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I may, at once, inform the reader, for I hate a
round-about way of telling a story, that the two
men whom we at the termination of the last
chapter, left Charles Adderly in the act of approaching,
were Gilbert Frazier, and his son Archy.
They were so busily employed in hoeing
out their potatoes, that they did not observe him
till he had advanced almost close to them, when
Archy called out—

“Father! look about! I purtest there's a white
man comin' to us!”

Gilbert turned round, and with an evident emotion
both of surprise and respect, moved his hat,
and then standing stock still with his hoe in his
hand, gazed intensely at the stranger until he
spoke.

“My good friend,” said he, “I am an unfortunate
wanderer in this wilderness, where I am both
surprised and rejoiced to meet with a white man.
May I ask a few night's lodging from your kind
ness?”

“Lodgin'! yes—wia' my heart—a white man!
an' a gentleman! wia' my heart! But, may I ask
your name, sir?”

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“My name is Adderly.”

“Adderly—Adderly!—you cam' wi' the Ohio
settlers, I doot na, sir, ye hae been unfortunate.—
But we'll gang to the hoose, sir. Ye'll be needin'
something to eat an' drink, na doot—for there's
no muckle to be had that's guid for ony thing in
thir woods.”

So saying, he moved forward a few steps—then
turning suddenly, he muttered—“Wha kens! wha
kens—it may be sae”—and turning to Charles, he
asked—

“Adderly, ye say they ca' ye?”

“Yes—”

“An' canna ye mind to hae ever heard o' yen
Thomas Adderly, wha, when I leev'd on the Junaita,
I was tauld had come frae Ireland to Philadelphia?”

“That Thomas Adderly is my father.”

“Thomas Adderly! your father!” Gilbert exclaimed,
staring earnestly in Charles's face—
Thomas Adderly your father! my auld frien'!”—
here he threw away the hoe which he had till now
retained in his hand, by way of a walking stick—
and catching Charles eagerly by both hands, he
continued his exclamations—“Why! why! the
sin o' my auld frien', Thomas Adderly o' Maughrygowan!
come to ask lodgin' frae me—ay,
that ye'll hae, the best that I can gi' ye—the best
bed, the best meat, the best drink, the best o' every
thing that Gilbert Frazier can gie you. The
sin o' my auld frien' frae Maughrygowan—Archy!
Archy! rin fast, my braw lad! rin fast, and tell
your mother that the sin o' my auld frien', the sin
o' Thomas Adderly o' Maughrygowan, is come to
see us. An' haste ye, Archy! get the white-faced
calf killed, it's the fattest—an' be na langsome,
noo—that's a braw lad! An' the sin o' my auld
frien' o' Mauhgrygowan! (here he again eagerly

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shook both Charles's hands) the sin o' Thomas Adderly,
has cam' a' the way owre the Alleghany
Mountain, an' the Laurel Hill, an' the Chesnut
Ridge, to ask lodgin' frae me. Guid bless ye,
man! ye'll hae lodgin' and leevin' frae me baith,
as lang as ye like wi' a guid-wullie heart, an a'
thoosan' welcomes. An' the auld squire, yere
gran'father, (mony a funny day I had sportin' wi'
the youngsters roon the shrubberies an' the park
wa's) I wonner if he's to the fore yet?”

Charles informed him that according to the latest
accounts, the old man was alive.

“I'se warrant ye for it,” replied Gilbert; “he
was aye a douse body, an' will, dootless, wear
weel. But come in, come into the hoose. Nelly,
puir Nelly! hoo glad she'll be to see the sin o' her
auld acquaintance! Ye were na born in Maughrygowan,
were ye?”

“No; Philadelphia is my birth-place.”

“Ah! weel, it's na difference—ye're the sin,
an' the gran'-sin o' Maughrygowan men—an' na
doot a true Irishman in your heart.”

Charles assured him, evidently very much to his
satisfaction, that he had a great partiality for that
country; for, independent of its being the land of
his fathers, he had there received the chief part
of his education, and spent the happiest portion
of his life.

“Then ye hae been in Ireland, sir?”

“Yes; within these last six months I sailed from
Londonderry.”

“Frae Derry! frae Derry!—an' hoo did the
auld country, and the auld city look?—An' ye
were at Maughrygowan too, dootless?”

“Yes, I spent part of the last winter there.”

“An' was every thing the same? Ah! I doot
na, there are mony changes there syne I saw it. But

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I need na ask sae fool a question frae you, that
was na then in the lan' o' the leevin'.”

