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a jFamils AlcUJl).ijiri': BcGotcs to JUteraturc, tftc arts, Science, agriculture, J*UrtiHulr, EUucntion, jForcign n Bosucctfc XutelUgewcr, ®uiuour, fct. BY C. R. HANLEITER. From the Augusta Mirror. ELLEN, A TALE OF THE FRONTIER SETTLEMENTS. BY E . L . W . Chapter I. On the western bank of the Apalachee river, beside the road leadiug from Greens borough to Madison, by what is known at the present day as Jordain’s Ferry, are the ruins of an old wooden house. As long as the writer can remember it has had the ap pearance of an ancient and weatherbeaten building. It was situated on an eminence overlooking the valley of the river, and com manding an extensive prospect beyond it. About a quarter of a mile farther west, a small creek winds its way along the base of several rocky eminences, that rise abruptly on either side, and silently finds its way to the river, a few hundred yards above the Ferry. South of the ruins and in their rear there comes suddenly up from the immedi ate bluff of the river a deep ravine, now washed by the rains into short deep gullies. But at the time of which 1 write, it was dark with nature’s covering, the forest, un cut and fresh in its primeval vigour, over arched it from above and lent to it its deep est shade, while from beneath, the tangled vines and underbrush gave to it a quiet but gloomy aspect. About midway between the house and river, gushing out boldly from be neath a lock, there is a fine spring of deli cious water. The general aspect of the coun try around, as seen from the bill on which the house was placed, is broken and undu lating—and now since the axe and plough have done their work, many a hill, shorn of its trees and robbed ofits soil, may be seen rising one above another and stretching far out to the south and east, until the eye is tired of the prospect, and the heart saddens with the reflection that this is a faithful pic ture of the myriads of acres of the fertile lands of Middle Georgia, that have been causelessly sacrificed to the culture of our great southern staple. But to our story.. It was about nine o’clock on the morning of a bright and sunny day, in the early part of May, in the year eighteen hundred and four, that two men were to be seen sitting in front of the house I have mentioned, un der the shade of alarge mulberry tree. They had evidently been communing upon some subject of deep interest to both. I iiey were conversing in and under tone, and apparent ly with great caution. Ihe eldest, a man about fifty years of age, of low stature, yet with a strong and vigorous frame and adark and frowning brow, and an eye, peering from beneath his shaggy frontlet—quick pen etrating aril restless —that gave to his coun tenance a sinister and murderous express ion, seemed the principal speaker of the two. He was addressing his companion at the time our story opens. A few words spoken in the higher tone, and with less reserve, gave a clue to the subject. “ She cannot refuse —she will accept — why should she not ? Come, go in at once, and broach the subject. You tell me you love her ... . land in Virginia negroes and cash by this time .... I hold the secret iti my own keeping, and she shall remain in ignorance until” A cautious whisper revealed to his hearer alone the concluding sentence, and a reply in the same low tone upon the part of his companion, closed the conference, and both rising they separated—the young man cn-> tering the house, the other descending the hill to the Ferry. The interior arrangements of the house, though common were neat and comfortable, and gave evidence to the presence of those whose care it is to smootlie the current of domestic life. The individual on entering, found himself in the presence of two fe males, and addressing himself to the eldest, remarked that Mr. Darnell (her husband) desired him to ask her to step down to the Ferry a moment. She left the house im mediately. The other, who was a young exceedingly pretty girl, of not more (than eighteen years of age, rose to follow, when she was gently detained by the man ‘before her. “ Miss Ellen I trust will not think me too Tude,” he remarked, “ when she hears the reasons I have for detaining her. I have “often determined to address you upon a sub ject deeply interesting to my own feelings, but have as often faltered in my purpose; and even now, though I am accounted ahold and daring man in some respects, I can scarcely bring myself to do it.” ■“ Perhaps then, you had better leave it ■undone,” responded the lady. A shade of doubt and uncertainty passed quickly over the face of the speaker, as he replied— “ I would not even now have presumed to trouble you with that in winch you may feel but little concern, but my own feelings are so deeply involved that I must not, nay, I dare not longer refrain from their expres sion.” He approached her person, and would have taken her hand in his, but she shrunk away from his approach, as she replied : “ Away, sir! I have heard enough to sa tisfy me of the tenor of your thoughts. I pray you, leave me.” “ What! leave you now, with all the full weight of untold passion resting upon my feelings ? Never!” And grasping her hand, he continued : “ Hear me ! I imploro you —while I disclose to you the workings of a heart full of love—deep, unalterable