I'VE BEEN THINKING;

OR,

THE SECRET OF SUCCESS.

BY A. S. ROE,

AUTHOR OF "LOOKING ROUND."

WARD, LOCK AND CO.
LONDON, NEW YORK, AND MELBOURNE

I'VE BEEN THINKING.

CHAPTER I.

'Where is the use, Jim, of our working and working to raise so many vegetables? we never can use them all. Mother said last year there was no necessity for raising more than we could eat, and now this potato patch is larger than ever.' And as he said this, the little speaker threw himself upon the soft ground, struck his hoe into the soil, and looked up at his brother to see how he would take it.

Jim, as he was called, rested a moment on his hoe, eyed his brother closely, and then, with something of a smile, replied:

'Come, Ned, don't give up to lazy feelings; the things will do somebody good; and you know my father always told us, that it was better to be at work, even if we got no pay for it: and besides, I have been thinking of a plan by which we may do something with what we raise, if we have more than we can use.'

'What plan, Jim?' and Ned raised himself from his prostrate position, and sitting with both hands resting on the ground, looked very inquiringly at his brother.

'Why, suppose we should try to sell some of the things we raise?'

'Try to sell, Jim? ha, ha, ha!' and the little fellow threw himself upon the ground, and indulged in a hearty fit of laughter. Jim laughed a little himself, resuming his work, and hauling the dirt up faster around the potatoes he was hilling.

'Come, Ned, you had better go to work; the sun will soon be down, and we shall not get our task done.'

'Well, tell me then where you are going to sell the things; that's all.'

'I shall say no more about it now, at any rate; you will only laugh at it. So come, take up your row.'

Ned, perceiving that Jim was working upon both rows, was ashamed to waste any more time, and inspirited by his brother's kindness, sprang to his feet, and the two boys worked away with alacrity.

The sun had gone down, the cow had been milked and the pigs fed, the hens had all gone to roost, and the two brothers had sauntered towards the river which ran before their dwelling, and taken a seat together on a rock under the branches of a huge oak, of which there were several around the premises. Before them lay, first; a gentle slope of short greensward, part of what was known as the town commons, where every body's cow, or pig, or goose, could roam unmolested; beyond this lay a smooth sandy shore, washed by a river, whose waters had not far to go before they mingled with the ocean, or with a large arm of the ocean; along the shore, as far as the eye could reach, was the same, or nearly the same, strip of green commons, dotted here and there with small rude dwellings, the abodes of a few fishermen, who existed on the products of the river that rolled before them; a few small boats lay drawn up on the shore, and occasionally a row of stakes running out into the water, told where the fishermen had planted their nets. The only house in sight that had any appearance of comfort was the one these brothers called their home—a plain one-story building, with a little wing to it; a paling ran in front and around three sides, enclosing the patch of ground used as their garden; a few fine old trees threw their shadows over and around the premises, adding much to the domestic aspect of the place; a pleasant country spread back from the river, and in the distance could be seen here and there the chimney top, or the peaked roof of some obscure dwelling, making no greater pretensions than those described.

'I wonder what Sam Oakum is doing along shore there?'

'Where, Jim?'

'Down by that clump of rocks. Don't you see him?'

'Oh, he is picking up horse-shoes; he has not fed his pigs yet; I suppose his father is drunk to-day, and the pigs are squealing, and Sam has gone to look for something for them to eat; poor fellow!'

'Sam is a clever fellow; I do wish his father would act differently. I cannot see what is to become of him. They who have no father are bad enough off, but I think poor Sam is worse off still.'

'Do you think, Jim, if father had lived, that we should have stayed here?'

'I cannot say—I suppose we should. Why do you ask that question, Ned?'

'Because I think it is a poor place to get a living in; nor do I see how we are going to get along here; it is hard hoeing for it any how.'

'Hard hoeing? I don't think so, Ned; it is a great deal harder doing nothing.'

'Perhaps it is; I should like to try it once, and see.'

'I believe it to be true what father often said, that "hard work made short nights and sweet food," and if we should give up work, what would become of mother and Ellen?'

'I will work for them, Jim, as long as I have got any fingers to work with; but we may hoe and hoe here all our lives, and what will it amount to?'

'I have been thinking a great deal about that, Ned, and therefore I spoke to you as I did to-day when you laughed so at me.'

'Well, tell me now, Jim; I promise you I will not laugh any more.'

'I have been thinking for some time, just as you say, Ned, "that we must hoe and hoe all our lives," and without much hope of making our condition any better.'

'Why you see, Jim, if there was any one here to buy what we raised, more than we wanted to eat, there would be some use in raising all we could.'

'I know it, Ned; and the great trouble is, that the folks all round here are as poor as we are, and the most of them not so well off; they live from hand to mouth, and would never want any thing we could raise.'

'Why, I suppose they would like our strawberries and peaches well enough, if we would give them away; but they will never take the trouble to raise any for themselves, and I am very sure they will never have any money to buy them with.'

'That is it, Ned; you are right now. Father has taught us to raise such things, you know, and if we had any way to dispose of them, we could raise many more than we do.'

'Then you would see how I could work, Jim, and we would stuff the old garden full of every thing.'

'I have been thinking—now, you won't laugh again?'

'No, I won't, I promise you.'

'Well, I have been thinking—you know, just over the other side of the island is that large fort; sometimes there is quite a company of soldiers, and always some officers and their families there; the grounds about there are so rocky and sandy, that they cannot raise any thing if they would; they no doubt get their provisions in large quantities from a distance, but the officers and their families might like some of our fruits and vegetables, as we could supply them fresh; the only thing is, how to get there?'

'Yes, Jim, that would be the trouble; we have no boat, and we should not know how to manage one if we had it, and mother would be so afraid to let us go such a distance on the water.'

'I have thought of these difficulties, Ned, but I believe we can get along with them. I know it will be difficult getting to the fort sometimes, in rough weather; and then, as you say, we have no boat, and we should not be able to manage one if we had it; but how would it do to ask Sam Oakum to join us?'

'Sam Oakum is the very fellow, just the very fellow; but stop, Jim, Sam has not got a boat.'

'I know that; but no doubt he can borrow one for the first trip, and then, if our plan should succeed, perhaps we could hire it until we were able to buy one for ourselves.'

Ned could stand it no longer; he jumped from the rock, clapped his hands, huzzaed, caught hold of Jowler, who had sprung up, and was barking away in answer to Ned's huzza, and down they went on the green sward together.

'Don't go crazy, Ned, we may be disappointed after all; mother may not give her consent, Sam may be unwilling to go, or not able to get a boat.'

'Do stop, Jim, bringing up difficulties; I don't want to hear them now. I know mother will let us go, and I know Sam will like dearly to join us; he can get a boat, I am sure he can.'

'Well, Ned, the first thing we must do is, to get mother's consent.'

'Yes, and you will speak to her this very night, won't you, Jim? I will put in a word once in a while, just to help along.'

Twilight was past; the stars were shining through a clear bright sky, when these two brothers retraced their steps towards home. It is pleasant to see them so cheerfully complying with that command, 'Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.'

And now I suppose my readers may be anxious to know some particulars about our boys, and the place where they lived.

Their father, Mr. James Montjoy, who had died a few months before the period at which our story commences, was rather a plain man in his appearance and manners, and lived on a small pension just enough to sustain his family, so that he left nothing for their support but the house and garden. I think he must have been a good man, for his boys revered his name, and often repeated his sayings to each other; and on no account would they deviate from what they believed would have been his will.

As to the place where they lived, I have already partly described it; it was a very retired spot, a few farm-houses were scattered about at irregular intervals, but all wearing the same general aspect. A want of enterprise was manifest on every side; poor roads, poor fences, broken barns, patched windows in almost every house, miserable-looking waggons and horses, and people in appearance as uncouth and woe-begone as their teams.

There was but one store in the place, and how that was supplied was somewhat mysterious; for no boats sailed from or to this lone spot. I have heard, that once in a year a large lumber waggon, that came from a distance, brought a load of casks and boxes, which contained all the goods necessary to supply the few wants of its customers, a little tea, and sugar, and molasses, and a few coarse dry goods, with an undue proportion of whiskey. The storekeeper looked no better than his customers; he was a dried-up, wrinkled little man, with a very red nose; always clad in a suit of grey clothes, with a broad-brimmed greasy hat, turned up in front, and a pair of iron spectacles, through which stared two very large eyes, somewhat the worse for the use of cider and whiskey.

The store itself was a long, low, tumble-down-looking place, with a shed running along its front, under which might almost always be seen a certain number of miserably dressed persons, the customers of the store.

It will be of no use to any of my readers to be told the real name of this place, nor its exact locality. I have mentioned that it was on a river, and not far from where that river emptied itself into a sound, or arm of the sea; but as there are a great many rivers and sounds in our beautiful country, I must leave you all to guess the right one. And perhaps many of you will pass this place, or have already passed it many times, and when you have seen, or shall see, the beautiful church spire that now rises from the midst of the trees which embower it, and the neat white houses along the shore, and the trim vessels that line the wharves, and hear the lively—'Yo, heave yo!' of the sailors, as they hoist the white sail to the breeze, you will little dream that it was once as I have described it.

And now we must see how Jim gets along in gaining the consent of his mother.

Mrs. Montjoy was a good mother, and loved her three children most tenderly; but as all mothers who truly love their children must sometimes deny their wishes, Jim and Ned had learned some lessons, which made them feel less and less confident the more they thought of the matter. At length the former, taking up the candle, whispered to his brother.—

'Perhaps, Ned, we had better not say anything about it until to-morrow.'

'I think so too, Jim.'

So, kissing their mother and little Ellen, up they went to their garret room, talking and laughing in great spirits.

'The poor dear children,' thought Mrs. Montjoy, 'it makes my heart ache to hear them; they think not of the future. May God, in his mercy, open some way, for I see but a poor prospect before them. And it may be that prayer was heard, and the God of the widow and the fatherless was preparing the means by which these unprotected children would prove the light of their native place, and her stay and comfort. Had she seen them as they knelt down by the bedside together, she would have felt that her children were not fatherless.

The next morning the boys had a long conference with their mother; and after she had listened to their plans, and stated to them, more particularly than she had ever before done, the straitened circumstances to which they were reduced, and expressed many fears on account of their exposure on the water, she finally agreed that they might try what they could do.

No sooner had they reached the door, after thus accomplishing their wishes, than Ned started on the full run, jumped over the first thing that stood in his way—which happened to be old Jowler—caught up his hoe from under the shed, and entering the garden by a cross cut, began tearing the dirt around the potato hills with all his might.

Jim walked very leisurely to his work, and for some time permitted his brother to go on, thinking that he would soon become tired, and relax his efforts; but seeing that Ned was coming back on his row,—

'You had better keep your own row, Ned; I shall get along soon enough with mine, and you will only tire yourself by working so fast.'

'Well, I am in such a hurry, Jim; I want to get these potato hills finished, so that we can go and talk with Sam Oakum about the boat.'

'I am as much in a hurry as you are, Ned; but we have quite a patch to hill yet, and we shall get through sooner, by working steadily, besides doing our work better; we can get along with them by the middle of the afternoon, and that will give us time enough to see Sam.'

And as Jim had said, by the middle of the afternoon the last hill of potatoes was finished; and, having made all their arrangements, and agreed upon all they would say to Sam, they had nothing to do but go to the tree where they placed their tools, and hang up their hoes for that day.

As Sam Oakum will be a prominent character in our story, I must introduce him more particularly to my reader. His father lived in one of the huts which I have said were scattered along the shore of the river for some distance, and followed the occupation which his father had followed before him, that of a fisherman; or, in other words, that of catching a few fish or clams, sufficient to satisfy the cravings of hunger for the day, and spending the rest of it in idleness and drinking, without enterprise or ambition. As their fathers had done for generations back, so did they; they seemed to feel that it was their luck to be poor, and, to all appearance, felt willing that their children should follow in their steps.

Sam Oakum's father was rather a superior man to his neighbors; he had some knowledge, too, of boat-building; he had never learned the trade, but, being ingenious, could put together a small craft quite decently, and the few poor boats which the fisherman owned were the work of his hands; but he also exceeded many of his neighbors in the use of strong drink, and too frequently it was feared that his wife and children suffered for the necessaries of life, because the father was away, and in no condition to get home. For a few years past, however, since Sam had become able to manage a boat, he would see that there was food for his mother and sisters, although there had been as yet no opening for him by which he could do any more than this. There was no ground attached to their poor house for him to cultivate; there was no work in the vicinity that he could get; and the boat, by means of which he could procure their supply from the water, he was obliged to borrow.

Sam was now about sixteen years of age; a good-looking fellow he was too, although his clothes were old and patched; his hair was black as a coal, and very much disposed to curl; he had a good open countenance, very bright black eyes, and a fine nut-brown complexion. As we shall learn his character in the progress of our story, it will not be necessary to describe him any closer at present.

On the day that Jim and Ned had been so successful in obtaining the consent of their mother to put their plan into execution, Sam had experienced a severe trial: his father had indulged more freely his dreadful appetite, and although in general kind to his family, had begun to manifest a morose and sullen temper.

Sam's mother was a good-natured, inoffensive woman, always endeavouring to make the best of things; managing as well as she could with what was in the house, and although sorely pinched sometimes, never finding fault with her husband.

'It would do no good,' she said, 'to be dinging at Oakum; it would only make him worse.'

So the poor soul went on from day to day, doing her best, and always hoping, woman like, that he would be different one of these days; but on this eventful morning her accumulated grievances could no longer be repressed, and as her husband was about to leave the house, only to return at evening in a wretched condition, she ventured to say to him—

'Oakum, don't you think you'd better not go up to the store to-day?'

'Don't I think I'd better not? No, I don't—what makes you ask me?'

'Oh well, I didn't mean no harm; only you have been away so much lately.'

'Well, supposing I have, whose business is that, I want to know?'

'Why nobody's, I suppose; only you know, Oakum, we ain't got nothing in the house but them two fish you brought in this morning; there ain't no meal nor nothing.'

'No meal nor nothing; yes, there is meal: didn't I bring home some yesterday?'

'Well, you know how that was, the pigs got at it.'

'The pigs got at it—then why didn't you take care of it, and not let the pigs get the children's bread?'

'It wasn't mother's fault,' said Sam, who was by at the time, and knew all the circumstances.

'Whose fault was it then, you little vagabond?'

'I ain't a vagabond yet; but we shall all be soon, if you keep going to Grizzle's every day.'

Sam's father was utterly confounded; he took off his hat and sat down.

'What, are my children going to rise up against me? Go out of the house, sir.'

Poor Mrs. Oakum was in great trouble. Sam had said what was true; his father had, in a state of unconsciousness, left the flour at the mercy of the pigs; but she felt sorry that he had spoken, and Sam soon felt very sorry for it too; his conscience upbraided him; he went out of the house and kept as busy as he could, but he could not feel happy.

By little and little Oakum found out from his wife all about the meal; he was thoroughly ashamed, asked for another bag, and immediately took his hat and departed.

About the middle of the afternoon Sam sauntered along the shore to a large flat rock that stood just at the water's edge. He took a seat upon it, and with his eye stretched far over the beautiful bay, mused on his sad condition and hopeless prospects. Was life to be as it had ever been—a scene of idleness and want, a waste, with nothing to cheer or stimulate his youthful mind? without education (not being able even to read), without a trade, or the prospect of one, or any employment that offered the least inducement to exertion? His conscience sorely troubled him also on account of the disrespect he had shown to his father that morning; and as he mused, his excited feelings started the tears down his sunburnt face, and in the agony of the moment he exclaimed,

'I wish I was—'

'What do you wish?' said Ned Montjoy, as he stole up behind, and put his hands over Sam's eyes.

'But what is it, Sam?' you are in trouble; tell us right away. 'Can Jim and I help you?'

Sam wiped away his tears as he best could, but was unable at once to make any reply.

'Come, Sam, tell us, has anything happened to day?'

'Oh, nothing particular, Ned; only sometimes I get tired of living as I do.'

'Oh well, Sam, if that is all, come cheer up; for Ned and I have a plan in view, and if you will join us, perhaps things will be better for us all.'

'I'll join you and Ned in any thing, but I don't see what use I can be to you.'

'So much use, that we can do nothing without you do join us Sam. Can we, Jim?'

'No, I fear we cannot.'

'Well, what is it, boys? Come, I'm ready for any thing.'

'You tell him, Jim, all about it. I say, Sam, it's the best thing you ever heard of. I tell you what, won't it be nice though?'

And Ned kicked up his heels, ran a few steps, caught up a smooth flat stone, and away it went skimming the surface of the water, and in plunged Jowler, as he had often done before, on a fruitless search after it. Jim took a seat alongside of Sam, and soon unfolded his scheme for adventure. Sam's countenance brightened as Jim went on, and he was too impatient to wait until the whole was regularly told.

'And you want me to manage the boat, and you will sell the things?'

'That is it, Sam.'

'I tell you what, Jim, who put all this in your head? I wonder why I never thought about taking clams and oysters there! I am sure they will buy them: I might try some, couldn't I?'

'Certainly—but how are we to get a boat? your father has none, has he?'

'No, not now, but I know where I can borrow one; it has a sail to it—it is old and leaky though, but a little calking will make all tight.'

No sooner had Sam said this, than Ned started off again on another gallop; he took quite a circuit this time, and coming back caught Sam by the back of his collar, and pulled him over flat upon the rock.

'Didn't I tell you, Jim, that Sam Oakum was the fellow for us?'

'Don't, Ned, act so crazy; let Sam go.'

'Oh let him alone, Jim; he is so full, he must let out a little.'

Sam rolled himself off from the rock, and picked up his little tarred hat, which had fallen upon the sand.

'Well, boys, when shall we go,—to-morrow?'

'Why, can you get the boat ready by that time, Sam?'

'Yes, that is, if old Andrews will let me have it; I guess there will be no fear of that.'

'Well, how shall we know? for if we go to-morrow, we must be up early and pick our strawberries. Shall we come down here to-night, Sam?'

'No; I tell you what we'll do—if I can get the boat, and father will let me go, I won't come up; so, if you don't see me, you may conclude we shall go.'

'Agreed, Sam.'

Sam was on good terms with the old man from whom he expected to get the boat, and found no difficulty on that score; it occupied him, however, the remainder of the afternoon in putting her in a condition suitable for their voyage, and even then it was but a frail concern to venture in, where at times the winds were strong and the waters rough. But Sam knew no fear; so taking the oars and thanking his old friend very heartily for his kindness, 'lay to,' and the little skiff flew through the smooth water like a bird.

He had accomplished, however, but one part of his work; he had yet to meet his father and obtain his consent, and his heart sunk within him when he thought of home, and the probable condition of things there. He had resolved what course to pursue—he had done wrong, he had spoken improperly to his parent, he must ask his forgiveness before he could be happy. But he knew not in what condition he might find that parent. He rowed his boat up to the rock where he had held the conversation with Jim and Ned—hauled her up on the shore as far as he was able, carried the stone anchor on land, and walked directly towards home, strong in good resolutions, and with some faint hope that things might be better than he feared. He gathered up the horse-shoes as he went along which he had collected on the beach in the afternoon, enough to make a good supper for his pigs; and throwing them over into their pen as he passed, was just entering the door of his dwelling when he met his father, who had his hat on and was going out. Sam saw at a glance that all was right—he cast his eyes down:

'Father, I'm sorry I spoke so this morning.'

'Oh, never mind now, Sam.' And as he saw Sam wiping his eyes, for the tears came fast, 'Never mind now, my boy; it has gone by, and a good many other things I hope too—go in and get your supper.'

Sam entered the room, happier than he had been for many a day; his mother's countenance was lighted up with a smile, and his little sister came up and whispered,

'Father ain't been to Grizzle's to day.' Sam looked at his mother and she at him—tears were glistening in both their eyes, but they told only of joy and hope.

He soon communicated to his mother his plan for the next day; she made no objections, only she hoped he would take care of himself.

'And may be you'd better speak to your father, Sam.'

Just then Mr. Oakum came in, and Sam proceeded at once to tell him what had been proposed, and what he had done about it.

'I thought I saw a boat laying up by the rock there, and I couldn't think where it came from—is that Andrew's skiff? don't it leak badly?'

'Oh, I've calked her, Father, she is tight as a whistle now.'

'Well, Sam, you must take care of yourself, you know it's rough sometimes round the point; you most keep close to shore, that skiff won't stand much. I don't think it will be of much use for you to go there, but you may try.'

Early the next morning—so early that a faint streak of light was barely visible in the east—Sam was off with his skiff, raking for clams and oysters as his share of the freight; and by the time Jim and Ned were at the shore with their baskets, he was ready to receive them.

CHAPTER II.

It was a bright and beautiful morning, the water as calm and peaceful as it was possible for water to be so near the restless ocean. Ned stood on the shore, delighted to see the little skiff cut her way through its glassy surface, and to hear the sound of Sam's oars reverberating for a great distance along the opposite shore.

He watched as it receded, until thinking it was about as far as he could make them hear, hallooed with his loudest call, 'Good bye, boys!' He saw them both look towards the shore, and heard in return, 'Good bye, Ned!' coming as from a great distance. He took off his hat and waved it, then went on his way to his daily task.

Sam, although not experienced in long excursions, knew enough of the labor of rowing, not to expend his strength at starting. They had ten miles to pass over before they could reach their place of destination, and the latter part would require much more exertion than the commencement of their voyage; so, like an experienced mariner, he made but little effort at first, and suffered his boat to flow along with the tide. Jim was quite a novice in such matters but Sam had placed him at the helm, and given him sundry directions how to steer.

'The tide is just beginning to fall, and I guess it will bring me up with the point without much rowing, if you will just keep her head right there?'

'I'll try, Sam; but don't you think I had better help you to row?'

'Oh, no; it's easy work now. She goes a pretty good jog; and I only just dip my oars and take them out again. I guess, though, there will be some pulling when we get round the point; but perhaps we shall have a little breeze, and then we can put up our sail.'

Sam's guessing turned out to be very correct; it required but little effort to make the point; and as they turned their course in the opposite direction to that in which they had been steering, and were no longer sheltered by the island which formed their beautiful harbor, but were fairly in the outer bay, across whose waters they could see the haze of the ocean and the white beacon that lighted its weary voyagers to their desired haven, the wind blew gently, and Sam lost no time in taking advantage of it; there was just enough to carry them along against the tide, which was no longer in their favor.

The fort to which our little voyagers were steering had been erected about ten years. It was intended to command the channel through which vessels of ordinary size must pass, in their way from the ocean to one of our most valuable cities. It was built with two tiers of ports, and of sufficient strength for heavy guns; and as our foreign relations were in an unsettled state, it had, at the period under consideration, its full complement of men. It was erected at some distance from the shore on a ledge of rocks which, at low water, formed a passage to the main land; but when the tide was in, a few only of the highest rocks could be seen.

The nearer they approached the place of their destination, the more serious did the matter appear to them.

'Do you think, Sam, there is danger they won't let us in?'

'I don't know; I hope not, Jim. It would be too bad, after all our trouble, not to get even a chance to sell any thing.'

'Well, Sam, we can but try, you know. We have only to tell them what we've come for;—but I say, Sam, it makes my heart beat to look at it: what high walls it has; and see, there are the sentinels walking up and down—how their guns glitter in the sunshine!'

'Halloo! halloo! where are you bound, my hearties?'

The boys were startled by the gruff tones in which they had been accosted; and, turning their eyes toward the shore from whence the sounds seemed to come, saw an elderly man dressed in a sailor's habit, seated on a rock, and beckoning to them, or rather, by a motion, endeavouring to stop their progress.

'Halloo! my boys; don't go ahead there, or you'll be foul of the rocks.'

