Uncle Amos had one child, a daughter, named Alice.
At a period longer ago than I can remember, Alice was
fifteen years of age, and was as wild and shy a creature as
the timid deer, which sometimes bounded past her mountain
home, trembling at the rustle of every leaf and the
buzz of every bee. There was much doubt whether Alice
were the veritable child of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly,
or not.

[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]

Rumor said that nearly fifteen years before, a fearful
snow storm, such as the “oldest inhabitant” had never
before known, swept over the mountains, blocking up the
roads, and rendering them impassable for several days.
On the first night of the storm, about dusk, a slight female
form was seen toiling slowly up the mountain road,
which led to Uncle Amos' house. A man who was hurrying
home met her, and anxious to know who she was,
looked under her bonnet. Her face, as he afterwards described
it, was very white and crazy-like, and very beautiful.
Another person, a woman, had been with her knitting
work to one of the neighbors, and was also returning
home. Suddenly turning a corner in the road, she came
face to face with the weary traveler, who seemed anxious
to pass unnoticed. But the woman was inquisitive, and
desirous of knowing who the stranger could be; so she
asked her name, and where she was going. A glance of
anger shot from the large black eye of the strange woman,
but farther than that she deigned no reply; and as she
passed on, the questioner observed that she carried in her
arms something which might or might not be an infant.

The next day the storm raged so violently that neither
man, woman, nor child were seen outside their own yards.
For three days the storm continued with unabated fury,
and several more days passed before the process of “breaking
roads” was gone through with, sufficiently to admit
of a passage from one house to another. At the end of
that time, one night, just after sunset, a whole sled load
of folks drew up in front of Uncle Amos' dwelling They
could not wait any longer before visiting Aunt Polly,
whose smiling face appeared at the door, and called out,
“Welcome to you all. I's expecting you, and have got
a lot of mince pies and doughnuts made.”

So the dames and lasses bounded off from the ox-sled,

[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]

and running hastily into the house, were soon relieving
themselves of their warm wrappings. There was so much
talking and laughing among them, that the cloaks, shawls,
and hoods were all put away before one of them exclaimed,
“Mercy sakes! Here's a cradle! Is your cat sick, Aunt
Polly? But no,—as true as I live, it's a little bit of a
baby! Where in this world did you get it, Aunt Polly?”

But if Aunt Polly knew where she got it, she kept the
knowledge to herself, and bravely withstood the questioning
and cross-questioning of her fair guests.

“Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies,” said
she. “It is my child, and haven't I as good a right to have
a daughter as anybody?”

“Yes, thee has,” said Dolly Dutton, a fair, chubby little
Quakeress; “and well is it for the poor thing that it
can call thee mother.”

By this time the baby had been unceremoniously hustled
out of its snug cradle by some of the young girls, who
were all loud in their admiration of its beauty.

“What do you call it, Aunt Polly?” asked one.

“Alice,” was Aunt Polly's quiet reply.

At that moment the baby slowly unclosed its large eyes,
and fixed them on the face of the young girl who held her,
with a strange, earnest gaze. Up sprung the girl as if
stung by a serpent. “Gracious goodness!” exclaimed
she, “will somebody please take her. She's got the `evil
eye' I do believe, and looks for all the world like old
Squire Herndon.”

Aunt Polly hastily stooped down to take the child, but
she did not stoop soon enough or low enough to hide from
Dolly Dutton's keen eye the deep flush which mantled
her cheek at the mention of Squire Herndon. From that
time Dolly's mind was made up respecting Alice. She
knew something which most of her neighbors did not

[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]

know, but as she chose to keep it a secret, so too will I,
for a time, at least.

Merrily sang the round tea-kettle in the bright fire
which blazed on Aunt Polly's clean hearth, and loudly
hissed the strong green tea in the old black earthen teapot,
while the long pine table, with its snowy cloth,
groaned beneath its weight of edibles. The spirits of the
company rose higher in proportion as the good cheer grew
lower. Numerous were the jokes cracked at the expense
of the little Alice, who, with her large, wild eyes, lay in
her cradle bed, wholly unconscious of the wonder and
gossip she was exciting.

“It's of no use, Richard, for thee to quiz Aunt Polly
concerning Alice, for she ain't going to tell, and most
likely has a good reason for her silence,” said Dolly Dutton
to Mr. Richard Hallidon, who had the honor of being
schoolmaster in the little village which lay snugly nestled
at the foot of the mountain.

“Neither would I give the worth of a quill pen to
know,” said Richard, “but I will stipulate with Aunt
Polly that as soon as Alice is old enough, she shall come
to my school.”

To this proposition Aunt Polly readily assented, and
after much laughing and joking, and the disappearance
of a large tin pan full of red apples, and a gallon or so of
egg nog, the little party left for home.

Ere the heavy tread of the oxen and the creaking of
the cumbrous sled had died away in the distance, Uncle
Amos was snugly ensconced in bed, and in the course of
five minutes he was sending forth sundry loud noises
which sounded like snoring; but as the good man warmly
contended that he never snored, (has the reader ever seen
a man who would confess he did snore?) we will suppose
the sounds to have been something else. Aunt Polly sat

[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]

by the fire with the child of her adoption lying on her
lap. Bending down, she closely scrutinized each feature
of the small, white face, and as the infant opened its full,
dark eyes, and fixed them inquiringly upon her, she murmured,
“Yes, she does look like Squire Herndon; strange
I never thought of it before. But deary me,” she continued,
“who ever did see such awful eyes? They fairly
make me fidgety. There, shut them up,” said she, at the
same time pressing down the lids over the eyes, which
seemed to look so knowingly at her.

The offending eyes being shut, the old lady continued
her musing. “Yes,” thought she, “Alice has the Herndon
look. I wonder what the old squire would say if he
knew all. I've half a mind to tell him, just to see what
kind of a hurricane he would get up.” Then followed a
long reverie, in the midst of which stood a large, handsome
castle, of which Alice was the proud nominal mistress,
and Aunt Polly the real one.

By the time this castle was fully completed and furnished,
Aunt Polly was fast nodding assent to every improvement.
Fainter and fainter grew the fire on the
hearth, clearer and clearer ticked the old long clock in
the corner, louder and louder grew the breathings of
Uncle Amos, while lower and lower nodded Aunt Polly's
spectacles, till at last they dropped from the long, sharp
nose, and rested quietly on the floor. How long this
state of things would have continued, is not known, for
matters were soon brought to a crisis by Uncle Amos,
who gave a snore so loud and long that it woke the baby,
Alice, whose uneasy turnings soon roused her sleeping
nurse.

“Bless my stars!” said Aunt Polly, rubbing her eyes
“where's my spectacles? I must have had a nap.” A

p598-248 [figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]

few moments more, and silence again settled round the
house, and its occupants were wandering through the
misty vales of dreamland.