OUR BILL.

———

BY MRS. LAMBERT.

———

“I am gone sir, and anon

I’ll be with you again.”

Tempest.

Some years since I chanced to stop, during one of my summer rambles, in a pretty village, picturesquely situated in the county of F——d. I arrived about sun-set, and the quiet loveliness which appeared every where around, won me to the spot. A row of neat white houses, with pretty gardens in front, arose on each side of the way, for the distance of nearly half a mile. At this point the road branched off in different directions, and exactly on the centre of division stood the village church; a plain, unpretending edifice, whose slender spire rose high above the full tops of venerable elms and dark pendant willows that surrounded its peaceful walls.

A row of fine trees planted regularly at the road side, gave the appearance of an avenue to the village street, which viewed from its entrance, has an uncommonly pleasing effect, the eye ranging through the grass-bounded road, and the umbrageous arch which overshadows it, till the consecrated building terminates the vista.

The country immediately adjoining the village is divided into numerous enclosures, bearing marks of good cultivation; while pretty farm-houses are scattered in every direction, with woods, streams, rocks and groves, beautifying the landscape. A chain of hills, which might without the charge of an extraordinary degree of presumption, aspire to the name of mountains, bounds the view on the south-east—their undulating outline beautifully marked against the clear horizon. Through an opening of the range, a glimpse is caught of the deep blue waters of the sound—a sail just distinguished—diminished by distance to a mere speck, gives frequent interest, and adds to the magic of the scene.

Pleasing, however, as was the village, and abounding in objects most inviting to a lover of simple life, I determined not to make it my place of abode. Enquiring my way to a farm-house, of which I had some previous knowledge, I directed my steps thither. It was situated about a mile from the village, at the foot of a gentle slope, and adjoining a grove vocal in spring-time with the notes of almost innumerable birds.

The master of it was a plain farmer, but one of Heaven’s nobility, an honest man. He lived like one of the Patriarchs of old, surrounded by his descendants to the third generation. His still athletic form was unbent by age, although his venerable locks were whitened by the snows of seventy winters.

I was received with all the kindness I could wish. Every thing was done to make me comfortable, and cause me, as the phrase goes, to feel at home, and I did so.

The farm-house was a large, old building, abounding in long, low rooms, the ceilings of which were crossed by heavy beams, a century ago considered no defect in architectural embellishment—narrow windows, glazed with exceedingly small panes, carefully leaded—a fire-place built across one corner of the room, over the mantel-piece of which appeared a wooden clock, flanked on each side by a china figure, intending to represent, as I supposed, Flora and Pomona.

The former of these heathen beauties balanced her well-filled basket with sufficient gravity on a head none of the smallest—but her companion from the carelessness with which she held her cornucopia, suffered its treasures to escape with an indifference truly wonderful. A pair of pink-colored candles, rising from sockets garnished with curiously cut paper, finished the decorations of the fire-place.

My hostess was a little, fat, short, good-humored woman, and with her youngest daughter, the only one remaining unmarried, and a daughter-in-law, whose husband was absent in a distant part of the country, constituted those members of the family, with whom I had most frequent and social communication. There were, also, two or three large dogs, of prepossessing physiognomy, and urbane gentlemanly manners, with whom I soon found a sort of companionship.

But of all the oddities, animate or inanimate, with which I became acquainted during my visit to Redbury, I saw none that interested me more than an urchin who officiated in the family as a sort of boy of all work.

Short, stout, broad-shouldered as an infant Hercules, with a round, good-humored face, laughing grey eyes, and elf-locks tanned to a dead flaxey whiteness, by continual exposure to the sun and wind—“Our Bill,” for so he was constantly and familiarly denominated, was to be found every where, and equal to every imposed duty. He chopped wood, made the fires, fetched water, brought the cows, and helped the maids to milk them; went of all the errands, and did all the chores. When the farmer came in wearied from the field, “Our Bill” ran to the cellar and drew for his refreshment a mug of hard cider. If an extra hand was wanted in hay-time or harvest, it was only to send to the house for “Our Bill.” If a neighbor was at a loss for a messenger in any emergency—the first thought was to request of neighbor Dawkins the loan of “Bill.” In short, he was in demand for every thing, and I began to consider him ubiquitous.

