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the offer of his father which removed him, for a time, from that home, now rendered painful by its memories of the dead. He came to Mr. Morton's with a heart saddened by the scenes of sorrow, through which he had so recently passed; and the warm affection with which the family greeted him, made him feel at once that he was not among strangers. Charlie and himself had long been friends: in college they were regarded as a miracle of brotherly attachment. No wonder-for who could look upon the clear, open, manly brow of Charlie Morton, and hear his ringing joyous laugh, and not love him. Care sat lightly upon him. His step was quick and free; his whole manner beaming with kindness and good-nature made him every where a welcome guest, and his return home a cause for rejoicing. His father was very proud of him, for he had come off with flying colors at the final collegiate examination which he had, with Robert Dennyn, so recently passed. The late commencement Annie would have attended, had not Mrs. Morton's unlooked for indisposition detained her at home. She bore the disappointment with a grace which proved she was not entirely selfish. She was now wild with glee at the return of her only brother, whom she dearly loved.

The coming of Robert Dennyn was an event which decided the destiny of her life. He was just the sort of person to enchain the affections of a girl of seventeen. She soon learned to watch for his coming; to listen for his voice; to note the ever-varying expression of his countenance with an eager interest which none but those who have loved can ever know.

Robert felt the power of her beauty. A warm affection began to spring up in his heart for her-but Annie was pettish and willful. Her passionate temper knew no bounds-her violence repelled him many times when he felt most tenderly toward her. "She has no heart," he would say; and struggled to overcome the growing interest he felt in her.

When she would be left alone after having given vent to her temper, Annie would feel overwhelmed with shame and self-reproach; but she was ever too proud to acknowledge her faults, yet-although passionate and willful-Annie's character had in it the elements of a noble nature, had there been some one near her who could have checked her wayward impulses, and taught her to subdue her proud will. She went on heedlessly; "sowing the wind" in her folly, and, alas! in due time did she not "reap the whirlwind ?"

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"Annie," said Mr. Morton one day, "my friend, Mr. Leslie, has purchased Longbrook. I congratulate you, for he has two daughters about your own age. You will no longer want society: you, too, Charlie, must ride over with Annie to see them; and Robert, Mr. Leslie is also an old friend of your father; for the sake of auld lang syne,' I should like you all to be upon pleasant terms of intimacy." Flora and Mary Leslie, though sisters, bore little resemblance to each other, either in person or character. Flora was the more beautiful. Her face was of a style rarely seen; pale as a marble statue and as

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cold not a tinge of color ever mantled her cheeks. Her hair-black as night—she wore parted smoothly over her brow, and folded in rich braids on her classic head, with a simplicity that defied ornament. Her eyes were not black, but of a deep, dark blue, with long black lashes that swept over her cheeks, still paler from the contrast. Her figure was tall and exquisitely moulded. Her beauty did not, however, leave a pleasant impression. There was no woman's gentleness, no warmth in her manner; one felt as in the presence of an iceberg. Her sister, on the contrary, seemed like a little sylph; and Robert Dennyn's eyes rested so fondly upon her, as to cause Annie Morton's heart to sink within her.

Mary Leslie's hair floated in ringlets round her neck with a wild grace; her bright blue eyes gave so clear a light, and her laugh was so innocent and happy, that one felt certain that no guile was in her heart.

Annie Morton and the Leslies were daily companions; and when their hours of study were over, Charlie Morton and Robert Dennyn always knew where to find the young girls. Bright visions of the future rose up before them; and, was it strange that in the dreams of each, the gentle, loving Mary Leslie walked, side by side, through their life with them? Both the young men loved her. The elder sister was too cold. Charlie said she lacked sincerity; and Robert, though he admired her, felt a chill in her presence, the cause of which he did not seek to divine.

