granted; and Laura, amidst the joyful, noisy little company that soon assembled round her, forgot that she was an outcast.

She was busily searching every corner for the hidden handkerchief, the little rogue who had concealed it in his shoe laughing the while and clapping his hands in delight, when she started at the voice of a stranger in the lobby, who was announcing that he had a letter for Mrs. Douglas, which he could deliver to no person but herself. The next moment the stranger was shown into the room, and Laura with amazement beheld her American attendant. The amazement on his part was still greater. He started, he trembled, and at first shrunk from Laura, then, eagerly advancing towards her, "Bless my soul, madam!" he exclaimed, "are you alive? Then Mary's words are true, and the angels watch over you."

It was some time before the man's astonishment permitted him to declare his errand. At last, when his curiosity had been partially satisfied, he was prevailed upon to enter on his narrative. "You may remember, madam," said he, addressing himself to Laura, "it was the morning we expected my master, (though I told Mary, for a make-believe, that he would not come till evening,) that morning Mary took you out and left you; for which I was mortal angry with her, for my mind misgave me that some mischief 'would come of it. So she ran down to the place where she left you sitting, but you were not there. Then she looked all about, but she could see you no where. She was afraid to go among the canes, for fear of the rattlesnakes, so she ran home and told me. So I went with her, scolding her to be sure all the way. Well, we sought and sought, till at last, half in the water, and half on the shore, we found your hat; and then, to be sure, none of us never doubted that you had drowned yourself; and Mary cried and wrung her hands like a distracted creature, saying that my master was a wicked wretch that had broken your heart, and often and often she wished that we could find you to give you Christian burial, for she said she was sure your ghost would never let her rest in her bed. But we had no drags, nor any thing to take you up with out of the water.

"Well, we were just in the midst of all our troubles, when my master came. Well, Robert,' says he, in his hearty way,' where is my angel?' I had not the heart to say a word; so with that Mary ran forward, sobbing like a baby, and says she, just off hand, Miss Montreville is in a watery grave, and I am sure, sir, some heavy judgment will light on him that drove her to it.' So my master stood for a moment, thunderstruck, as it were, and then he flew upon us both like a tiger, and shook us till he scarce left breath in us, and swore that it was all a trick, and that he would make us produce you, or he would have our lives. So I tried to pacify him the best I could; but Mary answered him up, that it

was all his own doing, and that he might seek you in the river, where he would find your corpse. This put my master quite beside himself; and he catched her up, and flung her from him, just as if she had been a kitten and then he flew down to the river side, and I followed him, and showed him where we had found your hat; and explained to him how it was not our fault, for we had both been very civil, and given you no disturbance at all, which you know, madam, was true.

"So, close to the place where we found your hat, we saw the print of your little shoe in the bank; and when my master saw it he grew quite distracted, crying out that he had murdered you, and that he would revenge you upon a wretch not fit to live, (meaning himself, madam,) and so he would have leaped into the river; but by this time one of the servants he had brought with him came up, and we forced him back to the house. Then he grew more quiet; and called for Mary, and gave her his purse with all his money, and bid her tell every thing about you, madam; how you had behaved, and what you had said. So she told him, crying all the while, for she repented from her heart that ever she consented to have any hand in the business. And sometimes he would start away and gnash his teeth, and dash his head against the wall; and sometimes he would bid her go on, that he might run distracted at once and forget all. So she told him that you had written to one Mrs. Douglas, in hopes that when you were dead he would take pity on you, (repeating your very words, madam). Then he asked to see the letter, and he carried it into your room. And there we heard him groaning and speaking to himself, and throwing himself against the walls; and we thought it best to let him come to himself a little and not disturb him.

"So by and by he called for pen and ink, and I carried them to him, thinking, if he wanted to write, it was a sign he was growing more calm. Then he continued writing for some time, though now and then we heard him restless as before. At last he opened the door, and called me. Robert,' says he, quite calm and composed like, if you deliver this packet as directed, you will earn three hundred pounds. But be sure to deliver it with your own hand.' I was going to ask him something more about it, for I did not just know what he meant about the three hundred pounds; but he pushed me out, and shut himself into the room. Then I bethought my self that there was something strange-like in his look, and that he was pale, and somehow not like himself. So I went to the kitchen to consult with the rest what we had best do. So I had scarcely got there when I heard a pistol go. off, and we all ran and burst open the door, and there we saw my master, madam, laid out upon Miss Montreville's bed, and the pistol still in his hand; though he was stone dead, madam, for I suppose the ball had gone right through his heart."

