CHAPTER I.

Te Aroha News, Volume IV, Issue 205, 28 May 1887, Page 7 (Supplement)

CHAPTER I.

haddon's ferry. A traveller to tho mountains bound, Cries, " Boatman I do not tarry ! And I'll give theo a silvor pound To row me o'er tho ferry 1" The boat has loft a stormy land, The stenny " Wilde " before her, When oh ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathers o'er her. But still as wilder blew tho wind, And. as the night grew dreader, Adown the glen rode armed men. Their trampling sounded nearer. Campbell.

It was a dark, sultry night in midsummer. A thunder-storm was slowly gathering over the most gloomy, savage and terrific pass in the Alleghanies. It was where the Hurry and the Whirl, two impetuous mountain torrents that, rising far apart from each other among inaccessible rocks many miles away, and gathering volume and force from the tributary waters of innumerable streams, as they rush onward and downward, tumbling from steep to steep, and drawing nearer together, at length unite and form the magnificent Wilde River, which, rending its way through the stupendous precipices, opens the awful gorge known as " Haddon's : Ferry." Leaving this gorge, the Wilde flows calmly on, a beautiful, majestic river, bounded on the west by a mighty range of mountains, whose grey rocks rise nearly perpendicularly from the water's edge ; and on the east by a rich, beautiful, undulating, well-wooded and well- watered country, and so downward towards the plains and onward to the sea. The country all round Haddon's Ferry was divided into large plantations, owned by wealthy proprietors whose land patents dated back to the time of the first settle- i ment of the county in the reign of his Most Sacred Majesty, James the First, and whose fertile acres were cultivated by large bands of negro slaves. ; Haddon's Ferry proper had been in the possession of the Haddon family from a time beyond which the history and traditions of the neighbourhood went not. ', The ferry-heuse, nearly two centuries old, was a substantial cottage built of grey rocks under the shadow of the awful precipice ; its back-yard ran from the rear of the house to the foot of the mountain ; its garden from the front of the house down to the banks of the river. ] On the gravelly beach beneath were built two very strong boat-houses— the one on the right as you faced the river was the receptacle for the great flat-boat used to carry carriages, horses and cattle acro&s the water ; and the other for the small row-boats and sail-boats kept for the accomodation of passengers. Half - way between the boat-houses a rude pier ran from the banks of the river out to the edge of the channel. On the land-end of this pier a gate opened into the front garden and led up a gravel walk, bordered by shrubbery, to the front door of the cottage. This door opened into a wide passage flanked by two doors on each side, leading into large, low-ceiled rooms, with broad, old-time fireplaces, and wide low windows. At the back of this passage was a door leading into the yard, and giving a view of the wild rocky side of the precipice, but not a glimpse of the sky, unless you passed out upon the threshold. This was considered the unsafe side of the premises ; for not unfrequently a depredatory fox would steal down the mountain and enter the yard on a foraging expedition among the hen-roosts, or a prowling wolf or catamount would lurk around and lie in wait for larger prey. Therefore, to protect human creatures as well as poultry and quadrupeds, a pair of furious bnll-dogs were kept chained up there during the day, and let loose at night. Branching off from the right hand side of the pier as you faced the land was a steep and rugged road, which ran in and out among the ravines of the mountain, leading finally to "Hill Top," the lai'gest and richest plantation on this side of the ferry. It was watered by the Hurry, the north branch of the Wilde. On the left hand of the pier ran another rough road around the base of the mountain to the old red sandstone church, situated on the Whirl, or south branch of the Wilde, and said to be of an age coeval with the first settlement of the neighbourhood. The household of Haddon's Ferry, oh the stormy evening of that fatal fifteenth of July, with which the first act of our domestic drama opens, consisted of the proprietor, his granddaughter, and has negro housekeeper. Gabriel Haddon, the present owner of Haddon's Ferry, and the last of a long line of hard-working hereditary ferry-men, was a very handsome, noble-looking man, really sixty years of age, though seeming no more than forty. His form was tall, erect, broadshouldered, deep-chested, straight-limbed, and stately, with a grand head, and cleanlychiselled Grecian features, a complexion as fair and transparent, and eyes as blue and clear as those of childhood, and full, long, silvery white hair and beard that framed in the tine old face and flowed down over the noble chest and shoulders in a shower of light. Those who had known Gabriel Haddon from his early youth whispered how, in one week of agony, by the black magic of sorrow, the golden locks of the young man had been turned to silver. However that might have been in the long ago, this crystal, clear, silver hair was the only sign of age about him, while no trace of sorrow marred the heavenly serenity of his face. Common as his calling was, rough as his labour must have been, this old man always chose to clothe himself in pure white or | light blue suits. In summer, his dress was white or light-blue linen, and a broadbrimmed straw hat; in winter, it was a homespun cloth suit, and a round felt hat. With his silver-white hair and beard, his fair complexion, clear eyes and clean, lightcoloured clothing, there was a look of purity, sweetness and refinement about the presence of this fine old ferry-man that was truly " the outward and visible sign of the inward and spiritual grace." A self-educated man, of the highest and purest moral and intellectual excellence, Gabriel Haddon was loved and admired by his neighbours to a degree not warranted by his social status, but amply justified by his character. Various opinions were held of him. Some considered him a learned philosopher--; others believed him to be a seer and prophet, while a third class set him down as a mild sort of lunatic. Such was Gabriel Haddon on this fifteenth . of July, the day on which he completed his sixtieth year.