But, though the young men loved best to linger by the side of sweet Mary Leslie, Annie Morton was more with Flora. There was something in the boldness and haughtiness of Flora's manner that agreed with her own impulsive temper, she gradually fell more and more under Flora's influence. Mrs. Morton watched with pain the growing intimacy of the young girls; she felt-with a mother's instinct-that Flora was a dangerous companion for her daughter, and often urged her to be more with Mary.

"Why should I not choose my own friends?" Annie would exclaim, when Mrs. Morton remonstrated with her. "What do you know against her, mother?"

"Nothing, my child; but I know my daughter has altered very, very much since she has been so intimate with her. Flora Leslie is not pure and guileless as her sister."

But the mother's counsels were unheeded by Annie she was unhappy. She began almost to hate Mary Leslie. The jealous friend was constantly whispering that, but for Mary, Robert might be all her own. The thought tortured her night and day. A dark, sullen cloud settled over her brow-she became more and more unloving and unlovely. Robert turned from her-to breathe the calm atmosphere which surrounded Mary-with a sigh, that one so beautiful could display so little tenderness.

Mrs. Morton's health grew more delicate, and Annie therefore more free to do as she willed; for Mr. Morton was too indulgent, and Charlie too much occupied with his own dreams, which were ap

proaching their realization, to notice the change | restless spirit pined for the gay scenes of a city life. that had crept over Annie.

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"I am going to B―, to-morrow, Charlie," said Robert, the day after his examination; for the three years of study had passed thus quickly away, bringing our young friends over the threshold of mannood and womanhood.

Robert Dennyn's wife would have the position for which she longed; and to prevent his marriage with Annie Morton, and to win him to herself, became the fixed purpose of her soul.

She poured into the mind of Annie suspicions of his truth; told her of his love to her sister, and of the scene to which she had been a witness without

"Leave us so soon! I did not expect this, Robert their knowledge, when he confessed his love to -what shall I do without you?"

Mary. This scene she exaggerated until Annie was maddened by the thought that the only being he had ever loved was Mary Leslie; and when Robert, during the merry bridal season, told her of the newborn love that had sprung up in his heart for her, she laughed his love to scorn, and drove him from her with cold and haughty words, though she loved Robert with all the deep love of which her heart was capable.

"Surely, in the love of Mary Leslie you will find forgetfulness for all sorrow, or you do not half deserve so priceless a treasure," said Robert, sadly. "Mary Leslie!" Charlie stammered, blushed; then laughing off his confusion, said "Yes, Robert, there will be a wedding, in the fall, at Longbrook— will you be my groomsman? I should have told you this long ago, but-" and he blushed again, and again hesitated. Robert remained several weeks at Longbrook. He “Say no more, my dear fellow, I know it all, and did not choose that Annie should see that her scornwill come." ful rejection had given him pain, and he unconsciously devoted himself to Flora, who saw that her triumph was approaching. When they met, Annie could not avoid displaying agitation; but she struggled hard with her feelings.

And he did know all. Only that morning he had gone to Mary Leslie, and told her of his love, and how fondly he hoped it was returned. Tears came in Mary's eyes while she listened; but she had plighted her faith to another-long ago had she given her heart to Charlie Morton; and, in gentle accents she told him so, while her blue eyes glistened as she saw the suffering she caused. Robert acquitted her of all blame.

"God bless you, Mary," said he, and they parted friends; and from thenceforth he felt she must be as a sister to him, when his heart was overflowing with love toward her.

The autumn came. The wedding was over. Robert Dennyn grasped the hand of his friend with sincere and earnest wishes for his future happiness. How could he but be happy with that guileless, loving creature for his bride; and Robert was able to meet her, not only with calmness, but without a wish that it should be otherwise.

A new love was beginning to dawn upon him, and he only wondered that the spell of Annie Morton's loveliness had not been upon him long before. Instead, as of old, leaving her to pursue her walks and rides alone, he was now ever by her side. Annie did not repulse him. A deep purpose was in her heart; to bring this man to her feet who had neglected her in girlhood, and then refuse him, became her determination; and in this she was prompted by her subtle friend.