The readiness with which he complied with every requisition, his unvarying good-humor and promptness to oblige, soon drew my attention and gained my approbation.

The first marked kindness which I received from him I well remember. I was sitting in the apartment allotted to my use, and taking my breakfast. The morning was dark, and it rained violently. I looked toward the windows with a sort of hopelessness of feeling, for I expected that letters were lying in the post-office in the village, from my friends in the city, and I knew not how to procure them. To be sure I might send “Our Bill,” but I had not the heart to do so.

While meditating thus, a gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and who should appear but “Our Bill.” His garments were soaked and dripping with rain, which fell in rapid and discolored drops from numerous ragged points and edges. He held his tattered, crownless hat in one hand, while he extended to me in the other no less than three letters—three letters from dear friends in town—how dear, let friendship in absence determine.

I looked up at the windows involuntarily, as I broke the seal of one missive.

“Why William, (I never could bear to call him Bill,) you have been to the post-office—and through all the storm—I hope you did not go entirely on my account?”

“Yes, but I did though.”

“Why, my lad, I never would have sent you through such a tempest of wind and rain.”

“I know that. But I heard you say last night that you thought there were letters for you in the village, so I determined you should have ’em.”

“You are a kind boy, Will. Are you not cold? You had better go quickly and change your clothes.”

“Change my clothes, oh no—I don’t mind a wet jacket. I’ll make a fire up for you though, if you please,” and he looked at my vacant hearth.

“Do so,” said I, and while he was engaged I perused my letters. Their contents were satisfactory and pleasing, and I sat ruminating on the past, with no painful anticipations about the future, while the boy went on with his self-imposed employment.

“There,” exclaimed he, as a cheerful crackling flame blazed up the chimney, “I think you’ll do, now.”

“So do I, Willy, and here is something for your pains.” I handed him a small silver piece. He took it with a rustic bow, and looked at it with delight. His face, cheerful before, now grew bright with pleasure. Down he sat, sans cérémonie, upon the hearth, and diving his hand into some unimaginable recess about his person, brought to light a dingy-looking rag, which he untied. In it I beheld a few pieces of copper coin. He added to them the silver which I had given him, retied his little bag, thanked me again, and was about to leave the room. My voice arrested him.

“Why, Willy, you are quite rich; what are you going to do with so much money?”

The boy actually blushed and hung his head.

“I know,” he replied.

“I suppose you do,” said I, “my man, and may I not know too?” He was silent. “It will go to buy tops and marbles, I suppose,” I added.

“No it won’t,” he answered, with quickness.

“Perhaps you are saving it till you get enough to purchase a new hat, or a pair of shoes. If so, I think, you are doing very right.”

No answer, and at this moment Mrs. Dawkins calling him, he left the room.

This economy was a trait I little suspected in my young acquaintance. Most boys of his age expend the few pence which they casually acquire, in the purchase of apples, or nuts, or gingerbread, but I never saw “Our Bill” indulge in any luxuries of this sort. I, therefore, could only return to my first supposition, that he was hoarding up the means of buying a Sunday jacket, trowsers, shoes or hat. The chief things that I disapproved of, about the boy, were the indifference which he evinced as to his appearance, and his love of mischief. It is true he had not much time to devote to personal neatness; yet numerous as were his avocations, there was not a solitary scheme of mischief carried into effect within a mile of the village, in which Bill did not bear a part. If mammy Jennings’s orchard was to be thinned of its superfluous number of golden pippins—or cross-grained old Squire Grummand’s fine walnut tree laid under contribution—or the Deacon’s melon-patch to be examined by moonlight, I am sorry to say that “Our Bill” was sure to be an assistant, if not officiating as president of the board of directors. In short, he was a mischievous, but good-natured and obliging boy, that might by a little care exercised by some kind-hearted individual, be rendered a good and useful member of the community. But if neglected and suffered to grow up in idleness, or desultory employment, which is next akin to it, he stood a fair chance of falling into a career of dissipation, profligacy and vice.

