"I thank you; something says I may proceed Without more preface. You received a note ? You seem surprised; nor is it strange, indeed,

That so you should be: no man's finger wrote That summons; 'twas our only chance to speed Our business in our journey's haste; you doat Upon punctilio, and we augur'd well,

Though press'd for time, would answer a cartel."

By this, the second lady join'd the first

To claim her shelter, rather than relieve her;
Her hand, her ringlets trembled, which had burst
From the concealment of her riding-beaver.
He heard a smother'd sigh, which might have nursed
Suspicion flattering to a gay deceiver;

But, from a sense of feeling, and high honour,
He check'd all wonder, nor even look'd upon her.

He seem'd, if different ranks will bear comparing,
A handsome orderly, who stands at ease,
Waiting, with soldier-like, but modest bearing,
Whate'er commands his officers may please
To issue; but he hardly could help hearing,
Against his will, low whispers such as these ;-
"Shall I go on? he is just what you said,-
I'll answer him trust-worthy, thorough-bred."

"Think not we meant an idle jest. In fact,"

Said the blonde mask, "the truth will warrant quite
Our seeming ruse. 'A promise' never back'd
By due performance, is in honour's sight

'Deep injury,' and oft a fatal act

To other's peace. Now answer me aright.

Is Basing House a still familiar thought,

And friends who should have been more prized and sought?

"Don't interrupt me; the new dignity

Of my friend's second may allow a tone Of what may seem dictation. Do you see

The reason you were charged to come alone? 'Your sword-this lady-bird has whisper'd me'Tis Ribeaumont,-the naming was her own; She knows the hilt, reads Esperance en Dieu' Through sheath and all. Saxe Weimar's pistols too!"

He turn'd-gazed--absolutely gasp'd for breath,
All his past heart-aches vanish'd like a shade.
The dark-hair'd one-it was Elizabeth!
The tokens the confusion-all betray'd
A ten years' tale: she was his own till death,
Fond, faithful, for his sake an unwed maid!
Speak! let me hear your voice! it surely seems
I'm wandering in the blessed land of dreams."

She spoke not; she was on the point to give
A proof more tangibly and fondly real
That she was one of those who breathe and live,
Not a sweet sprite from Fairy lands ideal.
"Hold!" cried her friend in accents positive;
"No headlong, childish doings! let us see all
Our course quite plain ere this I can allow ;
I, who play'd Prate-apace, play Prudence now.

The dark-hair'd lady, taken thus to task,

Drew up to carry off her shame and pique With dignity, as if her velvet mask

Could hide the burning crimson of her cheek,

One deprecating gesture seems to ask

A moment's grace while mustering nerve to speak. Her statute-like, calm bearing-he could swear

He had seen such-'t was now no matter where.

She spoke; her quivering lip and smother'd voice,
Things by resolve least easily controll'd,

Spoke more of agitation than by choice

She would have shown. "Walter ! my friend of old, My more than brother. Yes, you do rejoice

To meet me; from some cause I never told A name which might have guided you aright; And I acquit you of the smallest slight.

"See, there's my hand upon it." A strange thing!
Was she left-handed? she ungloved her left;
Upon her wedding-finger was a ring,

Massive and plain. He gazed as one bereft
Of every sense but joy; proud as a king
And happier in his privilege; the theft
Of a score kisses from the rude-shaped gold
Miss Prudence saw, and check'd not by a scold.

"It was your own; I've worn it ever since.

Walter, do you recall my words? if not,-"
"I do" You love but once.'-How, how evince
My gratitude, my truth? Yes, every jot
Is treasured here, a treasure for a prince;
Could such dear eloquence be e'er forgot
By human heart? Within this very hour
I call'd it up to mind, and felt its power."

"Thank Heaven! my task is ended, my dear Bess; The hostile parties understand each other,"

Said the fair second. "I see happiness

Well earn'd in store for both. My more than brother?"

Upon my word I think so. Now confess

To me, your Mentor, friend, and abbess-mother.

Speak, sir; have you been ever heart-whole? true?
And worthy? If you knew her as I do!"