The greatest blessing of the ferry-man's earthlylife was his young granddaughter, Gertrude, a girl of fifteen. Gertrude Haddon possessed a face and form which, if once seen, could nevor be forgotten. I will endeavour to describe her, though, indeed, so much of her exceeding great beauty came from the informing spirit within, that no merely superficial and material description would do full justice to the subject. First, then, she possessed a form of medium height, and slender, well-rounded proportions ; a small, shapely head that sat gracefully upon awell-tumed neck, and was covered with fine, dark brown hair that rippled always from her forehead and temples, and fell in a shining mass of curls down her sloping shoulders ; a perfectly regular and classical profile ; a broad, low, massive forehead ; dark, straight eyebrows ; long, black eyelashes ; dark, brown eyes, full of infinite compassion and humiliity ; a straight nose ; a small, sweetlymoulded mouth, with a short upper lip ; a round dimpled chin. Suoh was Gertrude's outward face and form. But what words can portray the intellectual beaut} 7 , the spiritual loveliness of her countenance ? Its ineffable tenderness ? Its perfect meekness ? Her dress in summer was cheap pink or blue gingham, with white neckerchief and white apron for week-days ; and for Sun days white cambric or muslin, with pink or blue ribbons ; in winter blue or crimson merino, with black silk apron and white neck-ruffles for week-days ; and blue and black silk sui£s, with white linen cuffs and collars for Sundays. The old ferry-man was determined to dress his child nicely, though not one item of jewellery, lace or embroidery, or a single artificial flower, ever marred the perfect simplicity of the maiden's toilet. One word more about the ferry-man's granddaughter. She was strong, healthy and fearless. She was equally skilful with the needle, a broom or an oar. In the sickness of their negro housekeeper she could do all the work of the house. In the absence of her grand father she could manage the ferry-boat. The third remaining inmate of the ferryhouse was Jessie Bell, a very tall, black, bony and angular negro woman, of fabulous age and strength, who was housekeeper, cook, laundress, maid, messenger, and general factotum to the family now, as shehad been from the time that the ferry-man's mother had passed away, some fifteen years befoie. On this stormy midsummer eveni ing the three persons comprising the little household were assembled in the sittingroom of the cottage. It was a large room, with low ceiling, a wide, low window overlooking the garden, the river, and the opposite range of mountains ; a door opening into the passage, another connecting with the back kitchen, and a broad fireplace, crowned by an oaken chimney-shelf, and flanked on the side next to the front window by an old-fashioned es critoire, of which the lower part was a chest of drawers, the middle a writing-desk, and the upper a bookcase filled with well-worn books ; and on the side next the kitchen, with an old-fashioned buffet or glass-doored cupboard, adorned with the best china, glass and plated ware that the house could boast. The walls were whitewashed, the floor well scoured, but bare of a carpet this summer weather, and the window was shaded only by heavy clustering tendrils of the honeysuckle and the clematis, which, as the cottage faced the east, intercepted in the forenoon the burning rays of the midsummer sun. An old-fashioned mahogany table, with deep, folding leaves, a lounge with a flowered chintz cover, an easy chair to match, half-a-dozen ''cane-bottomed chairs, and a little work-stand, •ompleted the furniture. The broad fireplace was filled with cedar boughs, that emitted a pleasant, spicy odour. On each end of the mantel-shelf stood bright brass candlesticks ; above it hung three fine engravings of Bible subjects, after the old masters ; on the left-hand side was a picture of the Nativity, on the centre, one of the Crucifixion, and on tho right-hand, the Ascension. Other pictures of Bible subjects hung on other parts of tho wall. Tea was just over, and Aunt Jess was hovering about the table, piling up cups, saucers and plates upon the tray, preparatory to taking them into the adjoining back kitchen. The silver-hared patriarch had withdrawn to his easy-chair at the front window. His granddaughter was standing by his side. Both were looking out upon the blackening sky and darkening river. " Clear the table as quickly as you can, my good Jessie, for I think there is a storm rising, and we will need to be quiet until it is over. Hurry, my good woman," said the ferry-man, glancing at the old servant and the littered table. u Oh, yes. Hurry, hurry, hurry, and smash up all the cups and sassers ! ' Wilful haste makes woful waste.' 