I took an early opportunity of enquiring more particularly about this boy of Mrs. Dawkins: who gave me the following account. His parents, who were natives of the village, and poor, had married early in life. They were industrious—the man particularly so—and they were virtuous and honest. For some time after their marriage the world went hardly with them. An increase of family brought an increase of cares and want, with no additional means wherewith to answer them. James Lee (that was his name) became dejected—and Nancy unfortunately lost not her cheerfulness only, but her good temper: and although James worked hard from day to day, and gave her every penny of his earnings, to lay up or expend in supplying the wants of the family, as she chose; yet she was still peevish and dissatisfied. Harassed by his wife’s growing ill-temper, and threatened by all the evils attendant upon increasing poverty, James began to seek in company at the village tavern a temporary relief from care. This only made matters worse; Nancy instead of striving to make his home pleasant, and soothing his uneasiness, by bidding him hope for the best, always met him with tears and upbraidings.

Thus matters went on for some time, when one day as Mrs. Lee was about heating her oven for a baking of bread, she found that there was no oven wood cut. Her husband always prepared the wood for her in the nicest manner; but he had somehow or other forgotten to do so at this time. Instead of going quietly out to him where he sat at work in the little shop, opposite their house, (he was a shoemaker by trade) she began by angrily accusing him of negligence, and want of consideration for her comfort—with sundry reflections on the manner in which he had too frequently passed his hours of late, to the great detriment of both purse and credit. He heard all she had to say with exemplary patience; and when she had finished arose from his bench, and walked to the door.

“Are you going to get the oven-wood?” she asked.

“Yes, Anne,” he replied meekly, and walked away.

Mrs. Lee returned to her kitchen, and remained waiting for the wood till a good hour had elapsed. Out of all patience, she at last sent her daughter, a fine, stout lass, of ten years, to hurry her father, bidding her tell him her bread would be entirely ruined by waiting so long.

The girl went, but searched for her father in vain, returning to the house only to give an account of her ill success. The displeasure of her mother was again excited, and she sallied forth herself, fully determined on giving James a piece of her mind. But James was no where to be seen. The wood lay uncut. His shop was still open—the tools which he had been recently employing, lay on a bench beside that on which he had been sitting. In short, every thing remained just as he had left it one short hour before; but from that time to this, a period of seven years, James Lee has never been heard of.

“This is a surprising story,” said I, when the good dame had concluded, “what do people suppose became of Lee?”

“There’s no telling,” answered Mrs. Dawkins, “some say one thing and some another. Whether he left the country—or whether he made away with himself, there’s nobody knows—for my own part I think he was harassed out of his life by the odd temper of his good woman—but there’s no knowing—well, this here boy, that you’ve been asking about is her son. She has but two children left—Nancy, who is about seventeen, and ‘Our Bill.’ My husband took the boy, to keep him out of evil courses, and if he behaves himself, Mr. Dawkins will do well by him.”

“That is certainly very kind of your husband, and I hope the lad will reward him by industry and good conduct.”

“I hope so, too,” replied my hostess, “but Bill is rather too much inclined to mischief—yet he is a good boy, too, in many respects, and is very fond of his mother, whom he goes to see regularly.”

“What are her means of support?” I asked.

“Well—she has to work hard enough since the loss of her husband; and many a time I have seen her standing in the doorway, looking over at the little shop in which he used to sit at work, with her eyes brimful of tears. Ah, I guess it goes to her heart to think how roughly she used to speak to poor James. She takes in spinning and plain work, and sometimes goes out a nursing; and her daughter does a little at millinery, for she has a pretty taste about such matters; and so they make out a living.”

“Is the daughter industrious?” I asked.