love ! I stand before you as I have never stood be fore another, either in heaven or on earth— a suppliant! Do not turn away, but hear me to the end. 1 came to these wilds a Wan derer, to seek a refuge from the shackles of civilized life, that my free spirit might rove untrammelled amidst its quiet woodland scenes. Mine has been a life of anxiety and vexation. My parents, rich and influential, gave me an education commensurate with my future expectations and their own fond hopes : but an unfortunate affair in which I was involved, blasted their hopes and my ex pectations. The tie was sundered that bound me to my kind, and I have been a lone and homeless wanderer until now. You remember when two years ago I found a refuge it) this neighborhood. Here I saw you. My heart watched with glowing rap ture and eager delight, the opening charms that invested your person. You, too, seem ed alone in the world, and the fond hope sprung up in my bosom that you would one day consent to link your fortunes with my own—that you would become the instrument to reclaim me from a life of peril and of dan ger, to one of quiet and domestic peace. This hope has been the brightest of my life. For some timod would not indulge it, fear ing that a stern disappointment awaited me, and in that event I dared not trust myself. But all resistance was vain, and every ef fort to oppose it has given a sterner impulse to my feelings, until now I stand before you, your ardent and impassioned lover. And shall I now abandon my hopes, and lose the prize to which I have looked with such de light, without an effort ? Never! Tell me, Ellen, do I plead in vain—is there no re sponse from your heart in unison with my own I” A tide of deep and conflicting feeling swelled the bosom of the maiden, as strug gling to free her hand fromthebuming grasp of her bold and lawless suitor, she answer ed—“ Release me, sir! you surely could not force me to answer against my will.” Her hand, crushed and reddened by the pressure, was dropped, and the young man, drawing himself up to his greatest height, stood before herin stern silence, to await her reply. “ I have listened, sir, with anxiety and alarm, to the impassioned declaration you have made. I think I need not tell you I have been deeply pained, not to say insult ed, by your avowal. I have never given you the least cause to hope, as you express it, that I would listen to your addresses, and link my destiny with yours. Sir, a gulf as wide as virtue and innocence are remote from crime and guilt, lies between us—to me it shall ever remain impassable. I nev er can consent to become the bride of a robber—a hunted, homeless robber.” “ Well, be it so,” responded the young man. “ Another web in the history of my life is woven. Farewell—when we meet again, the scene will be changed. I shall not then be the suppliant.” He departed, and Eiien was left alone, to reflect upon tire strange and exciting events that had just transpired. The declaration of love, only astonished her; but the impas sioned language, the heaving bosom, the firm grasp, and the daring eye of the speak er greatly alarmed her—and for the first time in her life, she felt the danger to which one so young and inexperienced was ex posed, living as she was, apart from the world, and relying as she feared she must do, upon herself alone for guidance and di rection. A short time afterwards the party from the Ferry returned. Ellen was still excit ed, and Darnell’s quick eye in a moment read her thoughts, and saw that he must in terpose his authority to further the object of her lover. He led her to the open piazza in front of the house and enquired as to what had passed between them. She frank ly told him all. The old man was furious at the result. He spurned her from him— threatened her—used every means to force her to consent; but to no purpose. Final ly he remarked be would give her longer time to think upon it—and snatching bis gun from its rest above the door, plunged into the woods, and returned no more during the day. C hap ter 11. It was about ten days afterthe occurrences already noticed, late in the afternoon, that a small canoe might be seen rapidly stemming the current of the Apalachee, propelled by the hand of a single oarsman. The individ ual himself was a young man, not exceed ing twenty-five years of age. A short r isle was suspended by a strap from his shoulder, and a long knife hung at his belt. He was a man evidently inured to exposure, and was well suited to a life in the woods or on the water; for the frail craft in which he rode upon the river’s quiet bosom, glided through its waters, now on this side, and a gain on the other, or avoided the more rapid current, where the stream contracted its width between its projecting hanks, as if in stinct with life, and apparently without an effort. After turning a sharp point of land, around which the river had worn its channel, the canoe shot across the current into a miniature bay upon the western side, and the owner, making it fast to a tree, leaped upon the land. He stood listening anxious- MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 9, 1842. ly for a moment, as if expecting to catch some accidental sound or preconcerted sig jial. But hearing neither, he proceeded up the ravine, by a narrow though distinctly de fined trail. A few