, far away over
the ocean; and some were there, whose dearest

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kindred were at this moment sleeping in princely
halls, and who had been wont to rest beside
them.

The destination of the present colony was at a
considerable distance above the rock upon which
the first Pilgrims had landed, and was on many
accounts a far more eligible situation. It was
styled by the natives Naumeak; and when the
Pilgrims again looked upon it, in the pleasant
light of morning, there were no murmurs, nay, the
voice of praise was heard, that “the lines had
fallen to them in such pleasant places.”

After much preliminary business had been arranged,
about noon on the second day after their
arrival, the whole body of the emigrants prepared
to go on shore. The Lady Eveline leaned on the
arm of Ellen, as this strange procession moved
away through the untrodden paths of the forest.
During the preceding day a party had been despatched
to reconnoitre the place, and having selected
as a spot for settlement a small clearing
near the shore, they now acted as guides to the
remainder. A large temporary shelter had been
hastily thrown up of broken boughs and trees
which had been cut down for the purpose, and a
party of the settlers were soon employed in conveying
thither the articles of furniture they had
brought with them from England. All was now
joyful bustle and confusion. Many of the females,
with the gentle assiduity of their sex, were busy
in the interior of their new dwelling, seeking, notwithstanding
their various disadvantages, to give
it a cheerful appearance. Meanwhile another
party had arrived from the ship, with tools and
materials for building; and in a few moments the

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noise of the axe and hammer resounded on all
sides through the forest.

There was something strangely animating in
their toil. The Pilgrim females stood around for
a while, gazing upon it with anxious silence, while
the sportive voices of childhood rang through the
wood, and even the babes themselves lifted up
their meek brows from their mother's arms, gazing
on the strange scene with smiles.

Under such auspices, it was not long ere a rude
village had risen instead of the waving forest.
A sanctuary for Him whom they had come over
the waves to worship in freedom of spirit, was
reared in the midst of their dwellings. Pleasant
indeed to the souls of the wearied Pilgrims, was
the light of their first New-England sabbath.
They could now fearlessly worship the Father of
spirits, in spirit and in truth; and as the voice of
prayer rose to heaven, from the depths of that
solemn forest, with no voice to childe, and no ear
to hear but the ear of a forgiving God, as the
rocks and vales which till now had listened only
to the hymn of the morning stars, echoed with
the loud sweet song of praise, and their souls
drank freely of that well of living water, of which
if a man drink he is athirst no more,—they felt that
they had not vainly abandoned all. And could
the worshipers in the proud cathedrals of Old
England, have glanced on that band, they would
have read on many a meek and beautiful brow,
and in the warm flush that lighted even the cheek
of manhood, the records of a devotion no less
lofty than their own.

The rude huts, which on their landing had
been hastily erected, were only considered as
temporary habitations. Each family soon made

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efforts to provide its own dwelling place; and as
many of the colonists had possessed wealth in
England, some were able to do it in a style of
simple and becoming neatness; and the lovely
village of Salem with its pleasant church and cottages
and cultivated fields, ere long had risen in
the bosom of the forest,—so that, literally, in the
beautiful words of sacred promise, “The wilderness
had begun to blossom as the rose.”

A pleasant room in the dwelling of Mr. Wilson,
had been fitted up for the accommodation of the
Lady Eveline. Ellen had planted beneath the
window a rose bush from the forest, and a vine
of wild honeysuckle crept over the wall. Precious
indeed to Ellen was the happiness of that
noble lady who had come with her across the
deep, whom from her earliest childhood she had
regarded with that indefinite veneration inspired
by high birth, and who now, in the new and
endearing relations she sustained to her, was at
once the object of her love and admiration.

But as for the lady herself, she seemed well to
have learned that bitter lesson, which the sorrows
of her youth had inculcated;—her affections no
longer rested on the things of earth. Their
strong tendrils had been too cruelly torn, to fasten
on aught beneath the skies; and all that did
not still linger on the remembered and cherished
forms of her kindred far away over the ocean,
now bloomed in heaven.