“As industrious a girl as you would wish to see, and as handsome. She has a lover too; indeed a couple of them; but there her mother and she are at odds; for the one that Nancy likes is not favored by Mrs. Lee.”

“That is unfortunate; and what kind of a person is the young man preferred by Nancy?”

“Why, he is a likely lad—the blacksmith of our village. He has not much before hand to be sure, but is honest, good, and true.”

“And the other?”

“Oh, he is better off—quite rich. Keeps a store in the village, and makes a great dash. But for my own part I think Nancy’s choice is the best; for Josiah Goodwin is steady as a clock, while folks do say, that young Sturges, the shop-keeper, likes a small spree now and then.”

“If that is the case,” said I, “it is to be hoped that Nancy will remain firm in her determination to have nothing to do with him.”

“She has a sad time of it at any rate,” replied my informant. “Her mother keeps her close at home, and has ordered her never to see or speak to young Goodwin; who is so troubled about it, that he has closed his shop and left the village.”

“Really,” said I, “I am sorry for this poor girl, and I should like to pay a visit to Mrs. Lee.”

“That you may do this evening, if you please,” said Mrs. Dawkins, “my daughter is going to her house to carry some work.”

The circumstances of Mrs. Lee’s case as respected her husband, greatly interested me; my curiosity was awakened, and I agreed to accompany Lizzy Dawkins. At the hour appointed we set out together. After a pleasant walk through winding roads, and shady lanes, we arrived at the cottage of Mrs. Lee.

It was an humble abode, unmarked by any exterior improvement. One large sycamore grew in front, and threw a portion of its branches across the moss-grown roof. A rustic bench was placed at the foot of the tree. This had been done by James, in the earlier days of wedded love.

The door of the house stood partly open, and Lizzy, taking the privilege of an old acquaintance, entered without knocking. I followed. We walked into the kitchen, which large, clean and comfortable, served as a reception room. I must acknowledge that my first glance was directed toward the oven.

Nancy greeted us with a kindly welcome; but the first object that drew my attention was “Our Bill,” standing by the side of his mother, and emptying the contents of his dingy-looking purse into her lap. In seeing us enter he started, and looked as much confused as if he had been caught in some act of delinquency. A look from me gave him courage. I saw at once for what purpose the money had been saved, and from that moment determined that while I lived Bill should never want a friend.

After Lizzy had delivered the work which she had brought for her neighbor, the conversation fell upon different matters. Nancy, however, bore but a small part therein; she seemed absent and sad. A young female friend of hers came in, and she made an effort to appear more cheerful.

It was now the season when whortleberries were in their prime; and Bill was exceedingly anxious that a party should be formed for gathering them in the neighboring wood. Nancy’s young friend joined warmly in the project. Lizzy Dawkins was pleased with the arrangement. I agreed to make one of the number. Nancy evinced small interest in the matter, though she agreed to go with us if her mother was willing: and as the good dame was relieved from her apprehensions on the score of Goodwin, since she had learned that he had left the village, she gave her assent. The following day was fixed upon for our little excursion; and as the weather proved fine, we accordingly went.

The wood was not far distant from the house of Mrs. Lee. It was wild, shady, and beautiful: the resort of the squirrel and the rabbit—gay with innumerable wild-flowers, and vocal with the sweet music of its feathered denizens. Numerous openings amid the thickets disclosed irregular knolls, covered with the shrubby bushes which now hung full of the purple berry of which we came in search, and whose abundance in many past years had given to this rural spot the name of Whortleberry, or in village nomenclature, Huckle-berry wood. We soon met with two or three other parties on the same errand with ourselves: some acquaintances of Lizzy and Nancy were among them: we united our forces, filled our baskets with berries, and chatted and laughed the hours away.