'Deed it does. You hear me good, don't you ?" grumbled Jess, who was great on proverbs, and especially on getting them mixed. Gertrude, who had been standing at tho open window by her grandfather's side, no\r went over to the table, and began to assist Jess in the removal of the service. With the help of the young girl's nimble hands tho table was soon cleared, and the ro»m restored to order. Before retiring to her own dominion, Jessie Bell turned to the master of the house, and said : "Ole marse, I'm a-gwine to step up to prayer-meeting at ole Aunt^Letty Brown's to-night, and I reckon I shall stay all night and come home airly in the morning, time enough to get breakfas', if you's no injections." "I have no objections on my score, Jessie ; yet, on your own^account, I should advise you not to venture out [[to-night," kindly replied the old ferry-man, adding : " There is a heavy storm rising, and you may be caught in it before you reach your destination. " ' Perdestination !" Yes, I know that means what wijl be won't be, or something. Can't help it, ole marse. Storm or no storm, cotch or not cotch, dis chile's bound to go to pray'-meeting dis night. And ' what can't be indured must be cured. ' So no use talking, ole marse." " Very well, Jessie, I will not talk. Use your own free agency," good-humoredly replied the ferry-man. "Good night, then, ole marse; good night, Miss Truda; say good night now, 'cause 'taint no use for me to come back in de parlor 'fore I goes," were the final words of the old woman, as she disappeared through the kitchen oor, closing it after her. " The storm seems to be going around, after all, dear grandpapa. The clouds are drifting north of Mount Wilde, and melting away down the horizon," observed Gertrude, who had returned to her post of observation at tho open window " It may be so, my ittle True. The threatening clouds may pass harmlessly away, or they may go around and return some hours /hence, and burst upon us with redoubled fury. One can never tell what the clouds are going to do, especially in these mountainous regions, and at this season oi w the year."

" Then why do you let poor Jess go out, deal 1 grand ?" ' "Grand" was a fond abbreviative she often used in speaking to him. " Because, my child, I would nob constrain her to stay in against her will. A wise man lias written that ' the sweetest word in the language next to love, is liberty.' 1 would not constrain the liberty of anyone, least of all that of a poor dependent.'' " Why, of course, you never would, grand. 1 neod not havo asked the question. -And now you and 1 will spend a cosy evening togethor," said Gortrude affectionately. " And 1 am not unwilling to be alone with you to-night, my little True. 1 wished to speak to you in private, quite safe from the least chance of interruption, that I might reveal to you an important secret. Gertrude,"' paid Gabriel Haddou, impressively. " A .secret, grandpa !" exclaimed the child, ■with breathless eagerness: and, at that instant, a ilash of lightning blnml into the room, lighting up the patriarch's tine head and face and^ilver hair and beard with a radiant glory brighter than its own, and illumining the beautiful face of the girl, her dark eye* glowing, her whole countenance in&pired, eloquent, with the intense curiosity and brent hk>s interest natural to her ..ige and temperament. The lightning was inntantly followed by a peal of thunder that reverberated through gorges of the mountain, and died away in the distance. " The storm is coming around, as 1 thought it might. Come away from that open window, my child, and take the caudle o<f the table, and set it out of the draught to keep it from being blown out," paid the ieiry-man, a.s he arose from his seat to close the shutters. Gcrtiude took the lighted candle and set it on a little stand in the sheltered corner of the room, between the kitchen-door and the pa.