hundred yards brought him to the spring I have before mentioned. Here he paused, and unstrapping his rifle from his hack, leaned it against a tree, and seated himself against its root. In person he was rather below the middle height, not reaching above five feet eight inches—and yet by a casual observer he would be reckon ed taller, for he stood remarkably erect, and moved with that buoyoncy and lightness of step which always accompanies great mus cular strength and an erect carriage. As he threw himself at the root of the tree and gave himself to reflection, a fair view of his striking features revealed the character of the man. To a forehead rather tall and broad, with the lines of intellect strongly marked, and an eye, large and grey—in re- Cose clear and brilliant, but in excitement, right and flashing, “ like sunlight upon a troubled wave,” may be added a complexion deeply bronzed by exposure to the rays of a southern sun. At the time I write, there was fierceness in his eye —a cloud big with the wrath of the tempest was on his brow, and a curl of triumph on his lip, and the whole man lay revealed, intellectual stern, uncompromising, revengeful, dangerous. For some time he remained profoundly silent, yet an occasional quick and rapid gesture gave evidence that his thoughts were running upon some exciting subject. Gra dually an expression of dark and settled purpose spread over his face, as rising, he muttered between his clenched teeth, in a low and choked voice— “ Yes, by all that’s terrible, she shall be mine ! My resolution is taken, and no pow er shall drive me fiom it.” This burst of feelingpast, he became more calm, and pro ceeded in a firmer tone. “I have hitherto been too weak and unsteady in my resolves. Her unprotected and friendless situation— her extreme beauty, and her stern rejection of my suit—have for the time curbed the devil within me, and the better feelings of my heart have triumphed. But now, the spell is broken—she has threatened to fly from the house of her uncle, and seek from strangers the protection he refuses her. Can I sutler this—shall I permit her thus to es cape me—to become the bearer of my acts to the ears of others? Never! My own safe ty is involved in her ruin, and ruined she shall be. I wooed her as a lover, and de sired to win her for my bride, and she might have won me back from a life of crime and peril. But no! she never could stoop so low, as to become the wife of a robber—a hun ted, homeless robber. She has thus added insult to injury. But mine she shallbe, rob ber though 1 am, whether she will or not. Matt Darnell has said it—his own purposes cannot be accomplished without it. Buthere he comes at last.” The man henamed.as the speaker uttered the last words was descending the hill from the house, andsoon joined him at the spring. Frank Huddleston by long habit, was in a moment enabled to control his feelings; and by the time Darnell reached him, al most all trace of the storm that had agitated his features had passed away, and he accost ed Darnell with the familiar title of uncle Matt, as was his usual custom. “ Why so slow in your movements, uncle Matt; has old age gotten the better of your briskness—orhas the pretty Ellen been reading you a lecture on morals, and the great danger of associating with a youngster so graceless as myself?” “ Neither, Frank—l am not so old but that I can yet fill an engagement, when all that is necessary is to walk a few hundred yards; neither has Ellen, to-day, at least, been troubling me with any of her foolish conceits. But other considerations have caused me to delay my coming. Since vou were here, I have hear and of the arrival in this neighborhood, of a young man from Vir ginia, and from the name he bears, and the description given of him, I am inclined to think that I know him ; and if lam right in my conjectures, he is about the last man I should like to meet in this region. Just be fore I came down here, I put James Guil ford across the Ferry. He was in Greens boro’ to-day, and was telling me about him. He has been there some two weeks—or rather it is about two weeks since he arriv ed there first—but he is going and coming all the time, sometimes be is gone two days together, at other times, half a day only. He left town he says this morning, in com pany with that rascally Indian Chemicko, as a guide, but what the object of his journey,’ or where they were going, he could not as certain. But you are ready to ask, what has the appearence of this young man from Vir ginia in it of interest, sufficient thus to dis turb me ? I will briefly tell you, for jou are as deeply interested a9 myself. I have told you before that lam a Virginian. That my brother some eight years ago died, and left me sole executor of his will, and guardian of his child. That I left the country with out getting possession of the estate, which was large and unencumbered. The reason why I left that country, I will now tell you. I was dedected in running some negroes that were not my own, and was forced to fly to escape tne vengeance of the law. They belonged to my nearest neighbors, Colonel Searcy, a man whom I always hated. But I had notice in time, and was on the alert, and WBB enabled to get away with my wife and Ellen, the daughter of my brother. I should have left Ellen, who was then but ten years old, behind, but from the hope that one day or other, through her I should get possession of her large estates. We were pursued into Carolina, by Herbert Searcy, the Colonel’s son, a youth then but eighteen years of age, with all the fury of a tiger. 