Not that the lady regarded with indifference
the holy companions of her pilgrimage; she loved
them tenderly as the sharers of her toils and sorrows
on earth, and as those whom she hoped
would share her long reward, when these toils
and sorrows were over. But there was none of

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that strong clinging of natural affection, which
had marked the days of her wealth and splendor.
There was no singling out of objects for deep attachment.
She was contented to love them all,
as children of the same heavenly Father. And
the lady was not unhappy. Long hours of calm
and pure enjoyment, were often her portion amid
the silence of her own apartment. Often as she
sat by her pleasant window, and gazed upon the
beautiful land around her, the near ocean, and
the bright skies above, such moments of holy
feeling, such exquisite conceptions of the purity
and tenderness of heavenly love were granted
her, that her soul seemed almost to participate
in the blessedness of that land, where the rivers
of pleasure flow unmingled. The events of her
life had been fitted to purify and elevate her affections;
and she felt that one moment of this
holy enjoyment was more than sufficient to reward
her for her painful sacrifice.

But the days of darkness were many. Famine,
disease, and death, came often to the cottages of
the Puritans, and sometimes their hearts failed
them and the path seemed too thorny for man to
tread. It was in such seasons that the tender exertions
of the Lady Eveline were peculiarly useful.
Her unwavering self-denial, her tenderness
and condescension, had won the hearts of the
colonists; and this influence, so nobly acquired,
was exerted only to relieve the afflicted, and comfort
those that mourned.

The second year after their landing, a large
accession of emigrants arrived from England.
They brought with them a charter, which after
much solicitation had been obtained from Charles,
transferring the powers of government into the

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hands of the colonists themselves. One of the
ships also conveyed their first officers who were
appointed by the crown. In consequence of this,
their numbers during the succeeding summer
were greatly increased, and the emigrants at length
became so numerous that it was deemed advisable
for a large portion of them to settle themselves
at a place, called by the natives Shawmut, but
now well known as the site of a flourishing city.
And now approached the season of their severest
trial.

During the ensuing winter a dreadful mortality
prevailed among the colonists. Hunger, weariness,
and sickness they had borne unmurmuring;
but here was death in all its bitterness. Fathers
and mothers died; babes and children were laid
in the grave, while the bloom of life was scarce
cold on their young faces; the warm dreams of
youth were quenched in the stillness of the long
sleep; and many a voice, like the voice in Rama,
arose from among the Puritan cottages. Few
escaped the power of the raging sickness, and
every day the fresh turf of the burial ground rose
on some new made grave.

It was now that the religion which had softened
the heart of the Lady Eveline, was revealed in its
most touching light. The natural delicacy of her
frame, seemed all to have vanished. While the
strong lay prostrate with disease and death, fresh
energies seemed given to her; with a light unwearied
step, she moved by the couches of the
dying and the dead; and days of anxiety and
nights of sleepless watching, wasted not the bloom
of her countenance. The pillow of many a dying
child was softened by her attentions, and when
the mother had turned away in the depths of her

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agony, the cold hand of the little sufferer rested
in hers; and her kind and gentle assiduities were
continued till the calm smile of death had settled
on its features. Her pure and elevated piety
gave her also unwonted access to the souls of the
bereaved, for her words were low and soothing,
and all of heaven, and of the blessedness of a land,
where sickness and death might not come, and
sorrow and sighing should flee away.

The long winter at length rolled by, and with it
the heavy calamities which had visited the colony.
Ships from England gladdened the hearts of the
wearied exiles; and as the pure spring air danced
freshly over the earth, it seemed to endue them
with health and vigor.

But there was one, to whom the spring in all its
freshness, bore no promise of future years. Slowly
and surely the frost of death was descending on
the brow of the young and beautiful. She who
had watched so tenderly by the couches of the
dying, was now herself to die; she who had so
often directed others to heaven, was now herself
to enjoy its blessedness. But the disease was
deep, and its secret work impaired not, at all, the
loveliness of the frail flower it was destroying.
To one who might have gazed, for a moment only,
on the lady, thoughts of decay and death would
have seemed strangely inappropriate. None of
her usual avocations were neglected. At morning
and evening she was still seen taking her accustomed
walk along the shady paths of the village,
or through her favorite forest walks, her
visits of kindness and sisterly love were still continued,
and those who passed the pleasant dwelling
of the pastor, might still observe her light

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form through the honey-suckles, or see her rambling
with Ellen in the little green enclosure.

