-my blood ran quicker-I was twenty years younger-even my thoughts flowed in a more boyish strain-and as for rheumatism, it never came back again.

So we lived for some time. At first, I was free from all manner of care, but after a while, my mind became more and more distracted with growing fears for the safety of my nephew, so that sport of any kind was absolutely distasteful to me. For although there had been many arrivals from France, there was no mention made of the vessel in which Ludwig had sailed, and by the latest dates, she must have been out forty days.

"But cheer up my friend," Antony said, one evening, when I mentioned these fears, which, from the mere dread of uttering them, I had previously kept to myself. "Forty days is not a lengthy passage. I have known them to last twice as long. Your apprehensions are foolish in the extreme, and by this moping inactivity, you only give yourself much unnecessary pain. Get something to read, and I venture to say, that as you become interested, you will forget your fears, and when a letter comes from Ludwig announcing his safe arrival, you will wonder that you .could even have been alarmed."

All this however gave me but little comfort, and I still continued to mope and pine, despite all Antony could do to cheer me.

And now I come to a part of my history which I would willingly pass over, on account of its painful nature, but which it may be necessary to treat of, as it forms a proper conclusion to what I have already related, and in some measure explains my present position.

One evening, Claes, who had disappeared for some minutes, entered with the latest New York paper, which he had obtained from a messenger dispatched to Cold Spring. In my trembling anxiety to receive news of my nephew, I forgot all else, and with great eagerness turned to the shipping intelligence, but had not read three lines, when Antony, who had been looking over my shoulder, snatched the paper from me, and held it at a distance. "Antony-my dear friend," I exclaimed, half ready to fall from my chair.

"My dear Byvank"

"You have seen-tell me all."

"Can you bear bad news, my friend?"

"Anything-anything-rather than uncertainty! My nephew,

what of Ludwig?

"I know not where he is-God only knows!"

"But his ship-is it-tell me, my friend!"

"Has been found"

"Where? how? Good God! Do not fear for me-I am strong-I am cool-I can bear it."

"Has been found a tenantless wreck, on the❞—

Was I strong and cool? Alas! how much we err when we call excitement strength!

For I knew nothing more for several days.

When at last I awoke to consciousness, I found myself in my bed, with Antony and Claes bending anxiously over me. They would not let me speak-for the doctor had ordered otherwisebut in a few words told me all. I had been sick-very sickdelirious too. From morning till night had I raved and tossed about, until it was sometimes a matter of difficulty to hold me in bed. At one time my life had been despaired of, but kind and unremitting attention had carried me through the dreadful crisis, and with the continual exercise of proper precaution, I was sure to get well.

"And why am I sick, Antony?" I asked, in spite of his reiterated commands to be silent. It seems as if I had heard some

stunning news which"

Then the whole story flashed suddenly upon me, and I became silent again. I wept not, for I could not shed a tear, but for hours I lay immoveable in a kind of trance, being without the power of speaking, but yet able to hear and see all that passed on around me, during which I readily knew by the countenances of my attendants, that they were very much alarmed at my deathlike situation.

Towards afternoon, I recovered from the stupor, and was able to sit up and talk a little and even eat a trifle. Still wept not, groaned not; but did all things with an impulse almost mechanical. I noticed that Claes seemed to wonder at my stolidity, and his eye brightened, for he already deemed me recovered from the shock; but Antony, with more penetration, perceived the true state of my case, knowing how much more violent must be that woe which is not outwardly expressed.

"My friend, that paper!" I whispered.

Antony would have retained it from me, but after a little consideration gave it up, rather than to allow me to worry and fret, as I should surely otherwise have done. I turned to the shipping news, and read the afflicting intelligence over and over, before I could realize its true meaning.

"Antony," I at length said.

"Well, Byvank."

"There is hope."

He sadly shook his head. But I could not completely abandon my feeble straw of consolation.

"It was a wreck-none were found on board. But were there not smaller boats at hand, in which to escape? Men have been found floating in the midst of the sea upon a single plank, which has sustained them for days together."

"Forbear, my friend, to cherish such vain hopes, when in your own mind you must be conscious that they will amount to nothing. Relinquish all doubts of your loss, and strive to be resigned under its certainty. So it will be better for you."

Still I continued for the rest of the day reading and re-reading each sentence of the announcement of the shipwreck, turning and

twisting them all the while into every imaginable form, whereby I might gleam some slight hope of my nephew's safety. Vain attempt! All the while I knew that such conduct was weak and foolish, yet would not acknowledge to myself my foolishness.

Day after day flew on, and although I grew stronger until I could be considered well in body, my mind still felt the shock, nor could all Antony's efforts arouse me from my lethergy. Our excursions and evening meetings were abandoned, for I could not enjoy them. All day I did nothing but sit and ponder over my loss, or, in the same desponding, despairing spirit, walk up and down the lawn. A mist seemed continually before me. I did all things mechanically, instinctively. I believe nothing would then have excited or surprised me. Had my nephew himself risen from the river as I walked by the bank, and joining me, related the story of his shipwreck, and pointed to his wet clothes in confirmation of the truth of his statement, I verily believe that I should have welcomed him, as soberly, as though he were not dead, and had merely joined me from the house. To such a state of lethargy will excessive grief often bring one!

To all Antony's attempts to cheer me, I had but one answer, yet it was one with the justice of which he could find no fault.

"I could lose a dozen children, Antony, were there one left to bear my name. But by this bereavement, alas! the last hope of my line is gone; the last branch is lopped off from the old trunk. Were there but one little sprig left, I might still hope, but what is now left to the old trunk but to die and leave the soil to be planted with other seed?"

