girl would raise her tearful eye to his face, and attempt to smile, it was so different from the cheerful, hopeful smile with which his own heart told him she would greet the object of her affections, that hope would desert him, and he would wish that he might die.

At length a vessel arrived, bringing a full pardon for the prisoner; and now Major Waldron, having fulfilled his part of the contract, required of Ruth the performance of hers. It was arranged that the marriage should not take place until the day after Morris's return. Ruth had felt that she almost wronged him, in giving herself to another, even to save his life; and she longed to hear from his own lips, that he forgave her and understood her motive.

Morris Green had been aware that a petition had been forwarded for a pardon, but he knew nothing of its terms until the morning of his release, and then he felt that it would be a mercy indeed, to send him back to his gloomy prison; but when he heard of Ruth's desire to see him, he resolved to see her once again, and then he would wander far away, he cared not where, nor for what purpose.

Under the influence of these feelings, he reached his mother's cottage, where he expected to meet Ruth, he found it deserted, and in the utmost confusion. Much surprised, he turned from the cottage to seek an explanation, when a footstep caused him to raise his head, and he stood face to face with George Waldron. A glance at the pale, agitated countenance of his rival completely disarmed him, and the extended hand was taken.

"I have been very wrong and very wicked," said George, "but I have suffered much. Yesterday, after a long and hard struggle, I resolved, that cost what it might, I would do right. I went to Ruth Bray, and with a bleeding heart, released her from her engagement; but now, alas!""Where is she?" said Morris, a vague feeling of alarm crossing his mind.

"Gone! Lost! Last night Aunt Patty awoke, and found herself alone; she gave the alarm, and the people have hunted for her ever since, in vain, and I much fear she has been carried off by the Indians."

Here was a calamity much greater than any our hero had anticipated, and for a moment he felt stunned; grasping the hand of his companion, he at length said:

"We are friends-brothers; together we will go and rescue her, or share her fate."

A slight noise at this instant caused them to turn, and, standing near them, his arms folded on his breast, his keen, searching gaze rivetted on them, stood an Indian, who they both recognized as one who was often about the settlement.

"Has the pale face's council fire gone out, or

are their braves turned squaws, that the foe enters their wigwam, and steals their "Wild Rose " and no warriors start on the trail ?"

"Do you know anything of Ruth Bray?" demanded both at once.

"Owando's eyes were open," answered the imperturbable savage; "he has seen the tender twig, which the light foot of the wild rose has trodden down."

"Who has stolen her; Owando?" demanded George.

"Neddo," was the laconic reply.

George fairly started; he knew that Neddo, as the Indians called Edward Sinclair, had two days previous joined a hunting party; but aware of his passion for Ruth, he supposed he had gone away to avoid being present at her nuptials.

"The false-hearted villain," exclaimed he, "I will follow him, and he shall yet feel the weight of my arm."

The Indian's brow grew black as midnight, and his whole frame writhed from the intensity of his feelings.

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How has he injured you?" asked Morris.

The countenance of the Indian lost its fierce expression, and a look of deep sorrow passed over it, and he answered in a low voice:

"Owando had a daughter; she was fair as the spring flowers, and cheerful as the song of birds. The Yengeese came, and spake with his forked tongue; the maiden listened, and her heart changed. She has left the wigwams of her tribe to follow the stranger."

From this the young men gathered, that Edward Sinclair had been as treacherous to his red as to his white friends, and having signified to the Indian that they would follow where he led, they set off in pursuit of Ruth Bray, whose adventures we shall describe in the next chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

HOPING much for the morrow, from the generosity of George Waldron, but fearing much from the interference of his father, Ruth had risen early, and softly leaving the cottage, stood in the open air. A slight noise caused her to start, but before she could fly, she was seized and borne rapidly away by four Indians. They pursued their march about eight hours, bearing Ruth on a sort of rude litter, until they came to a large sheet of water, the lake Winnipiseogee, where they embarked in a canoe and rowed to an island, on which stood two or three deserted Indian huts. In one of these Ruth was left with two Indians, who soon quitted

the hut. In a moment the door opened, and Edward Sinclair, stripped of his Indian disguise, stood before her. Throwing himself at the feet of the terror-stricken girl, he besought forgiveness for his violence.