But they who watched her daily, with that intense
anxiety which the love of earthly objects so
surely brings with it, felt too truly that though
death was coming on forms of strange loveliness,
he had none the less surely marked his victim.
They saw that every day her step became slower,
her form more light and airy, and her low, thrilling
voice, yet more low and thrilling. They saw too
that whenever she spoke, her eye wore an unwonted
brilliancy; and instead of the pale damask,
a color all too deep and bright for earth, mantled
her cheek.

The lady herself felt that she must die; and
though at some moments, the sudden recollection
of this firm conviction, would bring the rich crimson
to her lip, in general the thought was peace.
She knew that she had not lived in vain. The
principles of holiness implanted in her soul, had
long been developed in high and holy action; and
though the love of heaven was her only hope,
these recollections were now inexpressibly sweet,
as evidences that this love had sanctified her affections.
Upon the first conviction that death
was approaching, the Lady Eveline had addressed
letters to her friends in England, informing them
of her illness, and repeating her solemn farewell,
till she should meet them again in the world of
spirits.

It was June—and a beautiful sabbath afternoon.
For some days past, the lady had been
confined entirely to her own apartment; and
now, supported by Ellen Wilson, she walked
from her bed to a seat by the open window, to
catch the fresh breeze that was springing up from

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the ocean. Exhausted even with this slight exertion,
she leaned her head a moment on Ellen's
shoulder. The only contrast to the marble whiteness
of her countenance was in the hue of the
long eyelash that now lay in such deep repose on
her cheek. The rich coloring of life seemed
gone forever. Her cap had fallen carelessly back,
and the breeze played lightly among the long
and beautiful hair it released. Ellen had supported
her head with pillows; and now stood beside
her, gently fanning her brow, and gazing
with intense grief on the altered hue of her features.

“You are too ill, dear Lady, to sit up thus, do
not attempt it to-day,” she exclaimed, as the invalid
at length slowly opened her eye.

“I am better now, my kind Ellen,” replied the
lady. “I will sit here awhile, for I long to look
out once more on the green and freshness of
earth. Oh, how fervently have I loved it. I cannot
go away from this world forever without one
last look;” and as she spoke, she leaned gently
forward to gaze on the beautiful prospect.

A more quiet and lovely scene has seldom met
the eye. Perfect, sabbath stillness hung over
the cottages around; and far beyond stretched
the rocky shore, and the wave of the Atlantic.
It was the hour of afternoon service and the inhabitants
were now all assembled in the house of
God. This was near them, and as they leaned
upon the window, the loud hymn of praise rose in
rich swells on the air.

“Oh, Ellen, hear that holy music!” murmured
the lady faintly. “I could almost dream that the
airs of heaven already played on my ear. Surely
there was never so lovely a sabbath before; or,

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Ellen, is it because the earth grows beautiful, as
it fades from my sight?”

She paused a moment, and some pleasant recollection
seemed to flit across her mind. “The
grass in the coppice, Ellen, must be green ere
this,” she suddenly exclaimed,—“and the shady
avenue. Oh, for a walk in that avenue to-day.”

Ellen was surprised. The lady had hardly
ever spoken of her former enjoyments, since the
period of their landing; but now all restraint
seemed over.

“Ellen, look over that blue wave, and far beyond,”
she continued. “You can see nothing—
and yet I have looked there, hour after hour, till
my eye has pierced the dreadful distance, and the
lovely valley, the castle, and the park, were all
before it; nay, I roamed through the halls of my
ancestors, and I heard the voices of those who
were dearer to me than life. But, Ellen, it is
over now, my eye is dim, and the pleasant land,
far away over the ocean, will rise no more to it,”—
and the lady wept.

“But you have long had grace from heaven, to
strengthen you in suffering. Oh, my Lady, will
it fail you in your need?'

“But to die, Ellen, far away from my kindred,
unremembered and unblest—my soul cannot endure
it. There is music and dancing in my father's
hall, my own Julia smiles gaily, my brother's
laugh rings through the castle as joyfully
as ever, and even”—she paused a moment and
a rich color tinged her cheek,—“and I, whom
they all once loved, am dying, alone, on this distant
shore.”