So three weeks passed away, and I still continued to wander on the river's bank, and muse over my sorrows. I grew no better in mind, but rather worse, and, as I afterwards learned, Antony kept a strict watch over my movements, fearing lest I might be led in some transient paroxism of grief, to make an attempt upon my life. Vain thought! It is true that I often wished to die, but the energy for the attempt was wanting.

But one evening a change came over me. How and why it was, I shall proceed to relate.

Antony had been making use of many arguments, setting forth why I should no longer refuse to be comforted, to all of which I made no reply. Gradually I sank to sleep, and the last I remem ber is, that Antony, for the first time a little vexed at my continual obstinacy, remarked, "Byvank, it is wicked to refuse any longer the consolation I offer, for a spirit from Heaven could not say more to you than I have said." This idea, being presented to my mind at the instant I fell into sleep, beyond all doubt occasioned the vision which followed, and which, from some strange unaccountable impression attending it, wonderfully comforted me, although I never for a moment imagined it more than a mere dream.

It seemed as though a sweet and pleasant voice addressed me— and it said:

"Why this continual melancholy, Byvank?

Sorrow is natural

and right, but it should at least turn to joy again, else it becomes a wicked repining against Providence."

"Pardon, good Spirit!" methought I answered, "and yet you know not the depth of my sorrow. Have I not lost all my long cherished hopes of a fair continuance to my name and estate? Must not the one be now extinct, and the other become a prey to strangers? Alas! why was not some other man robbed, who would have had many other sons left to mitigate his loss?"

"Forbear to speak thus!" said the voice, "others have lost more than you. In that vessel that bore your son to destruction, a newly married wife lost her husband, an orphan sister her only brother, a widowed mother her only child, upon whom she depended for support. All these have not only seen the hopes of their families extinguished, but have been reduced to helpless poverty. But you-have you not every comfort which wealth can afford ?" "But is there no hope?"

"None. Your last hope sleeps at the bottom of the ocean. Were it mine to order the fate of your nephew, he should have returned in safety to you as he left, but the issues of life and death are with God alone. The sea is his and he made it.'"

I was silent and the voice continued.

"I come not here to upbraid you, but to bring comfort. It is true that your family will end with yourself, and that others who knew you not when alive, will call themselves your relations, and divide your substance. But is there not much in which to rejoice? Behold, Byvank, I will speak a parable to you. A young oak springs from the ground and is admired by all for its matchless symmetry and grace. Soon it grows into a wide-spreading tree, and then all love it, for it brings a grateful shade to those laboring beneath the noon-tide sun. Two centuries pass, and its branches decay and become lifeless, and its leaves no more put forth in answer to the call of Spring. No longer has it any beauty; no more does it give shade to the reaper. But its glory is not gone. The trunk lives no more, but in its day of death, it stands a noble monument of former days, and men, gazing with reverential awe upon its picturesque grandeur, bless it for the good it has done, Do you read my parable, Byvank?"

I do!-I do! good Spirit!" I cried.

"There is yet more to be told. A vine springs up, and thriving upon the earth which once sustained the oak, clings to its rugged sides. Yet all still admire and love the sapless oak, while its new companion, beautiful as it may be, serves but to adorn it with an additional grandeur. Do you continue to read me, Byvank? Your family mansion is the oak which is admired in youth, loved in its vigor, respected in old age. The life-blood which nourished it within, and extended its branches, dies out and another race is fed upon the same soil. Yet the old mansion is still loved, on account of the recollections it affords, and the hospitality it has

furnished, and whoever in future may inhabit it, will but adorn your memory, by either comparison or contrast.

"So cheer up! Marschalk, for since you and yours have so well performed your parts, you will leave the world with the loving regret of all. Let a noble object stimulate you during the remainder of your life. Be kind and charitable. Let the hungry never want a place at your board, nor the weary a night's rest within your walls. Then after you are gone, the Marschalk Manor-House will be spoken of in terms of such affectionate respect, that no one will dare to raise a Vandal hand against it, or give utterance to a sneer at its honored walls."

The voice ceased, and I was alone. I awoke, and oh! how was I soothed! It could have been but a dream; it could not have been real; yet from that hour I have become a different man. Not merry always-for very often I think with deep regret upon my nephew thus early cut off-but my thoughts are of no repining nature. My remembrance has since been unclouded with its former wicked abandonment to grief.

CHAPTER SEVENTH,

Showeth forth our present manner of life.

We did not resume our excursions, for when my mind recovered from its paralysis, the season was too far advanced. The leaves were fallen from the trees, the air became chilly, and when one morning we saw a steamboat slowly plodding up through a thin coating of newly formed ice, we took the hint and wisely set down to pack up our sporting apparatus, and deliberate upon the adoption of some new pastime. And Antony made a suggestion, which so fairly chimed in with my own feelings, that it was almost immediately brought to maturity.

"We have roamed the country at large, and picked up many an interesting legend and historical anecdote," he said, "why not reduce these to manuscript before they are lost with the memory of the generation to which they belong? This will give us employment through the day, and at evening we will gather around the hearth and read the results of our labors."

"An excellent plan, my friend! And when shall we begin?" "This very day, if you will, for lo! winter is already upon us," said Van Noortstrandt, pointing towards the window.

I turned, and saw the air filled with thickly falling snow, to such an extent that the opposite hills were rendered invisible. With a simultaneous movement, we rushed to the window, threw up the sash, and gave vent to our enthusiasm in a loud "hurrah!" "Yet once again!" I said.

"Hurrah!" And we raised such a shout as the Highlands had seldom heard before.

A slight chirrup below attracted our attention, and we saw a poor little robin half-frozen in the snow, gazing around with filmy