It was about noon, when, tired and rather hungry, we concluded to seek for a shady spot where we might rest, and partake of the refreshment with which we had taken the precaution to provide ourselves. Bill, who had acted the part of master of the ceremonies during the whole of the day, now preceded us, boasting aloud of his superior skill in discovering a cool and pleasant spot for the purpose we desired. After a few turns among the bushes and underwood, we suddenly emerged upon the borders of a broad and rapid brook, which was murmuring its way most delightfully among the reeds and wild-flowers that graced its margin. And here we were at a stand. To arrive at the spot designated by our young conductor, and represented by him as the best in the wood, it was necessary that we should cross the stream; but how to do so was the question. Bill suggested the placing a few large stones in the bed of the river, by means of which we might easily step across. This was accordingly done; and Bill, taking his sister by the hand, preceded the rest of the party, who paused while they marked the progress of the adventurers across their unsteady footway. As soon as they touched the opposite margin, a loud shout from Bill electrified us. “A rattle-snake! a rattle-snake! run—run for your lives!” and forgetful of the courage which I had hitherto seen him assume on almost every occasion, Bill dragged his terrified sister up the rough bank, and disappeared with her in the thick groves beyond.

The cry had affrighted all. Each one ran in a different direction from his fellow, and each thought the rattle-snake close at his heels. The panic could scarcely have been greater had a boa-constrictor appeared wreathing its voluminous folds among the branches of the beech, walnut, and oak, that rustled above our heads. It was sorrowful to see the labors of the morning scattered in a moment, for many of the well-filled baskets, overturned by their respective owners in the precipitation of their flight, poured their purple treasure among moss, lichens, and fern-blossoms.

Meanwhile, I looked in vain for the reptile which had caused this alarm, and finding myself left entirely alone, I concluded to follow the footsteps of the valorous William and his gentle sister. Crossing the stream, and clambering the bank on the opposite side, I found myself in a charming grove of tall young trees of rapid growth.

All was still, save the whistle of the robin, or the solitary call of the cat-bird. I wandered along, almost forgetful of the cause which brought me hither, when at the entrance of a thicket of young hazels, seated at the end of a fallen tree, and leisurely employed in stripping the bark from a sapling branch, which he seemed desirous of forming into something resembling a walking stick, I discovered “Our Bill.”

Surprised at the quiet in which I beheld him, contrasted as it was with his late trepidation and alarm, I immediately accosted him with enquiries after his sister.

“She isn’t far, I guess.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yes.”

“I wish to see her.”

“Well—stop a bit.”

“I want to know if she is not hurt?”

“Hurt?—what should hurt her?”

“The snake, perhaps.”

The boy grinned archly.

“Bill,” said I, “what has become of that snake, think you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Do you think there really was any there?”

“I’m sartain I cannot tell.”

“Well,” said I, advancing, “I shall continue my search till I find Nancy.”

The boy started up, and putting his fingers to his mouth, blew a shrill whistle. I looked at him, in order to discover, if I could, the end and aim of this new fantasy. A rustle among the bushes at a little distance was heard. I turned my eyes in the direction of the sound. There was Nancy, and by her side, one of his arms encircling her waist, stood as fine and good-looking a country youth as one would wish to see.

They were about parting,—a few more last words—a kiss and then farewell. Nancy came tripping toward the spot where she had left her brother, but on seeing me stopped and looked confused. I hastened to re-assure her; and quickly retracing our steps to the brook-side as a sort of rendezvous, we soon were joined by our companions. So much for the strategy of “Our Bill.”

Gathering up our fruit as well as we were able, we pursued our way through the mazes of “Huckle-berry” wood. Bill who had been for some time in advance of our party, now came running toward us announcing our near approach to the house of Betty Nares the fortune-teller. “The fortune-teller—the fortune-teller” was echoed from lip to lip. And, “who will have their fortune told?” was asked of each, by the other.

And now we came in sight of Betty’s dwelling. A lowly roof it literally was; for a person would scarcely be able to stand upright except in the midst of the only apartment which it contained, so lowly and sloping was the roof,—so covered with moss and lichens, that it resembled a green hillock surrounded by trees. The interior was such as might have been expected from its outward appearance. An earthen floor; a stool with three legs; an empty barrel, the elastic end of which answered the purposes of a table; a glazed earthen pipkin; a bowl or two; a wooden platter and spoon, completed the number and variety of Betty’s furniture and culinary utensils. A bundle of something indescribable—rolled up in one corner, was supposed to be the couch on which this modern sybil reposed her wearied limbs. A heap of stones formed the fire-place—and an aperture in the roof answered the purpose of a chimney in so far as a portion of the smoke occasionally made its escape thereat.

