raven locks streaming backwards in the breeze, now gathering up the reins of her steed, her dark eye, crested with brows of delicate grace, and sparkling in the flashing sunbeams, gives back a gaze so steady as to turn your own. But, look again! The saddle only is there! She must be the sprite of these mountain ranges. Look west! Following closely, range upon range, for a distance of fifty miles, are stately forests, interspersed with cultivated fields, the whole picture dotted with thrifty-looking homesteads. Along the distant horizon, stately columns of smoke, moving southerly, rise against the blue sky in majestic curves. On the left, behind that long range of rolling hills, is a homestead in which a plain citizen may be daily observed guiding the affairs of a prosperous family, with the same industry, zeal, confidence, and success which he once displayed when holding in his grasp the sceptre of the American Republic. Look south! Again the eye rests upon verdure-clad mountains, but the hand of man is clearly visible, exonerating nature from the air of studied exactness, which speaks of the industrious agriculturist. And now, as the telescope is brought to bear upon some of the houses, what strange models of architecture are presented. An intimate examination of these reveals isolation and singularity, as chief characteristics of the occupants. Look east! A garden, as of a second paradise is there. Within a few miles of each other, are a number of natural ponds or little lakes, forming a circle, from within which arise several spires, as of village churches, the surrounding buildings and rich verdure leaving it for imagination to supply the houses which support them, dedicated to the solemn worship of Him-Nature's Architect-under the forms and ceremonies acknowledged by the Pilgrim Fathers. From within the circle of that collection of houses, arises a single elm, standing like a faithful sentinel, and boldly defying literally, every blast, as if the Stygian waters had given to it the power of a Hercules to come scathless from the fight. Hark! Those are voices ascending from that clump of whortleberry bushes. Persons are approaching the tower. Reader, let us descend. Watching strangers from a distance is a more agreeable employment than meeting them upon a platform contracted by the limits of a tower. But now that the strangers are within sight, there is a decided air about them which reminds us of friends. And so they prove. "Come, Bell, I shall never get my basket filled, unless you help me," said Florence Melwood. "Then you do not deserve to have it filled at all," replied Bell Mortimer. "My basket holds a third more than yours, and just look at it. It will not carry twenty berries more." Bell had evidently a very just idea of her friend's industry; for, looking up with an arch smile, she said: "Flora, what have you done with your gallant knight?" 66 Why, like a sensible girl, I have ordered him to pick berries enough to fill my basket. He has given me no peace for the last half hour. As fast as I picked the berries, he would steal them." "Declaring, I suppose, a sweetness in flavor on account of the stolen fruit," said Bell. "Yes, Bell; and declaring something else. He wants to carry off mother's baby, and I am determined he shall not have her," said Florence, with a half sober, half pouting expression. At this instant, William Hastings appeared upon the scene. He approached Florence, and giving her a smile which can come only from a true heart, filled her basket with whortleberries, out of a large leaf which was so well heaped that it gave him some difficulty to prevent the loss of the wild fruit. 66 There, Bell, coz," said Florence, "you are welcome to your berries now." "I shall have to give them to Mrs. Melwood, then, to console her if she loses her Flora," replied Bell. "Entirely unnecessary, Bell," said Florence. "And what has Mrs. Melwood lost?" asked Hastings. "The loss, Mr. Hastings, appears to be prospective," said Bell, laughing. "I wish it would prove so," replied Hastings, assuming suddenly a mock gravity. "Jest' and 'Truth,' I perceive, have become intimate once more, Mr. Hastings," said Bell. "All owing to the necessity of the case, Miss Mortimer," replied Florence, putting on the semblance of dignity. "If Miss Mortimer would only help 'Jest' to conquer 'Truth, she will gain more from Mrs. Melwood than by presenting her with a basket of berries." "Bask at the berries-lamb-like, of course," said Hastings, seizing a handful from Bell's basket, and assuming a very innocent expression of countenance. "Oh, sir, you will repent when too late. I can exert my influence with Mrs. Melwood either for or against you, sir,” said Bell. 66 Knowing that in advance, I believe in divesting you of the sinews of war," replied Hastings, stealing a second handful from Bell. "You appear so well determined as to your course, I believe it will be the best punishment if I endeavor to hasten the progress of events," said Bell. At this moment, Mrs. Melwood, leaning on the arm of George Melville, approached the tower. The whole party then ascended to its top. For several moments no one broke the silence. The splendor of the view arrested every thought foreign to the deep emotion aroused by its extent, sublimity, and grandeur. XLVI. Another Telegram-Early rising sometimes proves very agreeable. WE left George Melville in such good hands, just after his restoration to citizenship, that it is not to be presumed the reader has felt anxiety in his behalf, unless, indeed, it has been excited by an unsuccessful effort to forget the unhappy mistake which a high regard for justice had compelled the administrators of the law to commit. True, the iron had entered deeply, and the wound was severe. The bright hopes of friends apparently had been crushed forever. Sad and bitter tears had been shed over the terrible blow. A father's life-long aspirations had been covered by a blackest cloud of deepest woe-making the silent tomb a welcome sight, a coveted haven. The mother's heart no pen can paint. It can be seen only by the eye of experience, and of Him, the Comforter, “Who, once in mortal anguish, And the sister's unselfish tears! Life had been bereft of its worth to her. But death was not invoked in her prayers. Solitary, she would live and mourn. And the friends! Sympathy in tria is one of the |