They had by this time arrived at the door of
Gilbert's dwelling, where Nelly, in consequence of
Archy's information, was waiting in a state of
great impatience to meet them. Recollecting
Maughrygowan, and the days of her youth, she had
just taken time to make herself decent, as she
phrased it, by putting on a clean cap and a shawl,
in which, although she was now verging towards
the pale days of fifty, she still exhibited some remains
of those blooming graces which thirty years
before had captivated Gilbert; and if report spoke
truth, had drawn some eulogies, which had come
to her ears, and now returned to her recollection,
from the then young squire, Thomas Adderly,
himself.

“Nelly! Nelly!” exclaimed Gilbert, as they
approached where she stood in the door; “here,
here is the sin o' young squire Adderly, oor auld
acquaintance, an' the gran'-sin o' the auld squire,
just cam frae Derry owre the sea, an' a' the way
owre the Alleghany mountain, an' the Laurel Hill,
an' the Chesnut Ridge, to ask lodgin' frae us! Did
you ever think o' seeing sitch a day?”

Nelly made a courtesy, and Charles holding out
his hand, she caught it, and, while the tears were
perceptibly swelling in her eyes, she bade him
welcome, adding,

“Ah! sir, indeed ye pit me in min' o' auld
times, ye hae sae muckle o' the braw looks o' your
father. Glad I am truly, to hae yen frae the place
un'er my roof. In thir wild woods, I ne'er expected
to be sae christianlike on this side o' the grave.
I kenned your father weel in Maughrygowan—
Ye hae muckle o' his looks! But come in—we
maun get something ready to mak' ye comfortable—
for ye maun hae had a hard time o't through the

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woods. I wonner in the wide warl hoo ye could
guide yoursel' amang them.”

She had by this time led Charles to the door of
a decent but small apartment, in which the furniture,
although it was rough, was convenient, and
extremely clean in its appearance. It had been,
as the greater portion of the furniture in the house
was, of Paddy Frazier's workmanship, whose industry,
when he would be industrious, inclined
more to matters of this kind than to cultivating the
soil. It was well for the respectability, at least in
point of appearance, of Gilbert's household concerns,
that Paddy did possess ingenuity of this nature;
for he himself possessed little or none, and
as to Archy, he was totally destitute of any thing
like it. We may here mention, that Paddy had
procured tools, and other necessaries for making
furniture, from several of the Indian traders, and
that he had, in consequence, frequently tried his
hand in manufacturing chairs, tables, bedsteads,
chests, &c. which, although, as we have already
said, they were coarse, yet were convenient, and
gave the whole habitation an air of considerable
comfort. The floors, doors, partitions, and shelves
of the house, were also placed and kept by him in
a tolerably neat condition; so that if, upon the
whole, Gilbert's residence had no splendour to
exhibit, nor much display of taste to boast, it was
at least clean, commodious, and comfortable.

It was two stories high, built of large logs hewn
square, with a long platform or porch in the front,
made of logs squared on the upper side, and solidly
fixed together, like a wooden pavement, on which
were constructed seats for enjoying the luxurious
atmosphere of a summer's evening. The front door
was in the centre of the building, from whence an
entry or hall, of about five feet wide, extended
through the house, leading out of the back door

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into a secondary or inferior house of round or unhewn
logs attached to the other, which served for
a kitchen. The stairs, or rather steps, for they
were nothing but a broad-stepped ladder, boarded
behind, arose from the back part of the entry.
Both floors consisted of four rooms, of nearly
equal size and construction, but not equally well
furnished; the one into which Charles was now introduced
by Mrs. Frazier being by far the most favoured
in this particular.

But this room contained what would, in Charles's
eyes, had it been ten times more rustic than it was,
have given it the superiority, in point of attraction,
to the most splendid apartment in any of the
king of England's palaces. After saying this, we
need scarcely add, that it contained the beautiful
being whose charms had lately, as we have related,
so strongly riveted his attention, and attracted him
hither, and whom the reader has no doubt already
conjectured, and conjectured with truth, to be
Maria Frazier.

She arose at his entrance, and was introduced to
him as Gilbert's youngest daughter; and Nancy,
who had been in another apartment, at that instant
appearing, she was introduced as the eldest.
The manner in which these two buds of the forest
received Charles, was considerably different,
and, considering the circumstances of their respective
minds and education, somewhat surprising.
From Archy's report, which had been faithfully
made to his mother, they knew that some extraordinary
visiter, and a white-man, was approaching
them. When they received this report, they were
both in a plain, but neat dishabille. But with this
Nancy was not content. She hastily retired to
improve her appearance, and exhorted Maria to
do the same, which she declined. It must not,
however, be supposed that she did so from any

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affectation of humility, much less from any unwillingness
to show the stranger a proper degree of respect.
Neither was she quite indifferent as to the
effect of her appearance upon him; nay, it must
be confessed, that before she decided against
changing her apparel, she had taken a sly stolen
glance or two at a mirror, (for Gilbert had been
supplied by the river traders with several of these
articles,) which hung conveniently for such a purpose,
upon the wooden wall of the apartment.
The result of this examining glance was, that she
should be content with her present condition; for,
although not gaudily, she was neatly apparelled,
and having no desire particularly to attract the
stranger, she did not think it necessary studiously
to adorn her person.