1 escaped, however, as fortune would have it, and thus far have avoided all detection. “ The stranger of whom Guilford heard in Greensboro’, is named Herbert Searcy, and from my recollection of the youth and the description given me of this person, I am morally certain it is the same. What has brought him to Georgia, and to this part of it, I cannot guess. He can certainly have no clew to my retreat, as the name by which I am now known, is not the same with which I left Virginia, and I have been careful to intercept letters which at times Ellen has written back, knowing that they would ex pose me to detection. I have never met with but one person that I formerly knew, and he shewed no sign of recognition on his part, so that it is impossible (hat he should be aware of my hiding place. And if he was, it will be a fearful settlement I shall have with him if he attempts to disturb me here. But enough of this, I shall be on my guard, and with my knowledge of the country, shall be able to hold him at bay. And now to the object of our meeting. I have promised you Ellen for a wife, and I intend that promise shall be fulfilled. She has utterly rejected your suit, and has dis obeyed my positive commauds. I did think she would have yielded to my wishes—at least to my commands ; but she has become more and more obstinate, and threatens, as you know, to fly from my protection if I per sist. That is impossible—it is beyond her power, unless she is assisted to do so, and no one to whom she can appeal, dare do that. But should she escape, you will lose a wife, and with her all prospect of our ever securing her fortune. My place of refuge will be known, and our retreat broken up. True, none of our robberies have positively come within her knowledge, yet she sus pects enough, if she divulges it, to set the dogs of the law upon our trail, and then our plans will all be broken up. This must not be. She must not escape. But what course are we to pursue ? I would not proceed to extremities a: once, and but for the informa tion received to-day, would delay awhile our operations, in hope that time may change her. But new 1 fear no time is to be lost— strange doub:s hang about my heart. Sup pose you make one more effort to prevail upon her to accept your love. If after that she refuses, we will resort to other means.” The youngman thus addressed, remained several minutes in profound silence. From the visible emotion of his countenance, some idea might be formed of the violence of the inward struggle. He stood before Matt Darnell, a rejected lover—rejected too by the niece of a robber—the outlaw from his home and friends. He had been branded by her too, with that infamous title, and though truly his by his acts, yet it grated harshly upon his cars, and settled, with all that it carries with it of disgrace, deeply up on his feelings. The cut had pierced to his soul, a wound deep and incurable, and had left there a stern and settled purpose of re venge. Aye, that revenge, which to a young and unprotected female, is of the most fear ful sort. At length he replied— “ I know that all further attempt to pre vail upon her, will be utterly in vain. I have done already all that any man, under the in fluence of a devotion, ardent and impassion ed, could do, to win her—and yet I have been repulsed. The affection of a heart, warm in its love, and sincere iu its purpose, has been trodden under foot with scorn, and every offer that I have made lias been treat ed with, contempt, and rejected—and reject ed too, in such terms, as to leave me under the influence of the settled resolve, in the last resort, to use those other means to which you alluded—ay, any means, that lie within the compnss of my power.” “ But,” said Darnell, “ she may upon the renewal of your efforts, be less determined in her opposition, and I would greatly prefer that another effort be made. Women are fickle creatures, and Ellen i9 but a woman —we cannot tell but the result may be favor able.” “ There is no hope as to the result. I have studied the character of your niece, and its developments assure me that she is far superior in mind and energy to the girl we thought her. And but for the scorn and contempt with which she rejected me, and the power she may hold over us, in the event that she chooses to reveal all that she knows of our past connexion and acts, I would abandon the pursuit altogether. But now, the only alternative left is to humble her so low’ as to make it desirable, nay, absolutely necessary to her, to link her fate with mine, or seek the deeper and wilder recesses of the forest, as a refuge to hide her from the eyes of a sensorious world. In cither event, you would be secure from detection, she only knowing your true name, though igno rant of the cause of its change; and I should be revenged of the contempt so un sparingly heaped upon me, and the wounds which have been inflicted upon my spirit would be healed. But as you so anxiously desire it, I will see her again. In the mean time, use all the influence you can exert upon her, and if all else shall fail, as a