-—ago-door, and then t>ho came and drew her grand father's ea->y-ehair up to the table, ami a common chair tor hcr&elf beside it. The old man, haAing closed and fastened the window-shutter>, came and sat down with bis granddaughter. She looked up to his face with mute inquiry. Khe did not in any oilier \\a\ repeat her question, " Yes, my little Tiuo," he s-aid, gravely answering her silent appeal. " 1 have a secret to tell you — one that you must have known sooner or later— one that aou ought to have been told before this, and that you shall hoar now. And yet —and jet " Gabriel Haddon paused and sighed. Geinude ga-'ed at him in mute expectancy. "'JT'L'fc.l toll me, my dear, do you know what day this \*T gravely inquired the old man. '• Yes, dear grandpa, it is the lifteenth of July, yoai birth lay, and also mine. Had you forgotten it ?" a^ked the girl, in a wondering' tone. *' ISO, my dei'r; I had not forgot Nmi it. 1 am <-i\ty year- old to day, Gertrude. How old arc you ''" " YVhv, fifteen, dear grandpa, don't you remember?'' she inquired with some un-ca-incs>s. "Yes, my child, I remember perfectly, you are fifteen vear^ old and some dayt> besides," he added thoughtfully. ''Grandpa! dear gtandpa ! what do yon mean V You t ilk so .strangely ! Are you not well v " inquired (Jertrude, an-xiou-ly, living her dark gaps on his face. "j am \ery well, my little True, and know ' on a\ ell what lam talking about," sighed the irilria'-c I.1 '. "Then what do you mean, dear grand, by saynui that on this, my birthday, i am fifteen \e.u - and some da}- old ? It this bo my birthday T <uiivot be iiftccn year-* and torn" iJ fii/-<f ii/-< old. Or if lam fifteen yeai^and pome days old th>- cannot be my birthday How can it, grandpa V "Then — I am not — I am not — your granddaughter, after all ?" "No, my dear, little True, you are not my yrapd-daughtei — after the flesh," .sadly replied Gabiicl rLvldon. '" "W hose — w liooO — child — am," she began, in faltering Lone-. ; but her \oice broke down, and r-hi diopped her lace upon her open palm-!, and %\ept. ' \ou aie mi/ child after the spirit, my little Tiuc,*' ho roj>)iud to her broken question. " Oh.giandpa ! Oh, grandpa !". she sobbed and she could .-a\ no moie. "Do iwt weep, my own. You could not be neaici to mo if ,>ou had been bom mine,' said tii<" pariiairh londcily. c< But oil, grandpa ! not your child ! How can I ivar ioV How can I believe it V Oh, it is vciy strange and Aery hard ! Oh, giandpa ! Oh, my d< ar '4iandpa ! >*>jt } our child, Not yoi>r chid !"' she continued to weep a- AMt'i a seni-e ot Midden boreaAcment and utter desolation. " You are my child after the spirit, my litti'3 True. I lifu j no- er had a child but y, ou. You have b»en all the woi'ld to me. You havo no\oi ':iio\\ n any parent lint me. I have boon all the woild to you. We have been a'l in all to oach other, .inrh\o Avill continue .to bo -o. Come, my love, dry jOiir cv- > l°°' ; U P iin d smile. Do you not v. i h t<i know how you came into my chai t rr c "'"' kindly inquired her giandfather, as avc i.msi c-till crJl 'mvi. Geitrude boned her head ; she could scarcely tiust hei.-olf to .speak. "Li )icn then, my child. Gertrude, by some sti ange coincirionce of chaueo or fate, eveiy important- ciisis oi my life has come upon the Lituanth day of July; and at the long and rogulnr intervals of fifteen years. The la, t signal event in my lowly existence ocr uiicd ]nstiiftuon a earn ago this night, a; hen i iound you in a cradle rmong Hie water hli'j , like another little Moses in the bulru h^-. 1* ittocn years have passed away since theii, and brought you to womanhood and me to another gre.it, oiitical night of my life. I feel that crisis approaclnHg," .said tlic ]>atriarch. GorLrudc raided lier beautiful face from her httndti and gazed upon the speaker, hei aichcd cj'd/i oav -, her dark, dilated ea e^ and lips flighLly apart, all expressing the intensity of wonder. "ISo," (-'aid Gabiiel Haddon, answering that look. " I cannot explain how I know these things. 