We found the mistress of this inviting retreat seated beside a few dying embers, over which she extended her withered hand, seeking to animate their torpidity by artificial heat. On seeing us she rose, and presented to our view a veritable hag-like face and form. Her garments were tattered, her shoes decayed, and her grey locks imperfectly covered by a dilapidated bonnet. She saluted us in a shrill voice, and, in no very gentle terms, demanded to know our business.

As this was a question we were not altogether prepared to answer, each looked at his neighbor, desirous that he or she should expound. Betty, finding us silent, and growing rather impatient, commenced an objurgation in a high key, accompanied by a few ominous flourishes with a stunted broom which she snatched from a corner near her fire-place. At this moment Bill stepped up to her, and in a low voice made some communication which had the effect of mollifying her at once.

“Do you wish to have your fortunes told, gentlemen and ladies?” said she, addressing us with an attempt at looking gracious. One of the village girls presented her a small piece of money, while Betty, from some private nook, brought out a terribly soiled pack of cards, the corners worn by constant attrition, and the edges blackened by frequent devotion to the service of the curious in the prescient art.

It was amusing to see the interest displayed. The cards were cut and divided. Attention became fixed. The fair enquirer into the mysteries of the future, placed before this modern oracle, looked pale and red by turns. And now we were informed of a strange man who would soon arrive and bring good news to a certain family not many miles off. And of a dark-haired woman who was a friend, and of a light-haired woman who was an enemy, to the young enquirer. How a journey would be made to a distant land, and how somebody of fair complexion and immense wealth was to come over the water and offer himself a candidate for her fair hand. There were letters to be expected without number, and presents to be sent without name. At each separate piece of intelligence sly looks were exchanged among the circle; meaning smiles, and conscious glances. “How wonderfully true!” “Surprising!” “How she could have known such or such a circumstance, it was hard to tell, but so it was. She seemed to know every thing.”

Nancy Lee could not be prevailed upon to enquire into the circumstances of her future lot, and by such neglect considerably displeased Betty; and to pacify her, Bill invited her to his mother’s house the following evening. To which arrangement she at last graciously consented.

We all returned home cheerful and happy; well pleased with our day’s excursion.

The following evening I walked out to see Mrs. Lee, curious I must own, to learn the proceedings of Betty Nares in persuading Nancy to have her fortune told.

I found Mrs. Lee as usual in her neat kitchen. She was sitting quietly there, for the business of the day was finished, and that of the evening, which consisted generally of knitting or spinning, was not yet begun. Nancy was sitting on a low stool by the side of her mother, and I thought she looked as if she had been weeping. The milk pans had been placed away, filled with their simple treasure. The chairs stood aside, the hearth was swept up, and all things looked the very abode of quiet.

The last beams of the setting sun shone through the open door, and threw a soft purple tint across the humble apartment, which was reflected by a row of brightly burnished tin pans—proofs of the industry and neatness of Nancy—which decorated the opposite wall—and—just as the last tints faded away, a cricket from some crevice in the rural hearth-stone commenced tuning his “tiny reed.”—It was the hour of peace.

Mrs. Lee began to wonder why her son had not returned. He had been absent she said, for two hours in “Huckle-berry” wood. She wished with all her heart that the season of gathering berries was over. She dreaded every day when farmer Dawkins would get out of patience with his idling, and send him home.

While she was speaking the window became darkened by some opaque body, and on looking up we recognised the head of Betty Nares. Directly the fortune-teller entered, and took a seat near the fire-place.