last resor% assure her that voluntary compliance on her part with your wishes can alone se cure your further protection, and that should she refuse all, she must abide her fate. I will see her in a day or two, or it fnay be longer. Other matters of pressing interest mqst not be forgotten, for should your sus picions prove true concerning this young man Searcy, his knowledge of your “where about” would greatly mar the game we de sire to ploy.” “I shall keep a sharp lookout for the youngster,” said Matt, “ and fear not, hut that I shall, if I meet him, be able to give a good account of him. If he is found pry ing into my concerns, I’ll learn him a lesson in border life be will not soon unlearn. If you can return day after to-morrow, I will meet you here again, and we can then de termine further what course will be best to pursue.” “ I will meet you by that time if I can. Yonder comes your niece, and it is best she does not find us together.” Snatching his rifle its resting place, Huddleston dashed into the bushes, and threaded the ravine to Ithe water’s edge. He then sprung into the canoe, and catching the paddle in both hands, gave a long deep strokein the water, which sent it bounding to the middle of the stream ; another stroke on the opposite side turned the bow with the current, and he was soon lost amidst the wind ings of the river. But we will return to the scene he had left. Ellen descendod spring—she held in her hand a pitche ™and without pausing to notice the presence of Darnall, stooped to fill it at the fount. She arose and held it to her uncle, asking him in a sweet and me lancholy tone, if he would drink. He took the pitcher from her hand, and raising it to his mouth, drank a long and hearty draught. Returning it to her he said : “ Wby do you look so sad, Ellen—has your aunt been cross to you to-day ? I have observed that you have greatly changed, from what you were.” “ Yes, uncle, it is true I have changed. Once I was a thoughtless, light-hearted girl, pleased only wilh the present, and scarcely giving a thought to the future; now the present is joyless, and the future ” “ May compensate you for the lack of present enjoyment, if you will hut listen to my advice, and obey my commands.” “ If your advice and commands refer to the subject on which we have before con versed, and which have for their object my union with Frank Huddleston, you may spare yourself the trouble, and me the pain of its recital.” “ But, Ellen, what can you promise your self by this perverse, this obstinate refusal. I and your auut are growing old, and soon, very soon may leave you—and shall I leave you unprotected ? To whom then will you look for protection ?” “Tothatßeiug who has said—that he will be a Father to the orphan.” “ Ay, but to whom will you turu for pro tection from hunger, and penury, and insult all of which must hang upon your path. Be not so silly, girl—l propose for you a young and handsome msu, every way your equal, to be your protector, your husband. But W’hy turn away from me—why that curling lip and scornful eye ?” “ Because the proposition pains and in sults me. I feel the spirit of an honorable and virtuous parentage stirring within me— and though in a wild and savage land, with no friend to assist, and none to protect and guide me, but the man who now proposes to me a union of disgrace with one who is a traitor to virtue, a robber of the helpless, and an outlaw from justice—yet I feel that I have that withiu me, which would prompt me to any sacrifice, even of life itself, before I would stoop to so loul a degradation.” And as she warmed with the excitement of her feelings, her maiden form stood erect in its finest proportions—her blue eyes swam in a bed of tears, the light of conscious puri ty, and the glow of proud resolve added new beauties to her lovely features—and her voice, clear and stern, yet musical in ve ry sterness, fell itartingly upon the ear of Darnall. She turned indignantly to leave him, but he caught her hand and stayed her. “ But one word more,” and the knit brow, and the glaring eye, revealed the last re solve. “ Your purpose is taken, so is mine. You draw upon your head my heaviest curse, I leave you to your own choice and your certain fate. Frank Huddleston may not be trifled with—he is not the man to hear without revenge, a personal slight, or inten tional insult, even from one to whom he has offered his love. Persevere in your course, and reject if you like it, his final offers, and I now warn you that I will never afford you protection from him under any circumstances —no matter what he may resolve to do. With this fearful truth before you—will you pause in your course—will you not con sent ?” “ Never!” was the prompt and energetic reply. And the noble girl, turning from her astonished uncle, left him, and ascend ing the hill emerged from the valley, just as the setting sun was flinging its last rays of light upon the bosom of the river and the forest around. “ Alas!” said Ellen, as the stern truth of her utter destitution forced itself upon her mind, “ how like my own sad history, how like my present feelings. The sun bending to her rest, sheds out upon the world a fee ble, fingering ray, the pioneor of that dark ness that now sends up its shadows from the VOLUME 1.