1 do not understand the operations of my own mind, far less the mysteries of my spirit. Ido notevon know wbethrrthe approaching crisis will bring good or ea I], J only feel that it is coming, and know that it Avill surely come." "it is all veiy strange," murmured Gertrude, still gpziiiu on the speaker. "Everything i-, strange, or --nothing is. But, inasmuch ah I perceive this crisis coming, and know not ho*,v it Avill go, I am constrained to Lell you the story ot my life and the secret of youi.s. Draw your chair closer to mine, my dear, and listen." Gettrudo moA^ed as directed, but the patriarch had not time to open his lips before a vivid Hash of lightning blazed into the room, followed by a tremendous deluge of rain as if the heavens had suddenly opened for a new Hood. And scarcely had the last echo of the thunder passed away before the clatter of hordes' hoof-, wweta c t heard rapidly galloping towaids tho hoir-o. The oK man and the ghl paused to listen to a sound bo unusual at that hour. " Who can that possibly be coming here at this timr o the night and in such

weather?" in^iiiredHhe ferryman. " It surely eannofc be .any t«newho'VTfehe* te woss the fewy," answered the y^ng, girl. " Yet what elsfturould bring* a horsenson 1 here ?" "But you could* $ot put hiim across,, grandpa ?" "Not in this tempest — no. my dear,, it would be madness to attempt to do so. But hero ho is, whatever ho wants," added the patriarch, as the horseman clattered up to the gate and jumped with a " thud " to the ground. Gabriel Hnddon got up and opened the door, admitting first a blast of wind and rain, behind which entered the visitor*— -a tall, gaunt, intensely black old negro, closely buttoned up in a drab riding- coat, and wearing black trousers, with their ends tucked into high-topped leather boots. "Evenin', marker. Dreadful weather, Star," said the negro, taking off his black felt hat, and beating the rain-drops from, it. " Why, is this you, Saturn ? What under ihe sun could have brought you out on. such a stormy night?"' inquired Mr Hadclon, as he carefully closed the door and placed a chair for the man. '•'Yes, it's me, Marse Gabo ; and nuffin', 'less it Avas a ea&o o' life and doulT, could a foteh me out, as you may judge, sar." "But sit down, sit down, while you explain your business. You must have had a batteung ride down the mountain pu^s through this tempest," said the forry-ruan, kindly. "True for you, marstcr, I did have a sort of hard fight wid dc ellermbaus to keep my own scab on one horse, arid lead t'other down the pass 'dout breaking all our bones ; but, bressdeLoi', hero we i>, svfo at last, and thanking, master, I v. ill sit down," said Saturn, sinking into the chair, and dropping hib wet hat on the iloor beside him. " Now, tell me your cnand, Saturn," said the feny-man, 1 churning his own seat in his elbow-chair, but tinning hi-^ I ice aticn Lively toward his a isitor. At that moment a blinding fla^h of lightning lit up the room, and a deafening peal of thunder shook the house. " Merciful Lord in lnwen!" exclaimed the appalled negro. "That -my sinful soul should hdA c to take its ihght on sich an awful night as tin.-- !"' "Now, then, tell me jour message, my good man. If it be one' of life and death, a, you say, you should 10-.c no time in deluding it," s-ud the feiry-ini.n, as soon a.) sileno was rescued. "Well, s.ir, it's 010 Mar«e Gen'al Slaughter, sar, and werrj suddint, though it might a been expected," said the negro with a sigh. The Lin; plarid face of the ferry-man grew dark and stormy ps the night. "And what of General Slaughter?" he sternly demanded. " Well, >ou see, sar, his hour have come, as might be looked for ; 'cau-e he'.s a worry ageable 010 gemman, is the ole marster, | sar ; obei ninety odd year oie, miv But for all dat, he wa.- as we'l as you or me, sar, in ■ health, he Avas, till ye-ulay mornin', when he he\ himself inf o a pa^ion long or do taxcollector, and went, light oil" inter a lit, or a faint, or a somefm. We put him to lied, and 1 went oil" and fetch two doctors, as has been w id him - that i*, one or t'other has — ever since. But, law -, .-.ah, lie never come to hisseK 'til dis arteinoon, and de doctor sxys as how it's o'ny for deafl', and tole him so, too. And so 010 Maise Gen'al, he sent me oil fro' de storm to ax you plea-e to come to see him, fo' de Lord sake, immediate, as how he got somefm to say to you befo' he die ; which de doctors say ho can't possible lib fio 1 dc night." Darker and sterner grew the face of the ferry-man. " And ha.