the purport of their visit. The sister of Wilson seemed struggling to suppress her emotions; but the pallid hue of her countenance, her quivering lips, and the agitation of her whole person, evinced that the effort was too great. Mungo, too, honest and affectionate Mungo, bore a full share in the agitation of the scene. He first cast his eyes upon a loaded rifle which stood in one corner of the room, as if desirous of repelling the intruders by force. But if any such intention he had, he abandoned it at a sign from his master, whose slightest nod was law; he could not refrain, however, from shaking his clenched hand at the lawyer, who, his back being towards Mungo, did not perceive this sign of oppugnation. Even the stranger, (who had received a severe contusion from the fall from his horse, but who had at length been restored to sensibility, though still weak and exhausted) seemed to participate in the emotion of the group, as was manifested by a low groan, and some incoherent and feverish mutterings. Wilson hf was the only one who exhibited no change. There was no twitching of the muscles, no involuntary trembling, no stiffening hief up, as if preparing himself for a trial. He stood erect, calm, and composed. He had viewed the coming of the storm with apprehension and fear; but it had now broke on his head, and he was determined to abide the issue with firmness, whatever might betide. After first whispering a few words to Eleanor, to reassure her courage, he turned to his accuser. "It is a heavy charge, Mr. Facias, that you have brought against me," said he, "and I trust that you have proceeded on sufficient grounds. May I ask the nature of your proofs ?" "They shall be forthcoming in due course of law," answered the other, in a brisk, pert manner, somewhat emboldened by the pacific conduct of the Squatter. "This warrant for your apprehension is my authority for what I do; and it has been granted on evidence which you will find it difficult to disprove." "And whither will you that I go with you?" "To Edgarton." "I left my nag as I came along," said Buckhorn, "down at Tom Haynes's cabin, to bait while we rode here. You can mount the one that's tied to the fence, and I will walk as far as there. I am in hopes, Mr. Wilson, that this affair will all blow over, and I wouldn't have engaged in it at all, only as Squire Facias was determined on coming, I thought you might fall into worse hands." "I thank you for your kindness,” replied the Squatter, taking Buckhorn's offered hand. "It is an awful situation in which I stand; but, supported by conscious innocence, I dare to meet the worst." My readers will excuse me if I do not dwell further on this scene. No pen can do adequate justice" to the parting of Wilson from his wife and family; and I feel that it is much safer to trust to the reader's imagination, than my own feeble powers of description. Before the departure of the lawyer and Buckhorn with their prisoner, Mungo manifested by various acts a wish to prevent their purpose; and when they at length rode off, the tears streamed down the face of the devoted negro, and his voice was scarcely audible from emotion, as he returned the farewell salute of his master. The wounded stranger also exhibited much agitation, and once or twice he made feeble efforts to address Mr. Facias. His weakness, however, seemed to subdue him; and when they left the apartment, he sunk back exhausted on the pillow. Mungo was directly after despatched to the nearest settlement to borrow a horse, (for the one which has been spoken of as having belonged to the Squatter on his arrival in the country had long since been dead ;) and, on his return, set about preparing their humble vehicle to remove the family to Edgarton, that they might be present at the examination of Wilson. But a short time went by before the afflicted group issued from their cabin, and set out upon their journey, the wounded stranger, and the two children, having been intrusted to the charge of a neighbouring matron, who, with a hospitality characteristic of our western inhabitants, had readily acquiesced in a request to that effect. CHAPTER V. If imputation and strong circumstance, OTHELLO. In relatingthis story, I have so far complied with the spirit of the Horatian precept, that I have plunged into the middle of affairs; and perhaps the reader will now be willing to learn something of the previous history of him whom we left in such fearful circumstances. In doing this, I must necessarily be brief, for my narration has already extended to a much greater length than was anticipated. It was in a beautiful village, not far from the town where, as I have told my readers, I am at present engaged in the honourable and useful profession of teacher, that William Woodville was born and educated. His father died while he was yet in infancy, and his mother shortly after followed her partner to the grave. The orphan boy was taken into the family of his paternal uncle, by whom he was educated with sedulous care, and whose fatherly solicitude his open ing faculties promised richly to repay. His uncle had a son, of nearly the same age with William, but of a widely different disposition. The one was all openness and sincerity; the other was cunning, artful, and morose: the one was naturally intelligent, and applied himself with unremitted attention to his studies, to repay, as far as he might, the almost paternal care which he received; while the other was slow of comprehension, and inveterately idle in his habits. The clergyman of the village in which they resided, (poor man! I remember him well, and often have we had our game of backgammon together) had one only daughter, the fair Eleanor. I will not pause now to tell the reader any minute particulars concerning this beautiful girl, nor relate any of the interesting anecdotes with which my intimacy with her father led me to be acquainted. Let it suffice to say, that she was as much superior to the rest of the village maidens in mental endowments, as in personal comeliness--and in the latter respect no one pretended to vie with her. Yet, possessed in an abundant degree of all those qualities which render females such objects of admiration and love, she-and she alone-appeared to be perfectly unconscious of her charms. Such meek, unaffected loveliness, such intelligence, such vivacity-innocent vivacity-such readiness of wit, (harmless wit, never exerted to wound the feelings of any one) and such continual good humour as poor Eleanor possessed, seldom indeed fall to the lot of a single individual. It would seem as if in her composition, as in the Rhodian's master-piece of mimic art, every admirable quality that we meet with singly in other persons, had been happily mingled by nature with a liberal hand. From being her schoolmates, William and John, as they grew up, became the suitors of Eleanor, and openly avowed their attachment; though I have always thought that the latter was as much incited by a spirit E of rivalry, as by any real affection. The preference of Eleanor for William was manifest enough to those who understand the operations of the human heart; though, of course, she meant not that it should be shown: but love will peep out, and betray the secret of the breast where he has taken up his abode, either in a glance of the eye, or a smile on the lip, or in a softly modulated sigh. At length, when suitable declarations had been made, the blushing girl acknowledged her attachment to the one cousin, and in the kindest and most delicate manner dismissed the suit of the other. William was delighted, and John was exasperated; and here was the beginning of trouble. The latter soon found occasion to fasten a quarrel on his foster-brother, and the foolish boys were only prevented, by the interference of parental authority, from settling their difference "in an, honourable manner," as the sprigs of fashionable life misname duelling. The uncle's affection from this time grew lukewarm towards William, and John found good means to widen the breach. Partly from the circumstance of his rejected suit, partly from the abundant pecuniary resources with which his doting parent-who was very rich-supplied him, and more than either, I suspect, from the prompt. ings of his natural disposition, John soon got to be very dissipated, took a share in many disreputable affairs, and finally went to sea. When he at length returned to his native village, his father had been for some time dead, and he now became the sole inheritor of his large property. But the stillness and tranquillity of a country life, since his wandering propensities had been stimulated by an excursion to foreign parts, were less than ever suited to his taste; and quickly disposing of his property, he resolved to invest the proceeds in some moneyed institution, where, without any care of his own, it might yield him a regular income. It was on the evening of the day when the land |