"I could not live without you, Ruth," said he; "when I found you had sold yourself to that selfish old scoundrel, I was beside myself; and having no other resource, I have stolen you from his hands; and now, dearest, you must become my wife. My father has consented that I should return home, and you must go with me."

In vain our heroine entreated, urged, re. monstrated; pleading her attachment to another, and that instead of marrying the object of his dislike, she was now to be united to Morris Green.

"And do you think," exclaimed he, his eyes flashing with anger," that I should prefer seeing you his wife? It was I who wrote that letter advising him to desert. The bait took, and I thought myself secure; for I did not dream that you would sell yourself to save him. My next attempt, by my father's aid, to prevent him from obtaining a pardon, was baulked by the superior influence of Waldron; but I will be revenged yet. In the mean time, you are in my power, and from this place you never go, but as my wife.”

"Then from this place I never go," exclaimed our indignant heroine.

The sound of a light footstep interrupted her words, and the next instant a young Indian girl, breathless with haste, rushed into the hut, exclaiming,

“Fly! fly! the pale faces are in pursuit.” Sinclair sprang forward as if meditating flight; but a moment's pause seemed to alter his intentions, and he said, pointing to Ruth,

"Hide her, Yarro, and I will meet them here." A frown passed over the dark features of the young Indian as she answered,

"Yarro no hide her: pale face no hurt her." A deep curse escaped the young man, and a fierce glance shot from his eye; but the next moment it gave place to a mild, tender expression, as he spake a few words to Yarro in her own tongue. An innocent, childish smile passed over the face of poor Yarro as she listened to his deceitful words, which were in fact no less than a promise, that if she would hide Ruth, he would perform his promise of marrying the Indian, and by joining her tribe become a great chief. Every trace of jealous hatred vanished in an instant from her features, and advancing towards Ruth, she extended her hand, and said, coaxingly,

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clair's handkerchief, and then, securing her hands, she drew her to a covert close to the hut, where was one of the cunning hiding places of the Indians. Sinclair saw all this, and then taking his rifle, he advanced to meet Morris and George, who had just emerged from the forest into the clearing

in front of the hut.

"What is the matter, George?"

"Edward," demanded George sternly, "do you know anything of Ruth Bray?

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How can I know anything of her?" answered Sinclair, mildly; “you know I started off to hunt the day before you were to be married; but "

Here the speaker paused; the bullet of Owando, who, having tarried behind to secure the ca-' noes, had just caught sight of his foe, had started on its fatal errand, but it did not reach its destined victim. Yarro, who saw all that had passed, gave a slight scream, and throwing her arms round the neck of her beloved, shielded him from danger by receiving the ball herself.

They laid poor Yarro down on the grass, and singular indeed was the group which surrounded the dying girl. Leaning against the trunk of a tree stood Owando, the feelings of the father evidently combating the stoicism of the Indian. Edward Sinclair bent over her, grief and remorse painted on his features, while the rest of the party, including Ruth, who had contrived to unbandage herself, stood looking on in mournful silence. Yarro opened her eyes,-a smile of joy stole over her features as she met the sorrowing gaze of her betrayer, and she murmured, faintly,

"Yarro very happy, for the Great Spirit has smiled on her;" and with that happy smile still lingering on her features, the poor girl passed to the "spirit land."

There was one moment of perfect stillness; but the next, Sinclair who had never ceased to watch his foe, sprang to his feet and darted into the thicket pursued by Owando, who soon, however, returned, completely baffled. This was the last that was seen of Edward Sinclair in this country, although a rumor came two years afterwards, that he had fallen in a duel, in England, with an officer as reckless as himself.

They laid poor Yarro in a rude grave, on the island, and then with saddened but grateful hearts, took up their march for the Cocheeco settlement.