Flora Leslie saw the devotion of Robert with a bitter heart. The pale student first introduced to our His figure, then sharp and angular, was now tall and graceful. The light of genius shone in his dark eye, and spread itself over his face, now beautiful to look upon in its manliness. His success, since his examination, had been such as answered the expectations of his friends, who predicted for him a brilliant career. Flora saw that his wife would occupy an enviable position in society. Her quiet country home had no charms for her. Her

readers had become a man.

"He shall never know how much I have loved him," the poor girl would say.

In this Flora encouraged her. "Where is your woman's pride, that you will permit him to see your wretchedness. This cold, proud man is scarcely worth all this display of affection."

Just at this time an event occurred which prolonged the visit of Robert. Mrs. Morton died. Robert could not leave his friends in their deep affliction. Poor Annie! her grief was wild and ungovernable. She grew pale and thin; never now, as of old, did the light flash in her eye, and the color mount to

her cheek.

How Robert's heart yearned to fold her in his arms and soothe her agony. He determined to make one last effort to win her love; but again he was repulsed. Her evil genius whispered that now he sought her in compassion; he had seen what Flora called her weakness, and having won from her a confession of her love, would despise her for it.

Robert left her presence convinced that she did not love him, that her conduct toward him had been all coquetry. His first acquaintance with her, when she was scarcely more than a child, recurred to him. He said to himself as then, "She has no heart."

In this mood he returned to Longbrook. Entering the drawing-room, the first thing that attracted his attention was Flora. She was bending over a table with a small miniature open before her. Her hands were clasped, her whole features convulsed. As he approached she started with well-feigned surprise, stammered a few words, and left the room.

Robert was amazed-who could she love? This

cold creature, who had never before displayed the least sign of feeling! From her manner, he inferred, that that love, whoever its object, must be hopeless. He advanced to the table, the picture upon which her eyes had been riveted in such agonized hope

lessness was his own. Robert staggered back into the seat which Flora had just quitted. A cold damp moisture settled on his pale forehead, now paler than ever the coldness settled on his heart.

"Here," said he, "have I wasted all the love which I possessed upon one incapable of returning it, while this noble creature-It shall not be ! she shall not suffer upon my account! I will drive from my thoughts the idol I have cherished, and replace it by the image of this beautiful girl.

Without a moment's hesitation he addressed a note to Flora, telling her that he had seen her agitation, and discovered the cause of it; frankly he admitted that he had not loved her-" But," he wrote, "if you will accept a heart that has not been all yours, my life shall be spent in endeavoring to make you happy."

Was Flora Leslie happy? Her end was well-nigh accomplished. She saw herself already mistress of a magnificent establishment, surrounded with splendor, receiving the homage due to her beauty; but happiness had fled from her bosom, sweet peace from her pillow, for she felt that she had trampled and crushed to the earth, the hopes of a breaking heart. Charlie Morton was delighted when he learned the engagement. He hastened to tell Annie of it.

"I once hoped to have seen you his bride, Annie. I think he loved you; but if you did not love him, of course, you were right not to accept him."

Impatiently she waited for his answer, which she felt would be life or death to her. Who shall tell the agony of Robert Dennyn when he received the note, just as he was setting forth for his home in B.

"Once," he wrote in answer, "Annie Morton knew that she might have asked any thing of me, even life itself now I am irrevocably bound to another."

Annie Morton received the note; she took it from the servant, as she stood trembling beside that same window where she sat when first presented to our readers; but how unlike the bright, beautiful girl who then sprang forth so gayly to meet her beloved father, and the strange youth who was to exert so great an influence upon her destiny. Beautiful she was still, for twenty summers had not yet passed over her head; and beauty cannot leave those she has loved so early-the gift will linger till many a year of suffering has passed over the heads of those upon whom she has bestowed the fairy talisman.

