It is a noble constancy you show
To this afflicted house; that not like others,
The friends of season, you do follow fortune,
And in the winter of their fate, forsake
The place, whose glories warmed you.

THE Peytons were among the earliest settlers and largest landholders in Virginia. Their plantation srretched along one of the southern branches of James River, called Rock Creek, although, but for the overshadowing of its grander neighbor, it might well have been dignified with the name of river, for there are many celebrated streams that are neither so deep nor broad as that known simply as Rock Creek.

building, with a piazza running entirely round it, was built some years before the province of Virginia became a state, and its wide hall and winding staircase of dark mahogany, its deep window-seats and broad fire-places remained unaltered, although here and there a few of the modern improvements or additions might be traced. It stood upon a hill once covered with a forest of cedars, but they had long since been cleared away, excepting a grove of them which clustered down one side of the hill and along the creek, and gave their name to the place. Cedar Hill was celebrated through all the country round for the hospitality, liberality, and true benevolence of its high-minded owners. They were the great people of that part of the world, and were sometimes called the "royal family;" but few royal families can claim as much real respect and true homage as was rendered to the Peytons in the esteem of all their neighbors.

For the last few years the shadow of grief had been resting on Cedar Hill; for first the head of the family, whom years had seemed only to mature and ennoble, and in whom no trace of infirmity had yet appeared, was suddenly summoned away, and in the two following years Mrs. Peyton saw her eldest son lying in the fresh glory of his young manhood by his father's side, and her daughter's husband, dear to her as her own children, was

A gleam of sunshine had fallen on them when, a few months before the story opens, Charles, Mrs. Peyton's youngest child and only living son, had brought home a bride, a being who seemed the incarnation of hope and gladness. Bright, joyous, and restless, she shed the light of her happiness through every dark corner of that saddened house.

It seemed to Mrs. Peyton that Virginia was a living blessing sent to cheer them after the great sorrow that had been crowded in the last few years; and even her widowed daughter, Margaret Fairfax, felt the influence of the sunny nature Virginia was gifted with, and could better endure the mirth of her fatherless children, and watch with greater calmness the daily unfolding of the latest blossom of their love, on whom a father's eye had never rested, who had never known the great happiness of a father's love and care.

But already that transient gleam had passed away, and for days and weeks Virginia had been the quiet, and sometimes, for hours, the almost motionless tenant of a single room. Sitting by the bedside of her young husband, who was stricken by a slow fever before the moon which had shone upon their bridal had waned from the sky, she watched him with the intensity that could only be

Her cheek soon lost its color and roundness, and her eye its light, but she persisted in saying that she was neither tired nor sleepy, and neither Mrs. Peyton nor Mrs. Fairfax could gain resolution enough to insist on her leaving her husband, while they felt how precious every moment that she had passed with him might soon become to her; for the physician had the day before announced to the family that there was but little, if any hope, of a favorable termination to his illness. It had been a long and exhausting one; and, now that the fever was conquered, or had worn itself out, he feared that there was not strength enough left in the patient for him to rally.

Margaret had promised her brother, in the early part of his illness, that if there were any doubts of his recovery, she would inform him of it; and leaving to Mrs. Peyton the sad task of acquainting Vir-

Her sad duty was performed with the greatest tenderness, and Charles, looking the thanks he was too weak to speak, whispered to her to read to him from the Psalms.

Just then Virginia walked into the room, and the sad question was answered—a soul so despairing looked out of her deep eyes, and intense grief had given to the almost childish countenance, for she was but seventeen, such an expression of sternness and solemnity, that she seemed almost transformed. She bent over her husband, and pressed her pale lips to his forehead.

Margaret turned to the fourteenth chapter of St. John, and Virginia, as she read the blessed words, felt insensibly soothed and comforted. Lulled by her sweet tones, Charles fell asleep. At first his sleep was troubled, and every few minutes he would open his eyes, and fix them on his young wife's face with an anxious, searching gaze; but gradually he grew quieter; and at last, when Virginia laid aside the Bible, she could not help imagining that his slumber was deeper and more natural than any he had enjoyed through his whole illness. She wanted to call Margaret or his mother, but refrained for fear of disturbing him. Occasionally they glanced into the room; but seeing him asleep, and Virginia's face turned toward him with the paleness and almost the immobility of a statue, they went silently away, knowing that perfect quiet was the only medicine for the invalid in his present state of weakness.