Sam immediately turned the skiff toward the shore, and they were soon in close contact with the stranger. He was sitting on the rock, with one leg swinging backwards and forwards, and the stump of the other sticking straight out. His dress was a true sailor's rig, of blue originally, but now much soiled, and of many colors. Spots of tar were pretty well sprinkled over both, coat and trousers; vest he had none; but instead thereof, a dark blue shirt, trimmed around the collar and bosom with something that had once been white. On his head sat (for the crown was too low to permit much of any thing to enter into it) a glazed hat, which, from its bright appearance, had lately received a fresh coat of tar; large bushy locks of sandy-colored hair stood out from beneath, based by a thick mat of whiskers, extending under his chin, and covering his whole neck; while down his back hung a queue of enormous size, reaching nearly to the rock on which he sat. His features, what could be seen of them, were not forbidding, although very much doubled and twisted by the wear and tear of time and rough weather.

'We were going to the fort,' said Jim; 'and can you tell us, good man, if they will let us in!'

'That's accordin' as to what your business is—if you got an arr'nd to the major or his lady, or any of his folks, or to the lieutenant and his lady, or so on—why the case is, they'll have to pass you right in; but if it's only one of the privates you see, that's another thing.'

'But we have no particular errand to anybody; we have got a few things to sell, and would be glad to dispose of them at the fort.'

'Ay, ay, that's a new case—things to sell, ha! I guess it will depend upon what things you've got. If it's contraband goods, and you're thinking to git the better of Uncle Sam, you've come to the wrong market; the major'll make short work with you.'

'I don't know what you mean by contraband goods or trying to get the better of anybody,' said Jim; 'we only thought they might be in want of a few fresh vegetables and some strawberries.'

'Ay, ay, that's clean another case, there's no contraband in them; but where under the blessed heaven have you come from? these things can't grow nowheres round here.'

'I shouldn't think they could,' said Jim, looking significantly at the dreary waste of sand and stunted pine that spread as far as he could see; 'strawberries might grow up in the pines there, but I guess not such as these.' With that Jim stopped, and taking up a basket, pulled off the covering of green leaves, and held them out for the old man to look at.

'Of all sights my eyes ever looked at!—--'

'I think you'll find them as good as they look,' taking a double handful, and holding them out towards the old man.

'No, no,' shaking his weather-beaten face, 'I've no money to buy 'em; you must go to the major.'

'Take them and welcome, sir; I had no thought of asking you for pay; you're very welcome to them.'

'God bless your young heart!' and holding out his hands he soon showed that he knew how to dispose of them; as soon as he had finished he jumped down on his one leg, and adjusted his crutches.

'Now, my hearties, I tell you what do you do; steer that craft o' your'n right straight across to the fort, and just where you see that ledge of rocks ends, you'll come foul of a pair o' stairs; haul up there, and wait till I hobble round to my boat, and I'll be with you afore you've made all fast.'

Away went the old man, his crutches making the sand fly in his haste to get to his boat, which lay a short distance from where he had been sitting.

The boys obeyed his directions, and had scarcely made their boat fast, ere the old man was alongside.

'Now, my hearties, you just hold on awhile here, till I see the major.'

The moments seem long when we are in suspense, and our boys, in their anxiety, began to fear that they should see no more of the old sailor; it appeared so long, so very long that he stayed. After gazing intently at the gate until their eyes were aching, all at once the sentinel stopped, made a peculiar motion with his musket, and put his hand to his cap; a gentleman of fine appearance passed out, followed at a respectful distance by the crutches. He came directly to the stairs, and accosting the boys in a very pleasant manner, inquired where they had come from, and what they had for sale. Jim, in a straightforward, manly way, answered his queries.

'But, my little fellow, what ever put it into your head to come so far as this in search of a market?'

'We could think, sir, of no other place where there would be the least chance to sell any thing; the people in this region are too poor to buy such things.'

'You may well say so, my lad, and they are like to be so; for a lazier set I never saw; but I am glad to find that you, boys, are disposed to do something. Peter tells me that you have some choice things for sale.'

Peter, as we must call him hereafter, touched his hat when his name was mentioned, but otherwise remained perfectly still, at a respectful distance, saying nothing.

Jim immediately uncovered the different articles, and with his hat off, looked up at the officer, who smiled as he surveyed the little stock of goods.

'You have made out a pretty good assortment—those strawberries are fine, indeed; are there plenty such raised in your area?'

'None, sir, but in our garden; my father used to be very fond of fruit, and he taught us to raise it.'

'Is your father living?'

'He is not, sir.'

A shade of sadness at once passed over the countenance of the officer, and his eye settled more intently upon the boy.

'Well, my lad, have you fixed upon a price for your articles?'

'I leave that to yourself, sir, as I am entirely ignorant of their value.'

Major Morris then ordered the different articles to be measured, and putting down prices to them such as he was accustomed to pay, handed the paper to Jim.

'Not reckoning the strawberries, which I must pay something extra for, the amount is one dollar and a half.'

Jim looked up with astonishment.

'I have calculated them at city prices, but if that is not enough——'

'Oh yes, sir; yes, sir. I was not thinking of that; it is much more than I expected.'

'And now for the strawberries, what shall I say for them? they are finer than those I usually purchase.'

'Oh, sir, I cannot think of taking any thing for them, since you allow me so much for the others; if you will only let me take some out and give that good man there (pointing to Peter), you are welcome to the rest.'

'Certainly, certainly, here Peter.' But Peter had other views of the matter, and instead of advancing to receive them, made two or three retrograde steps with his crutches, at the same time putting his hand upon his long queue and smoothing it down—a custom of his when at all confused, and rolling a tremendous quid from one side of his mouth to the other.

'The young gentleman wishes to give you some of these, Peter.'

'Thankee, sir, thankee;' nodding his head very fast all the time; 'no occasion at all.'

'Well, Peter, since you refuse them, take this basket and hand it to Mrs. Morris yourself.'

'Ay, ay, sir;' and away went Peter in double-quick time.

In the meanwhile, Sam manifested no impatience, although somewhat anxious as to what would be his fate; the moment Jim could with propriety, he directed the attention of the gentleman to Sam's little heap of clams and oysters.

Sam took off the seaweed which he had thrown over them, and blushed deeply as he met the keen black eye of Major Morris, which having glanced a moment at them, was scrutinizing with apparent interest the appearance of their owner.

As Sam had no more idea of fixing a price than Jim had, the buyer was obliged to pay for them on his own terms; so handing him fifty cents, he said,

'I fear it will not compensate you for the trouble of bringing them so far, but it is the rate for which I buy them.'

Sam expressed his perfect satisfaction the best way he could; for the eye of the major was so long fixed upon him, that it quite took away his self-possession.

Having made arrangements to bring such articles as their garden afforded twice a week, with light and happy hearts, lighter and happier than can be well described, they pointed their sail and bent their course for home. The rock was to be their landing-place, and long before they reached it, Ned could be seen throwing stones and cutting capers with Jowler.

'Well, boys, how are you? what luck—sold any thing? I know by your looks you haven't!'

'How are you, Ned? any thing happened? You look sober.'

'No, nothing.'

All this was said while the boat was nearing shore, the moment it touched the land Ned was on board; he looked at the empty baskets, and then at Jim and Sam. Jim smiled, and held out his hand, full of silver pieces, and Sam held out his; and then they told him of their success, and what arrangements they had made for the future.

Ned was somewhat confounded at the good news; but no sooner did he comprehend it fully, than he took hold of both of them at once, shaking them, and pushing them about, and hallooing.

'How are you, boys? huzza! huzza!'

'Do, Ned, stop your noise, and don't carry on so; you'll have us all in the water.'

'Never mind, Jim, we'll soon work ourselves dry. Huzza! huzza!'

'I'm afraid you'll set the old boat a leaking, Ned.'

'Well, Sam, I'll stop; but how can you fellows keep so still when you've had such good luck?'

Sam would have been perfectly contented with the product of his clams and oysters for his day's work, but Jim would insist upon giving him a certain proportion of what he had received, which was finally fixed at one quarter; so that Sam was to have, besides all he could procure from the sale of his own articles, one-fourth of whatever other things were sold, as his pay for the boat, and his labor in rowing.

And when Sam took the money which Jim handed to him, and put it with what he had already received, and looked at it, a crowd of thoughts rushed into his mind. Parents, sisters, home, the past, the present, and the future—and that future bright with prospect of employment, and the means of making those he loved as happy as himself. He could make no answer to the cheerful 'Good bye' of Ned and Jim, but he turned his bright and glistening eye towards them; and they went on their way the happier that they saw how full of joy Sam was.

Sam kept his money in his hand until he reached home, and, going directly to his mother, put the whole of his treasure into her lap.

'Why, Sam, where did you get all this?'

'Earned it, mother;' and then he told her all about it, and what he was expecting to do in future.

'Oh,' said his mother, laying down her work, and clasping her hands together in strong emotion, 'isn't this good! And now, Sam, you'll have something to do all the time, and may be, your father will help you; and may be he'll feel encouraged to do different; and may be——.' But the hope of what might be, was too bright for her to utter it; and so she sat and looked at Sam, and then she turned and looked out at the window; and who can tell what a pleasing picture was painted out before her on the sandy shore and the glassy river.

Sam had designed that his mother should keep the money, and use it for their need; but she refused.

'No, no; keep it yourself, Sam; or, if you please, hand it to your father. I see he's coming yonder, and all seems to be right with him.'

And so it proved; he had been to work for a neighbor where no restraint would have been placed upon his appetite; but, strange to say, he had not indulged. He had received no money for his services, for there was seldom any of that to be got; but he had a bunch of fish in one hand, and a kettle with flour in the other.

'Why, Sam, you got back? that is clever. What luck? not much, I guess.'

Sam made no reply, but as soon as his father had laid down his things he handed out his little store.

'Here, father, please to take this.'

'Why, Sam, you didn't sell your things for all this, did you?'

And then Sam told him all the story, while his father looked in amazement at the money, and at Sam, and then at his wife; as soon as he had finished he held out his hand.

'Here, my boy, go give it to your mother; it's better with her than with me.'

'No, father, I'd rather you would take it, and do what you please with it.'

Blessings on you, Sam, that you had the good sense and good feeling to answer as you did. You have poured a cordial into that father's heart, which will do more to heal his weaknesses, and strengthen his good resolutions, than could have been done by all the world beside. He feels that he is yet a father, all is not lost—his children yet trust in him—the bright happy look of that boy has accomplished a work which an angel would gladly have been commissioned to perform. God bless you, Sam, for this one act, to your latest day.

'Well, Sam, then keep it yourself, and add as much to it as you can; for you are a good boy.'

'They shall have it tho' yet, in some way or other,' said Sam to himself, as he put it into his little chest. 'I shan't keep it for myself; that I shan't.'

It would have required two smart talkers to have answered all Ned's questions as fast as he put them; and as Jim never talked fast, he was not half through answering when they reached home: their lively conversation brought their mother out to meet them as they were entering the front yard.

'Oh mother, what do you think? Jim has sold all the things for ever so much; see the empty baskets, and (striking Jim's pocket) hear that—hear the money jingle.'

Both smiled at Ned's earnestness; and entering the house, a little circle was soon formed around Jim, who went through with his story in his own way.

'And now, mother,' said Ned, as soon as his brother had finished, 'you'll see how I can work; and if you will only give me a little bite of something, I will go at once and finish my hoeing, for I was so anxious to see the boys come back, that I have done nothing all the afternoon but look over to the point.'

'You now feel, boys, the benefit of having been taught to work; it is no hardship to you now.'

'Why, mother, I would rather work than play.'

'You thought differently the other day, Ned.'

'I know that, Jim; but you see the case is altered—that plan of yours which I laughed so much about, makes altogether a great difference. I don't believe any body would want to work just for the sake of it, would they, mother?'

'No doubt, my dear, we need some stimulus to make us exert ourselves cheerfully; but your father always said that it was better to be at work, even if it did not amount to much; it was impossible, he said, for an idle person to be happy.'

Mrs. Montjoy said but little by way of encouragement, for she saw that the boys were both highly elated with their success and the prospect before them; but she secretly admired and gratefully acknowledged the overruling of that kind Providence, which had opened a way for her children's usefulness and the supply of their wants.

The next morning Jim and Ned did not need to be awaked; there was real business on their hands now, and they must use their time to the best advantage; so at it they went while the sun was but just rising, and by the time their breakfast was prepared, had completed hilling their cabbages: as they ceased work, Jim leaned on his hoe, and looking at his brother,—

'I've been thinking, Ned, what we've got to do.'

'I knew you'd been thinking, for you haven't spoken a word this half hour; twice I asked you about old Peter, and you only answered, "Ha!"'

'Did I, Ned? well, I was thinking what we are going to do about these cabbages.'

'I don't see any thing to do about them; ain't they well hoed?'

'Yes, they are doing well enough; but what will the cow do!'

'Why, eat them; I am sure none of us wants them.'

'Yes, but Ned, how can the cow have them if we sell them?'

'That, to be sure; but where can we put any more—the garden is full?'

'We can put one here, and another there, and there in those vacant spots; there will be room for one hundred heads and more.'

'Well, Jim; any thing more?'

'Yes, I've been thinking where we could plant some more potatoes.'

'There is no use of thinking about that, Jim; for when these cabbages are planted, every spot will be occupied; you don't think of digging up the walks, do you?'

'No, not exactly that, Ned; but there is that strip of turf, south of the path running to the barn; the grass is of no value, and if mother would let us take it, we might turn it over with our spades, and raise twenty bushels of potatoes there.'

'Any thing else, Jim?'

'That will do for to-day, won't it, Ned?'

'I think we shall find it will—it makes my back ache already to think about that digging. I wish it was a little cooler.'

The pleasant voice of their little sister was now heard calling them to breakfast, for which they were both well prepared by their early labors.

CHAPTER III.

Sam's first care after awaking on the morning which succeeded the scenes in the last chapter, was to make some arrangement with old Mr. Andrews for the boat. The old man was of the easy sort; he had never done much when young, and now in advanced life depended entirely for the few clams he wanted upon his son, who lived a short distance from him, and was growing up in his father's likeness.

'You're welcome, Sam, to use the boat as long as you're amind to, and I won't ax you nothin' for it; only once in awhile you may bring the old woman a few clam.'

'I thank you very much, Uncle John; I will take good care of the boat, and will bring you some clams every day.'

'Oh, no, no, no, Sam; I don't want no sich thing as that; only once in a while, you see. Jack, he's a gettin' lazy like, and sometimes the old woman gets tired of fish, and then a few clams is a kind of change for her.'

Sam's next business was to visit Mr. Grizzle's store, that he might purchase some article his mother needed.

'There shan't be no more trust, if I can help it,' said he, as he took up his money-box, and put some of its precious contents into his pocket. It was quite early in the day, yet several of Mr. Grizzle's customers were already assembled when Sam reached the store; he had a great reluctance to enter it, associated as it was in his mind with all that had been dark and sorrowful in his past experience; but nowhere else could supplies be obtained. Old Mr. Grizzle was busy behind his counter, twirling the toddy-stick, saying smart things, or what he took to be so, for he laughed very heartily at his own wit; and his customers, poor souls! were so much in his debt that they were obliged to laugh too.

Sam glanced his eye over them all—some were bald with age; some in the prime of life; and one, he knew him well, a lad but two years older than himself, was draining the last sweet drop from the cup of poison as Sam stepped up to the counter.

'Mr. Grizzle, what do you charge for seven pounds of flour?'

'What do I charge?' At the same time putting his spectacles upon his forehead.

'Yes, sir, what is the price?'

'The price, boy? Why, how does your father want it? for fish or for trust?'

'We don't want it for neither, sir, but for the money.'

'Ah!—the money. Well, I s'pose we must try to let you have it a little less; but flour is plaguy dear any how, and I aint got none but rye.'

Sam succeeded in procuring a small deduction, and with that he purchased some tar.

'I shall tar my boat with what I have saved by paying the money,' said Sam to himself, as he laid down his cash on the counter; then taking up his goods went straight on his way.

'That seems to be rather a 'cute boy, Mr. Grizzle—that young Oakum.'

'The younker, I guess, will go ahead of the old man,' said Grizzle, as he dropped the money Sam had given him through a little hole in the counter.

An old man, with his thin white locks dangling on his shoulders, placed his half-emptied tumbler on the bench beside him, and turning his head very emphatically on one side, said, 'Oakum is naturally a smart man, and he has got a clever wife, but somehow he don't get along much—no better than the rest of us.'

'And what is the reason, Uncle John,' said another, addressing the last speaker, 'that we are all so poor?'

'Why, I s'pose it's to be so—it's our luck, as I take it.'

'Our luck?' said the young man, who stood by the door with his hands in his pockets, looking at the receding form of Sam Oakum, whose light steps were carrying him far on his way—he laid a strong emphasis on the word luck.

'Yes, as I take it, it's our luck; a man may work ever so hard, but if luck is agin him, it's no use.'

'Yes, it is use,' said the same young man; 'that is, if a man would let rum alone—that makes the bad luck; I wish there had never been a drop made.'

'What's that you say, Bill? I guess your bitters is gone down the wrong way this morning.' And old Grizzle laughed heartily, and so did his customers. Bill, as he was called, laughed a little too, but not as the rest did.

'S'pose you mix Bill another glass, Mr. Grizzle, and see how that will go?' And they all laughed again; and to carry the joke through, Grizzle did prepare another glass, and placing it on the counter,

'There, try that, Bill; but may be you darsen't, you seem to be so afraid all at once.'

Bill hesitated a moment; the fear of ridicule was too powerful. He seized the glass, and pouring its contents hastily down his throat, left the store amidst the uproarious laughter of his companions.

Jim and Ned had collected a much larger quantity of vegetables for their second trip, and to the baskets of strawberries which they designed as gifts, added a beautiful nosegay of the earlier flowers.

'Strawberries and flowers,' said Sam, as he was pushing the boat from the shore; 'your things look tempting indeed; I guess old Peter will hop round when he sees these.'

'I have brought that small basket on purpose for him; and the flowers I thought the ladies might be pleased with—I don't think they see many where they are.'

'It almost makes me feel bad, Jim, to think that I have nothing to carry worth looking at.'

'Why, it is all one concern, you know, Sam; and I mean to have you hand them the flowers.'

'I shan't do it, Jim—I should make a pretty figure, with my old patched clothes and bare feet, handing flowers to ladies and gentlemen!'

'Sam Oakum, if you talk so, you'll make me feel bad; who cares for your clothes?'

'You don't Jim, I know; but all don't feel as you and Ned do—Keep her head to the point, Jim, straight as you can.'

Sam had much more rowing to do than on the former trip, the wind not coming quite so soon to their aid.

Peter was on the look-out for them, and hailed them before they reached the landing.

'Halloo, my hearties! keep her jist about so—there—ease up—in with your oars; you've had a long pull to-day—but you'll learn to take it sailor-fashion after a while.'

The boys were very busy fastening their boat and taking down their sail, and did not at the moment perceive that any one was present but the old sailor, until attracted by the bunch of flowers lying on one of the baskets, he exclaimed,—

'Susie, Susie, look here! did you ever see such posies as these?'

Sam at once seated himself in the stern of the boat, as far out of the way as possible; while Jim, taking up the flowers, handed them to Peter, and blushing very much,—

'These are for the lady, if you will be so good as to give them to her—and this basket of strawberries; and here is one for yourself, sir, if you will please accept it.'

'Bless your young hearts, to think of the old sailor. I thank you kindly, boys; but'—putting his face down to Jim, and whispering—'you won't mind my giving them to this little pet of mine;'—then raising himself up—'Here, Susie, you carry these flowers to your Ma, and I'll carry the strawberries;'—then stooping down again, and speaking in a low voice—'the Major will be here pretty soon; he's busy now—you won't be none the loser for these, I tell you. He's a real gentleman, and a liberal soul, and he's got plenty to do with.' And the old man shook his head very knowingly, making his long queue, as it stuck out in the air, perform some strange manoeuvres; the boys, however, were diverted from observing its wonderful gyrations by a sudden attraction towards the flowers. It must have been that Peter's rapturous praises, or the delight which they seem to have afforded Miss Susan, had unfolded new beauties to our boys, for their eyes followed the flowers, even when the young lady buried her pretty face among them to enjoy a fulness of their fragrance—it could not possibly have been any thing else, Sam was so very bashful, and Jim so very discreet—but their eyes followed the flowers, even until the lovely little maiden that carried them was lost to their view, and entered the castle gate.

Major Morris appeared well pleased with the variety Jim had brought, and arranged every thing, as to price and measurement, in the same business manner as before. He then proceeded to speak with him in reference to a supply for the ensuing winter, enumerating a variety of articles, and among them beans and potatoes.

'Potatoes we shall have, sir, and perhaps a few beans.'

'I wish to engage three hundred bushels of potatoes, to be well selected, and of good size, and fifty bushels of beans. If you choose to make a contract to deliver me these articles in the fall'—at the same time handing to Jim a strip of paper with the prices annexed—'on these terms, you can do so; and if you have not so many of your own, you can doubtless purchase them of your neighbors, so as to pay you well for your trouble.'

The boys were so confounded by the magnitude of the business proposed to them, that when the Major ceased speaking, Sam looked at Jim and he at Sam, and neither of them the wiser for any thing gained from the countenance of the other—until Sam, as though it was more than he could stand under, sat down; in doing so, however, he stumbled over his clams and oysters, which attracted the notice of the Major to them.

'Ah, what have you got there? clams and oysters? I had like to have forgotten to inquire for them.'

This brought Sam to his senses again; clams and oysters, almost in any quantities, were familiar to him, but where three hundred bushels of potatoes and fifty bushels of beans were to come from, was beyond his comprehension. He soon had his part of the cargo on shore, and as Major Morris handed him the money, thanked him in a very civil manner.

It was some time before Jim gave any reply to the proposal which had been made to him, he was so absorbed in thinking; his mind had to run over all the names of persons likely to have such articles for sale, and the probable quantity each might be willing to spare. At length, after thanking Major Morris for giving him such a chance—for he had sense enough to perceive that it was all in kindness that the offer had been made—he agreed to accept it.

'And now, my lads, you must go with me, as Mrs. Morris wishes to thank you personally for the flowers and fruit.'

Again the boys looked at each other, and Sam turned very pale and then very red, and finally sat down, and made signs to Jim to go along.

Jim knew that it would not be proper to hesitate under such circumstances, so he prepared at once to follow; while Peter, who always observed the most perfect silence in the presence of the Major, as soon as he saw him on the way to the fort, began to make the most furious gestures imaginable, motioning with his head so violently, that his queue flew round behind him like a fly-brush; and when he thought there was no danger of being overheard,—

'Go along; go along, I say! he's axed you himself—go along; it will be the makin' of you.'

But it was of no avail. Sam shook his head and sat still, until the old man, having exhausted his means of persuasion, took a seat beside him, muttering something about 'dumb-founded perverseness.'

Jim had a great curiosity to see what was within the walls of the fort; but he had only time to catch a glimpse of large guns on wheel-carriages, and soldiers with glittering muskets; for Major Morris passed quickly on, and opening a side door in the hall, was at once in an elegantly furnished apartment, and in the presence of several fine-looking ladies and the little girl, who still held the bunch of flowers in close contact with her face.

Jim was not allowed to suffer the least embarrassment; for immediately on his entrance Mrs. Morris arose, and coming toward him with a pleasant smile and kindly salutation, thanked him so heartily for the present he had sent to her, and talked so familiarly with him about his home and his garden, that he felt as much freedom as though he had been long acquainted.

'I regret exceedingly,' said Mrs. Morris, 'that I have nothing to offer you in return for such beautiful fruit; but you must not refuse to taste some of my cake. Susie, lay down your flowers, if you can part with them so long, and hand that plate to our young visitor.'