Laura, dreadfully shocked, and no longer able to listen to this horrible relation, hastened out of the room. leaving Mrs. Douglas to hear what yet remained to be told of the history of a man of pleasure!!!

The servant proceeded to tell that he and his companions had conveyed their master's body to head-quarters, had seen it buried with military honours, and then had sailed in the first ship for Britain. That remembering the charge to deliver the packet with his own hand, he had come down to Scotland on purpose to execute his trust; and hoped that Mrs. Douglas would fulfil his master's promise. He then delivered the packet, which Mrs. Douglas opening in his presence, found to contain a bill for £300 in favour of Robert Lewson, not payable without her signature; the two letters which Laura had written during her exile; and the following lines, rendered almost illegible by the convulsive startings of the hand which had traced them.

"The angel whom I have murdered was an angel still. The destroyer came,' but found her not. It was her last wish that you should know her innocence. None can attest it like me. She was purer than Heaven's own light.

"She loved you. There is another, too, whom she protests that she loved to the last-but it was I alone whom she loved with passion. In the anguish of her soul she called it 'idolatry;" and the words of agony are true. But I, like a base fool, cast away her love for the heartless toyings of a wanton! and shall I, who might have been so blest, live now to bear the gnawings of this viper-this hell never to be escaped?

"She has said that she must go to the grave laden with shame; that her name is degraded through me. Once more, then, I charge you proclaim her innocence. Let no envious tongue presume to stain that name. Let it be accounted holy. I will save what she loved better than life, though I have persecuted her-driven her to death-forced her to hide in the cold waters all that was loveliest in woman.

"She says that she will meet you in Heaven, -and it must be true, for falsehood was a stranger to her lips. Then tell her that he who was her murderer was her avenger too. It is said that self-destruction is the last-worse crime. In others it may be so. In me it is but justice; for every law condemns the murderer to die. He who destroyed that angel ought to die a thousand deaths. Justice shall be speedy.

"VILLIERS HARGRAVE."

Mrs. Douglas had no sooner read the contents of her packet, than she hastened to communi

cate them to Laura. The horror inspired by Hargrave's letter, and the dreadful destiny of the writer, did not render her insensible to the pleasure of being empowered to clear, beyond a doubt, the fame of her young friend. Laura was, however, for the present, in no state to share her joy. She could only weep; and, trembling, pray that she might be enabled to guard against the first beginnings of that selfindulgence, whose end is destruction!

Mrs. Douglas at last found means to rouse her by naming De Courcy, and reminding her of his right to immediate intelligence of this happy change in her situation. Laura, as superior to coquetry as to any other species of despicable cruelty, instantly sat down to communicate the news to her lover. To her plain unvarnished tale, she added copies of the letters which attested her innocence, with Lewson's account of the names and address of those persons who had been employed to carry her from England.

Evening was drawing on before Laura had finished her task; and, desirous to recruit her spirits before she joined the family circle, she stole abroad to breathe the reviving air of her native hills. She had crossed the little lawn, and was opening the gate, when, seeing a carriage drive quickly up, she drew back. The carriage stopped. She heard an exclamation of joy, and the next moment she was pressed to the heart of De Courcy.

Laura first recovered utterance.

"What happy chance," she cried, "has brought you here just at the moment when I am permitted to rejoice that you are come?"

"Ah, Laura," said De Courcy, "could I know that you were alive and in Britain, yet make no effort to find you? I was convinced that Mrs. Douglas must know your retreat. I was sure that I could plead so that no human heart could resist my entreaties. And now I have found thee, I will never leave thee but with life.”