And now Bill came in. “Well,” he exclaimed on seeing Betty, “I’m glad you are here. Now mother do just let her tell Nancy’s fortune. She told a power of things to Lucy Harroby and Kitty Dixon, and all of ’em came true—now do, mother.”

“Don’t be a simpleton, Bill. I have no faith in such stuff.”

I looked at Nancy—she smiled faintly but said nothing.

“You don’t believe me,” said the sybil—“you won’t believe me I suppose, if I tell you that you yourself are soon to be married?” I must confess that I thought this a bold and daring assertion of Betty, and calculated to strike at the root of all her hopes of success: as Mrs. Lee was known to be scrupulously correct and reserved in her deportment, most particularly since the mysterious departure of her husband. As I expected, Betty received a look of disdain.

“You need not look so scornful, Mrs. Lee,” said Betty, “what I tell you is true, and you can’t get aside of it. And I’ll tell you more. The man you want your daughter to marry, is going to meet with a great deal of trouble in his worldly matters,—and the one you don’t wish her to have is likely to be a rich man—and more—the day you give your consent that Nancy shall marry Goodwin, a stranger from across the water will come here, and give her a dowry that shall set them both well a going in the world.”

Mrs. Lee in great displeasure asked Betty if she really supposed “that she had lost her senses, that she should for one minute be induced to credit such idle trash.” Betty however, kept her ground, and repeated her opinions with a tenacity that surprised me. Bill still continued to entreat. Nancy hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. Mrs. Lee scolded, and Betty solemnly shaking her head, declared she “had her knowledge from one who would not lie.”

Feeling my presence, in the existing circumstances, rather an incumbrance, I rose to take leave. This I did, just as Bill was blowing a coal in order to light a candle, and Betty was beginning to shuffle her cards.

Some particular business of my own, prevented me for a few days from inquiring into the civil and domestic relations of the House of Lee. I saw however, that my friend Bill was still in action. Indeed he seemed more busy than ever. How the boy sustained such a constant course of riding and running, of chopping and lugging, of cattle-driving and hog-feeding, with numerous other et ceteras, all generally terminating—of late—in an excursion to “Huckle-berry” wood, I could scarcely imagine.

Wishing one morning to speak to my hostess, I went to the kitchen; secure of finding her there,—that being the seat of empire, with a good New-England house-wife. For once, however, I was disappointed; but there sat Bill. Returned from some nameless excursion, he was eating a late breakfast. It was rather picturesque. His naked feet, stained by the soil through which he had lately plodded, were raised upon the cross piece of his chair—his knees appearing through two very unnecessary apertures in his nether garment—his ragged hat lying on the floor at his feet, and two large house-dogs seated on the ground—one on each side, watching with eager interest each morsel that he conveyed to his lips.

I have said that I was somewhat anxious on the score of Bill’s health; but when I saw the devotion with which he applied himself to his hashed pork and potatoes, and the complacency with which from time to time he eyed a smoking dish of pumpkin-pudding which stood close at his elbow, waiting his acceptance, I comforted myself with the belief that the means and appliances with which he strengthened his inward man, would abundantly enable him to sustain the labors which heaven had allotted to his share.

We had long been the best of friends, and perfectly understood each other. He looked up at me with his laughing grey eyes.

“Our Nance is going to be married.”

“You don’t say so—Bill, are you in earnest?”

Bill nodded, for by this time his mouth was again full, and he could not speak. He took a draught of cider from the great brown jug on the table. “Yes, it’s true enough.”

“And to whom is she to be married?”

“Siah Goodwin.”

“Bless me, what could have brought about such a change?”

“Anan?”

“How has it all happened, Bill?”

“Why Betty Nares told Mother it was to be; so how could she hinder it?”

“Ah, very true. Well, when is the wedding to take place?”

“To-morrow evening—won’t you come?”

“Certainly.”

“Do,—we shall have a main sight of pumpkin pies; mother says it will be like a training day.”

