and in the wee sma' hours telling strange yarns to the simple Jacobeth and Thomas Welsh, which made their hairs to stand on end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine.

On the other side of North Street is a typical old-fashioned New England country store. It used to be a shipping-office. Just beyond it is a weather-stained rustic bridge. Below is a mill-pond. Hard by the stream is the blacksmith's shop, where all day long the cheerful tinkle of the anvil solo mingles harmoniously enough with the soft music

which is enclosed between the two roadways of Broad Street, but a few steps further south. On Broad Street are the village tavern, the stores, the granite soldiers' monument, all shaded by gigantic elms. The vista of this avenue is extremely pretty at all seasons, but in summer time nothing more charming can be imagined than this long shadowy parkway overarched by generous masses of foliage. The slightly irregular form of the green, wider in some places, narrower in others, adds to its

of the shallows and the rustling of the leafage overhead. The dim and dusty interior, smelling of hot iron, burnt hoofs, and the healthy sweat of man and beast, is a spot beloved of sunburned male gossips, and many an encounter of rural wits has taken place here on rainy days to the accompaniment of wheezing bellows, the horse-shoer's busy hammer, and the patter of the rain on the roof. The blacksmith is a veteran of the Army of the Potomac, and once illustrated the position of his regiment at Chancellorsville for me by drawing a map in the dust on the floor with his forefinger.

From the smithy, if one crosses the river, he comes to the town-house, the public school, the post-office, and a block of stores. There is a triangular green here, but a much more beautiful one is that

beauty. Turning southward from Broad Street, one comes by Wharf Street to the head of the harbor. The approach to the town wharf by this road is of singular picturesqueness. Here was the once busy ship-yard, now silent and abandoned, its sheds and wharves rotting away in gray desuetude. Here, and on Gulf Street, on the other side of the harbor, nestling under great trees, are the old homesteads of the few surviving sea-captains, who love to linger within sight and smell of salt water. At the end of the wharf, day after day, in season and out, rain or shine, sits the solitary sanguine fisherman, like patience on a monument smiling at grief, the "lone fisherman" who never catches anything, but whose hopes are stimulated from time to time by a cunner's nibble.

Sailboats and rowboats of all shapes and sizes are moored in this cosy anchorage. The entrance to the harbor is protected by a breakwater against the action of southeasterly storms, and this point is a great rendezvous for the seekers of clams and other shell-fish. In September small bluefish are caught in considerable numbers off the end of the jetty, and off the end of the fish-works wharf outside the harbor. The menhaden steamers here discharge their shining cargoes to be converted into oil and fertilizers, odoriferous from afar. Charles' Island, the scene of the apparition above recounted, sits upon the flashing expanse of the Sound like an unreal thing of beauty, well covered with trees, a jewel set in the ever-changing sea, a landmark for skippers, a picture for artists. So many points east of the clump of poplars on its beach, in a line with the spar buoy to the north, throw out your anchor, and you may catch all the big blackfish you care to carry home, unless the wind be from the east, in which case blackfish will not bite. The great reach of shore west of Milford harbor to the end of the point where the Housatonic River enters the Sound is like a stretch of white ribbon as seen from the water. It is crowned by a dark green mass of woods in its whole extent. Burns' Point, Meadow's End, and Milford Point are summer resorts and picnic grounds along this reach of the shore, and on the other side are Welsh's Point, Pond Point, and Merwin's Point, equally within the township of Milford, and enjoying more or less local fame as summer resorts. The most conspicuous cape is Pond Point, known as Merwin's Point on the charts of the Sound. It has high ground, the highest between New York and New Haven on the coast, and an elegant private estate, occupied the whole year round, looks down from its commanding position upon the traffic of the great watery highway, which at this point in clear weather looks like a mere river, so plainly visible are the sand-dunes of Long Island. Still farther to the eastward, where the shores grow more rocky, is the cluster of cottages occupied by the summer colonists of Woodmont; beyond these still is the little bay of Oyster River. Here the town of Milford has its boundary. It will be seen that the plantation bought of the Wepowages for a few coats, blankets,

kettles, tools, and mirrors, is no small affair in area.