He started, as if Truth from her own throne
Put searchingly a question the most vital
In the young querist's frank and noble tone.
Could he then boast of a due, full requital
Of such unvaried faith to him alone?

'T was hardly fair; how could a woman spite all The course of love, which seem'd to give her pleasure, By such a rash, unreasonable measure?

She felt it so, and still more frankly said,

"Nay, 't was my-call it liking-whim-prediction
That you could-would say 'yes:' but though misled
To hope too much, 't is my sincere conviction
Yon well deserve her, or I ne'er had sped

The cause thus far. Now speak without restriction,
Elizabeth, and comfort this scared elf;

'T were best he heard his pardon from yourself."

THE DEAD CLEARING.

BY W. C. HOFFMAN, AUTHOR OF "A WINTER IN THE FAR WEST."

SCHROON LAKE is the largest, and perhaps the finest body of water among the myriad lakes which form the sources of the Hudson. "The Schroon," as it is called by the country people, indeed, has been likened by travellers to the celebrated lake of Como, which it is said to resemble in the configuration of its shores. It is about ten miles in length, broad, deep, and girt with mountains, which, though not so lofty as many in the northern part of the state of New-York, are still picturesque in form, while they inclose a thousand pastoral valleys and sequestered dells among their richly wooded defiles.

In one of the loveliest of those glens, near a fine spring, well known to the deer-stalker, there flourished a few years since, a weeping wil. low, which, for aught I know, may be still gracing the spot. The existence of such an exotic in the midst of our primitive forests would excite the curiosity of the most casual observer of nature, even if other objects adjacent did not arrest his attention, as he emerged from the deep woods around, to the sunny glade where it grew. On the side of a steep bank, opposite to the willow, there were the remains of an old fire-place to be seen; and blackened timbers, with indications of rough masonry, could be discovered by turning aside the wild raspberry bushes that had overgrown the farther side of the knoll. Those ruins betokened something more than the remains of a hunting camp; and the forester who should traverse an extensive thicket of young beeches and wild cherry-trees, within a few hundred yards of this spot, would be at no loss to determine that he had lighted upon the deserted home of some settler of perhaps forty years back;-a scene where the toil, the privations, and the dangers of a pioneer's life had been once endured, but where the hand of improvement had wrought in vain, for the forest had already closed over the little domain that had been briefly rescued from its embrace; and the place was now what in the language of the country is called a "dead clearing

The story of this ruined homestead is a very common one in the private family annals of the state of New York, which has always been exposed to the perils of frontier warfare, and which, for twenty years, at the close of the seventeenth century, and throughout the

whole of that which followed it, was the battle-field of the most formidable Indian confederacy that ever arrayed itself against the Christian powers on the shores of this continent. The broken remains of that confederacy still possess large tracts of valuable land in the centre of our most populous districts; while their brethren of the same colour, but of a feebler lineage, have been driven westward a thousand miles from our borders. And when this remnant of the Iroquois shall have dwindled from among us, their names will still live in the majestic lakes and noble rivers that embalm the memory of their language. They will live, too, unhappily, in many a dark legend of ruthless violence, like that which I have to relate.

It was in the same year when Sullivan's army gave the finishing blow to the military power of the Six Nations, that a settler, who had come in from the New Hampshire grants to this part of Tryon County, as the northern and western region of New York was at that time called, was sitting with his wife, who held an infant to her bosom, enjoying his evening pipe beside his hearth. The blaze of the large maple-wood fire spread warmly upon the unpainted beams above, and lighted up the timbers of the shanty with a mellow glow that gave an air of cheerfulness and comfort to the rudely-furnished apartment. From the grey hairs and weather-beaten features of the settler, he appeared to be a man considerably on the wrong side of forty, while the young bright-haired mother by his side had not yet passed the sunny season of early youth. The disparity of their years, however, had evidently not prevented the growth of the strongest affection between them. There was a soft and happy look of content about the girl, as she surveyed the brown woodsman, now watching the smoke-wreaths from his pipe as they curled over his head, now taking his axe upon his lap, and feeling its edge with a sort of caressing gesture, as if the inanimate thing could be conscious of the silent compliment he paid to its temper, when thinking over the enlargement of the clearing he had wrought by its aid during the day. Nor did the eye of the young mother kindle less affectionately when the brawny pioneer, carefully depositing the simple instrument, which is the pride of an American woodsman, behind the chimney, turned to take the hand of the infant, which she pressed to her bosom, and shared at the same time with her the caresses which he bestowed on the child.