The little shrubbery walk which led round the lawn to the parsonage was not half a quarter of a mile in length, yet it was an hour before the lovers reached the house; and ere Laura presented De Courcy to her friends, she had promised that in one week she would reward his tried affection; and had settled, that after they had spent a few days in delightful solitude at Glenalbert, she would accompany him to Norwood.

Laura has now been for some years a wife; and the same qualities which made her youth respectable, endear her to the happy partner of her maturer life. She still finds daily exercise for her characteristic virtue; since even amidst the purest worldly bliss, self-denial is necessary. But the tranquil current of domestic happiness affords no materials for narrative. The joys that spring from chastened affection, tempered desires, useful employment, and devout meditation, must be felt they cannot be described.

More than thirty years ago, there lived in the beautiful vale of one of the tributaries to the Susquehanna, whose waters wind their way among the hills of Otsego, a person of singular character and appearance. Without, as far as the writer knew, ever having lifted his finger against a human being, he was nevertheless a terror to the children and youth of the border settlement: and those even who had arrived at the age of manhood shook their heads mysteriously, and looked grave, when he was the subject of conversation. His cottage, at that time ancient and moss-grown, was situated at the foot of a hill, descending with a gentle slope to the south, and fronting a beautiful meadow, skirted in part by the creek which murmured tranquilly by. On the opposite bank, the deeptangled shrubs, which fringed the statelier forest, dipped their pendent branches in the clear stream. On three sides the clearing was bounded by the dark primitive forest; but on the northeast there was a thick secondary growth of timber over the space of a goodly-sized farm, among which were yet standing the apple-trees of what appeared to have been in former days a regularly planted orchard. There was a small open space in the midst of this younger forest, in the centre of which were the ruins of buildings; associated with these were tales of terror, Indian wars, murders, ghosts, tomahawks, and blood. The passage through this little forest-for as no heirs appeared to claim the soil, it stood years and years after the "clearing" had approached its borders on all sides-always reminded my associates and myself of Indians and scalpingknives, and of the possibility that unquiet spirits were hovering there. In the night time especially, if one of us had to pass alone the " Buxton farm," as it was called, he walked briskly, and "whistled to keep his courage up." If a company of lads had occasion to go by after

twilight, they would crowd closer together as they came near, hurry onward with a lighter. tread, and speak scarce above their breath, while a shuddering sensation would creep over them at every rustling leaf. Having crossed the gloomy place, when wending our steps from home, we next came upon the before-described premises of Mr. Johnson-for that was the name of the singular man whom we have introduced to the reader above-but in no very cheerful mood, as may be supposed; and perhaps that was, in part, the reason of our looking upon him with more alarm than a regiment of warlocks could infuse into the bosom of a Scotsman. Certain it is, however, he was a most singular man, and to us a man of terror. But why we knew not; only that there was always some mysterious association in the mind, between him and the tragic reminiscences and traditions of the Buxton farm. The causes of this association I was unacquainted with until years after the period of which I am writing. But such was the fact with respect to Mr. Johnson; and his looks and demeanour in our youthful eyes were exceedingly dubious, and inspired us with many dark suspicions and unpleasant apprehensions. He was a spare man, of an athletic, middle-sized frame, large boned, with dark shaggy eye-brows, grisly hair, and an austere, melancholy look:

"Cruel to himself They did report him; the cold earth his bed, Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms."

Scarcely could any of us pass his residence, but, to our regret, we saw him; and if he were near, an involuntary shudder would run over uz. He lived alone like a hermit; and when seen by me, was always standing still, either in the garden, the meadow, the field, or the lawn