Susie did at once as she was bidden: but she looked so very serious about it, and walked so very slowly, that Jim would just at that moment have preferred being in the boat by the side of Sam. She came directly towards him with the silver plate in her hand, and some rich-looking cake lying on it; so he had no alternative but to step towards her, and in the politest manner he could, select a piece. His attention was, of necessity, directed to the plate; but he could not help giving a glance at other things. And indeed, Jim, you are not to blame for blushing as you did, when you encountered the gaze of those sweet blue eyes, which, in all the unaffected simplicity of youth, were fastened upon you. Her golden-colored hair, parted smoothly from the fair forehead, and hung in such a cluster of curls upon her snow-white neck—the rich color that painted her parting lips, just tinged with the slightest blush her dimpled cheek. She meant nothing by her gaze; it was only the expression of an innocent curiosity in reference to the young gentleman she was waiting upon. His clothes, to be sure, were coarse, and such as well became the work in which he was engaged; but his collar was very white, and neatly tied with a black ribbon; and his light-brown hair, so soft and silky; his fair complexion, his pleasant voice, and good manners, all made a contrast which she did not understand; and it would seem that some of the company present, much older than Susie, were equally surprised.

'What a fine, manly-looking boy! and how well he behaves,' said Mrs. Morris, as soon as Jim had retired, to an elderly lady richly dressed, and who, from the peculiar glance she gave to another lady much younger than herself, while Mrs. Morris and Susie were paying so much attention to our Jim, felt anything but satisfied at the scene.

'I say, aunt, what a fine little fellow that is!'

'Well, Lettie,' said the elderly lady, shaking her sides a little, as though it was something so ludicrous that she must laugh—she could not help it, 'I didn't see anything very extraordinary. Where is he from? who is he? a son of some of the gentlemen down in the pines here? Mary and I saw some specimens of their houses—a mansion or two;' and the old lady laughed so heartily, that she could say nothing more, and the young lady had to put her handkerchief to her face to hide the emotion which was agitating her. Mrs. Morris was aware of the peculiarities of this lady, an aunt of her husband's, and as she unintentionally had opened the way for a long lecture on the plebeian notions of herself and husband, she was much relieved by the entrance of the Major, who, full of praises of 'those manly little fellows,' as he called Jim and Sam, whom he had just parted with, drew upon himself the storm which Mrs. Morris came near enduring alone.

'I felt disposed to laugh, I must say, Philip,' addressing the Major, 'to see Lettie paying as much personal respect and attention to a little market boy, as it seems he is, as though he had belonged to one of our best and most respectable families. I say, I felt at first disposed to laugh, but I must say, Philip,' and the old lady straightened herself in a very decided manner, and began fanning herself very earnestly—'I must say, that when I saw that dear child, at her mother's bidding, waiting upon a young clown as though he had been a very gentleman, and when I thought what blood ran in her veins, it fired my indignation. Such things ought not to be, Philip; you will demolish all distinctions in society, or at any rate, bring your own family to feel that it is no matter whom they associate with, and that one is as good as another.'

The Major suffered his aunt to 'say her say out,' and, knowing as he did what reason he had personally to set a high estimate on the pedigree to which she seemed to think it was such an honor to be allied, was designing some palpable hits for the special benefit of his kindred, drawn from his own experience; but being a wise man, as well as a noble-hearted one, he concluded to treat the matter as he saw his wife was doing, and laugh it off.

'Why, aunt! I thought you had given me up long ago as an incorrigible boy, who would have his own way. You know, aunt, I began very early in life to do as I pleased; and having worked my own way up the ladder so far, it is not strange if I should be a little headstrong, or my notions of such matters as you have touched upon somewhat peculiar.'

His good aunt had heard enough to refresh her memory on a matter that, now the subject of it had, as he reminded her, raised himself to distinction, she, as well as the rest of his kindred, would have been willing should pass into oblivion; and was well satisfied when the Major invited her and the other ladies to walk with him upon the ramparts to witness a fine sight, the passing of a ship of the largest class, under full sail.

This lady and her daughter will not be subjects of our story; so I will not trouble the reader with any farther description of them. They belong to a class often met with in the common walks of life, who, because of some imaginary value which they attach to the ancestry from which they have descended, gauge their estimate of others by what they think to be the equality, or inequality, of their station to that which they suppose themselves to occupy. Major Morris estimated society by a different standard; and, as we shall have much to do with him, it may be well to trace the causes which led him thus to judge.

He was born in a part of our country where the distinctions which formerly prevailed between the classes of society were still kept up. His parents were allied to those who claimed the higher ranks of life as theirs by birth, and struggled hard to maintain their station; but poverty and death are great levellers, and young Morris found himself, at twelve years of age, an orphan, without a home, or the means of support, except that which was afforded him by the charity of his kindred. He was invited by an uncle to make his house a home, and for a while enjoyed the privilege of dwelling within a splendid mansion, and faring sumptuously, and mingling amongst the gay youth that thronged where abundance flowed. But he soon found that poverty was thought to be a disgrace, even in nearest kin, by those who would have scorned the idea of his engaging in any lawful calling whereby he could have earned his bread, if that calling was not one which, in their view, his peculiar class could engage in. Young Morris knew nothing of such distinctions; but he knew that he was poor, and was made, on more than one occasion, to feel his dependence. His high spirit rebelled; he left his place of refuge, and took shelter beneath the roof of a poor family, with whom he labored for a time most cheerfully in earning his daily bread. From thence he obtained employment in one of our large cities in the mercantile line; but as he reached the age in which generally a choice is made of an occupation for life, his feelings prompted to the military profession. Through the influence of a friend, whom his own correct deportment had gained, he obtained a commission. His strict attention to all the rules of the service, his entire devotedness to every duty committed to him, and his well-established reputation as a noble-minded and chivalrous officer, gave him favor in high places, and he rose rapidly to the grade he then held. To a commanding appearance and most polished manners, he united a kind and benevolent heart, warm in its sympathies towards every object of distress; and he would have poured out full streams to every child of want, to the very extent of his ability. But well for him, as for those he would aid, he had learned not only to bring others under wholesome discipline, but himself also; he had learned that some of our best feelings must be under subjection to prudent counsel, and that he who scatters in profusion, even from the promptings of a noble heart, is as likely to do evil as good. He had abundance to bestow, for he had married a lady of great wealth, and the whole responsibility of its proper use was devolved on him; his lovely wife had not only committed herself, but all she possessed, entirely to him. 'She wanted nothing to call her own,' she said, 'but her husband's heart.'

Nothing could have been more gratifying to Major Morris than his introduction to our boys. He could sympathise in their feelings; he could value properly their enterprising spirit, and he had an opportunity of indulging his kindness of heart in a way that would stimulate them to exertion.

It would be no easy task to describe the happiness which our boys Jim and Sam enjoyed, as they drew their skiff to shore that evening, and separated, each for their several homes. Sam found every thing as peaceful as his heart could wish, while the wonderful story which he had to tell excited the astonishment of his parents.

'I don't believe tho', Sam,' said his father, 'you will find so many beans and potatoes to sell in all this place; and then I don't see how you are goin' to carry them, nor how you are goin' to pay for them.'

'I don't know much about it, father; but I guess Jim will work it out some way. He didn't hardly speak a word all the way home; he was thinking, I know.'

'Perhaps he may manage it, somehow; but I don't well see through it all, Sam. I can't do much for you myself; only if I had the stuff, I might build you a bigger boat, and one that would stand the waves better than the old one you've got.'

'Oh, would you, father?' and Sam's eyes began to glisten; and his mother, good soul, had to wipe away the tears that her joyful heart could not restrain—some of the may-bes which had so lately played in pleasant vision before her, were indeed realised.

CHAPTER IV.

The place where the scene of this story is laid, I have said was a lone village; it had no communication with other places by means of boats, although its water privileges were abundant; and between it and neighbouring towns intervened an extent of country, consisting of pine-barrens, where no settlements could exist, or at least any that deserved the name. There were those, however, who dwelt amid its dreary solitudes, and called it home. Scattered here and there upon an area of ten to fifteen miles square, might be seen, sometimes alone and sometimes in clusters of three or four, a few miserable dwellings, made principally of logs. A door, and one window without glass, were the only openings to these abodes; and a rude chimney running up against the outside, formed a receptacle for the pine logs, which blazed often through the long winter nights, the only light they could afford, as well as almost their only protection from the searching cold.

Poverty and wretchedness generally make sad havoc with the human frame; the haggard countenance, the dry and skinny hands, the stoop, the feeble, tottering gait, we expect and look for, when visiting abodes that betoken destitution. But miserable as was the appearance of these dwellings, the aspect of their inhabitants was generally that of health and sufficiency; their swarthy complexions, and fine athletic forms, almost compelled the traveller through these lonely regions to believe that he had alighted upon a tribe of those sons of the forest who once called our country all their own.

The moral character of this people was in keeping with the aspect of their dwellings. Having no regular religious instruction, seldom hearing the voice of a living teacher, with scarce a Bible to be found within their gloomy houses, they were but little in advance of the heathen as to religious knowledge, and far too near allied to them in many of their vicious habits.

They earned their daily bread by laboring amid the lofty and dense forests, in levelling the majestic pines, cutting them into lengths suitable for transportation, and conveying them to the outskirts of the barrens: their hire was but a pittance when considered as a remuneration for their toil, but it enabled them to live; it procured for them food, coarse indeed, but enough to satisfy their appetite, and the plain and simple clothing which necessity demanded, or to which perhaps their taste aspired.

The owners of these forests lived at some distance, and employed an agent to attend to all the various labors of preparing the timber and conveying it to market.

Cross, the individual employed for this business, had grown up amid these solitudes, and labored with his axe for some years. Gifted by nature with shrewdness, and not very particular on the score of morality, he had managed to obtain the post he occupied, and with most of the proprietors stood on good terms; he was active, prompt, and efficient, and perhaps, for the business intrusted to him, did as well as any one could. But he was, beyond measure, grasping and avaricious; and as he could not well gain undue advantage from those who employed him, being bound by contracts not easily evaded, he made up such deficiency by 'grinding the faces' of the poor laborers.

Without any means of gaining a livelihood besides, they had become entirely dependent on the good-will of Mr. Cross. He fixed their wages, supplied them from his store with the necessaries of life at his own price, and in that way managed to bring them, at the close of every month, either without any surplus, or most generally a trifle in debt.

On the border of these barrens, and near the principal scene of our story, lived the widow Mary Brown; her husband had been one of the woodcutters, an intemperate man, who had caused her much trouble while he lived, and when he died left her with two orphans. She had to struggle hard to support herself and little ones. But as a light in a dark place, so was this widow among these outcasts. She was generally known throughout the region where she lived, and the wildest and most abandoned never brought against her a railing accusation—they never spoke lightly of her not her religion; for the garb of piety she wore was so unassuming, the light that shone around her humble path was so mild and unobtrusive:—

Like the soft fleecy cloud at the close of day,
That far in the west where the sun's last ray
Rests bright on its bosom—its mellow light
Steals to our heart, as we gaze in delight;
No glare to dazzle, we love to view
Its changing tints and its golden hue.

Having a very humbling view of herself, she felt great pity for the deluded ones around her; she never chid them for their follies, but would weep and pray in secret, and when called to watch at their dying bed, she had such a quiet, happy way of holding up before the weak and guilty spirit the Saviour in his love and pity, that many a poor wanderer took courage from her message of mercy, and ere the spirit fled, it was enabled to look in faith, and go its lone way in peace. Wherever sorrow or sickness visited, there was she sent for, as one who carried with her a charm that could neutralize their power.

Her dwelling was a log hut like those in that vicinity, but it had an air of comfort the others had not. Her plain door was white-washed, and a little curtain hung across the window; and there was a box of flowers by the step, and every useless thing was removed from around the house, and the ground swept neatly, and beneath some of the large pines that afforded a grateful shade to her lonely abode, were rude seats, as though made for the wayfaring man, on which to rest and be refreshed.

Her children, though helpless little ones when their father died, had now grown up to an age when each of them, in different ways, could materially aid her. She felt no longer a dread of want, although often sighing in secret that her son was compelled to labor with those whose example could only lead astray, and that her daughter had no brighter prospect than a residence among these uncultivated foresters. But she had done what she could. Of worldly wisdom she knew nothing; but she had a Bible, and could read it. Its requirements and its doctrines were all plain to her, she loved them, and taught them to her children; they learned passages from them on the long, still Sabbath days, and as she sat in the shade of the large pines by her door, they would come and sit near her, to hear and listen to some story she would tell them of those whose names have been recorded, and their history handed down for the benefit of every coming generation. But other influences have now begun to exert a counteracting power; William is eighteen, a man in size and strength, a hardy laborer, and much from home. He still brings all he earns, or nearly all, to the common stock; he still reverences his mother, and listens to her instructions, and treats with kindness his only sister; but rumours have reached his home that his chosen associates were some whose names had become by-words for rude and evil doings, and any heart but a mother's would have given up his chance for any future good.

'She had hope for William,' she said, 'although he might be led astray by evil companions.'

And she had good cause for hoping—for she had fastened to his heart that golden chain, each link of which a mother's prayers and gentle teachings and untiring love had formed. He felt its power even in his hours of revelling, and although he never met with an upbraiding word or look from her, his conscience had no rest.

The daughter was all that her mother could ask; she had no desire to depart from the beautiful precepts of the Bible—because she loved them. Her mind was active, thoughtful, and discerning beyond her years; of kind and generous disposition, ever ready for any work of love, and cheerful and happy in the consciousness of good-will to all. Her moral character was well matched with a beauty of person rarely found, even under every advantage. Hettie had no ornaments to set off her beauty, and no graces imparted by culture to heighten the natural ease of her movements; her complexion, though dark, was brightened by the rich color which adorned her cheeks, and her jet-black eyes were softened by the long dark lashes that gave to their expression almost the languor of a southern clime, while her dark hair dangled in luxuriant curls, very much to her annoyance, for she often said:—

'She did wish her hair was straight like other girls; it was always getting into such a tangle.'

As Mrs. Brown—or the Widow Brown, as she was universally called—lived nearer to the open and more cultivated settlement than any of the other inhabitants of the barrens, she was well known among the farmers' families, although intimate with very few. Hettie had some associates there, which her mother preferred for her to those in her own immediate vicinity. Of these, the family of the Widow Andrews was one to which they were peculiarly attached. They could sympathize with each other; the mothers were both widows, and each had two children of about the same age. They both loved good things; they could converse bout their past trials, and present hopes and fears. But while many things in their circumstances were similar, there were others in which they were very unlike to each other; for the Widow Andrews was much under the power of strong natural feelings, easily excited by joy or grief, and her passions when aroused seemed at times to know no bounds: no sooner was a chord struck that touched a tender point in her heart, than she would begin to talk very rapidly and to weep freely; her words flowing faster and faster, and louder and louder, until, between weeping and talking, she would finally break into a flood of tears, and all was over.

The Widow Brown was aware of this weakness in her neighbor, and lamented it, for she knew that at times it did real evil; but there were so many things that she loved her for, this she considered as a mere weakness, for which she should be pitied.

In reference to worldly goods, too, there was a dissimilarity. The Widow Andrews had a much better house, although a very plain one; still it was called a house, and not a log hut; and she had a few acres of land attached to it, and a small barn, old and shackling to be sure, and a few head of cattle, and had been enabled, hitherto, to make out to live in a very frugal way from her own resources.

Mary, her daughter, was not pretty, like Hettie Brown, nor was she so intelligent; but she had a kind heart, and was obedient to her mother, and being about Hettie's age, the two girls became much attached.

The son had promised fair to be a support to his mother, and a good member of society, but a dark cloud had arisen upon all such prospects—bad company had now begun to have attractions for him. He neglected his work, disobeyed his mother, lost his ambition, and was in a fair way to make a wreck of body and soul. His mother had been proud of her William—of his good behavior, of his efficiency at work, of his industrious habits; and not a little proud was she of his fine appearance—it was a mother's weakness; but we will not judge her harshly. He had, indeed, a very pleasant expression to his countenance; his lively eye looked so kindly at you; there was such a play of roguishness and good-nature about his mouth; and when he spoke, a musical voice brought out the words so soft and clear—all tended to interest both friends and strangers. But all the love which his mother bore towards him, and all her pride in him, caused her to be more violent in her rebukes. She poured out such a torrent of invective at him, that much as he felt he deserved her displeasure, he could not stand the violence of it. Every bad feeling of his heart was aroused; he began to dread his home and his mother's voice, and sought refuge where, alas! ruin alone could be the end thereof.

He was now eighteen years of age, and as my reader was first introduced to him at Mr. Grizzle's store, we will follow him as he left that den of evil. His conscience was troubled; there was something in the appearance and behavior of Sam Oakum that morning, that revived the memory of what he himself had once been. We saw how he watched Sam when he left the store, as far his eye could follow him; how madly he poured down the offered glass, and rushed from the scene of his shame.

Whither to direct his steps he knew not, but onward he went; he was glad to be in the open air, it was so much better than the poisonous atmosphere he had just left. Soon his attention was arrested by the appearance of a dwelling and its precincts that he was about to pass. It was a scene of desolation—the house and all its accompaniments; the windows stuffed with every variety of color and substance to supply the places of broken panes; the door hung sideways by one hinge, the boards loose and flapping against the timbers of the house, the roof broken in, and apparently ready to fall upon the inmates, and the inclosures around the place lying prostrate or scattered about the grounds. A woman was outside, picking up what rubbish she could meet with to replenish the fire; sorrow was plainly marked upon her withered features; and as she walked into the house with a few faggots in her hand, there was such a deadness in her step, such a bowing down under the weight of some too heavy burden—ambition, comfort, hope, all seemed to have departed, and left her in her misery with a broken spirit.

William halted in his rapid course; he looked upon the scene and considered it well.

This was the house of one of those whom he had just left; the one most forward to complain of bad luck, and who joined most heartily in the laugh which had been excited at his expense. He had been familiar with this place; often had he seen it, just as it then appeared, but never had its desolate condition affected him before;—a light from heaven seemed pouring upon it, and singling it out from all other objects. He could look at nothing else. 'It was the vineyard of the man void of understanding, and the field of the slothful; the stone wall thereof was broken down; it was all grown over with thorns, and nettles covered the face thereof.'

William looked upon it, and received instruction: slowly and sadly he passed along.

A little by-road now crossed the public highway. Instinctively almost, he turned into it; the trees which lined it formed a grateful shade, and seemed to invite him therein to cool his heated, feverish frame.

Near to this path, and not far from the highway he had left, was a pure, bright, bubbling spring; it came up through the clean white sand, and the green turf formed its only curb. On one side it had cleared an opening, and meandered away through a little bed of fine gravel stones, which sparkled in the sunbeams as they stole through the branches of the willows which encircled the fountain. His throat parched with thirst, and his mind and body in an excited condition, he threw himself upon the velvet turf, and allayed his thirst from the pure stream. He tried to think, but his thoughts ran wild into each other; he turned his head towards the roots of one of the willows, and rested it there. It throbbed against the cool green turf; its coolness was refreshing to him, and there he slept.

Hettie Brown had that morning left her home in the barrens to do an errand for her mother in Mr. Grizzle's store; she stopped at the Widow Andrews', and found the mother and daughter in tears, and had to listen to a long tale of William's delinquencies.

'And he's gone off to Grizzle's, now again, I know he has; and there he'll sit and drink, and he'll come home drunk yet one of these days, and he'll be a drunkard and a vagabond.'

And the good woman went off into another hard crying spell. Hettie made no reply; she was not in the habit of talking much, nor did she shed any tears—she was not given to that either. A few expressions of sympathy she dropped as she parted from Mary, telling her to hope for the best, and making a short call, went on her way to the store.

She was anxious to see William, and therefore she hastened her steps. She seemed to feel a consciousness of power to lead him away from the path of ruin. He had been her playmate when a little child; nor had he ever, by word or deed, done aught to offend her. The intimacy of childhood had indeed passed away—her wise mother had cautioned her on matters referring especially to William, and of late she had seldom seen him; but she felt that she possessed an influence over him, and she meant now to exert it.

As she crossed the by-path we have already mentioned, she thought of the little spring, and how refreshing it would be to drink of its cool water. She turned, and followed the path towards the willows which marked the spot.

When William Andrews awoke, it was from a troubled dream, and the quiet which surrounded him was grateful to his spirits. He arose and drank freely from the spring—the birds were singing sweetly in the hedges and on the trees; there was no sound beside, but the rippling of the little rill that stole gently away from the fountain where he had slaked his thirst. His feelings, late so hurried and disturbed, were calm—the storm had lulled, a dark and dreadful gulf seemed to have been passed, and now he was upon a path where all above and around him combined to make it light and pleasant. This change, however, was but the effect of that rest which sleep had given to his frame; 'twas the pure fresh feeling which the soul enjoys when waked by morning's dawn, before the hopes and fears, the business and the cares of life, have time to urge their claims. Scarce had he quenched his thirst, and fully awaked to a consciousness of his situation, ere the scenes of the morning rushed back upon him. As the tumult of his thoughts arose, he stood and leaned against one of the willows, and cast his eye down at the little fountain, bubbling up so incessantly and with so little disturbance, that it came to the surface with no alloy of earth about it; and he saw how fresh and rank was the greensward all along its course—it not only gave from its little receptacle a full supply for all who needed, but virtue seemed to emanate throughout its meanderings, and to bless wherever it flowed.

'This spring,' said he, 'is like the life of one that is good—pure at the fountain, and the whole life a blessing, making things better and happier all around him; but my life—oh, what has it been?' And his cheek flushed, and tears of anguish fell fast, while with hands firmly clasped, and still leaning against the tree, he looked down at the bubbling water.

'Why William!'

He started at the well-knows voice.

'Oh, Hettie, is this you? how glad I am to see you.'

She extended her hand towards him, but there was something in the sight of Hettie that caused the cup, already full, to overflow; he did not take the offered hand, but covering his face, gave way to a passionate burst of weeping.

Hettie was much surprised, but she attempted not to interfere; nor did she weep with him, but waited silently until the violence of the storm had passed, and he was sufficiently composed to address her.

'I am very unhappy, Hettie, and have been so for a long time.'

'I have thought so, William, and I am very glad of an opportunity to say something to you about it. I was certain that you must be unhappy. There can be no peace for us when we have left the path of duty, until we return from our crooked ways: it would not be best for us that we should be happy when our doings are not right.'

'Well, mine are not right, and I am afraid they will never be any better.'

'Why not, William? are you willing still to be unhappy, and to break your mother's heart, and fill the minds of all your friends with sorrow?'

'I have been far astray, Hettie. I have sunk myself very low, and have struggled hard at times to break the charm that was leading me to ruin; but I feel now as I have not felt before; and if you will only not despise me, if you will let me hope that a new course of life may yet gain your respect, it will be a helper to me—a great helper to me. And oh! Hettie, you cannot tell how much I need your aid.'

Hettie was wise perhaps beyond her years. She felt much interest for the youth who had grown with her from childhood.

'I fear, William, that the struggle you will be compelled to encounter will need help greater than a creature can give. You must look to Him who made you, and relying on his strength, resolve to do your duty, cost what it may. All that I can promise is my feeble prayer; and whenever I offer it for myself, I will offer it for you too, William. And now I must leave you, for I have an errand to the store, and mother will be uneasy at my absence.'

And the happy girl, smiling a pleasant good-by, went on her way. William watched her until she turned into the public road, and then, with one strong cry to Heaven for help, turned towards his home, a happier person than he had been for many long months.

He had resolved to do right.

CHAPTER V.