Annie read the note-a look of despair stole over her face-her eyes gleamed wildly. She crushed the note in her hand, then tore it into a thousand pieces. For a moment she stood gazing out. A carriage passed. She knew that Robert was in itand as it rolled on, so passed away from Annie Morton all light and hope eternally. She left the spot where she had been standing, passed slowly up the broad staircase to her room, reached the bed, and Annie listened calmly, and her good brother never consciousness left her. They found her there some knew that he was the messenger that brought dark-hours after-but reason had left her. She had sown ness and despair to her soul. A new light broke upon her. Could her friend have been treacherous? But it could not be, Charlie must have been mistaken. She recalled Robert's fond words, his despair, when he left her so short a time before.

"It cannot be," she exclaimed; "he loves me still! I will not believe it! Even though it be true, he shall not marry this false girl! I will tell him all!" She wrote a hurried, passionate note to Robert, in which she confessed how much she loved him; there was no coldness now-all pride was gonemerged in the wild thought that she might yet recall him to her side.

the wind in her folly, she was reaping the whirlwind in her misery.

Robert Dennyn and Flora Leslie were never married. The frantic words that fell from poor Annie Morton's lips, during the first moments of her hopeless insanity, disclosed Flora's treachery, and the engagement was broken.

Robert Dennyn went on his way, loved, honored, respected by all; but a lonely old age was his portion. He had too kind and good a heart to become a misanthrope; but the flowers of love in his heart were bruised and crushed-they bloomed no more for him.

ADIEU.

BY E. A. L.

ADIEU! Adieu! In silent tears we parted,
To journey on, diverging, as two beams,
That from the equatorial line have started,
Bending their faces toward the earth's extremes.
All day my bosom heaves with heavy sighs;

All day I sing thy favorite songs and weep;
All night I gaze into thy luminous eyes,

Or clasp thy shadow in my feverish sleep-
Oh! for the love that was for death too strong!

Oh! for the sweet charmed hours that sped too soon,
When thou didst steal from Beauty's laughing throng
To meet me by the soft consenting moon,
Inclasp my hand in tremulous delight,
And bend on me thine eyes angelically bright.

THE RANGER'S CHASE.

A WESTERN STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812.

BY J. L. M'CONNEL, AUTHOR OF "TALBOT AND VERNON," ETC.

CHAPTER I.

"Come, haste to the wedding!"

were three separate farms, immediately contiguous, under active cultivation.

Both the sons were married in the course of the following summer-for other emigrants had followed Fielding's "trail," until, at this time, there were, perhaps, twenty families within a circle of ten miles diameter. Jane, the daughter, still remained with her parents; but the frequent visits of a certain John Edgar, who lived some eight miles down the river, seemed to give color to the rumor, now rife in the settlement, that she was soon to exchange her maiden for that of the young Ranger Captain. And, without implying any license to dispute about tastes-which, from time immemorial, have been considered out of the pale of controversy-Edgar's choice was well justified by her qualities, both of