Thus passed away the night; as the morning light was slowly breaking into the room, Charles opened his eyes; in answer to Virginia's glance, which looked the question she could not speak, he said, "I feel better, dearest; it seems to me that I must be much better; but I am yet very weak."

He spoke in a whisper, and Virginia had to bend low over him to catch his words; but, faint as it was, a watchful ear outside had heard it, and the door was softly pushed open as a dark face thrust itself in and turned anxiously to the bed. Charles caught the earnest look and smiled in reply. The whole expression of the troubled countenance changed as if by magic, and then disappeared.

"Mast'r Charles is gwine to get well," said Keziah to the eager questioners in the kitchen; "I seed it in his face the very moment I opened the do'; besides, I had a dream about him last night, and know'd as soon as I woke up he wouldn't die this time."

"Oh, go long, chillun, and don't speak another word to me; don't you see I'm too glad to talk, and I must make this gruel this very moment; he's mighty weak, but he'll get well."

Keziah was a privileged character in the kitchen and out of it. Few of her fellow-servants ever ventured to oppose her, and it would have been useless if they had been inclined to attempt it. To say that her will was iron, is to give but an inadequate idea of it, for its strength lay not only in passive resistance, but in active exertion, and so not an-

For the first time since his illness, Charles observed the flowers, and with evident pleasure; for the first time, too, he seemed to relish his breakfast. These symptoms of amendment could hardly have given greater pleasure to Virginia than they seemed to produce in Keziah. She strove in vain to retain her usual grim composure; but the broad smile, which seldom appeared in Keziah's face, yet when it did, produced a general illumination in that abode of gloom and sternness, was now a fixture there for several minutes.

She was very anxious to see him, that he might encourage the hope newly sprung up in her heart; her next thought was to impart her good tidings. Bidding Keziah remain, for the first time for many weeks she left the sick-room of her own free will, and hastened to find Mrs. Peyton. She met her in the hall; and telling her as connectedly as she could that she thought, she hoped Charles would get well, he was so much better, and asking her to go and see if it were not so, she flew in search of Mrs. Fairfax.

The overseer, Mr. Burke, was with her, but Virginia did not see him. With an exclamation of "Oh! sister Margaret!" she leaned her head upon Mrs. Fairfax's shoulder, and burst into tears. Mrs. Fairfax, who already seemed to have been agitated, terrified by Virginia's sudden appearance and great emotion, could hardly support herself. She sank upon a chair near her, and, with a voice hardly audible, asked,

With great difficulty, Mrs. Fairfax controlled herself. She neither fainted nor wept, though she felt

"Do you think I am deceiving myself, sister Margaret? Do you think it impossible that Charles should recover?"

"No, dear, I have never thought him so ill as Dr. Parker seemed to, though I did not say it, as I did not wish to excite false hopes; I will come and see him directly."

"What is the matter, sister Margaret?" Mrs. Fairfax hesitated. With an air of impatient authority, Virginia turned to Mr. Burke.

"It may be only a false rumor," suggested Mrs. Fairfax; "don't be alarmed, Virginia; I will take some immediate measures to ascertain the truth."

Virginia did not look in the least alarmed; the blessed hope of her husband's recovery so predominated over every other feeling, that she could

"There must be some truth in the report," said Mr. Burke, "even if things are not so bad as I have heard; for Dr. Parker stopped outside the big gate to tell me that he could not come here this morning, as he was taking his wife and all his family to Somerton; he told me all the neighbors were going, and that, if you could, you ought to go too."

"So I told him, ma'am," replied Mr. Burke, "and he seemed to feel very much troubled about it, and said that, as soon as his family were safe at Somerton, he would come back if he could, and see him; but it is more than ten miles there, you know, and the roads are very bad."