always in the same antiquated attire, in the attitude of deep and heavy thoughtfulness. His furrowed features ever wore the same appearance of fixed, imperturbable gravity_the_same unapproachable and forbidding severity. I have seen him a hundred times, but never heard him speak, nor saw him smile. Every thing about his habits likewise looked strangely. At the easternmost end of the little lawn, in the centre of which stood his cottage, was a small oval enclosure, in the middle of which was a little knoll covered with green turf, kept perfectly neat and clean. The ivy and wild honeysuckle intertwined their tendrils as they clung to the rude wicket fence, and the rose in its season bloomed at its head. This was said to be the tomb of his wife, whose burial took place before his solitude had been disturbed by other settlers. His orchard, instead of being planted in rows, like those of other people, grew in irregular clusters around his house and garden; and yet, without being separated, transplanted, or pruned, as was necessary with other people's apple-trees, it seemed to grow more thriftily than any other. Even his cattle, as they grazed among the cowslips in the meadow or the field, and the fowls of his barn-yard, as they flapped their wings in the sun, or pecked upon the dunghill, appeared [singular and different from those of other people. And I am sure that his old sturdy bulldog had ften times more terrors for me than any bulldog Lever saw. Indeed, every thing conspired to invest Mr. Johnson, and the clearing in which The lived, and all that he possessed, with a strange, mysterious, and forbidding character, for which no one in our juvenile circle could have ac>counted, had such a thing been required. Yet the little farm was cultivated with care, and was always in excellent order; no hedge-rows of briars and bushes were suffered to spring up by his fences; its situation was delightful, and to the eye of a stranger it would have appeared one of the sweetest places of residence that heart -could desire.

As we grew older our terrors of course decreased, in passing both Johnson's and the Bux{ton farm; but the strange feelings and emotions never entirely left us; and I believe that, even to this day, were I to be set down in the dim -hour of twilight in the once fearful spot, looking as it then did, a momentary shudder would come over me as in times past. But it must be borne in mind that I left that country soon after the first meeting-house was built, and before I had outgrown the fears and apprehensions of the days of my boyhood, when the mind, pliant as melted wax, is moulded at pleasure; and when, by the indiscretion of nurses and by old wives' tales, superstitious impressions are too often so deeply implanted, as to defy all the efforts of reason in future life to eradicate them. And it was not until years afterwards, when on a visit to the scenes of my boyhood, during which I 5 spent a week in searching for trees, on the trunks NTAI 9.3 10 JAN DA

of which I had inscribed my name, and in climbing rocks, clambering over hills, and stumbling through glens, merely because I had clambered and stumbled in those places twenty years before, that I ascertained the sad cause which had transform formed one of the happiest and best of men into gloomy solitary I had seen him, and whose aching heart had then but recently been relieved from pain by the kindest stroke he had felt for forty years-the stroke of death.

Before the period of the revolution, while the Germans had pushed their settlements as far up the rich vale of the Mohawk as Fort Schuyler, now the site of Utica, the beautiful queen of western villages, a few enterprising Englishmen had diverged more southerly, and penetrated the wilds beyond the sources of the Susquehanna. This they were enabled to do, and, though far separated from each other, live in comparative security under the powerful protection, first of Sir William Johnson, and subsequently, for a short time only, under that of Sir John, the influence of both of whom, particularly the former, among the Indians on this side of the Iroquois was unbounded. Cherry Valley was considered the frontier settlement; but a family, by the name of Tunnicliff, had advanced westward a few miles beyond Caniaderaga lake; while two intimate and resolute friends, named Johnson and Buxton, had located themselves with their young wives in the deep forest ten miles south of Mr. Tunnicliff's establishment, in the beantiful situation which we have before attempted to describe. Here, in remote but industrious seclusion, these pioneers dwelt for many happy years. The forests gradually receded before the axemen, and some years before the troublous times of the revolution came on, each of the friends had an extensive and well-cultivated farm; the first rude structure of logs had been superseded by more comfortable and substantial dwellings; and young, thrifty orchards began to repay the toil of the provident husbandman, who had transplanted them to those wilds, and reared them there. Their communications with their friends at Cherry Valley, Canajoharie, and beyond, were not many, and their own visits to the settlements few and unfrequent. The roads were mere bridle-paths through the woods, by which the few luxuries and comforts they enjoyed, beyond those produced on their own farms, were transported upon pack-horses. But in such a secluded spot the two families must necessarily have lived in the closest intimacy, even had they not been bound together by the stronger and more endearing bonds of relationship. Their wives were sisters, who together had heroically crossed the ocean with their husbands in search of the new world, and a home in the trackless wilderness. Thus expatriated from society, the families were the world to each other. Their pursuits, their trials, their deprivations, and their joys, were the same. Their lives were unvaried, and their quiet undisturbed