name,

On the third of February, 1809, an act of Congress
was passed, defining the boundaries of Illinois, and
establishing the "First Grade" of Territorial Govern-
ment. The population of the whole territory did not
then exceed twelve thousand; and, with the excep-
tion of Chicago, and a few settlements on the Wa-
bash, was confined to a narrow strip of country along
the Mississippi. But, upon the organization of the
new government, (under Governor Edwards,) the
current of emigration received an impulse in this
direction; and the fertile prairies, lying nearer to the
centre of the state, began to attract more attention.
Kaskaskia was the seat of territorial authority, as
well as the nucleus of population; and it was north-mind and person. She was considerably above the
ward, along the banks of the river of that name, that
the stream of emigrants naturally took its way.
Among those who pushed adventurously forward
in that direction, was a certain Thomas Fielding,
who migrated from Virginia in the autumn of 1811;
his family consisting of a wife, two sons and one
daughter. Passing by the settlements in St. Clair
county, he pressed on across the prairies, with a
world of fertile acres spread before him, until he
reached the banks of Shoal Creek, in the county of
Bond. A few miles south-west of the point, where
the town of Greenville has since been built, he found
a tract of land which combined all the advantages
of which he was in search. A prairie, several miles
in width, was bounded by high and valuable timber
along the creek, and stretched away toward the north
and west, in all the rich, unbroken beauty of primeval
nature. Elevated, but well watered, undulating,
though not rugged; that portion of which, with the
freedom of the wilderness, he took immediate pos-
session, was easily converted into a beautiful and
productive farm. Just within the skirt of the timber,
protected by a grove of stately oaks, he erected a
spacious, though primitive, mansion; and here, in
the grand solitude of wood and plain, he prepared,
with his family, to spend the remainder of his life.
It was chiefly with a view to the welfare of that
family that he had left the older and more thickly-
peopled state of Virginia, to seek a home in the Far
West. He was growing old; his sons were ap-
proaching manhood: and, after assisting their father
in providing for his age, it was natural that they opening of the war, were gathering, in unprecedented
should be solicitous about their own future. Each,
accordingly, with the concurrence of the father,
selected for himself a sufficient domain; and such
was the energy with which they prosecuted their
"improvements," that, by the spring of 1813, there

medium height, with the free carriage, which health
and elastic spirits always give. Even now, though
nearly forty years have passed, and she has borne
and nurtured a numerous family, her bearing is more
erect and graceful than that of many a girl within
her 'teens. Dark hair and eyes, with a well arched
brow-cheeks a little embrowned by exposure to the
sun and wind-a nose rather aqueline than straight-
a pleasant mouth, with red lips, which were never
known to tremble, save in talking to the Ranger; a
round, full chin, surmounting, like an Ionic capital,
the marble column of her neck, and a figure, which
united the freedom of rural life with the elegance of
city cultivation; these were her attractions. Cap-
tain Edgar was a lucky fellow-for she loved him
with all the fervor of the wilderness; and by nothing
in her education had she learned to act as if ashamed
of her affection.

He was well worthy of such a bride. Tall, elegantly formed, active, and graceful, he was the very type of a young frontierman. Gait, carriage, voice, and countenance, were all in unison with the open, manly spirit of his class. Preëminently brave among a people noted for courage; able as a leader, where, in order to lead, superiority must be plainly seen and deeply felt; he was already, though scarcely fiveand-twenty, the captain of a company of rangers, whose arduous task it was to protect a frontier of nearly an hundred miles from the depredations of the Indians. The latter, stirred up, as is universally believed in this country, by British agents, since the

numbers, along the lakes and on the Upper Mississippi; and, like bolts from a thunder-cloud, war parties were moving rapidly in all directions—falling, with the suddenness of Indian strategy, when their descent was least expected, and vanishing among the

shadows of the forest, ere their blows could be returned. If the settlements on Shoal Creek had, as yet, escaped incursion, it was chiefly owing to the vigilance and activity of Edgar's Rangers, and, in circumstances like these, it may well be supposed, that nothing, save the utmost confidence, would have induced the pioneers to trust so young a man with a responsibility so heavy.

But neither war, nor rumors of war, could exclude from the mind of the youthful captain, thoughts of love and anticipations of domestic bliss. In the midst of these alarms, a day was appointed for his marriage with Jane Fielding. It was the 10th of September, 1813—a day memorable in the annals of our country, as that on which Perry achieved his famous victory over Barclay; and though they, of course, knew nothing of the approaching event, it is probable that even so brilliant an anticipation would not wholly have withdrawn their attention from that which so much more nearly concerned them.