Just then the hasty tramp of a horse was heard, and in a moment, without knocking, a young man walked hastily into the room. After the usual greeting, he said,

"I have come, cousin Margaret, to take you and all the rest of the family to Somerton. My mother is waiting in the road for you. We knew cousin Charles was too ill to take care of you, and we could not go by without stopping to see about you."

"Charles is too weak to be moved, cousin Frank," replied Margaret, "and we can not leave him, of course."

"In a case like this, when the danger is really so great, for we have heard the most horrible rumors of deeds the negroes are committing all through the county, and it is said they are marching on here in great force, don't you think it better to run the risk of injuring Charles, than that all your lives should be sacrificed?" said Frank Lee.

"It would kill him to disturb him now," said Virginia, with an imploring gaze; "I am certain he could never bear that long, hard ride; but you know we are not sure the negroes will come here, even if it is true that they have risen."

Margaret agreed with Virginia that, to escape an uncertain danger, they ought not to sacrifice a life so precious to them, and that, in Charles's debilitated state, he could not endure any agitation or exertion.

Frank Lee urged every argument in his power to induce them to join him. He said all the neighbors through the whole country were flocking to Somerton, and that they would be necessarily left alone for the present, till each one had seen that his immediate family were safe. He wished, at least, to take Mrs. Peyton with him; but, on being informed of the circumstances, she resolutely refused to leave her son. Mrs. Fairfax hesitated about her children; but her oldest son, a brave little boy of eleven, begged so hard not to be separated from her, that she told Frank Lee he need wait no longer—

They decided to keep Charles in ignorance of their situation, and Virginia returned to his sick-room. Something flurried or excited in her manner seemed to strike her husband, but he made no remark about it.

"Of course, ma'am, I would not leave you entirely unprotected, though I think it would have been better for you to have accepted Mr. Lee's offer; it seems almost like tempting Providence to stay here."

"We certainly have no right," said Mrs. Fairfax, "to expect you to expose your life for us, and if you think the danger is so great, I hope you will not suppose it necessary to remain. One person can do but little in such a case, and—"

"Oh, Mrs. Fairfax, do you think I could leave you now; don't speak of it again, I beg of you," exclaimed Mr. Burke, vehemently.

Mrs. Fairfax had trembled inwardly lest her proposal should be accepted; for, though she had not wished to show it, for fear of inducing him to re-

It was settled, therefore, that the house should be shut up, excepting the front entrance, where Mr. Burke stationed himself to keep watch and ward. But it was no easy matter to fasten the house securely. The outside locks, and bars, and bolts on a Virginia house in those days were so little used, that, when needed, they were almost always found out of order. In this instance they succeeded tolerably until they came to the rooms that had been occupied by Charles before his marriage, and then even Mrs. Fairfax was obliged to give up in despair. The negroes about the place, all in the state of the greatest excitement, were crowding about the house, talking, advising, and trying as well as they could to help Miss Margaret, whom they all looked upon with a feeling amounting to veneration. She selected some of the most trustworthy, and told them to guard certain points that were the least protected, and give her the earliest possible notice of the approach of those she dreaded so much to see. She called Nathan, one of the older and most trusted servants, a man who had been "born and raised" in the family, and upon whose judgment and fidelity she felt she might rely, and told him to take his position on the

The day wore away. The last rays of the sun fell on Nathan, patiently watching from the house- top—on the groups of negroes about the lawn, flitting and changing like the figures in a kaleidoscope —on the figure of a man on horseback, riding swiftly along the highway to Somerton—and they lighted up with gleaming radiance the three monuments that rose like columns of snow from beneath the grand old cypress-tree at the foot of the garden.

Mrs. Peyton stood at the window, looking in that direction, her favorite place of late years, and watched the pale, unearthly light that radiated from those memorials of the departed. "Oh! if I had wings like a dove, then would I flee away and be at rest," she softly murmured. An arm gently encircled her, a stately form bent over and kissed her, and the mother and daughter stood in a silence full of eloquence, gazing on the spot where each had laid the strong arm on which they had leaned so trustingly, the courageous yet gentle heart, that would have shed its last drop of blood ere harm should come near them.