The difficulties which presented themselves to our boys in fulfilling the engagement they had made with Major Morris were of no trifling account, for it was a great question if so large a quantity could be found in the place, above what was pledged to Mr. Grizzle for debts already incurred. Again, if they should succeed in finding the quantity, how could they pay for them? and lastly, where was a boat to be procured, in which to carry them at a season of the year when storms and high winds were to be expected? But as difficulties are apt to vanish before a resolute mind, Jim felt not at all daunted by them.

He had resolved, first of all, to make a thorough trial as to the possibility of finding persons willing to engage specific quantities to him. And it was for this purpose that the boys were assembled early in the morning of a bright and beautiful day in June; Jim and Sam to go on the expedition, and Ned to see them off.

'Well, boys, I hope you'll find all you'll want; but it looks to me like a hard case.'

'So it does to me, Ned, too; but Jim has been thinking it all out, you know. I should feel better, however, if we knew where the money was to come from to pay for them; I do hate so to ask folks to trust us.'

'I have no idea, Sam, of doing any such thing; I mean to offer them the money down as soon as they deliver the potatoes.'

'Just hear that Ned,' said Sam, looking verily confounded.

'Well,' said Ned, kicking away a small stone that lay in reach of his foot, 'that is a good plan enough if one had the money; but it will take all of a hundred dollars: and it looks dark to me where such a sum as that is to come from.'

'That is the least of the difficulties, boys; we shall make, I hope, by our summer's work enough money to pay for twenty-five bushels of potatoes, which will be the most we shall be able to carry at a trip, and Major Morris will pay us for them as we deliver them to him.'

Ned and Sam looked at each other. 'I told you, Ned, that Jim would think it out somehow.'

'And besides,' continued Jim, 'I have great hope that our offering them the money on delivery, will induce them to sell to us in preference to Grizzle. But what troubles me the most is, how to get a boat sufficient for our purpose.'

'Supposing I should say'—and Sam's bright eyes sparkled as he looked from one to the other of his companions, while a smile played around the corners of his mouth—'I hope to have a good new boat, not very handsome, but tight and strong, and able to go in rough weather, and carry twenty-five bushels of potatoes at a load; what would you say to that?'

'Now, Sam Oakum, what do you mean?'

'I mean just what I say. My father told me last night, that as soon as he could get the stuff, he would go right to work and build a boat as large as that, and that it should be mine; and I am going to take my money as I can earn it, and buy the stuff. What do you think of that, Jim?'

'It is the best news I have heard this long while;—how strangely things work! but look out for Ned there.'

The warning was too late, for Sam was lying on his back, laughing heartily; and Jim was scolding Ned for his folly, and Jowler was barking at them all. As soon as matters were composed again, Jim and Sam started on their expedition; while Ned, with Jowler at his heels, went with right good-will to his work in the garden.

A blacksmith's shop is a very necessary article in all social establishments, as the place where persons are likely to be met with and news collected or circulated. The one which answered the demands of this place was not a very extensive establishment; it was a little dark-looking hovel, with an exceedingly high chimney. It was situated at the meeting of several roads, and was surrounded with a multitude of articles that had once seen better days, but when, the oldest inhabitant could scarcely remember. Mr. Cutter, the proprietor of this establishment, was now somewhat advanced in life, but by no means so old as his appearance indicated. From some cause not well ascertained, he had begun about his thirtieth year to increase in flesh, and had for more than twenty years been adding to his stock; neither wielding the sledge-hammer in his shop, nor the worrying of his good wife in the house, could keep it back; but I believe it was all the increase, of any consequence, that resulted from his labors, and yet he was, in comparison with his neighbors, 'well to do in the world.' He was, moreover, of a good disposition, ready to oblige, and of sound judgment, and as well acquainted with persons and things for many miles round as any other man in the place, and a little better.

Our boys had determined to make their first call at 'Uncle Sam Cutter's,' as he was generally styled.

'He's a clever man,' said Sam, 'and he knows every body, and all about every thing in the place; and it may save us a great many steps.'

It was a very warm day, and Uncle Sam was sitting outside his shop, on what had once been the hub of a large cart-wheel; there was a fine shade where he sat, a large apple tree which stood in an adjoining lot, extending its branches almost to his shop door. He had his hat in his hand, and was using it violently as a fan; the heat was making terrible work with him, for on his bald head and down his fat cheeks and sunburnt breast, the perspiration was running in streams.

'A pretty warm day, Uncle Sam, ain't it?'

'Here, you young rogue, take this, and blow a little wind on to me, if there's any to be got, for I'm most dead,' (handing Sam his great broad-brimmed chip hat.) 'I guess you'd think it warm, blowing them tarnel old bellows all day long, with such a lump of fat lugging to you as I've got; I can't hardly waddle under it, let alone handling them bellows.'

'Why don't you have the boys blow for you, Uncle Sam?'

'The boys! ah yes, the boys! I'd like any one to tell me what the hul kit on 'em is good for, but to eat mush and milk. Do blow away Sam, if there's any wind in all creation any more. I want to git this carcass o' mine cool a little, just so I shan't go all to soap-grease. Talk of the boys, they're wus than wild cats; I wouldn't give my old mare for all the boys between this and the barrens—don't talk to me about boys, Sam—don't stop blowing, or I'm a dead man. Here, Jim, my good fellow, spell him a little.'

'Yes, that I will, with pleasure, sir.'

'That's like a man, there's no boy about that—ah, Jim, I knew your father well, and a likelier man never came to this place; but what he came here for was more than I could ever see—it seems to me there's a cus on it; the men are bad enough, but the boys are the old Nick's property altogether. I tell you what, if we don't have a preacher, or something of that kind, along here pretty soon, we're a gone case; there'll be another sort of bellows blowin' than my old groaner, I tell you. Ah, Jim, that feels good, I won't touch a hammer agin' to day; if Grizzle wants his old plough mended, he may come and sweat away at it himself, it will do his old dry carcass good, won't it Sam? It won't hurt him, will it?' And the old man went off into a good hearty laugh, his whole body shaking like a lump of jelly—the idea of sweating Grizzle amused him so much, that he forgot about the heat, and taking his hat clapped it on his head.

'And now, boys, what are you up to? going crabbing down to the mill, I know; for my boys have been there this hul blessed morning.'

'Oh, no sir,' said Jim, 'we were not thinking about that this morning; but are wishing to find out who would be willing to engage some beans and potatoes for the fall.'

'Beans and potatoes? why, you blessed child, are you crazy? You ain't grown up here, not to know better than to try to sell sich things in this place. You must go to Grizzle with them, and he won't take them only for jist what you owe him.'

'Ah, but we don't want to sell, but to buy.'

'Want to buy!—you're wus off than I thought you was. Why, didn't you plant any? How did you think you was goin' to live? like Bill Moore and his brother down the lane here? eh?'

'Oh, no sir, we have plenty for our use; but we can sell quite a quantity of these articles, more than we shall have.'

'And pray tell me what you call a quantity, mister.'

'Why, we want two or three hundred bushels.'

'Two or three hundred bushels!' And the old man took off his hat and began to fan himself again very fast. 'Two or three hundred bushels!—you boys wasn't neither on you brought up to lie, but I don't know but you've taken up the trade; it's pretty easy larnt, to be sure.'

'It's true, Uncle Sam, what Jim tells you; true as we stand here.'

'Sam Oakum, them eyes o' yourn warn't made to help a lyin' tongue; so don't stand there looking so honest, and telling me sich stuff as that.'

'It is true, Mr. Cutter, just as Sam says; we are telling you the truth, and no joke about it.'

But the old man kept shaking his head and fanning himself; so that Jim felt called upon to tell their whole story.

'Now boys, is this true, you're tellin' me? Sam, you're a smilin'; there's some catch about it, ain't there, you rogue?'

'No, there ain't, Uncle Sam, upon my honor.'

'Well, it's a queer story, any how; three hundred bushels potatoes; why you'll take all that's raised, and Grizzle won't have none for Cross this year; you know he sends all he takes in up to Cross, who keeps the store or tavern, or whatever they call it, in the barrens; but it ain't much matter, they're two precious rogues, both on 'em. And you say you want to know where you can find so many: I raally can't say; but the Widow Andrews would be like to have some. Bill tell'd me he had planted a considerable patch, beans and potatoes too; but whether they'll come to any thing I don't know, for he's got like the rest on 'em—he's round to Grizzle's too much, I guess. Sorry for it; Bill's a likely fellow if he'd mind his own business. And then there's my namesake, Cutter; he may have a few, not a great many. I tell you what, you'll have to hunt considerable, boys, afore you'll find all you want. And then there's Billy Bloodgood, deaf Billy, you know him; but you'll have to holler loud enough to wake the dead to make him hear—he ought to have a speakin' trumpet fastened into his ear, it's enough to give a man the consumption to talk with him. And may be I'll have a few myself, and I would as leave you'd have them as Grizzle, the old varmint; I don't believe I shall owe him much this year. What are you goin' to give, boys?'

Sam looked at Jim for an answer.

'Why, if they are fair-sized potatoes, we can give twenty-five cents a bushel.'

'I wish I had more on 'em, for that's double what Grizzle gives; and beans you want too; well, I guess I shall have three or four bushels. I can't say but they ought to be hoed now, and I can't do it, no how; for a man like me to work out in the sun, it's idle to talk about it. Why I should die in the operation, and the boys don't care for nothin'; but when they hear what a price you're givin', it may spur them up a little.'

The boys thanked him for his information, and started off at a good pace on their way to the Widow Andrews'. Bill was at work in the field, fighting manfully with a large growth of weeds; he greeted them kindly, but continued his labors.

'You will excuse me if I don't stop working; things are so behind-hand with me, that if I don't labor hard, I shall not catch up with my work, all summer.'

'By no means stop,' said Jim; 'we can say what we wish to, just as well while your hoe is going.' He made known their errand in few words, but no sooner did Bill hear what Jim had to say than he stopped hoeing, and looked with some surprise, first at one and then at the other of the boys.

'Yes, certainly, you shall have them; how many bushels do you want? Haven't you planted any this year?'

Jim then acquainted him with his reasons for wanting them, and the quantity he wished; stating also the price he could afford to give.

'And the money shall be paid to you when you deliver them.'

'You shall have every potato and bean I have for sale. I supposed I should be obliged to let Grizzle have them, but he may whistle for them, for all me; he allowed me last year but ten cents for potatoes, and fifty cents for beans. He will be angry, probably, but if I can have the money to pay, I shall not fear him any more than you seemed to the other day'—looking at Sam.

'No, I don't fear him; and all I wish is that father didn't owe him any thing.'

'Well, he is a very bad man, and will injure us all, if he can in any way, when he finds he is to be disappointed in getting things at his own price. He and Cross work into each other's hands, and they will not, if they can help it, have any one interfere with them; but I don't well see how they can.'

William Andrews was not mistaken in his views of the effect these things would have upon the minds of such men. But it will be time enough to meet trouble when it comes; at present we must hasten with our boys on their way to Billy Bloodgood's, much elated with their success, and with the change which seemed to have taken place in the views and feelings of young Andrews.

Mr. William Bloodgood—or Billy, as he was generally called—was the best to do of any of the folks for miles round, that is, he had more land, and a few more head of cattle, and managed a little better than his neighbors. But his house was rather a small concern, and his fences were in all sorts of shape, and his barn had far too many rents in it, and things lay in all directions around. Still, he did better than his neighbors, for Billy did not drink, and he kept himself busy, flying round on his farm, and made out almost always to raise quite a respectable quantity of one thing and another. He was a very good-natured man, and was blessed, as many good-natured men are, with a wife that could take his part, and her own too, sometimes. He had a peculiar way with him of going from one piece of work to another, without finishing either. Before his field of corn was half hoed, he would begin the potato patch, and leaving that unfinished, would be among the beans; and so on. This habit he carried with him into smaller matters, to his disadvantage, certainly, and very much to his discomfort; for his good woman was sorely annoyed by it, and whatever troubled her, he was sure to be obliged to bear a part of it. They lived happily however; for although Billy did not practise sound philosophy in his work, he did in that very delicate matter of conjugal relationship. He knew it would never answer for both to have their own way, one or the other must rule sometimes; and as he saw very soon that it would be a very difficult matter, if not an impossibility to get his better half to yield, unless she had a mind to it, he very properly decided to give up the reins to her. He was a wiser man than many took him to be.

As the boys entered the gate, Billy was coming out of the house, having just finished his dinner; he had a knife in one hand, and a piece of pigtail in the other, from which cutting a fair allowance, he put it into his mouth with a manifest relish. Without apparently noticing the boys who were walking towards him, he made directly to a great pile of brush which lay in the yard, and commenced chopping. They walked up to him, and endeavored to catch his eye, but he took no notice of them. After cutting a few sticks, he threw down the axe, and, looking at Jim, asked in a very loud voice,

'Did you speak to me?'

Jim shook his head in the negative, and then began to say something about his errand; he spoke, as he thought, in a pretty loud voice. But Billy only noticed his negative reply to the question he had put, and started for another corner of the yard, where lay a heap of farming utensils, and began dragging forth an old one-horse plough. After separating it from the rest, he commenced tinkering the rigging; Jim, in the meantime, trying to catch his eye, long enough to let him know that, although he had not yet spoken to him, he wished to do so. Twice, as he raised himself, Jim made a desperate effort, and called out as loud as he thought necessary,

'Mr. Bloodgood!'

But it availed nothing. He stared at him an instant, and then ran across to another side of the yard to a little old corn crib; and jumping into it, began to overhaul a box of old irons, for something probably that belonged to the plough. In the midst of all his hurry, however, he would find time every now and then to put his hand into his vest pocket, and taking out large pinches of snuff, would regale his olfactory sense, and apparently with great zest. The boys began to feel that it was a desperate case, and at the same time were so amused, that they could with difficulty refrain from showing it. In fact, Jim did once or twice give a kind of whine, just the beginning of a peculiar laugh he had, and Sam would go off with a very slight sneeze. As Billy appeared to be in no hurry to come out of the crib, they walked slowly across to where he was.

'You try him this time, Sam? see if you can make him hear.'

'I can't, Jim, no how. I should burst out laughing in his face.'

'I am afraid, then, we must give it up, for I can't get him to look at me.'

Mrs. Bloodgood, however, saw their dilemma, and out she came. The boys hardly knew whether she was for peace or war, for she advanced towards them with tremendous strides, muttering as she came. Her appearance was indeed rather dubious, for her hair was flying, and her face was very red, from the joint exercise of cooking and eating, and helping half a dozen children. And as to the dress, having great respect for the female sex we will say nothing about it; it was, moreover, very warm weather, and a Calamink petticoat was warm enough without the burden of its upper companion, the short gown—but she was just as she was, and we cannot help it. She had a little more nose than most women, that is, it was a very long, sharp, and crooked nose; but the good woman had use for it. And never were boys more astonished when they saw how well it answered her turn; it was a veritable speaking-trumpet, and, although the sounds which issued from it were rather of the nasal order, they were the better calculated to penetrate the very narrow passages to her husband's sounding-board. Having been so long accustomed to use a very high pitch in her communications with the good man, she made no allowance for the more delicate organs of other people, but so drove the sounds into them as truly made their ears to tingle, not only at the time, but a great while after.

'What is it you're wanting?'

Jim started; he could not help it.

'Do you want to speak to Bloodgood?'

'Yes, ma'am; I should like to speak with him about some beans and potatoes.'

With that she made off to the crib, where she met her good man coming out with a piece of old iron in his hand, and making for the other side of the yard where the plough was. He seemed as regardless of her as he had been of the boys; but as he was stooping over the plough, she put her hand on his shoulder, and gave such a blast in his ear that his soul must have stept out of his body not to have heard it; he immediately raised himself, and, looking at the boys, roared back to her in a strain scarcely less loud,—

'What do they want?'

'I don't know; something about potatoes and beans.'

'Bees? We 'aint got no bees;' and with that he took one of his tremendous pinches of snuff.

'Beans, beans! don't you hear that?' And then turning to Jim and Sam, who had walked up beside her—

'He grows wus and wus; and it's my candid belief that it's his snuffin' and snuffin' all the time so; his ears, I s'pose, is all stopped clean up; and the only way the sound can git into his head is through his nose, like; and when he stuffs that full, it's like hollerin' agin' a log.'

But he did hear beans, as she last spoke it.

'Beans? What of 'em?'

'Well, do tell me, boys, what you want on 'em, and I'll try to make him hear, for you never can.'

With that Jim communicated to her his business, and when she understood it clearly, appeared not a little pleased.

'I didn't know but you'd come from Grizzle's, and I don't like him; he's a good-for-nothin' old varmint, and he's spilin' all the men and boys in the place; and I told Bloodgood I'd rather throw the potatoes in the creek than let him have one on 'em.' So she went to work with a good will to tell their errand.

'Who sent 'em? Grizzle?'

'No, no; you think there is nobody in the whole creation world to buy anything but Grizzle.' And then raising her voice to the very loudest—

'Nobody sent 'em; they come o' themselves, and they'll pay you the money right down when you take 'em the things.'

'Well, well, that will do,'—and he smiled then, for the first time, as he looked at the boys—'that'll do; you shall have 'em; let me know when you want 'em.'

And now Mrs. Bloodgood would insist upon their going in, and taking something to eat. In vain it was they protested that they were not hungry, having eaten a lunch on their way.

'I know better than that. I know what boys are; they can always eat; so if you won't go in, don't either on you stir one step till I come out.'

In she ran, and in a moment appeared again with one-half of a large bread-cake, which she had just taken from the griddle, with a lump of butter on the top of it, and she with a knife spreading it on; but there was no occasion for the knife, for the butter was running like snow in summer, and dripping over the sides of the cake.

'Here, boys, take this;' breaking it in two, and giving each half 'I know it will taste good.'

CHAPTER VI.

A few evenings after the events recorded in the last chapter, Sam started from home on his way to meet Jim and Ned. When but a short distance from his house, to his surprise he met William Andrews; he was on his way to visit the Montjoys, and designed calling upon Sam that he might accompany him to their house.

'I am going to see them,' said Sam; 'but they will not be at the house. Such fine evenings as this we meet at a large rock near by—they will be as glad to see you as I am.'

The rock was large enough to accommodate the whole of them; but Ned preferred the grass for his seat; he and Jowler had always some business of their own to attend to, and very frequently they would both be rolling together on the ground. The moon was rising beautifully, and a long streak of light played across the expanse of water at a distance, dancing on the waves that were formed by the fresh sea-breeze, and, nearer the shore, where the water lay smooth and unruffled, marking a line of clear silver light, as from the surface of a mirror.

There is always something peculiarly fascinating in the formation of youthful friendships—everything seems so fair; the interchange of confidence is so mutual, so whole-hearted—there is no secret standing on our guard—no cautious feeling of our way, to see whether we can safely trust. The heart has not yet been deceived, and therefore yields implicit confidence. One short hour, in our boyhood's days, will do more to knit our hearts in bonds strong and true, than months can accomplish, after the coldness and selfishness of the world have set us on our guard.

William Andrews had yielded to the impulses of a kind and social disposition, and thereby had been led sadly astray; but the charm was now broken, and he turned away with disgust and loathing from his past habits and companions. He had formed no friendships with those who were his partners in the idle hour, and the place of temptation. His heart was yet in its freshness, with a love of the pure and good, more intense for what he had seen of impiety and evil. His spirit panted for communion with those on whom it could confide, and longed to pour out its breathings into the ear of virtue and truth.

And now, under the great oak-tree, seated on the large flat rock, he confessed all his delinquencies, related the narrative of what he believed to be a change for life, and its happy influence upon his daily routine of duties.

'I can work, now, without being wearied; I can go home and meet my mother without the fear of rebuke; and I can lie down to rest at night without my head throbbing, or my body burning as in a fever; and when I awake in the morning, the stupor of deadness I used to feel is gone; I am happy, and ready for my business.'

Jim and Sam had no such personal experience of their own to tell. Sam might, indeed, have unfolded scenes of misery in his own past history; but in his own bosom must now for ever rest all that had been bitter in his own experience.

But there was no lack of subjects, and the evening was gone before they had said the one half they had to say; and long before the evening was spent, they were as intimate, and as much one in their feelings, as though they, had associated for years.

Sam's heart was full of happiness that night as he walked along the shore, and saw the water glistening in the moonlight, and heard the soft sound of the distant waves; and as he beheld the little light that twinkled in his lowly home, it seemed as bright to him—yea, brighter than does many an illuminated palace to its princely owner. Dark is the heart, Sam, that would bring a cloud over your pleasant sky; but such there are, sitting in council beneath the same pleasant moonlight which you are enjoying;—well for you that you see them, hear them not.

Had we the power of knowing what is going on at the same time in different places—could we look into the hearts of the actors in these various scenes—could we know how very near, sometimes, are the plotters of mischief and spite to the unconscious, inoffensive objects of their malice, it would be a cause of misery to us, unless our power was equal to our knowledge. Happy is it for us, that but one place, and one set of circumstances, can engross our minds.

Not far from where these happy youths held sweet counsel together, encouraging each other in the path of manliness and virtue, beneath the same clear sky and bright shining moon, sat two specimens of humanity, beneath the shed that ran along the front of Mr. Grizzle's store:—one of these the owner thereof, and the other a miserable-looking bloated youth, of about eighteen years of age.

'Do you say, Bill Tice, that they've been round buying up all the potatoes, and giving twenty-five cents a bushel?'

'Yes, it's fact. Old Sam Cutter told his boys on it, and they told me; and they said the old man wanted them to go to work and hoe 'em out, because they were goin' to bring sich a price, and he didn't mean to let old Grizzle have none on 'em.'

'He did, ha? Ay, ay, well, well.'

'And they'd bought all Billy Bloodgood's, and Bill Andrews', and ever so many more.'

'They have, eh? and gin' twenty-five cents a bushel, you say? that's a putty business, Bill.' And Grizzle turned his bleared and spectacled eyes full upon his companion. 'A putty business, Bill, ain't it? And who is to have potatoes and sich things to sell in the dead o'winter to poor folks, who may be ain't raised none? What would your folks have done last winter in sich a case?'

'Sure enough, we might starve; they wouldn't care.'

'And then if you was jist to help yourself a little,' (giving him a slight hunch,) 'why they'd be the first to complain on you; and away you must go another three months in the old cage.

'I hate them Montjoy boys, they always look as if no one was good enough for 'em; goin' round with their shirt collars on their necks, and shoes on their feet.'

'And you say Oakum is with 'em, ha?'

'Why yes, Oakum's boy is with 'em, and you know it must be the old man that does it; the boy aint got nothin'.'

'No, nor the old one neither, when his debts is paid; but I'll see, I'll see. Folks musn't git in debt to me, and then come out agin' me; that won't do, Bill Tice.'

'I shouldn't think it would.'

'And you say Oakum is goin' to build a boat for his boy?'

'That's what Dick Cutter tell'd me.'

'To carry away everything we've got here, and make things so high, poor folks must starve or else work hard, one or the two.'

'They don't care.'

'I tell you what, Bill, you and I know one another; you've done some little jobs for me, and may be I've done some little things for you.'

'Yes, I know that.'

'Well now, Bill, this business must be stopped by fair means as foul.'

'That boat shan't never be built.'

'Whist, Bill, whist, don't be too fast; time enough yet.'

'What will you do, then?'

'What will I do—jist take the law on Oakum. Don't you see if I tie his hands the boat can't be built; and the old one they've got now, will only sink 'em to the bottom of the bay, if they try to take a load in her. I can make out a bill, I guess, that will keep him tight for three months at any rate.'

'That's a good idee.'

'Well, what I want of you is, to go some time to-morrow or next day, and jist ask Dick Tucker to come and see me, and may be I'll give him a job. You ain't afraid of Dick, now, are you?'