It would be superfluous to follow up our account of these circumstances by a detail of those which led to the happy union of Ruth and Morris. The passions of men, however ruthless and violent, are

In vain our heroine resisted or struggled to gain time. Yarro very coolly, but with the utmost gentleness, proceeded to bandage her mouth with Sin

resolutions are often swept away by the gradual current of events, before the hour for their accomplishment arrives. Waldron's heart, world-hardened as it was, was not proof against the tears

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of Ruth, the manly affection of Morris, and the virtuous energy of George. The latter perfected his sacrifice by remaining to witness the nuptials of his friend, and then going to England, to devote himself to the ministry of religion-a vocation in which he found balm for the early wound which once threatened to destroy him. Of Ruth and her faithful Morris we need say little, if the truth and innocence of their characters have been developed as we intended, in the course of our narration. Their lives were those of peaceful happiness, and when they exchanged earth for heaven, their children rose up and called them blessed.

We had forgotten to mention, that at the wedding of our heroine, among the long row of black and copper colored faces, that of Owando was recognised, and many were the thanks he received for his generous conduct.

The story was soon told in answer to their eager inquiries.

Owando, who was ignorant of Sinclair's intimacy with Yarro, had known of his designs in regard to Ruth, although on the island at the time. As soon, however, as he saw her, he recognised her. Determined to save her, he hastened to inform her friends, as the only means in his power. Here he learned his own wrong: poor Yarro's jealous anger at her lover's desertion prompting her to tell him all. But no sooner had she heard his intentions, than repenting of her rash disclosure, she hastened to save by warning him.

The result is well known to our readers; but Ruth, as she heard the story, could not help exclaiming,

"I, then, found mercy, by the very person to whom I had shown mercy."

A few days, as Ruth was mounting her horse, to proceed to Portsmouth, for the purpose of embarking, Owando, plucking her sleeve, said:

"Be sure, in new house, where you go, you have nice large corn crib."

THE crimson of sunset was fading from the battlements of Castle Vohburg, the draw-bridge was raised, and the warder had made his evening cir

cuit.

Deep sil nce reigned around the gloomy, antique pile, broken only by the occasional footstep of one of the guard. The tall square tower, in the pale light, had the aspect of a prison. It was evidently the most ancient part of the building, and had been designed for defence in warlike times. In its recesses were massive vaults, in which, perhaps, prisoners had once languished away life, the entrance to them being within, for no door was visible outside. On the ground-story were the kitchen and apartments of the domestics, and the entrance to a secret stairway by which one might escape in case of danger.

The high, arched windows of the castle were dark; grass grew in the court, and there was as little appearance of habitation as if the abode

had been utterly deserted. From the windows only of an upper apartment in the tower, glimmered the pale light of a lamp. A narrow winding staircase led to this apartment, into which we must introduce the reader.

It was a spacious room, furnished with a luxury and magnificence (that caused one to forget the gloomy exterior. The windows, it is true, were narrow and deeply set in the massive walls; but they were curtained with heavy draperies of silk, and the walls were hung with tapestry embroidered with quaint and gorgeous devices, while the rich carpets and gold and crimson cushions, and the various articles of furniture, massive and splendid, were of a far more costly quality than was usually seen at that day, even in the dwellings of nobles. Between the windows were recesses with mirrors and drapery; there were two doors at one end of the apartment leading to separate chambers, and a small oratory, through the open door of which could be seen a picture of the Virgin with two waxen lights burning before it. The stairs leading hither from the servant's rooms below, led also upwards to the summit of the tower The ladies who tenanted the apartment described, often ascended in the early morn

ing, or in the cool of evening, to the battlements that commanded an extensive view over a country of forests and mountains.