"Yes, missis," said an immense black man, full six feet and a half high, and large in proportion, but with a countenance as amiable and simple as a child's—"yes, missis, I was clar down by the big gate when Mas'r Burke came ridin' past, and he told me to come right straight to you, and tell you he was gwine for help; he didn't think he should be back for some hours."

"No, he will never come back," said Margaret; "I saw, some time ago, he was getting more and more alarmed."

"I seed Mas'r Burke a riding off," said uncle Nathan, putting his head in the door; "but don't be frightened, Miss Margaret, nor ole missis either. I'll take his place at the door, and send one of de little niggers up on top of de house. No one shall harm either of you while I am alive."

"I believe you," replied Mrs. Fairfax; and both mother and daughter felt a sensation of security they had been strangers to before. Nathan's manner was so earnest and devoted, that they could as soon doubt themselves as him.

"I am afraid, mother, we shall have to tell Charles our situation. He hears the commotion outside the house, which I can not prevent, and the little bustle within, so unlike our usual stillness lately, and he has been insisting on knowing the cause. I dread to tell him, for any agitation must be so injurious to him now!"

While they were consulting as to what had best be done, a message came from Virginia, begging them to come to Charles, who was insisting on being dressed. They hastened to him, and found that he had partly guessed and partly discovered, by questioning adroitly his young wife, the alarming state of affairs. He insisted on going with them to Somerton. No arguments nor entreaties were effectual in changing his resolution. He thought only of their danger, and would not admit that there was any to himself.

By this time night had come on, cold, dark, and starless. Margaret drew aside the curtain, and showed him the thick darkness that seemed to encompass them. She reminded him of the wretched roads, and of their doubly defenseless state if met by the armed negroes on the way at night.

"Wait only till morning," said she, "and we will do whatever you wish. If we only considered ourselves, and not you, we should be safer here, I think, to-night. There is not a servant on the

"If I had only known this in the morning," said Charles, "you would all have been safe now!" and his eye passed sadly over his wife, and mother, and sister, who returned his glance with looks of calmness and assurance, that sadly belied their fainting hearts.

"Ah! you can't deceive me," he continued, smiling sorrowfully. "You are not so brave as you wish to make me believe. I know very well that, if I were not lying helpless here, you would all be trembling, and crying, and clinging to me, especially you, you simple little deceiver," turning to his wife, whose lips trembled, but who could not trust herself to speak.

"Margaret," he went on slowly and with difficulty, "you have thought too much of me; think now of yourself, of your boys, our precious mother, and my wife. If you really think that it would be safer for them to wait till morning I will consent; for myself, I feel that the delay would be harder to bear than any exertion."

They decided to wait till dawn. A sleepless night was passed amid frequent but groundless

There was great bustle and confusion around it. The carriage-house, with all it contained, had been burned just before Charles's illness, and no one had thought yet of replacing their loss; so a large covered wagon stood before the door, in which Keziah was carefully arranging a bed. As soon as it was ready, Charles, partly dressed and partly enveloped in a wrapper, was brought down by Polydore and laid upon it. He fainted from over-exertion and excitement as his head touched the pillow, and it was some time before he revived. Virginia took her seat by him, supporting him to prevent him from receiving too rude a jar in their progress. Then Mrs. Peyton,Margaret, her two youngest boys, and their nurse joined them.

Nearly all the negro men, and many of the boys, were assembled in a group on the lawn, and Nathan was marshalling them in battle array. Such arms as he had, he had distributed to the most efficient of them; the rest he had told to look out for themselves, and, consequently, pitchforks, hoes, and rails figured largely among their hastily-collected weapons.

"What's dat you have dar, Orful?" asked Nathan of a boy, whose real name of Lord Orville, given to him by some novel-reading damsel, was changed to Orful by his companions.

"Tongs, uncle Nathan, and Peter he has de shovel—couldn't find nothin' else, you see."

"Oh, go 'long, you didn't look; you niggers are too lazy for any thing. Take your place there at de tail of de line; you hear?"