'No, I don't care nothin' for him; I should like just once to turn the key upon him, and see how he'd like it.'

'He'd rather turn it upon you and me, Bill; but you jist go there and tell him what I say. But keep mum, Bill.'

'No fear o' me.'

With that the old man patted Bill on the back.

'Come, come in and take something afore you go.' And in they went, and down went the fiery draught, and away went Bill Tice, a wretched victim to the hateful cup—a youth in age, but already old in ways of wickedness. Along the highway he plodded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his head bent over, and his look fixed upon the path he was treading. He heeded not the beautiful moon that was lighting him on his way—brightly it shone upon him and his home, but only to expose wretchedness and vice waiting upon each other.

The path of duty is said to be the path of safety. When considered in reference to all final results, this is doubtless true; but to go steadily forward in our daily or weekly routine, we must expect to encounter more or less exposure to danger and disaster.

The little 'craft,' as Peter called the boat in which Jim and Sam made their voyages, was by no means suitable for the work; and again and again did the old sailor warn them, that 'they must look out for the southeasters, and never venture in no sich thing as that.'

It was the only one at present that they could procure, and they must either run the risk or give up their trade—a thing not to be contemplated for a moment.

It was early in July; the weather for some days had been oppressively warm. A dense fog covered the land and the water; and as our boys started upon their usual trip, they were obliged to lay their course as they best could, as there was nothing visible beyond a few lengths of their boat. The water was smooth without a ripple; not a breath of air could be felt from any direction. Sam's father had endeavored to dissuade him from venturing on the water at such a time.

'There's no telling what kind of weather we may have when this goes off, and I'm most sure I heerd it thunder a while ago.'

'I guess it wasn't thunder, father; and you know I can hardly miss my way in crossing the river; and when we get on the other shore, it will be easy to make the point; and by the time we get there, the wind will rise and the fog will go off.'

Sam's reasoning was well enough, but his father was not quite satisfied that it was best for them to go; however, as he saw their minds were set upon it, and all their things on board, he made no further objections.

As Sam had said, he was able to make the other shore without much difficulty; and that once reached, by keeping close to it, the point was also gained; but when about to turn into the open bay, Sam had some misgivings as to what was best to be done. The fog still surrounded them, as dense as ever, the shore could be seen only a few oars' length from it; and if they could keep within sight, they might proceed with their voyage, although by following the windings of the shore the distance would be greatly increased. This, however, would not have discouraged Sam, if he had not known that there were spots where close hugging the shore was impossible, as ledges of rocks ran off from it, which must be avoided. Thinking that he could keep the shore in sight until these were reached, and then venture out a little to avoid them, and not willing to turn back, he concluded to try the experiment. Jim knew nothing of the dangers to which they were exposed in being once out of sight of land, with no possible guide, in a small open boat, on the bosom of a bay that opened fair to the ocean. He therefore made no objections to any of Sam's movements. There was no wind, of course the sail was not up, and Sam handled the oars. Jim had his usual place at the helm, at which he had become quite expert.

'Keep her along shore, Jim, and don't lose sight of the land for any thing. Tell me when you see the large white rock, or the big tree; but I don't much think you will be able to see that to-day, but keep a sharp look-out for the rock.' The tree, as Sam expected, was not visible; but after half an hour's rowing, Jim pointed out the rock to which Sam had alluded.

'You remember, Jim, that near to this is the first ledge of rocks—turn her off shore a little—there, that will do; look sharp for the rocks, for if we lose sight of them and the shore too, we are gone.'

Jim did look sharp; for he perceived, from the anxious countenance of his companion, that there was some peculiar difficulty to be apprehended: in a few moments, however, they lost sight of the shore. This Sam expected; but instead thereof, anticipated making use of the large rocks, which usually protruded above the ledge or sunken reef, as his beacon. He exerted his utmost strength in the direction, as he supposed, they would be found, and the little boat skimmed rapidly through the water. Not a sign, however, of rock or shore could they discover; and, to add to their confusion, Sam, by accident, slipped an oar. Jim sprang to assist him in securing it, his tiller shifted, and the points of the compass were lost to them; the fog, too, evidently thickened around them—

'Don't you feel a breeze, Sam? I did just then.'

'Yes, and I think I know where it comes from; you see the fog grows thicker; it is driving in from the sea, and this wind must be from the east. Father said this morning he thought we should have the wind from that quarter—here it comes again, Jim.'

In a few moments a fresh and steady breeze came on; Sam, too, confident in the direction from which it came, hastened to spread his sail, and taking the helm into his own hands, put her head, as he supposed, in a direction that would carry them towards the fort, and at the same time bring them near the shore. For a while after the breeze sprung up, the fog was by no means diminished; but at length it began to recede, and as the circle of their horizon enlarged, anxiously they watched on the quarter where they were confident the land lay.

'We must be wrong, Sam, or we certainly could see the land by this time.'

Sam answered not, for other signs than the non-appearance of the land convinced him that he had mistaken his bearings. The wind had not increased much since it had at first sprung up, and, in fact, was giving tokens of ceasing or changing, by its frequent lulls; yet the water was becoming very rough; in fact, the waves were different from any they had ever encountered yet, threatening at times to fill their boat;—he began, indeed, to fear that he had been running out instead of nearing shore. At length the covering which had so long enveloped them rolled off, the distant points of land appeared, and their truly critical position was clearly exposed. Far off, in nearly an opposite direction to the one they were steering for, loomed up the fort; and the shore, which they had trusted was near at hand, could just be seen through the creeping vapors which yet clung to the land rising in patches slowly into the atmosphere. Before them was the open ocean, and the southeastern shores of the bay in a proximity to them, which in their present circumstances was any thing but agreeable.

Sam's first impulse, of course, was to steer directly for the haven they had started for; this, a moment's reflection upon the state of things convinced him would be madness.

Several times, while still enveloped in the fog, they had distinctly heard peals of thunder, which had by no means been a source of quietude; and now, far over the western sky, had gathered a dark and threatening mass of vapours, heaps on heaps rolling together, and spreading to the north, where the blackness of darkness seemed to have settled. Beneath that heavy mass, at the edge of the horizon, was a long light streak, showing where in the far distance the storm had already begun, and the winds lifting it up and bearing it towards them. In the direction of the storm was the shore they had left; to reach that or the fort, before it should burst upon them, was utterly impossible, and to be caught in their frail boat by such a tempest would be certain destruction. On the south and south-east lay a long line of shore, not much nearer than that on the west; yet from it, there ran out for a mile from the land, in a circular direction, a bar of sand; at high tide this bar was nearly covered, but when the tide was out, some acres of hard white sand were exposed, and afforded a firm landing-place. Sam knew of this; and, in fact, he could plainly discern its white surface in the distance, for the tide had been for some time running out, and was the main cause why he had, in so short a time, made so long a stretch.

'What shall we do, Sam? It looks black there, don't it?'

'Black enough—we must run away from it.'

At once, Sam tied up the sail as carefully as he could, and stowed it as near the bottom of the skiff as possible.

'Where will you run, Sam? we are most out to sea now.'

'We must go a little nearer yet, for all that I see;—quick, Jim, take the helm; you see that white streak, don't you, running out from the shore yonder?'

'Yes.'

'It is a mile nearer to us than any place we can get to; make for that—it is our only chance.'

Jim did as directed; for, on the water, he yielded implicitly to Sam. The oars were out, and Sam's utmost strength was tasked; their lives depended on the fact of his ability to reach that bar before the storm should overtake them. As they progressed, the waves sensibly increased; and occasionally, through Jim's inexperience in steering, water enough would be shipped, not only to wet them thoroughly, but to endanger the feeble craft.

Sam's eye was steadily fixed upon the rising gust; he heeded not the waves—death was behind them—if they reached not that landing-place in time, they must be his prey. Vivid streaks of lightning ran along the curling edges of the clouds, and heavy-rolling thunder, increasing in loudness at every clap; far off upon the distant land could be seen volumes of dust rolling high up in the air; and when the thunder ceased, the sullen roar of the tempest was distinctly heard.

'How fast it comes, Sam!'

'Keep her straight for that bar, Jim.'

'Do you hear the roaring, Sam?'

'Are we near the bar? Keep her as straight as you can—it's coming fast.'

Already had the storm reached the water. Sam knew now what they had to expect; for before it arose a mass of spray like a thick low mist. Rising on his feet, and throwing himself back with all his force, the little fellow did all that in him lay to reach the shore.

'Don't let go the helm, Jim.'

And Jim immediately braced himself upon the bottom of the boat, holding with main strength to the tiller. As the wind struck them, Sam was obliged to throw himself down in the boat; he could not face its fury. In an instant, all sights and sounds but that of the storm were lost; they were at its mercy, or more properly, at the mercy of Him who directed it. A few moments, their little boat tossed and floated amid the tumult, and then struck heavily upon the beach.

'Out, Jim! out, and hold on!'

The days when the little skiff was expected at the fort began to be looked forward to with much pleasure by old Peter and his little charge. Seated on the parapet which surrounded the fort, with a spyglass in his hand, he would watch a bend of the shore, around which the little boat could first be seen. Susie would be near him, looking at the play of the waters among the broken rocks which formed the foundation of the fort, or listening to marvellous stories of sea life, of which Peter had the usual supply.

This day they had watched until the storm came, and after it had cleared away; until giving up all expectation of seeing the boat, Peter had hobbled into the fort to attend to some little matters, and Susie sought for amusement in her usual play-ground—the narrow strip of land, about twenty feet in width, encircling them. It has been mentioned that a ledge of rocks connected with the main-land, being formed partly by nature and partly by a deposit of large broken stones—the design apparently was to have formed a passage to the shore without the aid of a boat, but for some cause or other it was not carried out. At low water, one acquainted with the locality might have made his way across it, from rock to rock, without much difficulty; but when the tide was in, all communication was cut off. At the rising and falling of the tide, the water flowed through the narrow passages with great rapidity; and a very expert swimmer would have needed much muscular strength not to have been swept away with it. Peter never ventured upon this rough causeway himself, for two very good reasons: first, because it was no place for crutches to travel over; and, secondly, considering it unsafe, he did not wish to set the little girl an example which might lead her into danger.

Tired, however, with her narrow promenade, when she reached the ledge spoken of, without any misgivings, she rambled across the rough pavement of broken stones, until she came to a large rock forming the terminus. On one side this rock was shelving. Fearless she walked down to the water's edge: the tide was running swiftly past, and this peculiar motion of the water being new to her, she laid herself down, and watched the coursing of the dark current with delight.

When Peter returned, he saw nothing of Susie; and thinking she had gone to the other side of the fort, was hobbling round to look after her; when to his surprise, on turning the first angle, he saw the little boat close at hand, and apparently coming from a very different quarter than usual.

'Hulloa, my hearties: where do you hail from now?'

'The Horse Shoe,' said Sam, putting his hand to his mouth, and making as grum a noise as old Peter did.

'The Horse Shoe! What! druv down there in the gale?'

'Got lost in the fog, and made for the sand-bar; when the storm came up, we had a hard time of it.'

Peter began to chew hard on his cud, and shake his head very violently; at the same time resting on his crutches, he doubled up his fist, and held it in a very threatening manner towards Sam.

'The fog—lost in the fog—and didn't you know better than to venture off shore, with no pints of compass, and no reckoning and no nothing to steer by, in sich a craft as that? That ain't fit to trust a man's life in on a mill pond.'

Sam smiled.

'It aint no laughing matter, my young man, to foller the water; I've tell'd you that, many a time; it ain't like the land, where you can lay to, and hold on jist as you likes. No, no; them that deals with the winds and the waves must keep a sharp look-out, and watch their chances; its nothin' more nor less but a temptin' o' Providence with your dumb-founded perverseness. But howsomever, I'm glad to see you; so jist haul up, and I'll call the Major.'

Peter hobbled towards the landing-place, to which Sam urged his boat. Just as she struck the stairs, a loud scream was heard. Sam sprang from the boat, and ran with lightning speed across the ledge of broken rocks. He had seen what those on the dock could not see. The little girl had caught a view of the boat, and rising to return, had ventured to tread upon a part of the rock which was covered with sea-weed; her foot had slipped, and when Sam beheld her, she was hanging just above the water, clinging to the rock, and screaming in her agony. Almost distracted, Peter called aloud for help; although he could see nothing, as yet, of the child. Sam felt that life or death depended upon his exertions; and none but one accustomed, as he had been, from infancy, to tread with bare feet the flinty shore, could have made such fearful haste over that rough pavement. One false step would, in all probability, have cost his life. He reached the rock—she was still clinging; he grasped at her—it was too late—and down she plunged into the deep water, and was borne swiftly along by the current. But Sam was with her; he waited not to calculate the chances against his own life—in an instant he plunged, and then arose a cry from the fort, that brought help and dear friends to witness the heart-rending spectacle; for there could be little doubt in the minds of all that both must perish. Major Morris, at the first alarm, rushed to the spot. His distress at seeing the idol of his heart sinking in the deep water, cannot be described. He flew with one or two attendants to his own boat, which lay near at hand; and made all the haste the most intense anxiety could urge, to reach the struggling children. But Peter was before him, in the little skiff with Jim; the moment he understood the case, he threw down his crutches, sprang into the boat, and like a master workman, made her fly through the water.

'Hold on, my darlings, don't be frightened; I'll soon be with you.'

But no answer was returned; Sam had not calculated his own strength, and had no idea of the desperate energy it would require to sustain himself with another clinging to him. His arms could afford him no assistance; the little girl had grasped them with such energy, that the most he could do, was just to keep her head from beneath the water. Every thing was done with the greatest speed from the moment their situation was observed; but it took some little time to reach them. Sam felt his strength failing, he could not even call for help—intent upon one only object, he struggled on; and when he could raise his head above water to speak, he tried to encourage her. But the powers of nature could do no more, and he felt the water rushing above his head, and was conscious that all was over with him; when a hand, strong and steady, grasped his arms, still extended, and bearing up their precious burden.

'She's saved! she's saved!' hallooed Peter, with his loudest voice. 'She's saved! God be praised!—she ain't hurt a bit.' With one hand he took Susie from her hold on Sam, and raised her into the boat; and with the other supported him, so that his head was above the water.

'Thank God!' exclaimed Major Morris—'But the boy—is he alive?'

'Oh yes,' said Peter; at the same time raising Sam, and laying him down in the boat.

'No, no, he ain't,' said Jim, throwing himself on the body of Sam. 'He's dead!—oh dear—he's dead! he's dead!'

'I tell you he ain't—he ain't; he's only swooned like—he ain't dead: no, no.'

But when Major Morris saw his pale and deathlike countenance, he was in great alarm.

'To shore, instantly; he has saved my child, but I fear with the loss of his own life.' And while he hugged the darling of his heart to his bosom, and thanked God for his mercy, he could not restrain the big tears as he looked at the pallid features, and felt the cold and clammy temples of the brave heart that had saved her. Frantic with grief and joy alternate, Mrs. Morris watched every motion, from the stairs to which she had flown, at the first summons of the danger of her child. Receiving her from the arms of the father, crying and kissing her in the wildness of her joy, surrounded by attendants, she hurried into the fort; while Major Morris took the lifeless body of Sam in his arms, followed by Peter and Jim, who was almost beside himself with grief and terror.

It seemed a long, long time to those who, under the direction of the surgeon of the garrison, were using means to resuscitate him; and scarcely less rejoiced was Major Morris when he received his own child alive in his arms, than when he perceived the signs of returning consciousness in Sam. At length he awoke as from a troubled dream. With an expression of deep anxiety he looked upon the circle which surrounded him. Mrs. Morris was bending over him, parting the wet and tangled locks from off his pale forehead; beside her stood the Major, holding his hands, and rejoicing in the warmth which he felt was returning to his system. Peter stood at the foot of the bed, chewing incessantly a tremendous quid of tobacco, which he had found leisure to slip into his mouth even in the midst of all the confusion. He had done great execution in the way of rubbing; his hands, very unlike his heart, were rough, and well calculated for such a purpose. He had, however, now ceased rubbing, and was looking alternately at Sam and at a short, red-faced personage, the Irish servant woman, who stood at his elbow. Endowed with all the feelings of her sex and her nation, she continued to be in great agitation. Her arms were crossed upon her breast, her eyes turned up to the ceiling, and with her body swinging to and fro, she was uttering certain groans and exclamations.

'Is the little girl safe?' said Sam, looking full into the face of Major Morris.

'Yes, my fine fellow, she is safe and well; thanks to you, under a kind Providence, for it.'

Sam shut his eyes again; he said nothing further; but there was a tremulous motion on his lips, and about the muscles of his face. Some cordial was administered, and he was allowed to fall asleep. As he slept, the powers of nature began to assume their natural energy, a gentle warmth spread over his frame, the color again glowed on his cheek, and his whole countenance told the story to those anxious watchers, that he was doing well. All breathed more freely; the scene so late full of terror and dismay, was changing, like the black clouds which bring the thunder storm, into beautiful visions for the eye to rest upon and enjoy.

When Sam again awoke, Jim alone was with him. He was much refreshed, and asked whether they had not better return home.

'Whenever you are well enough, we will do so. Every thing is settled for—I have got your money and mine too.'

'Oh, have you? Well, I have not thought much about money, or any thing else; I have been in a kind of dream, I believe.'

'Don't you remember any thing that has happened, Sam?'

'Why, I remember seeing that little girl hanging on the rock:—oh Jim, how I did feel; and I remember running as fast as I could, and just as I put my hand on her to catch her, off she slipped. I remember that, Jim; and I don't believe I shall ever forget it: and I remember holding her up out of the water, and trying to call for help; and then, just as I was giving up and going down, I felt something take hold of me; and after that, all seems to be confused. I thought they told me she was saved; and I thought I saw her once looking at me; but I don't know—may be I only dreamt it.' And Sam looked very anxiously at Jim.

'No, it's no dream, Sam; for she has been here a good while by you, and when she saw how pale you looked, she cried.'

'Did she?'

'Yes, and they all cried. And you don't know what Mr. Morris says—he says if it hadn't been for you, she would have been drowned before any of them could possibly have reached her: and that you have saved her life.'

Sam could make no reply. The thought that he had saved a life, and the life of one so beautiful and so much beloved, was too full of happiness, and it overpowered him. The door now opened slowly, and Peter's shaggy head made its appearance. He had a bundle under his arm—Sam's clothes, which had been dried and ironed for him. Seeing Sam sitting up, he hobbled to the bedside, took both his crutches under one arm, and throwing the other around Sam, gave him a hug—well meant, no doubt, and expressive of his kind feelings; but which would have been much more in keeping had Peter been holding on to a main-top-gallant-mast in a gale of wind.

Sam was soon arrayed in his old but clean garments. While he was dressing, Peter stood with his crutches properly adjusted for moving, his jaws working very rapidly, and his head nodding approvingly at Sam.

'And now, come, my hearty, you're all rigged. The ladies want to see you in t'other room; come.'

'Oh, no, no, no; I can't do that; I can't go, no how.'

'I tell you what it is, you're a good fellow of your age as ever handled an oar; but you are too dumbfounded perverse in your own ways. Here is you been a saving this child, riskin' your own life; and when they want jist to say to you, "God bless you," and kind o' relieve their own minds, you up and won't go.'

But Sam persisted; he would jump into the water again if that was necessary; but as to going into a fine parlor, and being looked at by fine ladies, it was not to be thought of. Peter was about to make some violent pleas against Sam's 'perverseness,' as he called it; when seeing the Major, he suddenly adjusted his crutches, stroked down his queue, and backed off to another part of the room.

We must now leave Sam to the care of these friends, and see what is going on beneath the humble roof of his parents; an eventful day it proved for him and for them.

Bill Tice had done the errand which Mr. Grizzle intrusted to him. A few days after, the old yellow gig of Mr. Richard Tucker was seen standing at Mr. Grizzle's door, while the two worthies were sitting together in a little back room, adjoining the store, with an old greasy account-book lying on the table beside them, and sundry papers in Mr. Tucker's handwriting open, and almost ready to be folded up and put into a dirty pocket-book belonging to said Mr. Tucker; which was also lying there, and waiting to inclose within its clasp an instrument fully charged with a power to torture, only surpassed by the wheel, which, in former days, twisted the joints of the wretched victims from their strong fastenings.

'A larger bill, Mr. Dick, than I thought I could muster up; and now you make the most of it.'

'Trust me for that; all I want to know is what my principal requires—that's all.'

And Mr. Tucker knit his bushy brows, and went on tying up, with a dirty blue string, the papers which had been lying on the table.

After securing them in this manner, he opened his pocket-book, and deposited them in it; and then, in the same careful manner, thrust the whole into an inside pocket of his threadbare coat. Mr. Tucker was about to do a very dirty job, and he was a man well fitted for the duty. He had a heart, doubtless, that beat and threw the vital current about his frame, just as other men have; and he had bones, and sinews, and flesh, and these could suffer pain as other flesh and blood; but to say that Mr. Tucker had a heart as others have, that would beat in sympathy with his fellow in distress, or that he could be made to feel shame, or pain, or sorrow, or regard, in that secret fountain where springs so much that sweetens or embitters life, would be wrong—wrong to him, because it would be saying that of him which was not true—wrong to the mass of mankind, who have feelings that can be touched. Mr. Tucker's appearance was in keeping with his character—little leaden-colored eyes, sunk deep in his head, over which scowled dark shaggy brows; a pale, cadaverous countenance, with no expression that one could lay hold of in an hour of distress, on which to found a hope that any compassion might be felt, or any mercy shown. A fit minister was he of that stern and barbarous code which legalised the torturing of the poor man—which allowed the tearing him away from the charities of home, and entombing him in the charnel-house of vice, debauchery, and filth.

Some feelings of compunction seemed yet to be lingering in the breast of Mr. Grizzle; for as Mr. Richard put his hat on his head, and buttoned up his coat, and fumbled about in the act of departing, he stammered out—

'It's right, you know; I ought to have my own. Folks cannot expect me to wait always for 'em—pay-day must come.'

'Right! to be sure it's right; and as you say he's running against you, and setting up his boy and others to hurt your trade—why, muzzle him, I say—who wouldn't?'

'I suppose it wouldn't be much use taking the timber and stuff that he is building that boat with?—there is nothing else to take.'

'No use in that; he hasn't done much to it but put the ribs together—it's of no value as it is. No—shut him up; that's the way—that will stop boat and all.'

'Well, well; you know the law, Dick, let it work. I shall have to find him in bread and water—that won't cost much.'

The day was drawing to a close, and the shades of evening were deepened by a heavy cloud which was rising in the west, and into which the sun was sinking. A muttering of distant thunder hastened the departure of Mr. Tucker. He sprang into his crazy old gig, and drove off at a quick pace to his deed of mischief.

Oakum had worked diligently on his boat all day, and continued his labor till a later hour than usual, in expectation that the little skiff would be along, and Sam would accompany him home. He had felt much uneasiness for the safety of the boys, and was very desirous of witnessing their return. Darkness was coming on, and a storm threatening; so taking a long look across the water, and meeting no signs of the boat, with rather a sad heart he walked towards his home. Their evening meal was eaten in silence, while, as long as the light permitted any view of distant objects, the eyes of the parents were directed across the water. They felt, as they had never before, how dependent they were upon their boy for his smile and his voice to cheer their hearts.

Scarcely had they finished their supper, when the yellow gig of Mr. Tucker drove up. Oakum and his wife cast their eyes at the gig, and then at each other. Instantly she perceived that trouble was at hand; for her husband grew very pale, and even faltered in his step as he walked to the door to admit their visitor. Mr. Tucker did not use much formality in his official visits, and entered without knocking.