When she first saw Charles Adderly, however,
a feeling of an undefinable nature, such as she had
never before experienced, seized upon her mind,
which caused her, in a certain degree, to repent
her not having followed Nancy's advice: and when
this feeling became considerably heightened, by his
name suggesting to her, that this must be the same
interesting youth who had been so lately rescued
from the cruel vengeance of the savages by her
revered Tonnaleuka, she, in spite of herself, felt
uneasy and embarrassed, from the idea that it had
been in her power to have made a better appearance
in his presence. The reception she gave
him, therefore, was cordial, but a little constrained,
and her salutation, although kind and sincere,
was diffident and timid, and her manner was rendered
the more embarrassed from her dissatisfaction
with it.

On the other hand Nancy, prepared for the
occasion, with all her rural grandeur on her,
addressed him with an ease, gaiety, and self-possession
partaking somewhat of familiarity, which

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Charles would have felt rather disagreeable and
unbecoming, but for the apparent candour and innocency
with which it was accompanied. In short,
the manners of the uninformed, and, comparatively
speaking uncultivated Nancy on this occasion,
displayed all the undaunted and unblushing ease of
the fashionable lady, while the intelligent and enlightened
Maria exhibited the bashfulness, diffidence,
and confusion of the rural maid.

But, strange to tell, Charles Adderly gave unhesitatingly
the preference to the manner of his
reception by Maria. In her he either saw, or fancied
he saw, the effects of artless nature, genuine
modesty, and refined sensibility; and these he preferred
infinitely to any effort of cultured manner,
or disciplined conduct. In his view, nothing in
the world could exceed in elegance, tastefulness,
and propriety, the dress and behaviour of Maria,
while every thing he had ever seen, or believed he
ever could see, fell infinitely short of the charms of
her expressive countenance, and the witchery of
the thousand nameless graces that he was every
moment discovering more and more to adorn both
her person and manners. But at this time, it must
be confessed, that he was in a state of mind which
disqualified him from being an impartial judge of
any thing relating to this young woman. He was,
although, perhaps, not quite aware himself of the
circumstance, getting fast in love with her, and,
consequently, was unfit to conceive of any thing
but perfection in all she either thought, did, or said.

“Thir twa lasses o' mine,” said Gilbert, after
all the party were seated, except his wife, who,
placing some bread and cheese before them, withdrew
for the purpose of getting ready refreshments
of a more elaborate description for her guest—
“Thir twa lasses o' mine, ye maun ken, hae been
broucht up like deers amang the woods here, an'

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it maun be a treat for them to see ony thing like a
ceevilized white man. Lasses, haud up your heeds,
an' dinna be shy—Mr. Adderly's a gentleman born,
the sin o' my auld acqua'ntance, young squire
Adderly, o' Maughrygowan. Agh! I kenned
your father weel thirty year syne—there wasna a
brisker an' bonnier young fellow in a' the parish.
I hope he's douse yet, an' wears weel?”

Charles assured him that he was still healthy,
and very little altered in his appearance since he
first knew him.

“Glad o't, glad o't, sir,” replied Gilbert; “I wad
gie the best horse ere put leg in my stable to hae
yae shake o' his auld hand, just for the sake o'
Maughrygowan an' oor daffin days. But, sir,
Paddy tells us, ye hae had an unco escape frae
them wicked Indians, the Chippeways. But Tonnaleuka
can manage them when naebody else can—
he's a wonnerfu' man that.”

Charles now informed him, that it was by Tonnaleuka's
directions that he had obtruded himself
upon his hospitality.

“Obtrude, sir!” interrupted Gilbert, “obtrude!
I'm no' very muckle learned, sir, but I think that
word means comin' to whar yen's no' weelcom'.—
Noo, sir, gin ye were na as weelcom' here as in
your father's parlour, this hoose shouldna belong
to Gilbert Frazier.”

“I am sensible of your kindness,” observed
Charles; “and to tell you the truth, I in reality
feel happier just now under your roof than ever I
remember to have felt under my father's, or I believe
that of any other person whatever.”

“Thank ye, sir, I'm glad o't—an' I wish hoo
lang ye may bide wi' us, gin it will answer ye.
Ye'll no' think o' ganging hame this six months, at
ony rate. The winter's sae near-han', it wadna'
be possible.”

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