I suppose a drowsier, lazier town of its size does not exist in all the land of steady habits. The leisurely Spanish custom of taking siestas in the middle of the day is followed by the people to an extent which is exceptional, and which would shock the overworked citizens of the great American cities, who do not find the days long enough to do their business in. That this custom is not confined to the ladies is proved by the fact that many of the stores are closed several hours in the middle of each summer day. The reader must not understand siesta to be synonymous with nap, however; it is not necessarily so understood anywhere. The Milford siesta, like that of Andalusia, is simply a time set apart systematically for rest and seclusion during the heat of the day.

It is not surprising to learn that people live to a good old age in a community where the wear and tear of life is reduced to its minimum. He who goes slowly goes soundly. The Milforder "would not live alway," but he would go to his grave “in a full age, like as a shock of corn cometh in in his season." It falls to the lot of few mortals to lie in a more beautiful bit of ground than Milford's burial-place, a spot quite in keeping with the rest of the village. The southerly and oldest part of it is crowded with ancient tombstones of slate, whose outlines are worn to soft curves and decked with moss, whose quaintly carved epitaphs, "spelt by th' unlettered muse," are well-nigh obliterated. The common pattern of these frail memorials is such as one may see in the ancient churchyards of Old and New England - a dark gray slab which has grown to be, as it were, part and parcel of the landscape itself; the top is cut to form three gently rounded segments of a circle, that in the centre being the larger, and those on the sides both smaller and lower. Just beneath the middle curve is a rudely carved head of a seraph, flanked by wings, three on either side as a rule, as primitive a symbol of celestial life as the scarabæi of the Egyptians. Under this is the name and date, with many a curious piece of doggerel, among which may be cited one anent a maid called Molly, which has become somewhat famous in Milford for its heartless materialism :

"Molly tho pleasant in her day
Was sudd'nly seiz'd and sent away
How soon shes ripe how soon shes rott'n
Sent to her grave and soon for gott'n "

It is hard to believe that such words can be found on a tombstone in a Christian country, and harder still to fancy that they were meant to pass for an affectionate tribute to the dead. I have copied the lines verbatim. There is one more uncouth rhyme, which I will quote, since it presents such an odd combination of warning, exhortation, and matter-of-fact statement:

"Here lies the Body of Elihu the son of Jonathan Fowler who departed this life Octo. 9 1784 aged 3 yrs. 9 mos.

His life a span! The mournful toll
Declares the exit of his soul!

Grim Death is come! His life is call'd
To take its flight! The means a Scald.
Ye who are young come learn your end,
By deep repentance make Christ your friend."

There is a suspiciously familiar jingle about the last two lines, but the originality of the rest of the verse will not be questioned.

I have spoken of the monument erected here to the memory of the soldiers of the Revolution who died in consequence of their ill treatment while confined in British

prison-ships at New York. The names of all these men but one appear to have been known, since they are engraved on the obelisk; but the most touching thing in the cemetery is the laconic "No. 4," which stands in place of the name of this unknown but not unhonored private of 1776. "No. 4!" Would that I had the gift of poetry, so I might give in charge his number to the sweet lyre. It is better to be without a name than without a country.

The old part of the burial ground is a far more pleasant place for meditation than the new. Here the idea of death assumes

an agreeably remote form; the shocks, the keen sorrows, the despairs, the dreadful heart-aches, the bitterness of unavailing revolt, the pangs of extinguished hope, all this sum of misery has, somehow, in the merciful course of the years, been softened. A painless melancholy broods over the resting-place of the ancients. All the problems of the grave have been settled so long for them who lie in this quiet corner. Looking hence, as the shadows of a summer evening closed in among the tombs, I saw a memorable sunset glowing through the sombre pines and fading from the sky, while a church bell tolled, and distant shouts of happy children at play came on the breeze that sprang up at twilight.

A

CHAPTER VI.