'Mr. Oakum, I believe.'

'At your service, sir.'

'Here is an account, sir, I believe against you, lately put into my hands'—at the same time opening his pocket-book, and taking out one of the papers which he had so carefully put there but a short time since, in the little back room of Mr. Grizzle's store. Mr. Oakum took the paper, and asking Mr. Tucker to be seated, availed himself of the same privilege—for, to tell the truth, he was completely unnerved. He knew well what office Mr. Tucker held: he also knew something of the man; and a strange weakness came over him, so that when he unfolded the paper, and held it up to the light of the window, his hands trembled so violently, it was impossible for him to make out the sum that was charged against him.

'This is from Mr. Grizzle, I suppose, Mr. Tucker?'

'It is, sir.'

'I don't know that I can make out exactly what the amount is; but I suppose it is right. I owe Mr. Grizzle something, but I thought it wasn't much.'

'Much or little, sir, you've got it there; it is something over thirty dollars.'

'Thirty dollars! Ain't there some mistake, Mr. Tucker?' and Mr. Oakum looked at his wife in amazement. She, poor thing, stood like a statue, not comprehending the matter, but fearing it was something dreadful.

'I guess there is no mistake, sir. Mr. Grizzle took it from his book, and he ain't apt to make mistakes; but that is between you and him—it is no concern of mine.'

'Oh, no, sir; you are not to blame. I know I owe Mr. Grizzle, and I have thought of it a great deal, and am trying to get a little something ahead to give him; he shall have all I honestly owe him just as soon as my hands can earn it. I will call and see Mr. Grizzle to-morrow, and take him a little.'

Mr. Tucker now arose from his seat, put his hat on his head, and stepping up to Mr. Oakum—

'All that is well enough, sir; but it don't pay the bill. If you cannot settle it at once, you will please go along with me'—at the same time putting his hand on his shoulder.

'I have a warrant to take you, unless you can give me the money, or goods in the place of it. Shall I read the warrant?'

'There is no occasion for that, sir. I have not got the money, if it was to save my life; and goods I have none, only what you see here.'

'Well, sir, if you go peaceably, it is well enough; if not, I must read the warrant, for I have no time to lose—it is getting dark.'

Mr. Oakum arose, but his limbs could scarcely sustain him; big drops of sweat stood on his pale forehead, and a deadly sickness was at his heart.

'Oakum, Oakum! tell me what it is. What does this man want?'

'I don't see, Mr. Tucker, what good it is going to do Mr. Grizzle to shut me up in jail. I can't do no work there. And what are my wife and children to do? must they starve?'

'Jail! jail! Ah, sir; you ain't going to put my husband in jail! What hurt has he done you, or any body else?'

And she flew to her husband, and putting her arms around his neck, wept as though her heart had broken. But Mr. Tucker was not to be balked in the discharge of his official duties by the tears of either man or woman—some harsh things he said, which aroused the humbled spirits of this suffering husband and wife. Mrs. Oakum hushed her grief for the time, in order to quiet the distressed children, who were clinging to their father, and screaming in their agony when they learned whither he was going. Mr. Oakum, however, made no resistance to the imperious demands of the officer; but quieting the feelings of his family as far as he could, entered the gig with Mr. Tucker, and was driven rapidly away amid the darkness of the gathering storm.

As soon as Mrs. Oakum was enabled to collect her thoughts, apprehensions on Sam's account again oppressed her. She took her seat by the window, and looked in every direction; but the darkness had increased so rapidly, that objects could be discerned at only a short distance from the house. Occasionally the vivid lightning would, for an instant, throw its bright glare across the water, making the prospect distinctly visible. On one occasion, she thought she saw a small white sail; and every succeeding flash she watched, until her eyes were nearly blinded by the dazzling light, but nothing more of it could she discern. A startling peal of thunder proclaimed that the storm was at hand, and the rain began to patter in large drops, and then to pour its floods upon them. Just at that moment the door opened; and Sam, with his cheerful smile and pleasant words, was in the midst of them. They all flew to caress him; but missing his father, and seeing the marks of distress in his mother's countenance—

'Where is father?' he cried, 'is anything wrong—do tell me quick, mother.'

'Ah, Sam! what shall we do?'

All Sam's bright hopes were dashed at once; he durst ask no further. The day had been one of severe toil and imminent danger; but he had been richly rewarded in the approbation of those he esteemed so highly; he had been caressed by those whose rank in life was among the first in the land; and he had then about him a jewel of no inconsiderable value, given to him by Mrs. Morris as a token of her high approbation of his manly conduct, and of the obligation she should ever feel for the rescue of her child. All this had raised his spirits; and full of the fond anticipation of making his parents glad with the tidings of the day, he had landed with a happy heart, and hurried to his home. But now, alas! his father has yielded to the tempter, never, perhaps, to be restored, and all his proud dreams are gone.

'You need not tell me about it, mother. But I must go and try to find him; he may be somewhere on the road, unable to help himself, and exposed to this storm.'

His mother looked earnestly at him, as though not clearly comprehending what he meant; but it soon became evident to her.

'Oh! it is not that, Sam. Your father has been hard at work all day, and we were only worrying a little about you, as he felt so anxious ever since the storm we had in the morning—if it hadn't been for that, we should have been as happy as could be—when, all at once, that good-for-nothing creature Richard Tucker came in, and said he was sent by Grizzle; and in spite of all we could say or do, he has took him off to the jail.'

And she broke out again in a passionate flood of tears. Poor Sam was in a sad strait; but his heart was not so heavy as when under the impression that his father had fallen again into his evil habits. He resolved, however, immediately what course to pursue.

'I am going out, mother. Perhaps I can get him clear; if not, I shall stay with him till morning. I cannot leave my father alone in that dreadful place to-night.'

'Oh, Sam! what are you talking about? You cannot go out in such a storm, and then to stay all night in that awful jail.'

'I don't care for the storm, mother; and the jail won't be worse for me than it will be for him.'

'Well, Sam, I don't know what to say, my poor head is so bewildered. If it wasn't for these little ones, I would go with you.'

Sam immediately went to his chest, and taking out all his little store of money, put it with that which he had brought home that day—in all it amounted to three dollars. He then took the jewel which had been presented to him—a handsome broach, in the form of a harp, and set with stones, worth no small sum in money; but to Sam more valuable than hoards of gold, and which no money would have purchased from him—and placed it in the bag with his little treasure, then threw on an old garment, to protect himself in some measure from the rain, and telling his mother 'to keep up a good heart,' left the house. He took the road leading to Mr. Grizzle's store, and forgetting the fatigue of the day, hurried along as fast as the storm would permit. Mr. Grizzle was sitting at his counter, resting his feet on an old rickety bench, and humming a tune by way of company, for the usual visitors of the evening were not in.

Sam took off his hat as he entered, and walking up to Mr. Grizzle looked him full in the face, but was too much out of breath to speak.

The old man stopped his tune, and looked quite smilingly at Sam.

'Well, my lad, how do you do this evening? All well at home?'

'Here, Mr. Grizzle, is all the money we have; it is not much—but I thought may be you would take it; and here is something that is worth a good deal—you may keep it until we bring you the rest of the money. We can only get a little at a time, but you shall have it all as fast as we can raise it.'

'Money, boy! Who has said any thing to you about money? I haven't—have I?'

'Why, sir, I suppose you sent Mr. Tucker to our house?'

'Mr. Tucker! He has been to see you, has he? Well, he is a pretty hard customer. Why not give him the money?'

'But he has taken my father to jail, sir; and says he must have the whole of the money—and this is all we have got,' holding up to Mr. Grizzle his little handful of change. 'Here is three dollars, sir, and I will soon get you some more, and you may keep this until I bring it,' taking up also his brooch.

'What, gold, ha! You must be pretty well off at your house—pretty well off.'

'Do, Mr. Grizzle, take this, and let my father go. We will pay you every cent he owes, just as fast as we can; I promise you, sir, upon my honor.'

'Oh, you had better go to Mr. Tucker's, he will take the money, I guess—and that thing too; may be he can find an owner for it. It don't look as if it had been living among poor folks.'

Sam's heart was beginning to sink; he perceived that Mr. Grizzle was only mocking him. But he did not quite understand what he meant by 'finding an owner for it.'

'I am the owner of this, Mr. Grizzle.'

'Are you? you look a good deal like it.' And he cast his eye down at Sam, surveying him from head to foot. This was more than he could bear; his heart beat quick, his face reddened; he could not then have asked a favour of that old withered wretch, had it been to save himself or his family from certain ruin. He put his money and jewel back again into his pocket, picked up his hat from the bench on which he had laid it, and turning his back on the store and its owner, hurried away, wishing that he might never see either again.

The building used for the graceless evil-doers and penniless paupers of this vicinity was not a very sightly object, and its appearance was in keeping with its hideous character. It was a square, two-storied building, without any paint; the clapboards and roof were gray and mossy; storms and sunshine had played upon it for fifty years; and it was none the better for its age. In the upper story could be seen one room, with a small window at the end, with iron bars crossing sufficiently near together to keep a prisoner from getting through, if he was somewhat corpulent; but most rogues and poor men, that were not very stout, could, if so disposed, have found a way out with a little hard squeezing. But whether any did ever get out in that way I never learned—perhaps the sight of the iron was enough. The other apartments of the house had windows open as one could desire; glass may once have formed some obstruction, to the birds at least; but it had disappeared 'long time ago,' and in that place thereof, shingles, old hats, old clothes—any thing that would keep out the rain and the cold for the time being, was substituted. It was inhabited by a family, which, for want of all those qualities and qualifications that would have fitted them for any other situation, were content to abide here. Old Adam Tice had never been able to comprehend the difference between mine and thine. He was not particularly bad in any other way; but it was generally thought that his boys would, in time, carry out his principles a little beyond their parent; and his son Bill, whom we have been introduced to at Mr. Grizzle's, had, on more than one occasion, enjoyed the occupancy of the room with the grated window.

As there was but one apartment in this building suited for close confinement, it sometimes occurred that an unfortunate debtor, who had no friend to bail him out, so as to allow him the privilege, if such he should esteem it, of ranging the lot on which the house was built, and taking up his abode with Mr. Tice, must share the grated room with some vile character whose deeds against humanity had brought him there; and such was the case now. Two notorious vagabonds, guilty of flagrant crimes, the very offscouring of the earth, were there; and nightly they filled the old jail with noise and riot, as though fiends were holding their orgies. It made even old Tice shudder, as their horrid oaths rang through the building in the darkness of the night; and he almost regretted that he had procured the liquor which had thus given them the inspiration of demons.

I shall not attempt to describe the feelings of poor Mr. Oakum when he heard the key turned upon him, and found himself in such company. Some straw was placed for him at one end of the room, out of the reach of his fellow-prisoners, who were chained. He tottered towards it, and was glad to cast himself down upon it. Sorrow will sometimes lull her suffering children to sleep: oblivion, like a handmaid of charity, steals upon them and shuts up the senses. Helpless, and almost hopeless, his mind could no longer bear the thoughts that haunted it, but settled down into unconsciousness. Occasionally some dreadful oath would rouse him, or the deep rolling thunder, but only for a moment; when thoughts of home, and wife, and children, would with lightning speed flash upon his mind, and then, overpowered with his sad condition, he would again sink into unconsciousness.

At length he started from his bed of straw, awakened by the spring of the heavy bolt that was suddenly drawn back. He cast his eager glance upon the door; a light glimmered through a small square aperture at the top—the latch was raised—his senses he feared were leaving him; for there stood Sam, his dear, good child. Mr. Tice threw the light of his lamp upon that corner of the room, and Sam walked directly to his father.

'Oh, my dear boy, is that you? is it you, Sam?'

'I thought I would come and stay with you to-night, father.'

'Oh, Sam, I do not mind this for my own sake; I deserve it: my own foolishness has brought this on to me.'

'Don't talk so, father; you haven't done wrong. I will get you out, yet, and it will all be better than ever.'

His father could make no reply; his heart was melted, and thoughts different from any he had ever indulged before began to agitate him. God had not forsaken him; this child was an angel of mercy, sent to cheer his gloom and give hope to his heart. New and strange feelings towards his God arose from within—how good, how forbearing, how full of compassion. New feelings in regard to himself oppressed him. A great sinner, both towards God and the dear ones God had given him, could he be pardoned? He remembered the thief upon the cross; and his whole heart arose in one strong impulse—'Lord, help me! save me!' It was a simple prayer—it was only breathed—but it was heard in heaven. And swift as angels fly, sweet peace came down and stole into his bosom, and there, amid that gloom and in that dire abode, whispered of pardon, and hope, and a Friend above.

But where did Sam obtain that strong assurance that all would yet be well—better than ever? It was no fiction invented to soothe his father's troubled mind. Sam really felt and truly believed it would be so. Ever since that dark hour upon the rock by the water-side, when his companions came to him with their plan of enterprise, had resolution, strong as his love of life, nerved his heart. He had since then tasted the rich fruits of honest labor; and his eyes were enlightened, and his hope and courage made strong. His parents and sisters had already been made happy by his exertions, and his way was enlarging before him. The present hour was one of severe trial, but his courage was not shaken by it, and he believed most firmly that it would be with them 'better than it had ever been.'

It was a beautiful morning when Sam left the jail, and hurried on his way to carry what comfort he could to his home. He would have avoided every human being if he could, but just as he was about to pass the road which ran down to the blacksmith's shop, Mr. Cutter's two boys saw him, and being social fellows, ran up, and began, in their free-and-easy boy's style, to question him about what he was doing there that time of day, and where he had been, and so on. Sam's heart was about as full as it could hold. They were wild boys, but of a kind nature, and felt a right good-will towards Sam. They perceived that he was in trouble, for the tears stood in his eyes when they spoke to him.

'Now, Sam, what's the matter? tell me who's been hurting you. I'll give it to him—who is it? See if I don't.' And Bill Cutter doubled up his fists, and put himself in a posture to go right at it. Sam Cutter was a little softer in his composition than his brother; and while Bill was putting himself into a great rage with somebody or other, he did not care who, Sam put his hand on the shoulder of his companion:

'Tell me, Sam, what's the matter.' The storm, which had been so long pent up, broke forth; this made both boys more solicitous to find out the cause of his trouble, until Sam was compelled to tell the whole.

No sooner had they heard the story, than, seizing Sam, each by an arm, they fairly forced him along.

'Come along, right in, Sam Oakum, and tell father all about it.'

And on he had to go, straight through the old shop, into a little back yard, and then into a little old house. The table was in the middle of the floor, on which lay the remains of the breakfast which had just been eaten.

Mrs. Cutter was stooping over the fire, and doing something with a kettle which hung there; and as they entered, she turned her very large eyes upon the boys. I say large, because they were naturally very expansive, and because she wore on the bridge of her nose, right before them, a pair of nose spectacles; they were large, too, in contrast with the other features of her countenance, for while these were very round and full, everything else in sight was very long and sharp; her nose was long, and her chin was long, and her hands and arms were long; and other limbs long too, for when she let go the kettle and raised herself up, she appeared all length—of breadth there was nothing to mention, except the eyes.

'What upon airth is the matter? what are you doin' with that boy? See, Cutter, they've been a hurtin' on him—he's a cryin' now—oh the massys! Let him go, you good-for-nothins you, let him go.'

'No, we ain't been hurting him, neither—what do you think, father? they've been putting Sam Oakum's father in the old cage, they have.'

Mr. Cutter was sitting yet at the table; he and his good woman were the reverse of each other, in more ways than one. He was, as we have seen, very large and full-bodied. Standing and walking and going about, seemed to be, each of them, her natural situation; while with him, standing was not to be thought of if there was any chance for a seat; and when once at the table he seemed willing there to stay, until Mrs. Cutter had cleared plates, dishes, and the table itself from before him. As the boys entered he pushed himself round, and looked in quiet amazement at them.

'Who is they? who's put him in jail?'

'Old Grizzle, father; only think. If I ain't a mind to kill the old varmint; I'll burn his house down.'

'Whist, hush, hold your tongue, you scoundrel; how dare you talk so?'

And the old man, in his energy to do something to show his displeasure at such threats, caught hold of the pitcher, which yet stood on the table before him, and thinking not of its contents, elevated it above his head in a threatening manner at his lawless son. Cider he liked well enough in its proper place; but a shower of it on his bald head, and in his eyes, and so on, was another thing. It took him by surprise—he let the pitcher go, and put his hands to the afflicted parts.

Crockery is brittle stuff; it could not stand every thing, any more than Mrs. Cutter's temper could. To see the look of horror she cast upon the dripping head of her husband, and then at the broken pieces of her pitcher, the very last thing in the house 'her mother gin' her,' as she often said; with her long arms and bony fingers stretched out in the air, was rather frightful: The moment the old man could recover himself sufficiently to realize what he had done, and what he had to expect, he exclaimed, very significantly,

'Oh dear!' and rose up as hastily as he could, designing to retreat to his shop, his usual refuge from a storm.

'Oh dear! you may well say so—of all things. Well, Cutter, now you see what you've done. I've told you it would be so; the very last thing my mother gin' me—slam it right down on the harth—isn't that purty? you've been breakin' and breakin' all your life; and now you've broke the pitcher.'

He said not a word in reply, but taking hold of Sam Oakum pulled him along towards the shop. Finding that her husband was fast retreating from the sound of her voice, she turned the battery upon her two boys, who were eyeing the broken crockery with no very equivocal looks,

'And you, you villains! comin' and settin' your father crazy with your lies—out of the house with you, this instant.' And she made a push for the broomstick. They understood her kind intentions right well, having had large experience in that way, and did not wait for any further instructions; but made after their father with all speed.

Once in the shop, the old man felt safe. He had kept fast hold of Sam, and sitting down on his usual block, held him off at arms-length with one hand, while with the other, and the aid of an old handkerchief, he wiped down his bald head, and round, good-natured countenance.

'Oh dear! it was unlucky about that pitcher, I shall never hear the last on it. Tell me now, Sam, what is all this? It ain't true—is it? that old varmint ain't put your father in jail, has he? Don't cry now, but just tell me the whole on it.'

Sam told his story as well as he could, but it was hard work. He could command his feelings very well, when only thinking about it; but when compelled to speak his father's name, his lip trembled, and the words came out with great difficulty. Mr. Cutter had a very tender heart of his own, and Sam's story and appearance worked upon him more and more; so that he kept the old handkerchief wiping away long after the cider shower had dried off.

'And why didn't you come to me, and tell me about it? Ain't I known your father from a boy, and your mother too—bless her good soul; and do you think I would have let such doings as these gone on? That old varmint—is that the way he is goin' to serve folks? Send 'em to jail, to lay there with them dreadful rapscallions? Oh dear!—jist to think on it! And you was comin' here to tell me about it this morning; wasn't you, Sam?'

'No, sir, I was going home.'

'Going home? Why, where have you been?'

'I've been with father all night.'

'You? He didn't put you there too, did he? the old sinner!'

'Oh no, sir, but I went there to stay with him. I thought father would feel so bad.'

'You blessed child! Oh dear, what are we comin' to? And you ain't had no breakfast. Here, boys, go in and ask your mother to give this poor child a little something.'

'Oh no, sir, I thank you; I can't stay; for mother will feel bad if I don't go home; and I ain't hungry a bit.'

'Yes, you are hungry—you know you are—only you feel so bad, you can't eat. But I tell you, don't feel bad; you mustn't. Your father shan't stay there in that hole; I tell you he shan't! He shall see that he's got some friends. We ain't all dead and buried yet, I hope.'

'Oh, Mr. Cutter!' and Sam, as he said this, caught hold of him with both his hands; 'if you can do any thing to help to get my father out of that dreadful place, I will thank you all my life for it, and I will pay you every cent of the money, just as fast as I can earn it.' And he looked so earnestly into Mr. Cutter's face, and his bright black eyes sparkled with such an intensity of feeling, that the old man's heart must have been made of much sterner stuff than it was, not to have felt the appeal.

'There, go home—go home, Sam; don't say no more.' And he fairly pushed Sam away from him; and then he kept the old handkerchief going for some time, not saying a word to either of his boys, who stood looking after Sam, as he went away, and pitying him from their hearts.

'Now, boys, go and catch the old mare, and hitch her to the cart; and one of you must drive me to Billy Bloodgood's. Billy must help about this business, if I can only make him hear any thing; but it's like raising the dead.'

The boys went off with a good will, and soon had the old nag tackled to the cart, her harness being of a very simple kind, and easily adjusted.

Mr. Cutter had a way of his own about almost every thing, and it extended even to his manner of riding. Too bulky to climb very high places, he chose, generally, the lowest seat he could find; and the tail of the cart being more easily attained than any other part, and moreover, being easily resigned in case of accident, whenever Mr. Cutter rode, that was his place. He would sit pretty well in on the body, with his legs dangling behind, and one hand on each of the side-boards. To an observer, it appeared to be a very uneasy situation; for the mare had a peculiar gait, something between a rack and a pace, which not only imparted a quick up-and-down motion to the stern of the vehicle, but a lateral one likewise; so that from the time she started until she stopped, Mr. Cutter was not only carried onward, but every which way: there was no quiet for his body. He never complained of it, however, nor seemed to realize any thing out of the way.

Billy Bloodgood was just going out of his gate when Mr. Cutter drove up. Knowing that it would be useless trying to hold a parley with him out there, he told his son to drive close to the door; and taking Mr. Bloodgood by the arm, pulled him along, determined not to let him go, as he was well acquainted with his peculiarities. So, holding on with one hand to the side of the doorway, and with the other to his friend, he entered into Mrs. Bloodgood's sanctum—her kitchen, parlor, and bedroom. Puffing and blowing, he seized the first chair he could find, and bestowed himself upon it.

'Now, woman, do you make this husband of your's sit down, for I want to talk to him; and he'll be running off if you don't see to him.'

'Why, what's the matter, Uncle Sam? you're all in a heat, and out o' breath. Ain't nothing happened to home, has there?'

'Happened? Yes, there has something happened—there's always something or other happening in this world; but that ain't neither here nor there. I can get along with that. The wind will have its blow out, and then it will stop, and so must a woman's tongue. But I tell you, make that man of your's sit down, and do you come and listen to me, and then try to git it into his head, for it's beyond me to do it.'

Mrs. Bloodgood did as she was bidden; for she had great respect for Uncle Sam Cutter. She placed a seat close beside him for her husband, and another for herself, immediately before him.

'Do you know that our neighbor Oakum is in jail?'

'In jail! Oh dear, how you do talk!'

'It is true—I tell you so.'

'Then it's Grizzle—I know it is. First, he's 'ticed him to drink, and then he's come upon him. Ain't it so, Uncle Sam?'

'Yes; but hear me. Oakum ain't the man he was—don't you know that? He's a clean changed man. He's to work now every day, and brings home all his earnings every night to his family, and stays to home, and acts like a man; and his wife looks like a new critter, and things all round his house look so you wouldn't hardly know it. And now, jist as they are beginning to be a little like folks, and have things right end up, that old varmint takes the law on him, and puts him in the old cage, among them rapscallions there, jist as if he was a thief or a murderer.'

'Oh dear! jist to think on it.'

'And there's that blessed child of his been through all the rain and thunder and lightning, and went and stayed there all night, because he couldn't bear to leave his father alone—jist think of that; and that poor woman, all stark alone with them little children—jist think of that. Don't it make your heart ache?'

'Oh dear, dear! what are we comin' to?—jist think of it.'

Mrs. Bloodgood had her own peculiar ways, and was not always very particular what she said or did, when overcome by the little vexations of life; but she had a feeling heart, and would cry as hard as she would scold, if there was any thing calculated in an especial manner to bring tears; and now they were chasing each other down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away.