A wedding on the frontier, in those days, was a far heartier affair than it now is in the same country. People seem to be somewhat ashamed of getting married of late, and seek to avoid observation, very much as if they were about some act only allowable because not positively prohibited by statutory enactments. The first that the neighborhood learns in these modest times, of a matrimonial union, is the stealthy departure of a close carriage, in which the guilty parties are privately withdrawing, to hide their culprit faces among careless strangers. The public feeling of the olden time was somewhat different. The consummation, in fact, of an union which was already complete in affection, was then deemed an occasion of social congratulation, and sometimes of noisy enjoyment. The neighbors husbands, wives, sons, and daughters-were all called in, to take part in the hilarity; and each felt that, if the event was, as it should be, a happy one to the parties directly interested, it would be wrong to detract from that happiness, by gloom, reserve, or ceremony.

The pioneers cared little for scented notes of invitation, embossed cards, or emblematic turtle-dovesno more than for the unsubstantial trickeries which now make up a wedding feast. As the day approached, though yet perhaps a week remained, the children of the bride's family were sent forth to "warn the neighbors in," or, not unfrequently, the parties took advantage of some other merry-making, to announce the auspicious event, and deliver invitations; and, without other formality, all who lived within a day's ride of the place, considered themselves invited, and arranged their affairs accordingly. Some inconvenience to the host and hostess might result from the uncertainty about the number of their guests; but the art of providing mathematically for the precise number expected, was not then cultivated; if there was enough, it was not material how much more there might be--for that meanness which combines a sordid calculation with the rites of hospitality, was not one of the pioneer's vices. Preparation was made to receive all who were near enough

to reach the place-a profusion of substantial things such as hearty men and natural women liked, adorned the rude tables; and no grand flourishes of whiteaproned waiters, no sham dignity of form or cere mony, encumbered or oppressed the feast. And. though the early backwoodsman might not be the most polished of hosts, yet, tried by the standard of genuine hospitality, he was the most perfect of gentlemen.

Thomas Fielding was a true representative of his class; and those who have been in the West will need no further description. For two weeks before the appointed day, he had invited everybody he met to witness the marriage of his daughter, and take part in the rejoicings; and by those whom he saw, he had sent notice to others; so that at least a week before the eventful tenth, every one within twenty miles was not only notified, but asked to attend. Preparations were then made upon a corresponding scale; and fervent wishes were expressed that the weather might be fine, that none might fail to come. One of the sons was sent express to Kaskaskia for Jane's wedding garments-for even in those primitive days woman was true to the tastes of her sex. And, beside, Jane had grown almost to womanhood in the precincts of the Old Dominion; and, in her new home, was as well known for the superior neatness of her dress, as for other advantages of mind and person.

At length the eventful morning came-one of those magnificent autumn days in which the warmth of summer lingers on the hazy landscape of the waning year. They say Italian skies are beautiful throughout the seasons; but it seems to me the autumn must be the glory of the months in all climes, as full manhood is the ultimate bloom of life to all men; and existence, in a country where the climate gives no special beauty to the year's decline, would seem but little better than working in a tread-mill. We must have variety; the perpetual smile of even a beautiful face would weary us in time; and six months of unbroken sunshine would make us long for a Scotch mist. There is no such monotony in the land of prairies; nor has any country in the world a season of more rich and mellow glories than the western autumn.

"The fading, many colored woods,
Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round
Embrown; crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,
Of every hue, from wan declining green,
To sooty dark;"

and waving wide savannas, luxuriant as oriental
gardens, over which the shadows chase each other
statelily, or linger lovingly, like shady islets in a "sea
of green." And then the tempered sunlight, all
shorn of summer's fierceness, by the hazy, dream-
like air; and, over all, the arching sky, not laughing,
as in April, and not glowing, like July, but full of
deep repose, the holy calm of spirit-land. Who
that loves beauty would not live in a variable clime?

But it was little that the wedding-guests cared for the glories of September. The sun had scarcely began to decline toward the west, ere they first were seen approaching. From all directions along the narrow road, over prairie pathways, emerging from

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