-, Hiram Slaughter sent for me at last, after thirty year^ of bitter Avrong unconfesned ?" he muttered to himself. " Marse Gen'al prays you, sah, to lo^e no time in comin', sah, but come at once He hah sent a saddled horse fo' j ou, and say how he would a wiit a note, on'y he can'c hold a pen," continued the negro. For a few moments the ferry-man's fine face seemed the field of waning pa^-ions ; but at length his countenance cleaied, his brow becaiTie serene ; he bowed his silvered I head, and murmured : I "1 will go." Gertrude, who had been an attentive and intcicf'tod listener in the com elation, now arose and came around the table to her grandfather's side, and said, with earnest expostulation : "Giandpa— dear grandpa !— what ! On a niirht like this do not think of doing such a thiiH-- ! It would endanger your precious lifb!"° " My little True," said the ferry-man, taking her face between his hands, and 1 gazing into her wistful, dark-brown eye-- — "rny°little Ttue, mine enemy lies on his deith-bed, mine enemy no longer, and has sent for me. X must go to him." "Through lightning and thunder and rain, dear grand V" "Through fire, if necc^snrv, my child; but the only care I really have is the leaving you at home to-night." "Oh, dear grand, don't think of me. I shall not mind being alone at all, since you must leave me." "No? You arc a brave little girl, and certainly there is nothing to hurt you. Noav bring me my long boots, dear." Gertrude 'brought the boots, great-coat, hat, and gloves, and laid them all on the table, except the boots which she placed on fche floor at her grandfather's feet. The ferry-man soon got ready, assisted by the young girl, Avho helped to draw on hi.s overcoat Then he took "his hat and gloves, and said : "It is uoav teh o'clock, my dear. It -will take me half an hour to roach Hill Top Hall, half an hour,, say, to receive General Slaughter's last'AVisbe^ Whatever they may be, and half an hour to return. So I shall try to be back by half-past eleven, or if there should be any delay, twelve afc latest. But don't sit up for me. I love. I'll take the duplioate key and let myself in. Good-night until I see you again." He stooped and kissed her brow, took the large umbrella offered him, and Avent forth into the storm, followed by his negro guide. She Avas obliged to shut the door quickly after them to keep out the driving wind and rain. She turned the key and resumed her seat by the table — ingPresently she heard the clatter of their horses' hoofs as they galloped aAray, and then she boAvcd her head, and prayed for the safety of her grandfather. Her grandfather ? All ! but he was not her grandfather, she remembered as soon as she had finished her prayor ; he was of no kindred to her ; but did she love him less since sho had discovered that fact ? Oh, no ! she loved him, if possible, more than ever ; and sho was sure he loved her utterly. The bond between them Avas one of perfect love, not to be broken even by death, when death should come to one of them. So the shock of the revelation being over, and the time for reflection being giA r en, the young girl was reconciled. But if not the ferry-man's granddaughter Avho was she, then ? Who woi*e her parents ? Why had she been placed, a helpless babe j in a floating cradle, and left, like Moses in J the bulrushes, only even more forsaken,

aince no one watched to serif shemhould bo saved 1 ? She could not answer Bliese questions even by an inference. She- tnrned from them to eno- nearer and moires vital. 1 Why had the dying Genejjal Slaughter sent for Gabriel Haddon to oome to his .bedside? General Slaughter had been t So 'life-long, ' Bitter enemy of Gabriel Haddon,. she knew, but the causo of the enmity she knew not. Mad not the Ferry been the inalienable A-oehold of the ferry -man, Gen. Slaughter would, have hunted Gabriel Haddon from the- neighbourhood thirty yaars bofore. 1 And 1 to the Christian ferry-man, wHo .only wished to live in peace 'and charity with, all mankind, this enmity, with its incessant aggravation and insults, was the greatest trial in life. Of late years an absolute silenoe-and inactivity had fallen upon' it. Nov.