'I don't wonder you cry about it. I tell you what: when that little fellow took hold on me this morning, and begged me to help his father, and looked up at me so pitiful, and said that he would thank me all his life, and pay every cent of the debt as fast as he could earn it—why I tell you, Sally, I cried like a child. And now, I tell you what it is; we mustn't leave that man lying there like a thief. I can't eat, nor sleep—I can't do it, Sally. I haven't got but little; but Billy must help—it's thirty dollars. I know it's a great deal for poor folks to raise, but it must be done, somehow—mustn't it, Sally?'

Mr. Bloodgood had been a silent spectator of the scene—he could not be said to be a listener. He saw that Mr. Cutter was very much engaged, and that his wife was quite to the other extremity of her feelings; but what was to pay he did not know. He kept looking first at one, and then at the other, for some explanation, taking large pinches of snuff all the time from a horn box which he held in his hand.

'Any body dead?'

Mrs. Bloodgood put her nose close to his ear, and hallooed—'No!'

Mr. Cutter pushed his chair back a little—the unearthly noise startled him.

'Why! do you have to holler at that rate? I should think you'd split your throat, or your nose, or something or other. I never heard such a noise.'

'Oh dear! I tell you, Uncle Sam, he gits wus and wus. I do candidly believe it's the snuff; he stops every thing up with it. His head ain't got no more sound to it than the harth stone.'

'Well, I don't know but it's the best thing he can do, if he's got to have sich noises as them made in it. I should want to stop every thing up too; and how upon airth you are ever going to tell him what I want, I don't see. Let me get a little ways off afore you begin; my head sings now like a dozen teakettles.'

With that the old man pushed his chair off against the opposite wall, while Mrs. Bloodgood undertook the task of explaining matters to her husband, and she accomplished it in much less time than could have been expected. Being nowise friendly to Mr. Grizzle, she handled his name in a very free way; and as her husband confided in her management, when she was through with the story, he looked at her very significantly—

'Shall I do it, Sally?'

'Yes, yes; do it—quick.'

So he looked at Mr. Cutter, smiled, and nodded, and then left the room.

'Well, well; all things was made for some use. I often wondered what your nose was made for, but I see now. But it will be the death of you, yet; you'll split something or other one of these days.'

'Why, no, Uncle Sam, you see I'm used to it; but it does make me weak at the stomach like, it takes sich a power of wind to keep it up any time so; a body can holler pretty loud two or three words, and not mind it. But I s'pose it's my lot, and I must be content with it.'

Mr. Bloodgood soon returned, making signs to Uncle Sam to draw up to the table. We must leave them to arrange matters, and carry out their kind designs as best they may be able.

How beautifully the water sparkled with the bright rays of the morning sun, and how clean the shore looked, and how fresh every thing appeared, as Sam drew near to his home; but how very sad his heart was, none but such as have suffered like him can well imagine. But sad as were his feelings, it did not hinder his attending to all the duties which devolved upon him. The net was examined, and the fish for the morning's meal brought up. The pigs were fed, and the boat looked after, and all things done as usual. It was a solitary meal, that breakfast, and soon ended. But the best fish were frying by the fire, and on the griddle was a fine thick bread-cake cooking, and a little basket was brought and placed on the table, and a clean cloth lay beside the basket; and Sam had his hat in his hand, and was leaning against the fireplace, watching his mother, as she went about the little room getting things together.

'May be he'd like a little pickle, mother. You know he eats it sometimes with his breakfast.' And the mother made no reply; but wiping away the tears that started as reference was made to him, she went directly to the cupboard and brought the pot of pickles; and then the fish was taken from the fire, and placed on a plate and put into the basket; and the cake was taken from the griddle, and broken in two and laid on the fish; and the pickle, and a little salt and pepper, and a knife and fork; and then the clean cloth was put over the whole, and Sam, taking the basket, walked straight out of the house, and his mother threw herself into the chair, and wept aloud.

As Sam ascended the little rise of ground behind their dwelling, he looked across to the house of his friends, Jim and Ned, to see if they were out—as he then felt a sight of them would be good. There they were, working away in their garden. Presently one of them stops and looks round, walks to the fence, jumps over, and is running toward Sam, with Jowler after him.

'There comes Ned. What shall I say to him?'

'Sam, how are you? ain't this a beautiful morning? What have you got in your basket? where are you going?'

'Oh, I am going a short distance.'

'If you are not going too far, I'll go with you. I'm tired of hoeing. Jim has had me up ever since daybreak, and I mean to rest a few minutes. But what is the matter, Sam? What makes you look so? You ain't well, are you?'

Sam did look pale, for he was alarmed at Ned's offer to accompany him.

'Oh, I think you had better not go with me: it is something of a walk, and as you have been at work so long, you will be tired.'

'No; I shan't be tired. But now, Sam Oakum, tell me what's the matter,' at the same time taking hold of him. 'There is something the matter, I know—you always tell me every thing.'

'I know I do, Ned; but somehow I do not like to tell you this. Haven't you heard any thing.'

'Heard any thing? No. Do you think we should not have been down to see you, if we had known that any thing was the matter? But do tell me, Sam.'

'Father is in jail.'

'That's Grizzle.'

'Yes.'

Ned stooped and caught up a good-sized stone, and aiming it at another still larger, sent it with such force that it was shivered into small fragments. He then looked at Sam a moment, with his hands in his pockets. He dared not speak, for his heart was aching so hard. It would have been a great relief to have cried; but Ned never cried—he could do any thing but that. He felt so much like it now though, as he kept his eyes on Sam, who looked so sad and pale, that all at once he turned short round, and walked away towards home; and Sam went on his way toward the jail.

The two miserable beings who had filled the old jail with their ravings through most of the night, were now asleep; and as Sam was admitted again into the miserable room, he cast his eye upon them as they lay in all their loathsomeness. Never before had he seen human nature in such an appalling form—their garments filthy, and torn into shreds; their hair, long and matted, lay over their faces and among the straw which formed their bed; their faces bloated, bruised, and bloody. He shrunk back involuntarily. He cast his eye to the further end of the room, and it met the smile of his father. He hurried past these dreadful objects, and placed his basket beside his pale and sorrow-stricken parent. Sam started, when he saw how very pale he looked, and how great a change his countenance had undergone since he last saw the daylight shine upon it. He took off the cloth which covered the basket, and upon that he placed the good breakfast his mother had prepared; and then he saw his father put his hands together, and that his eyes were closed, and his lips moved. He had never known him to do so before. Could it be that he was praying for a blessing, ere he tasted this token of love from earthly dear ones and heaven's bounteous King? Oh, Sam! how little can you realize the ordeal that parent has passed since the last setting sun. But the agony that racked his spirit has purified it also; and it has turned, 'trembling, hoping,' to its God. When years have passed, and you shall stand by his dying bed, and walk in the church-yard where rises the little mound of earth over the resting-place of his body, you will think of this night, and you will bless God for his goodness to you and your's.

'It is very good, Sam; and it is very kind in you all to think of me so.'

'Oh, father, don't say so; it makes me feel so bad.'

'To think how much trouble I have been to my family.'

Sam could stand it no longer, but wept aloud.

'I don't wish to make you feel bad, Sam; but all your kind feelings, and all your mother's kind feelings, make me think how wrong I have acted, and wonder how anybody can care for me.'

'But they do care for you—everybody cares for you. Uncle Sam Cutter says you shan't stay here—that you shan't.'

'Did he say so? Well, I thank him for his kind feelings; and I hope, if the Lord please, I may get my liberty soon, that I may be able to work and earn an honest living, and pay my debts. But, Sam, this place ain't so bad, gloomy as it looks. A bad life and a guilty conscience are harder things to get along with than this jail. I have spent worse hours, looking at you and your mother, and the little ones, with a fire burning in my bosom, than I spent here last night. I never knew before that there could be such things.'

'What things, father?'

'Why, Sam, that there could be such peace within, when all about me was so horrible. But I believe God has done it—and all for my good. He does everything for good.'

Sam was utterly confounded at hearing such words from his father; but he rejoiced to hear them. He sat as long as he thought consistent with duties at home, and was preparing to return, when their attention was arrested by a bustle below stairs, and a loud puffing and blowing of some one ascending to the room.

'What steps you've got here, Mr. Tice!—so high, I can hardly get my old carcass up. Oh, dear, dear, dear; what a world this is!'

The heavy bolt was drawn; and as the door, creaking on its hinges, slowly opened, the portly form of Mr. Samuel Cutter appeared, filling the open space, and looking with a wild stare into and around the room.

'You can go clean in, Mr. Cutter, an you like to; and I'll shut the door, and you may stay as long as you like.'

'You will, hey? No, no, Mr. Tice, thank you, I'll do well enough here;' at the same time putting his hand out, and holding fast to the door. 'None of your shutting up; it's bad enough to look at, without your turning the old lock on a body. Of all sights!—are these men dead?'

'Oh it ain't nothin', Mr. Cutter; only they've been a little lively last night, and they're a sleepin' it out, I guess, this mornin'.'

'You don't call them human critters, laying there in that shape, Mr. Tice, do you?'

'Yes, they be, only their hair is got tangled a little. I should a'most think they'd been a fightin', by their looks—they do look bad, that's a fact.'

More noises were now heard below, and there was the trampling of horses at the door, and soon a lively treading up the stairs.

'What does this mean, Mr. Tice? the jail door open, and people going in and out. Are the prisoners gone?' And Mr. Richard Tucker bustled up into the room. He was followed by Billy Bloodgood, and Uncle Sam Cutter's two boys. Mr. Richard seeing the doorway barricaded by a pretty large body, made no apology for hastily pushing through, and fairly taking the old gentleman quite into the room. He was about to shut the door when his arm was seized, and held by a grip as effectual as though an iron vice had embraced it.

'Stop, stop, man; none of your shutting up, with my carcass in such a den as this. And besides, you came here now to let folks out; so the sooner you set about it, the better.'

Mr. Richard was full of wrath, but he knew whom he had to deal with; and seeing likewise that Billy Bloodgood was looking at him very earnestly, and pointing towards Mr. Oakum at the other end of the room, he had no alternative; so called aloud in a very quick manner,

'Mr. Oakum, you are at liberty, you are released; you can go.'

Sam jumped up, and caught hold of his father:

'Oh, father! come, come, father, quick!' And he fairly pulled his father along; who, amazed at the suddenness of his delivery, and weak with the agitation his mind had endured, almost staggered as he followed Sam to the door.

'Come along, man, come along; don't stay a minute longer.' And old Mr. Cutter hobbled out, partly leaning on Mr. Oakum, and partly pulling him down the stairs, and out of doors.

To describe all Mr. Oakum's feelings, when he found himself at liberty, and learned that a full settlement of his account had been made, and that it had dwindled down, under the scrutinizing eye of Billy Bloodgood, to the sum of twenty dollars, and that he could pay this amount back at his own convenience; or to describe the joy which danced in the heart of Sam when he saw his father once out of that place, and Uncle Sam Cutter shaking him with both hands; and Mr. Bloodgood nodding his head, and smiling, and running round—it would be vain to attempt.

It was a bright spot in Sam's life, and it was a good day for more hearts than one; for it was the means of winning into the little circle of working boys the two sons of old Mr. Cutter: they became diligent from that day forward, and were constant in aiding their father, either in the garden, the shop, or the field.

CHAPTER VII.

The establishment of Mr. Cross, up in the barrens, had not much to boast of as to its architecture or location. It consisted of a long, low building, formed of logs, but covered with boards, and the roof shingled. Attached to it were several buildings, constructed entirely of logs, but well shingled roofs were over the whole of them, and they were otherwise finished, so as to impress the beholder with the idea that the owner was in very different circumstances from those who occupied such buildings for many miles circuit. In front of this main house ran a piazza, its full length; while upon a tall pine tree, nearly opposite the centre of the premises, hung a rude sign, with the owner's name, D. Cross, in large letters on the bottom. The inside of the building presented a mongrel appearance of store and tavern; a little of both, and not much of either. There was a counter, and small scales upon it; with decanters, and a few dirty tumblers at one end. Barrels were standing in different parts of the room. There were one or two plain board tables, and a few benches, besides two chairs with backs, and several without. Three large casks were placed together against one side of the wall, and the faucets in them clearly told for what purpose they were used. Behind the counter ran some long shelves, upon which lay jumbled together a little iron ware, a little crockery, and very limited assortment of dry goods.

The location was not an unpleasant one for those who admire the seclusion of a forest; for lofty pines towered on all sides of it, except to the north, where a clearing having been made, probably when the house was erected, a thick growth of scrub pines had come forward, and presented the appearance of a swamp.

There was, however, somewhat of a clear space immediately around the building, formed by the meeting of three or four roads, running off into different directions, and pointing out this spot to be, as it really was, the centre of attraction and influence to all that region.

The owner of this domain, Mr. David Cross, had become, from causes which have been explained in a previous chapter, a person of some consideration; he owned quite a number of acres of heavily timbered land, connectively with his house; and by various means had managed to bring the whole population, at least for some miles circuit, into a state of dependence upon himself. He was not gifted by nature with a very commanding form, being rather under than over the medium height. This deficiency, however, he did all he could to remedy, by holding himself very erect; and as he was a little inclined to be fleshy, it sometimes even appeared that he leaned backwards in his efforts to make the most of himself.

The only member of Mr. Cross's family in any wise related to him, was his son David; a young man of some activity in the way of business. But having been tutored entirely by his father, it may be supposed he had not the most correct notions in matters of morality; although, as yet, no very flagrant charges had been laid up against him in the minds of those who dealt there; for the very good reason, that the elder Mr. Cross chose to keep things in his own hand, and bear all responsibility. As to the mother of David, little was known respecting her—it was supposed she had died when her child was an infant, for he had no remembrance of her.

David was not unpopular with the inhabitants of the barrens. Being of a lively turn, and of careless, open manners, they felt a freedom in his presence, which was quite in contrast with the servile subjection they ever had to realize when dealing with his father.

As the tavern of Mr. Cross was the only place where the laborers he employed could find a lodging place during the season of the year when their services were required—the distance from their own homes being often too great to allow of return until the close of the week—it was seldom that the place was without sojourners; and too many of them had but a scanty allowance for their families, after their six days' toil.

It was a very warm day among the pines; no breeze abroad, and the air from the heated sand almost suffocating. Mr. Cross was behind his counter, busily employed in stirring the toddy stick, and waiting upon those who were calling for their favourite mixture; some were leaning over the counter, some resting on the benches, and not a few were lying at full length upon the piazza, and in the shade of the pine, scanty as it was, which served for the sign-post of the tavern, when the rumbling of a carriage was heard, and the unusual sound attracted the notice of all present. Those who were prostrate, arose at once, and looked forth through the different openings; and those who were in the act of drinking, suspended operations, and held their glasses on the counter, casting glances of inquiry at Mr. Cross and at each other.

'It's Dave, I suppose,' said Mr. Cross; 'although I didn't think he'd be along this hour yet.'

'That aint Dave,' replied one of the men; 'for it comes very slow, and sounds heavy: I can tell Dave's buggy a mile off, by its rattle.'

Mr. Cross, apparently satisfied that there was truth in the remark, walked slowly from behind the counter, and approaching the door, those who were standing there hastily made way, and left the post of observation to him alone; they collecting in groups on the outside. Convinced that it was not his son's carriage that approached, the little man stood with his hands in his pockets, his person straightened up, and his eye intently fixed on the road upon which the heavy vehicle was rumbling, and glimpses of which could be seen through occasional small openings in the pines.

Soon the cleared space before the tavern was gained, and every eye turned instinctively towards Cross, as though asking an explanation from his countenance. The ruddy, or rather purple hue which it usually bore, immediately assumed a higher color; his hands were withdrawn from their resting-places, his head uncovered, and bustling through the crowd which surrounded his door, he was bowing, and smiling, and doing his best to play the agreeable, the moment the superb vehicle drew up before his sign-post.

The travellers were indeed persons of no small consideration, if an opinion could be formed from their equipage. The carriage was large and airy, hanging low and gracefully upon long sweeping springs; of a dark olive color, which contrasted finely with the light drab linings of the inside. The horses were two noble blacks, caparisoned in brass mounted harness, and driven by a negro somewhat advanced in life, and perched upon a heavy luxurious cushion. He was neatly dressed, in the fashion of days that were passing away, and was very much absorbed in the management of his team; which, although covered with lather and dust, were evidently full of mettle, and not at all fagged by their travel. Within sat a gentleman and lady, youthful in appearance, with two children; the eldest not over six years of age.

Mr. Cross did not wait for the footman to alight, but advancing to the door.

'Mr. Rutherford, your servant, sir,' opened it, and threw down the steps, before the gentleman had time to inform him that he was not intending to leave the carriage.

'Your lady will surely want to rest a little; our accommodations, indeed, are not much to boast of, but poor as they are, we shall be proud to have you use them.'

The lady bowed to Mr. Cross, acknowledging that she felt obliged for his offer.

'You must excuse us at present, Mr. Cross; we have some miles farther to ride, and if you will show the footman where to procure a little water for our horses, I will be much obliged to you.'

'Certainly, certainly; here, men, water, water; don't you hear? some water for these horses.' There was a great rush among those standing near to accomplish the request; but whether to obey Mr. Cross, or to oblige the traveller, may be questioned; for they had heard his name, and therefore knew that a man of more importance than Mr. Cross was present.

But as there were reasons why the last-named gentleman should, if possible, have an interview with his visitor, he felt that an effort must be made to obtain one.

'If Mr. Rutherford could favor me by stepping aside, but for a moment, it will not detain—'

'It would be scarcely worth while, Mr. Cross. I presume I know what you wish to converse about; and I am not just now prepared to give you an answer.'

'Ay—well, sir—I won't presume to dictate, sir; only you know we usually make our contracts about this time, so that we may make some calculations for hands, etc.'

'That's true, sir; but to be plain, Mr. Cross, I am not sure that I shall not make some other arrangement, at least, so far as my interest goes in these barrens. I do not feel satisfied with our present plan—we pay great wages, you must be aware.'

'Stand back, men, stand back; don't you know civility enough not to be crowding the gentleman?' Mr. Cross had his own reasons for not wishing too many listeners; for some ideas might possibly be conveyed to them not consonant with his interest.

'Our people are rough, as you see, madam,' addressing the lady, 'and you'll pardon their ill manners.'

'No pardon at all necessary, Mr. Cross; these good people are not the least in our way.' This the lady said in a voice sufficiently loud to be heard by all present; and then, with a pleasant smile cast upon the group, she asked,

'Will one of you be kind enough to bring me a glass of water for my little girl?'

Not one, but several glasses were, in an instant almost, at the carriage door. The lady took them all; and as they were returned to the brawny hands held out to receive them, dropped a piece of silver in each.

'God bless you, lady!' responded at once each of the lucky attendants, and a smile of pleasure lighted up all the dark countenances of the half savage-looking beings, who were gazing in wonder at the equipage and its inmates.

Mr. Cross was compelled to be a silent spectator of this little scene; but the dark scowl which passed across his features told plainly that it was not quite agreeable to him.

'Am I in the direct road to Widow Brown's?' inquired Mr. Rutherford, casting a glance at the little man, and then around upon those present, as though it was a matter of no consequence from whom he received the answer. It came readily from many of the bystanders; the voice of Mr. Cross being lost in their louder exclamations; even if he answered at all, which is doubtful.

'Yes, sir—yes, sir; its about six miles from here; but you must turn to the right hand when you get to the edge of the great swamp.'

'Thank you, thank you all; and here is a trifle for you, my friend,' singling out the one who had procured the water for the horses, and tossing him a silver dollar.

'God bless you, sir—you're a gentleman.'

'Good day, Mr. Cross.' He bowed respectfully to the host, and to all the admiring group, and the heavy carriage rolled on its way.

Mr. Cross walked back into his stronghold with a very dissatisfied air, while the men gathered outside in little knots, discussing the strangeness of the whole scene, and wondering what ailed the old man, 'he seemed so out of sorts.' Scarcely had the carriage disappeared, when a rattling was heard, and the rapid and heavy stamping of horses' feet, and David Cross tore up to the door, among the groups of foresters, scattering them to either side, with as little consideration as though they had been so many sheep. Curses deep arose in their hearts, but came not forth at their lips.

'Here, Jo, you put Bony in the stable, and rub him down—won't you?'

'Yes, sir,' was the ready answer. But the man addressed shook his head so significantly, and jerked the horse so rudely, as he turned him round, that if Mr. David, Junior, could have seen it, he would have understood that his exploit in driving was not much relished by others, if very agreeable to himself.

The elder Mr. Cross immediately led his son into a private room adjoining the store, and with much anxiety in his countenance waited for the result of the errand upon which he had been sent.

'Foster says, he has closed the bargain with old Ross; he is to give you a quit-claim deed for all his right and title to the property in the barrens, for the sum you named.'

'That's good—did he say anything further?'

'He said something about my telling you that he was on the look out; that he would hunt like a cat for a mouse; but the old fool was afraid to tell me what he meant.'

'Michael Foster is no fool; but, I suppose, he thinks it best to be mum. Yet do you know Rutherford has been here?'

'No: has he?'

'Yes; and he refuses to make any contract this year; and I could see, by his management with the men, what he's at: but he'll miss it. He'll have to stoop his head yet, high as he holds it now.'

David made no reply; but, whistling a lively tune, walked away, and mingled with the men, who were again gathering around the counter.

The travellers experienced no difficulty in finding their way, and soon drew up before the humble residence of the widow.

'It looks better, my dear Mary, than I expected,' said Mr. Rutherford, as he alighted from the carriage. He was about to enter the dwelling, when Mrs. Brown appeared at the door. She was neatly dressed for one living in so poor a place—that is, her plain dark calico was put on with care, and she wore shoes and stockings—articles not often seen in the barrens. She wore no cap, for her light brown hair was not at all changed by age, and her countenance was as fresh and fair, almost, as at twenty-one. She seemed surprised for an instant—

'Have you forgotten me, Aunt Mary?'

'This ain't Mr. George Rutherford?'

'Yes, it is—once your little Georgie.'

'Oh, dear! how glad I am to see you;' and the tears started to her eyes. 'And that is Mrs. Rutherford, and these are your dear little children. How they do look just as you used to look.'

'We are all well acquainted with you, Mrs. Brown; for my husband is continually talking about you.'

'Oh, dear! I never thought to see any of you again; for I did not suppose you would ever get so far out of the world as to come here. I cannot ask you to go into my poor house; but there are some seats under the trees, where your lady might sit down, and—'

'Oh, Mrs. Brown, you don't think that your Georgie, as you used to call him, has got a wife who would not go into a house many times worse than yours, to see one he thinks so much of; so, with your leave, we will all go in, for we have come on purpose to see you.'

'I am very happy, if he has got a lady who knows his worth.'

'Take care, Mrs. Brown, what you say; I am afraid you did a little towards spoiling him when a boy: he is not out of danger yet.'

The family now passed into the cottage, while the widow and old Cæsar had a few kind salutations to make, 'ere she followed and took her seat among them.

Many were the questions asked about the old homestead, for twelve years had passed by since she was last there. Deaths, births, marriages, changes of circumstances, and relations, how they had accumulated during that period! and how often the tears would start, and the lip tremble, as the recital went on! Her own story was but a short one; for many things she was obliged to pass over, or touch lightly upon.

'But where is the little girl you had with you, when last at my father's? she must be almost grown up now.'

'Oh, no; she is but a little girl still; she is only sixteen now; but she is very obedient and kind-hearted.'

'Just like her mother.'

'Oh, I don't know as to that, ma'am; but she is an obedient child, and a great comfort to me—and the best of all is, I hope she is a Christian.'

'That is good,' exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford, at the same time.