Was it possible that the artful and ignorant Betty had succeeded in imposing upon the plain good sense of Mrs. Lee? I was sure there must be more in it than at first sight appeared. However, I determined to be at the wedding. On enquiry, I found that the Dawkinses were invited, and also that they were as much surprised at the turn affairs had taken as myself.

The next evening we all repaired to the house of Mrs. Lee. On entering her little parlor, we found a few of the neighbors assembled. Nancy sat near a window, and beside her one whom I supposed to be the bridegroom. I thought that I recognised in him the same young man whom I had seen with her in Huckle-berry wood. My doubts, if I had any remaining, would soon have been dissipated by her brother, who walking up to me, and looking expressively in my face, and putting two of his fingers to his mouth, produced in a subdued tone a sound resembling the hissing of a snake. The whole truth flashed upon me at once.

The exterior of Bill himself was greatly improved, dressed as he was for the occasion, in a good suit of home-spun cloth, his feet covered with a decent pair of leather shoes, and his flaxen hair combed smoothly over his forehead, cut short and even all round, with the exception of two pendant locks, left as a partial covering to his ears.

Every thing was now in readiness, and we waited only for the clergyman who had been sent for to perform the marriage ceremony.

A knock came to the door. Bill flew to open it.—“Here he is.” “That’s he”—was whispered around—“No, not yet.”—

A fidgetty restlessness took possession of the party. Steps were heard outside. The door again opened, and Bill appeared preceding a stranger. He was dressed like a plain countryman, of good-looking face and appearance, and he bore in his arms a rather unusual burthen, supposing him to be a traveller. He advanced into the middle of the room. Mrs. Lee rose from her seat and stared at him wildly. The stranger extended his hand to her smiling. “Nancy,” said he, “I’ve brought in the oven-wood.”

The poor woman gave one shriek and fell on the floor. Down went the wood on the hearth, and the stranger flew to her assistance. Slowly she regained her senses, and when she did so, she threw herself in the arms of the new comer and wept aloud. We all crowded around, eager for an explanation. It was soon given. James Lee, distressed by poverty, and worn by the fretful temper of his wife, had, on the memorable morning of his disappearance—on the impulse of the moment, resolved to quit his home and seek his fortune in a foreign clime. For this act, his only apology was the bitterness of despair. He sought the nearest port, and embarked as a common sailor on board a vessel about sailing to the West-Indies. Changing his name that he might not be traced, he made himself useful, and became a favorite with his captain: was generally esteemed, and by degrees enabled to traffic a little on his own account. He had made many voyages and been unusually successful. He had acquired a snug competence with which he now returned, for the purpose of enjoying it in the bosom of his family. As he approached his home, the recollection of the manner in which he had left it suddenly occurred to him, and when Bill opened the door, the thought struck him that he would go to the wood-pile, fill his arms with wood, and thus bring to his wife’s mind, for the joke’s sake, the remembrance of their parting scene, seven years before.

When he had concluded, and we had offered our congratulations on this happy event, a shrill voice was heard to exclaim,

“Didn’t I tell you so—didn’t I say you were going to be married, Miss Lee—hasn’t everything I said come to pass—didn’t I tell you?”—

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Lee, smiling, “you told me, as you tell others of things to happen which you take good care to find out before-hand.” Betty looked rather blank when she found that no credit was allowed her for her skill in prescience, more especially as “Our Bill” in the pride and fullness of his heart unfolded the secret of his numerous expeditions to the wood. Here at Goodwin’s farm which was in the immediate neighborhood, Lee had remained for a few days till the harmless plot which he laid in conjunction with the young man was ripe for development, and his wife had given her consent to his daughter’s marriage with “Siah.” It is scarcely necessary to say that Bill had met and recognised his father—been made privy to his and Goodwin’s scheme, and in short, been active agent in the whole affair.

Several years have passed since that period. William Lee has grown to man’s estate. He is married and has a snug little home of his own. He is a carpenter by trade, and fills a respectable station in the community of which he is a member.

For my own part, I love to think over the past, for many a pleasing idea is connected with the reminiscences of “Huckle-berry” wood, and “Our Bill.”