BBREVIATING and adapting Thankful's narrative, as I feel forced to do, I feel constrained now and then to give a passage in her own words. "The plain lieth all under mist, bare and brown but for a green relief here and there from a hemlock. I have plucked a fern, and mark how the long stem is channelled from end to end, as with the tool of a graver. Therefrom, at the base, stand forth on either hand twin sprays; at an interval yet other twins, these shorter, and so on to the end of the stem; the ordered sprays thus twinned, each spray, moreover,

toothed, and all, — stem, spray, tooth, chased and lined as with art." Passages follow, indited later in the

season:

"The oaks have half-leaved forth. Like slender wrists go forth the stems, the young leaves like palms of hands down-drooping, prone, as if dispensing blessing, the tips thereof ruddy, like the finger ends of a lusty child."

"Apple-blossoms, at the heart of each, as it were, fine green staves, slenderly tapering. Each beareth at top a small mass a little troop extending bread upon the ends of their spears. White leaves, bent away, yet curving once more inward

at the ends, the sweetness coming through from within in fine, glittering drops. My friend the bob-o-link hath followed the captivated one from the Meadowboro plain, to perch upon a slender and shaking grass-stem; on his neck, below his smooth pate, the same large, yellowish spot; his back as of old barred with black-black, too, upon the edge of the wings. Sweet chatterer, why fly as I draw near? Thy little bill openeth and closeth; thy throat throbbeth with thy song."

So Thankful, in this adverse time, turned her mind, disposed to prey upon itself, to a close noting of the natural objects that surrounded her in her rambles. Suddenly a change took place in the treatment she received. Frowns disappeared, and all faces became kind once more, -a transformation, as she found afterwards, due to the intercession of Father Mériel, who, having now returned from Quebec, and learning the scruples of his flock, rebuked their harshness, declaring that if the heretic were to be won, it must be by kindness. Often in the evening the neighbors gathered, now at one dwelling, now at another. A violin or a flute would be produced, and by the light of pine-knots on a blazing fire, the floor would ring with dancing. The partly civilized Indians, of whom the village was half composed, came in their embroidered dresses of red and blue to look in at doors and windows. Old Jacques, the grandfather, looked on from the settle with his compeers, all keeping time to the tune with their heels, and clapping their hands upon their knees; while the little boys, the grandfathers in epitome, capered nimbly among their elders.

As Thankful day by day became accomplished in the tongue of her entertainers, she learned all that the habitants themselves knew of the two figures who had especially excited her curiosity, — Father Mériel and the Sieur. The former had been for some years the priest of the parish, though in a previous time he had wandered, the villagers knew not how long or how far. He was learned in Indian tongues, and was thought to possess a quite extraordinary power of influencing savages. As to his origin nothing certain could be said, but it was believed from many signs that he had been rich, perhaps of noble birth. He was held by all in unbounded reverence. The Sieur was

Seigneur of Belleau and the lands adjacent. He certainly was of honorable birth, holding an extensive tract from the king. The habitants were his tenants and paid meek deference to his authority. His domain fronted two leagues upon the river, and ran back into the wilderness with no well-defined boundary. A close tie was believed to unite the Sieur and the priest, who were thought to have known one another before coming to New France. The demeanor of the Sieur among his tenants was full of hauteur, as became the feudal lord he was, and he had no words for Thankful. His affability while among the English had left no trace of itself: he retained, however, his habit of muttering to himself; moreover he continued to imitate the notes of birds and called them around him, finding in this, so far as Thankful could see, his only recreation.

On the bank of the river, a little apart from the village, with a large cross of white cedar before it, and a small lodge close at hand, stood Father Mériel's chapel. As he moved about among the people, with his noble features sad through some unknown sorrow, but full of charity and enthusiasm, or walked on the river margin repeating the prayers from his breviary in reverent abstraction, Thankful says she was strongly drawn toward him, in spite of the fact that she felt she must be on her guard to gain a soul she had seen him stoop to an underhand proceeding. What arts might he not try upon her?

CHAPTER VII.