'Ah—then you both love good things yourselves; don't you?'

'We hope we do.'

'The Lord be praised for his mercies. It seems to me always a great thing for the rich to be pious—they can do so much good.'

'Yes, if they have a heart to do good. Is your daughter at home, Mrs. Brown?'

'No, ma'am; but she will be here soon. She has gone to visit a neighbour a little south of us, among the farmers. We have but a poor neighbourhood around us; and you know young people want some one of their own age to be with and talk to.'

'Why is it, Mrs. Brown, that the people in the barrens are so poor, and apparently so degraded?—they get work enough, and are well paid for it. My husband is very anxious about the matter, and wishes to remedy it if he can.'

'Oh, well, ma'am; I don't know that I have got the right idea of things; but it has appeared to me these many years that there must be wrong management. Our men work hard, but are only able barely to live, as you see; and for so many people to be all poor together, is a great evil.'

'Do you think, Mrs. Brown, that they get their pay?'

'I think they do, ma'am, in a certain way. Mr. Cross settles with them every month, and keeps things square; but you know, ma'am, when a man gets so much power into his hands as Mr. Cross has, he may be tempted to do wrong because no one can bring him to account for it. The men are obliged to take the wages he sees fit to allow them, as there is no one in this region to give them employment.'

'And charges them what he pleases for the goods they must purchase?'

'It is pretty much so, ma'am. They must have the necessaries of life you know, ma'am; and although they purchase only such things as their families absolutely need, yet it is so managed, that they are brought a little in debt at each settlement. Some think that he charges almost double what the goods cost him; but, situated as they are, no one dares complain, and so they go on from year to year.'

'This is slavery I think, Mary, with a vengeance,' said Mr. Rutherford, looking at his wife.

'It is just as we expected, my dear.'

'Well, I hope, Mr. Rutherford, that I have not done injustice to Mr. Cross. He has been good to me and mine. Perhaps, after all, the people think hard of him without sufficient cause.'

'You have only confirmed my suspicions of the state of things here. You know that I own a large part of these barrens; and, therefore, it is my duty to look into matters, and not suffer evils to exist, if I can remedy them.'

Mr. Rutherford then proceeded to touch upon matters more immediately relating to the widow's personal interests, and which, in fact, had been one of the objects of his visit. It was in reference to her removal from this region, so destitute of privileges, to her former home, beneath his own roof, where her children could be usefully employed, and herself made comfortable.

It was some time before she could make any reply to this generous offer.

'You must not hesitate, Mrs. Brown, to accept this offer; for I assure you, that I heartily join with my husband in it.'

'Oh, I thank you, ma'am; I believe you are sincere, and are acting from the kindest motives, and perhaps you will think it strange that I should hesitate a moment about accepting it.'

Just then, the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Hettie. Her appearance surprised Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford—the fine glow on her cheek, the raven blackness of her hair and eyes, the pleasant smile that immediately lighted up her countenance, the simple curtsey that she dropped, all so pretty and so natural—they had not expected to meet so lovely a flower in such a waste; and the widow must not be blamed if she indulged some little pride as she presented her to their friend. Hettie was her bright star; hope always rose when she appeared. An increasing interest was excited in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford, and the subject of her removal again introduced.

'You cannot tell,' replied the widow, 'how much I feel the kindness of your offer; and were only the interest of myself and Hettie to be consulted, I should not long hesitate. But, oh! Mrs. Rutherford, you cannot yet tell how a mother feels towards a wayward son. William is not just what I could wish he was, but he still clings to me. I know he will not be willing to leave these parts, unpromising as they are: for me to separate from him, and allow him to go without restraint in the midst of so many temptations, would be like giving him up to ruin; and I cannot but hope he will one day be different from what he now is; the Lord, you know, has many ways to bring back the wanderer.'

Her friends could urge no further the whole of their request, but ventured to say—

'Will you not, Mrs. Brown, let us have Hettie? We will do for her as well as we can.'

This proposal was one that she felt it her duty to accept, however trying to be separated from one she loved so dearly.

After a short consultation with her daughter it was decided that she should accompany them. Wishing to give them an opportunity to make some little preparation, Mr. Rutherford concluded to drive into the open country, which lay a little to the south of the widow's cottage—the scene where our story commenced.

It was with an united exclamation that they first met the view which opened to them, as they emerged from the pines.

'Ah, how beautiful!'

It was, indeed, a striking contrast to the region through which they had been travelling.

The country was little varied by hill and dale, and in no wise improved by the hand of man: for the houses which could be seen were but unsightly buildings, and all the enclosures of the rudest kind; yet common-place as was the face of the land, in connection with the extensive water view, there was much to justify the exclamation—it was a panorama delightful to those who had been so long riding amid the dark monotony of a pine-forest.

On either side of the strip of country which lay immediately before them, and around the whole view in front, was water: first a clear river stealing down on the right, and then another on the left, each hastening to mingle their waters in the beautiful bay, ere they rolled to the ocean; in the distance, a long line of land stretching towards the east, as far as the eye could reach, encircling an immense bay, and losing itself where sky, and earth, and water are mingled in one; while beautifully breaking the wild expanse of water, a strip of land ran out into the bay, over whose crest could be seen, in the distance, the white sail winging its way to the broad ocean.

Even old Cæsar felt the animating influence of the scenery; and urging on his horses by a cheering word, the carriage rolled along as fast as was becoming such a stately concern.

'Whoa-a, whoa-up—whoa there.'

'Oh, Cæsar! what's the matter?'

There was, at the same time, a fearful leaning to one side.

'Nuttin', missus; only de wheel cum off.'

It was, to be sure, nothing else; but that of itself was sufficient to prevent any farther progress for the time being. Cæsar and his master were soon down; the horses detached from the carriage, and the wheel picked up and brought to its place.

''Tis all right, Massa George, only de linch-pin is gone; may be me find um.'

And very diligent was the search for the lost pin, but to no purpose; the prospect, indeed, was not the most agreeable; for a long road must be retraced ere home could be reached.

A young man from an adjoining field, seeing their dilemma, hastened to offer his aid. Very soon rails were procured, and by means of them the heavy coach was raised, and the recusant wheel replaced; and then the young man who showed much readiness to assist, as well as ingenuity, procuring a bit of hard wood, began whittling it into the shape of a pin.

'Mister, what a' yo goin' to do wid dat 'tick?'

'I'm making a pin for you, daddy.'

'My golly! you no t'ink dat hold dem big wheel on. No blacksmith nowhere here?'

'Yes; there is one not far off; but you want something to keep your wheel on until you can get the carriage there.'

'Why me no bring him here when he makes de pin?'

'Why, you see, daddy, he will want the measure of the hole to make it by; and the old man does not like to walk very much, as he is fat and clumsy. It will be as much as we can do to get him to make the pin at all; he don't like to work such hot weather.'

'Ay, ay. Well, den; you right, bubby.'

With that Cæsar prepared to attach the horses to the carriage, while the family walked on towards the little low building with a high chimney, which was pointed out to them.

As the carriage drove up, a very fleshy person was seen waddling towards the door, and putting one arm out on each side, supported himself in the doorway. He looked at the coach, and the horses, and the driver, alternately, in great astonishment. He saw the old black smile, but took no notice of it; and fixed his eye at length on the long sweeping braces, as though wondering where such powerful springs were made.

'Massa Cutter forget me.' The old man cast his eye up.

'Massa Cutter no 'member Cæsar?'

'Cæsar—Cæsar—what, not Cæsar Rutherford? No—yes—so it is—why, you old rascal, how do you do? Give us your fist. I thought, when you showed your teeth at me, that I'd seen you before. But you grow old, man—your head is all getting white.'

'Ha, ha, ha; Massa Cutter growin' old, too, and big! My! what a sight! Good livin' I 'tink here, Massa Cutter.'

'Good living—there's no living at all—it's too hot to live; nothing but salamanders could stand it. But what's brought you here?'

'Oh, you see, Massa Cutter, me lose de linch-pin; so dis young gemman tell me de blacksmith close by; but I no 'spect to see Massa Cutter—ha, ha, ha!'

'And you want me to make a new one, do you?'

'If you please.'

'Here, Bill Andrews, since you have been so helpful to these folks, and helped them here, you may just come and help me; so take hold of them 'tarnal old bellows, and blow for your life.'

'That I will, Uncle Sam.'

The old man, although reluctant to move about much, made expeditious work with his hammer; the pin was soon made and fitted to its place, and the carriage ready for another start. Before this, however, Mr. Rutherford had reached the shop, having left Mrs. Rutherford and the children to enjoy a fine shade at a little distance. As Mr. Cutter had been acquainted with his father, it afforded the former an opportunity of making many inquiries about events long transpired, some of which, being connected with Mr. Cutter's removal to his present house, occasioned, on his part, very long and heavy sighs, and serious shakes of the head. At length he could hold in no longer.

'Oh, dear, oh, dear! it makes me feel bad all over to hear you talk about them places and things;—to think what an old fool I've been to come to such a place as this.'

'It does not look like a very thriving place, Mr. Cutter.'

'Thriving! there's nothing thrives here but rum and deviltry. Thriving!—I tell you what, the old 'un thrives here, no one else, and a great haul he'll have—he's fixing for it. No schools, no meetin'-houses, and no nothing that's good;—the men most all drunk and lazy, and the boys going to the d——l, if I must say so, asking your pardon, as fast as they can.'

'This is a poor account of your place, Mr. Cutter. What do you suppose has caused such a state of things?'

'It is beyond me to say, sir; there seems to be a kind of curse on the place; and it is my candid opinion, if something ain't done here soon—some preaching, or something else of that sort—we're a gone case;—even a dumb Quaker would be better than nothing. He might walk round in his square coat, and frighten the old 'un a little.'

Mr. Rutherford could not restrain a smile at the earnestness of the old man, and the singularity of his idea.

'From your description, Mr. Cutter, you are not much better off here than our people in the barrens.'

'Not much to boast on, I tell you, sir. Only they can't raise nothing, and must depend upon old Cross for work to buy their bread with, and he charges them just what he pleases; and if they should grumble, or ask for their money to spend elsewhere, he would turn them off entirely, and then they might live on huckle berries and pine knots.'

'They are badly off, I believe, sir; but I hope to be able to make some change in things there. The people are, no doubt, imposed upon, and I shall not allow it to be so if I can help it.'

'Bless your young heart for saying so; but you must look out for Cross; he's a precious villain—I tell you.'

'I believe he is no better than he should be; but I shall try to manage it, so as not to injure the poor folks, at any rate.'

'Well, I'm glad on it, for there are some clever people among them. There's the widow Brown; why you must know her? she used to live in your father's family.'

'Oh, yes, I know her well, Mr. Cutter; and part of my errand down was to see her. Her daughter, I hope, will go home with me to live.'

'What! Hettie! Hettie ain't going away—and yet she ought to go out of such a hole as this. She is too pretty and too good to be round here. What's the matter, Bill? Where's the use of keeping the old bellows creaking, when there's no iron in the fire?'

'Oh, I didn't think. You are done, ain't you?'

'Yes, I hope so. I've pounded myself all in a heat. But what makes you look so pale, man?'

'Oh, nothing; I ain't pale, am I?'

'Yes, you are pale—go sit down, man.'

'No; I thank you, Uncle Sam. I believe I will go home now, if I can be of no more use to the gentleman.'

Mr. Rutherford, seeing him about to depart, stepped up, and cordially thanked him for his kind and efficient services; and taking out his purse, was about to remunerate him handsomely for his trouble.

'Oh, no, sir, nothing; I thank you.'

'But it has taken your time, and you have been of great service to me; allow me to make you some compensation—thanks from a stranger are not worth much.'

'They are worth a good deal to me, sir, since I have found out who you are.'

'Why, what do you know of me?'

'My father removed from your place, sir; and I have often heard him speak of your folks, how kind they were to him; perhaps you may remember him, Zechariah Andrews?'

'Remember him? certainly I do; and are you his son? Well, this is strange indeed:' at the same time taking Bill's hand and giving it a hearty shake. Many inquiries were made and answered; and the interview closed by an invitation on the part of Mr. Rutherford, that whenever he might need a friend he would call upon him.

'And now, Mr. Cutter, good by,' giving the old man his hand; 'I hope you may live to see things look brighter than they now do.

'I hope so, sir; but I tell you there is but little chance of it. The old fellow has danced here so long, it will be hard getting him off the ground—preachin' might do it. But I want to say one thing to you—look out for Cross; he ain't too good in my opinion for any thing—he's a dangerous man, depend on it. But I won't keep you waiting. God bless you, and keep you out of harm's way.'

CHAPTER VIII.

I suppose my readers are about tired with following our heroes on their little voyages; but as this is to be the last they will make in the old skiff, and as it is connected with some interesting circumstances regarding our friend Sam, we must go with them once again.

It was but a short period after the scene of trial through which Sam and his family were called to pass. A pleasant sail they had made to the fort that morning; their stock of goods had been disposed of, their empty baskets stowed away, and they were just on the point of casting off for their return, when Peter appeared, coming through the gate of the castle. As soon as he passed the sentinel, he hobbled along towards them as fast as crutches would let him.

'Hulloa; 'vast, there, my hearties.'

The boys readily stopped, and waited his approach.

'Here, you Sam, jist come here, follow me.'

Sam was utterly at a loss as to what was to pay now; but as Peter turned short about, and was making his way back again, as though he expected of course his summons to be obeyed, Sam had no alternative but to jump ashore and hasten after him, and he had much ado to get up with the old man before he entered the gate. Peter hobbled along through the hall at the entrance, then turned to the right, and, by a narrow door, entered a dark passage, saying nothing all the while, only turning his head back occasionally to see that Sam was following; then up a broad stairs, into a long gallery studded with doors. Into one of these Peter entered, and, waiting until Sam passed in, shut it.

'Now, my hearty, see what I've got for you. Take off them old duds o' your'n, jist as fast as you can.' Sam being somewhat in amaze, was looking at the queer little room, with the hammock hung up at one side of it, wondering how Peter ever contrived to stow himself away in it; in the meantime Peter was busy untying a large bundle, and taking out sundry articles.

'Here, you sonny, jist put these on, and see how they'll fit;' holding up at the same time a pair of blue broadcloth pantaloons. 'But what are you about? why don't you doff your jacket and trousers? You ain't a goin to put these on over, are you?'

'Oh, no, sir: but you don't mean to have me put on such fine things as these?'

'And why not? didn't my lady git 'em 'spressly for you? and didn't she take me along with her, purpose to pick out a true sailor's rig? So off with the old riggin', it's stood long enough.'

'Did she get them? Oh, she is very good. I am sure I don't deserve—'

'Don't deserve! Yes, you do deserve; so down with your dumbfounded perverseness, for once, and do as you are bid.'

Sam was indeed confounded, but he could not do otherwise than put them on. A better fit could not have been, and the suit was complete throughout. Blue roundabout, and trousers to match, of good broadcloth, finer than anything Sam had ever felt of before. Suspenders of blue and white, all finely figured; blue check shirt, with a large flowing collar, around the edge of which and down the bosom ran an ornament of white. Vest there was none, as Peter said 'it was of no mortal use.'

Never was a father prouder of a son, than was Peter, when the whole rig was on. He turned Sam round to all points of the compass; examined him, as he said, ''fore and aft.' The shoes were the only articles Peter did not fancy.

'Pumps is the only things fit to go on a sailor's foot, but my lady reasoned me out of it. They're good taut under-strappers, no doubt, and they'll do you a deal of service; but they spoil the looks, and there ain't no shuffle in 'em. But howsomever, perhaps as you're along shore now, they'll do you a good turn. But, do you hear? never put your foot on a ship's deck in such clumpers as them.'

'Oh dear! how good they are to me.'

'Good? to be sure they're good. But mind, my hearty, there's One above'—and Peter pointed his finger upward, as he said this—'who has made the wind shift round for you so fair and square; mind that, and don't think it's all luck that's made such big folks kind to you. You're but a youngster now, and can't be 'spected to understand how all these things are brought about; but an old sailor like me, that has sailed in all weathers, has seen things that will make a man feel that there is One at the helm can steer for him when he can't do nothing for himself.'

Sam looked at the old man with fixed attention, and drank in every word, his eyes sparkling with the deep emotion they aroused within him. He thought Peter no longer a poor maimed sailor, but some being from a better world, who had put on for a time a rough and forbidding garb.

'And now, my hearty, see here.' And Peter began to pull out sundry other articles of dress.

'That there rig you've got on ain't for storms, nor everyday sarvice; a man wants something tight and tidy for Sundays, and sich like—but here's your real stuff to brave all weathers in. This will stand you for rough and tumble and all sorts of work. These trousers is the regular duck; jist feel 'em, Sam. They're stiff like, I know, but you'll soon make 'em limber; and this here jacket is the jinivine blue nanking; there's no tear about it that I'll warrant you.'

Sam had given up in amazement at the multitude of good things showered upon him. He knew not whether to laugh or cry—he did a little of both—it was so good, so far above any thing he had been thinking of; the feeling which came over him, and which we all, in our youthful days, have experienced when clad in a new suit, was so very new to him, that he was oppressed by it; and as Peter held up the duck trousers and the blue nankeen coat, he proceeded to unrobe himself, thinking he was required to try them on too.

'Now, what is the lad about?—Hands off; let alone. Ain't you going right down to show my lady what a spanking fit it is? So we'll jist bundle these up with the old duds, and you'll take 'em along—you hear? and let 'em lay in the boat till you git home.'

Sam would have made some objections, if he dared; but Peter took things in his own hands, and seemed to feel that, for once, at least, he must be minded: so rolling the whole together, and tying them in a very knowing manner,

'Now come along, my hearty,' he stumped it out of the room, and through the gallery, and down the stairs, and laying the bundle in the hall, crossed to the apartment where Sam had formerly been introduced to the presence of Mrs. Morris; and before he had time to reflect or make opposition, Peter was knocking at the door.

A very pleasant smile and exclamation of delight, on the part of Mrs. Morris, greeted Sam as he entered.

'Why, Peter!—who would have thought they could have fitted so well; and how very apropos they look. A sailor boy, he is now—is he not, Peter?'

'All but the shoes, please you, madam.' And Peter, not having his hat on, touched his queue.

'Oh, well; I think master Sam will be much pleased with the shoes, especially as he is on shore now. But let him come here—give me the neckerchief, Susie.'

Susie walked to the table, and brought the little parcel and placed it in her mother's hand.

'Here is a present from Susie; she has hemmed it herself, and I suppose ought to honor you by tying it on; but as she is a little bashful about it, I must do it for her.'

Sam was too much confounded to make any opposition; but his flushed countenance told how he felt.

'I suppose I cannot put it on after true sailor fashion, but I believe it must have a single tie, and hang loose, in this style. Will that do, Peter?'

'That's the thing, madam.'

'What shall I ever do for you, ma'am, you are so good to me?'

'Oh, perhaps you will do a great deal for us yet; and you know, my dear boy, that we are under obligations to you we cannot soon get rid of.'

'I am sure, ma'am'—and Sam looked intently at Mrs. Morris, his whole countenance beaming with honest emotion—'I don't know what I have done that you should say so. If you mean my trying to save Miss Susan, why I am sure, ma'am, if I had not done it, I wouldn't be fit to live. I would do it again, if I knew I should die for it; I am sure I would, and so would any one.'

Mrs. Morris could not repress the starting tear, nor could she make an immediate reply. Sam's whole demeanor took her by surprise—she did not expect such a burst of genuine gallantry.

'God bless you, my good fellow! you have a noble heart, and will make a proud station for yourself, yet; but keep in mind, that the path to honor lies through difficulties and dangers.'

As she said this, her hand was smoothing down the dark curls which lay, in all their natural carelessness, around Sam's fine forehead.

'But, Peter, only think! we have forgotten the hat—what a pity!'

Peter made no reply, otherwise than by handling his queue, and rolling his quid from one side of his mouth to the other.

'How could you let me forget it, Peter?'

'Oh, ma'am, don't think of it; you have given me too many things already.'

'Please, my lady, he'll do well enough, for all that. If my lady has no further orders, I must go.'

'Nothing further, Peter.'

Sam made the best bow he could, both to Mrs. Morris and to Susie; and Susie ventured, for the first time, as Sam made his obeisance to her, to say, very gently indeed, 'Good by.' It was not much beyond a whisper, but Sam heard it. Whenever the scene in that room came up before him—and it kept presenting itself very often—he loved to dwell on that part of it. Susie would be before him with her pretty smile, and those words, so soft, 'Good by,' would ring and ring in his ears.

To say that Jim was astonished at the change in Sam's appearance, as he came from the fort and took his station in the boat, would describe but a very little of what Jim really did feel. He was amazed—he was pleased—no, he was delighted. He loved Sam like a brother; and when he heard from Sam's own lips what had been done for him,

'They are the best people, Sam, I ever knew. But what will they say at home? I wonder what Ned will do? You must take care, or he will pull you down in the dirt. Clothes do make some difference, don't they?'

'Stop, my hearties.'

The boys looked back.

'Just come ashore here,' beckoning to Sam. 'You see my lady forgot about the hat, but, thinks I, there's a chance for me now; so I stops in slyly, and rummaging the old wallet, found enough stowage there to get this little shiner: so try it on, sonny, try it on.'

'But you shouldn't do so: I am—'

'No you ain't; so try it on.' And suiting the action to the word, he displaced Sam's little old tarred hat, and mounted a new one, all glistening with its bright polish.

'That's the rig, now; it don't sit quite ship-shape as it ought, but it will work to the head, and it will keep the rain out, I'll warrant that. But I can't stop here, for the Major's boots must be cleaned; so a good passage to you, my hearties.'

With that he bore away for the fort in quick time, paying no kind of heed to all Sam said about thanks.

'I tell you, Sam Oakum, I should not know you if I met you in the road. Nobody will know you; Ned won't know you, see if he does.'

'I don't hardly know myself, Jim, I feel so queer.'

The wonder which Sam's appearance excited on their return was full as great as Jim had anticipated. On reaching the shore, Ned and Jowler stood ready to receive them. Ned stepped up to Jim, who had jumped ashore, and was carrying the little stone anchor out as far as the rope would reach, and whispered,

'Who's that? Where's Sam?' Then Sam walked deliberately from the stern, and jumped ashore. Jowler set up a bark at him, and Ned fixed his eye upon him in some doubt until Sam smiled. He then commenced a retrograde movement, increasing the distance between him and Sam, and going round and round him, eyeing him from head to foot; while Jowler kept by his side, barking as he followed Ned round the circle. Ned knew Sam; he was sure he did, and so did Jowler, as soon as Sam spoke to him, and began to sneeze and wriggle himself about, and to manifest great shame that he had made such a mistake. Ned was too much surprised this time; it sobered him. He knew it was Sam, his old playmate; but such a change! How had it come about? He felt a kind of diffidence in approaching him; he almost wished for the old patched clothes and the little flat hat; but that feeling was only momentary, a flash through the mind. The neat trim of the clothes, the improved appearance of Sam's whole exterior, really delighted him; and instead of flying off into some extravagances, he took Sam's hand, and shaking it with all his might,

'Did Major Morris give you this suit, Sam?'

'No, it was the lady.'

'She is a lady. I should think you would love her, Sam, very much. Ain't they nice, though, Jim? Just look at this shirt collar and the bosom, and this handkerchief round his neck, and the hat and shoes. Oh, Sam, I am so glad you need not wear the old clothes any more;—do, won't you come and let mother see you and Ellen, just to see what they will say.'

'But he will want to go home, first, Ned, and show himself there.'

'I will come up this evening, right after supper.'

And again they separated for their different homes, and Sam hastened, with his bundle under his arm, hardly able to keep from a run, he was so anxious to see how they would feel.