--NUMBER 15. vales around. So the star of my hope, lin gered but a moment above the horizon—it threw its blessed fight upon my pathway— but now, that star has set —set amidst clouds and darkness; the last ray though- lingering a moment about my heart, has lost its light amid the gathering gloom, and I amleft alone, to contend single-handed with the fate that seems impending me. And yet with me, there is still a last resource—the grave—ay, the deep vault of the dead, will be a secure retreat from the foul destroyer—and the grave is preferable to guilt.” Chapter 111. It was the afternoon of the day succeed ing the events detailed in the last chapter, that Ellen, oppressed with # the weight of unuttered grief, sought the retired margin of the river—that there amidst its quiet scenes, she might commune more freely with her own sad heart. Her situation, she felt, was one of imminent danger. Her way seemed obstructed with difficulties over which it was impossible to pass, without a friend to guide, or a father to protect her. She stood alone, in a land t of savages—the object of worse than savage persecution. Brought up amidst wild and woodland scenes, since her earlier girlhood, and under the guidance of those whose tastes and feel ings were wholly opposite to her own, far remote from civilized life, and the society of her equals; yet her days bad not been spent in vain. Ere she left the home of her child hood, she had received the rudiments of a sound and substantial education, and the few books she had since read, had tended largely to the development of her reflective faculties. She had thought much and pro perly. Until now, however, but little had occurred to disturb the gentle current of her existence, or to develope her whole character, by calling into action, the latent energies of her strong and vigorous mind. But the spring was now touched which op ened up to the eye the long hurried intel lectual treasures. I have seen the remark made some where, that there are points of time in the lives of most persons, in which we will live longer in an hour or a day, than we have done for weeks before—or perchance than we shall for months to come. And however false in reference to the actual time, the saying may be, yet I have no doubt of its truth, as to the development of character. How fre quently is it the fact that an unforeseen event, a single act, or a casual expression will spring into life and action, powers, eith er physical or mental, of whose extent and capacity, we never dreamed; end these ve ry events, casual as they are, and insignifi cant as they seem, fix the character for the present, and give to it an impress, that fu ture years will not efface. Thus was it with the sad wanderer upon the banks of the Apalachee. The last forty-eight hours, had been to her eventful moments. After the conversation with her uncle at the spring, without holding further converse with him or his wife, she had retired to her room there to recount the events of the day. She was astonished at her own firmness, in the prompt and utter-rejection of her uncle’s proposi tion. Though she scarcely loved him as a relation, for there was much in bis charac ter, as we have seen, to forbid it, yet from the time she had been placed under his pro tection, she had learned promptly to obey his wishes, and yield to his commands. But since the advances made by Huddleston, and seconded by Darnell, a rapid aud thorough change had pressed upon her whole charac ter ; she felt that the cruel conduct of her uncle, should release her from all obligation to love, respect or obey him. To her aunt she had turned with the fond hope that in her she would find a friend and counsellor, but she too had joined the league against her—she felt indeed that she was alone in the world, with every former rock of sup port, rent by the terrible storm that had swept in fury over the current of her exis tence. Desolate, friendless, and persecuted. Rhe stood ns wc have seen Iter upon the river, rapt in the intensity of her own sad thoughts. There were many things in the objects a round her to allay the fever of her mind— the deep blue sky above—the quiet waters bathing in the bright sunlight—the forest gently bending to the bi*ath of Heaven, as it sought its passage ’midst the trembling leaves. ’Twas one of nature’s most lovely spots—ungarnisbed by the hand of roan. And there was music too —nature’s music— the hum of the bee, the whirr of the insect, the carrol of the bird, the ripple of the cur rent, and the faint echoes of the eddying air—all, all blent in one harmonious con cert, rich in its melody, and soothing in its influences. The effect was not lost on El len. The deep expression of sadness gra dually left her beautiful face, and a ray of hope lent its light for a moment to her tear ful eye. She seated herself upon a rock washed by the river’s tiny wave. She had evidently been communing with Nature's God—she felt she was not all alone—one Being at least had not forsaken her—and upon His protection she believed aho could rely. The rock on which Ellen was sitting jutted boldly out into the stream, and was n few rods below the point at which the little creek we mentioned in the beginning of our story, falls into the river, above the present Ferry. For a long time she sat with her face buried in her hands, in profound medi tation. No sound escaped her lip, save an