- this silence way broken by a messages from i the 'dying' man. c This message might mean nothing more than tho dying* sanner's wish to make reparation to 'an injuatid neighbour ;or it might 'mean mutters of more importance. The young girl's mind was so occupied by these questions that she found no opportunity to think of the loneliness of her position in the- isolated ferry-house. A trilling incident brought it to her recollection. Tho candle that had burnt low now fell into its socket and went out. At the same moment a flash of lightning blazed into the room, followed by a crash of thunder that seemed to discharge a volley of cannon balls that 1 oiled and m tiled down the roof, \vhile*all the scene Avas instantly ongulfed in the blackness of the darkness. Gertrude shuddered and cowered until all \".as still, and then gob up and crept about, looking, or rather fcclinq for the match-box. Then the first complaint burst from her patient lips. "Oh ! ido wish Jos-^ had not gone oft' this evening, to stay all night, too. But I do not think she would have gone if she bad known grandpa would be called away and I should be left alone," she added, comjnincLioubly. She found the match-box, struck a light, and lighted a candle- She looked at the clock. ' It was a quarter past ten. She had no thought ot going to bed until the return of her grandfather. So .she set the cnrnlle upon her little work-stand, took some needlework from its drawer, and sat down to .sew. Thcie seemed to boa lull in the . storm ; the wind had calmed ; the rain was falling gently. In the midst of this silence came a sound familiar enough during the day, but unusual after sunset, and even unprecedented at this hour. It came from the opposite .side of the river — " Boat !" She could scarcely believe her ears. She started up and listened. The call came again. "Bow!" She laid down her work and hurried into the past-age, and to tho back door leading into the yard, and called her two guardians — the bull-dogs Jupiter and Juno. "Jupe! Juno! Good dogs !" They replied with' a yowl and a yop, assuring her of their presence at their post of duly, and their promptitude in case of danger. Encouraged by the sense of companionship, she left the back door open for them to enter, if required, and then .she hurried to open the front door. The night was still as dark as pitch ; the rain was "falling steadily. Once more came the voice, borne aeioss the river in an agony of entreaty : " Boat!" She seized a little speaking-trumpet that hung by the door, and shouted through it: "Comixc! !" Then she hurried into the house, lighted an end oi candle, placed it in a little glass tern, took a water-proof cloak down from a nail in tho passage, put if, on, drew the hood over her head, took up her little lantern, nnd set out through tho rain for the boat-house. The thought of disregarding the call never once entered her mind. She wont down the path leading from the front door to the back gate, which opened upon tho pier. She closed the gate behind her, but did not go in upon the pier. She went down a few steps on the left to the boat-house, where the boats were moored. She unmoored one of the lightest of the row-boats, got into it, and rowed herself out on the open river. It was as dark as the River of Styx. She put her little speaking -trumpet to her mouth and shouted : " Show a light on your side to guide the boat." In a moment the voice replied : " All right ! Come on !" And in another moment the firo on the opposite bank blazed up. The bra-v egirl struck out toward it. The river -was very rough,, and the night very dark ; but .she was a skilful hand at tho oars, and the phosphorescent light on the ripples of the w ater helped her to sec her way, while the light on the opposite bank guided her to her goal. When half way | across the river there came a flash of lightning that revealed for an instant the whole scene — the opposite mountain with the awful cleft from summit to base, which served ay a pass for foot-passengers or horsemen, bub was utterly impracticable for carriages ; the beach below that afforded a good road up and down tho river-bank ; 1 and, finally, a single human being on that beach— a man, who stood holding a horse by the bridle j In another instant all the scene was swallowed up in darkness, and there was nothing visible except the little lantern in the bows of the boat, the phosphorescent light on the river, and the small, red, smouldering fire on the opposite bank. But that fire was exceedingly fitful— now bla/Ang high, asplendid beacon, as if fed by some light, combustible material, and now dying down as if dampened by the falling rain. Gertudc rowed toward that fitful light, drawing nearer and nearer the shore under the frowning precipice, until at length tho bows of her boat grated upon the gravelly beach. ( To be continued. )