As Annette's forebodings disappeared and she gave full course to her kind dispositions, Thankful in turn began to feel at ease. The foreign tongue no longer caused her embarrassment; and as she was now able to enter fully into the life of those about her, she felt more happiness than she had known for a long time. She dared not admit to herself how great a relief it was to be absent from her unloved husband. The genial manners of the people among whom she had come were a pleasant change from the austerity of the English settlers of her old home. She began, in fact, with a sense of guilt all the time, to feel some return of the buoyancy of her girlhood.

There were at length signs in the village of some great approaching event. "What is it?" said Thankful, now proficient in the patois. "My poor child," said Annette, "on the feast of St. Barnabas the lost bell is to be brought to the village and hung in its place." "The lost bell!" said Thankful; " and how lost?"

"Dear child," said Annette, "and do you not know the story? The bell is the cause of all your suffering. Do you not know it was cast for the missions of the holy Society of Jesus here in New France, and that when on the sea on its way hither, it being a time of war, it was taken by an English ship? For a long time all trace of it was lost. In some way, I know not how, the Sieur found out it had been carried to your village. He has been much absent from the seigneury, and in his wanderings he must have heard of it. Ah, how well I remember the night when he stalked into the village, ragged and gaunt from some long, quick journey through the woods, and told Father Mériel that the bell was found! How the Father told the story when the village was summoned! You should have seen the fire in his face. He said the bell had been cast with holy ceremonies for the missions of Canada. It had been anointed and baptized by the hands of a venerable bishop. It had become a sacred utensil, and ought hardly to be touched except by consecrated hands. It had fallen into the clutch of heretics, and, O sacrilege! it was rung for heretic worship. It must no longer be, said Father Mériel; and you should have seen his cheek glow and his breast heave. It was now a time of war, and he declared that a party must at once march southward to recover it. Then we all said the lost bell should be redeemed: such abomination could not be suffered. So the men were gathered from the villages far and near to march against the impious heretics."

Annette had warmed in her account, and was execrating all heretics with the most energetic tones and gestures. "Poor soul," said she at last, remembering Thankful, "I forgot you were one. You do not seem like one, for I have heard that heretics kill their fathers and mothers and eat children. But you will not be one long; I heard you sing last night in the chant at vespers like a true child of the Church, and you will soon be one of us, I am sure ;" and Annette, run

ning up, put her arms around Thankful's neck, patting and kissing her cheek with perfect artlessness.

The day came at last. The batteau which had been sent for the buried bell had returned, and the procession had been arranged. The women of the village, in the delightful June weather, were out in their brightest attire, with white caps, gay bodices, and rainbow-hued petticoats set off with ribbons. There were voyageurs

and coureurs de bois, their locks decorated like those of Indians (from whom, indeed, they were often scarcely distinguishable), with eagles' feathers and the clattering tails of rattlesnakes, carried as amulets, rattling at their girdles. There were Indians in half-European attire of red and blue cloth, in sashes and collars heavily embroidered with beads and the quills of the porcupine. There were fur-traders and rangers in buckskin frocks and fringed leggings, and villagers in the costume of peasants of Bretagne in Old France, whence the people of Belleau had for the most part come.

In good time the procession advanced through the irregular street. Thankful's account leads one to believe there was about it much that would be regarded anywhere as pomp. The trumpets, drums, and silken banners of a detachment of regular troops, temporarily in the village, marched first, followed by several platoons of soldiers, in perfect military order, with white uniforms and cockades. In front of these, though somewhat apart, was the martial figure of the Sieur mounted upon a spirited charger. The Sieur's dark face looked out from a plumed head-piece, a bright cuirass bound his breast, and he carried in his hand a drawn sword. He was quite at home in the saddle, and seemed thoroughly accustomed to his martial appurtenances. A well-appointed cavalier was not a usual sight in New France, and a great impression was produced. After the soldiers, proceeded a number of Indians in European habits of extraordinary richness, presented, so said Annette, by some great personage, and only worn upon great occasions. Some were of scarlet velvet trimmed with gold lace; here and there was a silver-hilted sword these belongings of civilization were incongruously combined, upon the well-proportioned figures, with savage