The apartment we speak of was occupied at the hour of twilight by two persons. One, a lady advanced in years, tall, stately, and pale, in dark flowing robes, and wearing a cap fitting closely over her braided hair, sat by the window, her hands resting in her lap, and the work in which she had been engaged laid aside. Her companion had thrown a handkerchief over her embroidery frame, and was gazing out upon the sunset sky. The eyes of the elder lady were fixed on her face with an admiration amply justified by her extreme loveliness. Her light hair, falling in natural ringlets, shaded a cheek whose exquisite bloom needed not the reflection of the purpled clouds; and a portion, escaped from its fastening, fell like a shower of gold over her neck. Her arms, rounded and white as alabaster, were partially bare, and the light blue silken dress that swept down from the confinement of her girdle, set off the fairness of her complexion, and the symmetry of her slender form. Her beauty was of that gentle and child-like cast that grows every moment from the first glance upon the affections.

"How beautiful!" she murmured, after a few moments of silence; "how beautiful is this sunset! Just so the sky looked the first evening we came hither, and how happily has the winter passed! But I love spring and summer best. Then we can walk out in the morning, or sit on the stone seat by moonlight, and watch for the coming of my beloved He visits us oftener too. All the winter we saw him but thrice, and then for a brief time!"

"Poor child!" sighed the old lady, "I can well believe thy heart is sometimes heavy. Youth ever loveth freedom and pleasure, and the world seems too narrow. Age is satisfied with quiet and seclusion. But love, especially in us women, will endure all things."

"I wish not to go into the world," returned Agnes, for such was the name of the younger; "Such was never my thought. It was but for my sister's sake that I went abroad, and in the midst of crowds and festivity I felt often most alone. Solitude hath noble gifts, but imparts them only to those who love her. Are we not happy here? We have our work-my lute-the sky and stars-the beautiful green landscape-our trees and flowers; and even when winter despoils us of these, we are still content, and a visit from Albrecht gives me joy for a long time. In summer, as I said, he comes oftener and stays longer, and therefore do I rejoice to see the first swallow -a messenger of love. I loved the bird when a child. One built a nest under our roof the day I was born. My mother grieved when they flew

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away, and rejoiced when they came back, for every year they came to build their nest in the same place, and twittered of the wonders they had seen in their journeyings over land and sea. Their constancy I thought a lesson to human faith; and when I left my father and my old home, I had tears for the swallows, and wished they might come after me. Albrecht brought me hither; I learned to know you, dear Remigia, and it seemed that a fairy had transformed my bird into a friend and mother."

The dame Remigia von Schwalb smiled, and said: "In one thing I am like the bird-that I have found rest under your lord's hospitable roof. Evil was my lot, and that of my poor boy, till we found a friend in him; therefore will we serve him with true hearts, and never betray the trust he has reposed in us."

"Dear Remigia," cried Agnes, "I pray thee speak of him! tell me more and more: beguile the time of his absence-till the secret door opens, and my huntsman comes again. Oh! that he were here!"

"Would that he were, sweet lady," answered her companion. "Did not Lord Albrecht promise me to bring my Justus with him on his next coming? It is more than six months since I last saw the boy."

Here a maiden entered with lights, and placed a lamp on the table, while other attendants removed the embroidery frame, and gathered the threads of many colored wool. Then, in answer to the entreaty of Agnes for a legend, Remigia began:

"In the time of the emperor Rudolph, a rich burgher of Merseburg married his only daughter to a merchant of Erfurt. The maiden was young and beautiful, and full of gay spirits. She had never seen a man whom she could love, and all her ideas of marriage were of the ring and bridal ornaments, and obedience to her father's will, and deliverance from her haughty step-mother. The bridegroom was thrice her age, and his face looked as if it had never been young, notwithstanding his costly apparel and jewels. But young Ermengarde heeded not his lack of beauty. She danced on her wedding-day with a joyous heart, like a happy child, while her old bridegroom sat drinking with her father till the light of day began to pale the lamps, and he fell asleep over the table. When the clock struck three, the bride sighed to think it was her last day in her father's house, and called her young companions round her to bid them farewell.

"The next day the bridal procession slowly left the city. First rode Frosching, the merchant, and near him the bride's father, leading her milkwhite steed between them. Behind them was a troop of friends and servants, with scarfs and gar