Ellen perceived that the unusual emotion which
the lady now exhibited, was fast exhausting her

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strength, and she was intreating her to retire
again to her couch, when the appearance of a
ship entering the harbor, arrested her attention.
Though this had of late become a less rare occurrence
than formerly, still the sight of these
messengers from the land of their nativity possessed
strong fascinations for the eyes of the pilgrims,
and Ellen now parted away the clustering
vine, and leaned forward to watch the landing.
The eye of the lady was also directed to the same
point, and now and then a few brief remarks indicated
her interest in the scene. The deck was
apparently well crowded with passengers, and so
near was the harbor, that they could even distinguish
their figures as they walked separately across
the plank which had been thrown over, to facilitate
their landing.

“Ah, Lady Eveline, those are not all pilgrims,
believe me,” exclaimed Ellen, as a richly dressed
group, one by one, passed over. “That lady's
robe is all too gay, and her step too proud, and
those young cavaliers that are over now, and
walking with her, they are no pilgrims, my
Lady.”

At that moment a slight noise caused her to
turn her head, and she perceived with alarm that
the lady had fallen, fainting, on her pillow.

“Oh, help me to my couch, Ellen, for I am sick
and weary,” she murmured, as her eye slowly
reopened; and when her pale face at length rested
quietly on its pillow, Ellen saw that she was to
rise no more a living being. A deathlike slumber
soon sealed her eye again, and they who were
hovering around her couch, almost feared it was
death itself. Long and sorrowfully did Ellen
watch by her noble friend, until at last a deep

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hectic began to brighten on her cheek, her lip
burned with a living glow, and when her eye
again opened, it shone with an unnatural and
dazzling brilliancy.

“Oh, where is Julia?” she said, gazing unconsciously
around her. “I have long been sick and
sorrowful, and she has not come to me, my sister,
my own beloved sister, where are you?” and she
looked wildly upon Ellen. “Nay, Ellen Wilson,
do not tell me that I am dying far over the ocean,
among the pilgrims. It was all a dream, a long
strange dream. Is not this my own apartment,
and is not this the pillow that the Lady Julia
sleeps on?—and these lofty walls, and those rich
curtains and hangings, do these belong to the
puritan cottage?” She smiled and shook her
head. “No—no—I saw none such in my dream.
“Ah, Julia, you have come at last,” she continued
after a few moment's pause, regarding Ellen.
“Now lay your soft hand on my aching brow, it
seems ages since I felt it last.”

Ellen gently laid her hand on her forehead.

“Ellen Wilson, do not mock me,” she exclaimed
after a moment's pause. “Your touch is light
and gentle, but it is not like the touch of a sister's
hand. Once more, Julia,” she added in a
tone of indescribable tenderness, “once more,
only for one moment, I pray you come to me.
Oh, she will not come, I have intreated and prayed,
and she will not come,” and again the dying
lady wept.

It was sunset, and the yellow light reflected
from without, had given a rich and mellow tinge
to the objects of the apartment. The lady's eye
had long been closed, but she had not slumbered.
Strange visions flitted across her mind. She had

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heard many a light tread by her bedside, sweet
tones repeated her name low in her ear, warm
tears dropped on her cheek, soft lips met hers,
and faint thoughts of the bliss of other years
came over her like traces of faded dreams.

At last her eye opened. The small fair hand
that lay on the quilt was loaded with gems.
Slowly she raised her glance to the bedside. Ah,
whose was that beautiful and glistening eye that
now met hers? Was it still a deceitful vision?
She gazed slowly around. All illusion vanished.
She was lying in her own humble apartment, in
the cottage of the minister. The window by
which she had leaned a few hours since, was still
open. There was her little book case, her writing
table, and the cup of roses on it, just as Ellen
had gathered them in the morning. Ellen
too was standing at the foot of her couch
Her glance again turned to the pillow. It was
no vision. That eye was still on hers. There
was a quick and searching glance, one wild burst
of ecstasy, and the long parted sisters were
folded in each other's embrace. They who had
separated amid the splendor of the far distant
castle, were again united in a lowly cottage beyond
the ocean.

“Eveline, my blessed sister! say that you will
part no more from me. I have come over the
wide waters to see you. Eveline, do not call for
me again so mournfully. You are not indeed forgotten;
all that have ever loved you, love you as
tenderly now. Dear sister, this is no place for
one like you to languish and die; you shall go
back with us to our father's house, and we will all
love and cherish you.”

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