"That boy's a raal credit to you, Bet. But I think, if he cries tonight, as he has for the last week, I must make a papoose-cradle for him to-morrow, and swing him somewhere outside of the shanty, where his squalling can't keep us awake. Your face is growing as white as a silver birch, from loss of sleep o' nights."

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Why, John, how you talk! I'm sure Yorpy never cries ;-never, I mean, worth talking of."

As the mother spoke, she pressed the unhappy little youngster somewhat too closely to her bosom, and he awoke with one of those discordant outbreaks of infant passion with which the hopeful scions of humanity sometimes test the comforts of married life.

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Baby-why, baby-there-there now! what will it have?-does it want to see Brother Ben? Hush-hush-he's coming with something for baby! Hush, now, darling!-Will it have this?"

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Why, Bet, my dear," said the father, "don't give the brat Ben's powder-horn to play with; for thof he does like you as much as he

did my first missus, his own mother, and flesh and blood, the lad does not love to have his hunting-tools discomboborated. God's weather! where can the tormented chap be staying ?-he ought to be home by this time." With these words be walked to the door, and stood for a moment commenting upon the mildness of the night, and wondering why Ben did not return. But the mother was too much engaged in soothing the infant, by rocking him to and fro in her arms, to reply.

"Now don't, don't, gal," continued the kind-hearted woodsman, turning from the door, which he left open; "you'li tire yourself to death. Let me take him-there, now-there," said he, as she relinquished the child to his arms; and, addressing the last words to the poor, perverse little thing, he walked up and down the room with it, vainly trying to lull its gust of passion and peevishness.

"Hush! you little varmint, you!" said the father at last, growing impatient; "hush! or I'll call in the Indians to carry you off-I

will."

The settler was just turning in his walk, near the open threshold, as he uttered the ill-omened words, when a swarthy hand, reaching over his shoulder, clutched the child from his arms, and brained it against the door-post, in the same moment that the tomahawk of another savage struck him to the floor. A dozen painted demons sprang over his postrate body into the centre of the room. The simple scene of domestic joy, but a moment before so sheltered and home-like, was changed on the instant. The mummied nurseling was flung upon the embers near the feet of its frantic mother, who slipped and fell in the blood of her husband, as she plucked her child from the coals, and sprang towards the door. It was a blow of mercy, though not meant as such, which dismissed her spirit, as she struggled to rise with her lifeless burden. The embers of the fire soon strewed the apartment, while the savages danced among them with the mad glee of the devil's own children, until the smoke and blaze, ascending to the roof-tree, drove them from the scene of their infernal orgies.

The next day's sun shone upon the mouldering ruin as brightly as if unconscious of the horrors which his light revealed. So complete had been the devastation of the flames, that little but ashes now re mained; and the blue smoke curled up amongst the embowering trees as gently as if it rose only from a cottager's hospitable fire. The oriole, perched upon a cedar-top, whistled as usual to his mate, swinging in his nest upon the pendant branches of a willow which had been planted by the ill-fated settler near a spring not far from his door; while the cat-bird from the brier-thicket replied in mocking notes blither and clearer than those he aimed to imitate. The swallow only, driven from her nest in the eaves, and whirling in disordered flight around the place, seemed in sharp cries to sympathise with the desolation which had come over it.

There was one human mourner, however, amid the scene. A youth of sixteen sat with his head buried in his hands upon a fallen tree hard by. So still and motionless he seemed, that his form might almost have been thought to have been carved out of the grey wood, with which his faded garments assimilated in colour. It would not be difficult to surmise what passed in the bosom of the young forester, as at last, after rising with an effort, he advanced