With great difficulty Nathan arranged the curious assemblage in two lines—one to walk on each side of the wagon. Polydore was to march at the head of one column, while Nathan took command of the other, and superintendence of the whole. Philip Fairfax, mounted on a spirited pony, with some difficulty reined it in that he might keep by Polydore's side, into whose charge he had been especially given, for between these two a most devoted attachment existed, that dated from Philip's babyhood. It began by his always preferring to be carried about, during a long period of great feebleness, by Polydore's stalwart arm, and then, as he developed into a sprightly, intellectual child, he never felt that he had half enjoyed any fairy story, or tale of giants and magicians, till he had related them to his patient listener, and heard his exclamations of wonder. The only fault Polydore had in Philip's eyes was an unfortunate facility in going to sleep,

"Laws, now, Mas'r Phil," Polydore would say, "I only shets my eyes to hear better, you see." But five minutes after he had uttered this justification, he gave such convincing evidence of the depth of his slumbers, that even Philip could not doubt their reality. He had been trying to teach Polydore to read for the last two or three years, and to see the intense earnestness with which one threw his whole soul into the work, and the easy complacency with which the other gave himself up to be instructed, would have amused any one.

But now Philip's mania for instruction was forgotten, and he rode silently by Polydore's side, whose heavy tramp kept steadily up with the pony's dainty prancings, and who, with eyes glancing with unusual restlessness, and lips closed with strange firmness, was mentally resolving, at the first alarm, to catch Philip in his arms and escape to the woods with him; for Mas'r Phil was his idol; he loved him as well, perhaps better, than any one in the world. A native African, and separated from all his own family, he had but few else to love, al-

At last the cavalcade was in order. The wagon moved slowly through the heavy roads, and Nathan, riding at the head of the troop, looked with no small satisfaction on the train he had managed to bring into something like marching order. Suddenly an expression of vexation appeared on his face; the light from a blazing pine knot, held by one of the impromptu guard, had fallen on a yellow turban that was resolutely forcing its way through the crowd, throwing all into confusion as it passed.

"Dat's Keziah—I knowed she'd be coming," muttered Nathan; and, in truth, at that moment Keziah's gaunt figure and grim face appeared, unmoved by all the commotion she had left behind her.

"Go right straight back, Keziah," uttered Nathan, in a commanding voice; "we don't want no women folks."

"You attend to your own niggers, and I'll take care of myself," was the curt and decisive reply. Nathan was not a man who readily gave up what he intended to do, and therefore, from his not insist-

Keziah had good cause for all the gratitude and devotion her conduct displayed. Ill treated from her earliest infancy, first by an unfeeling mother, whose punishments were all so many ingenious tortures, and who had twice been prevented by her master from killing her own child, having hung her up once with her head down, and at another time being caught dashing her up and down against a pile of bricks; afterward falling under the power of a harsh and capricious owner, who, with a dim perception of her capabilities, and vexed at not knowing how to avail himself of them, determined, as he said, "to beat her sulkiness out of her."

He could not have chosen a worse course. Every week Keziah grew more obstinate, perverse, and sulky; at times a strange fire gleamed in her eyes, like that which may be seen in a newly-encaged wild beast; and if the mutterings of her restless lips could have been understood, she would have been guarded like some savage animal. The fell purposes she was nurturing in a soul tortured by desolation and cruelty into crime had not yet matured themselves into action, when, providentially, her whole life was changed, and with it, as if by magic, her character developed itself in feelings and acts, before strange to her heart. As some deep val-

Charles, when a mere boy, was sent by his father to Keziah's master on an errand. As he was leaving, she crossed his path, returning to the quarter after one of the severest punishments she had ever received. Every nerve thrilling with agony, she walked with difficulty. Charles could not help perceiving that something was the matter. His look fell compassionately on her. She raised her eyes, full of a dumb yet fierce despair, and met his kind glance. A sudden impulse seemed to tell her that here lay her only chance of salvation for this world or the next. Moved by an irresistible impulse, which she always declared came, not from herself, but the Lord, she stood for a moment, and, stretching out her trembling hands, exclaimed,

The words were few, but the attitude and manner were so imploring, so full of entreaty, that Charles, with a heart full of generous and kind feeling, could not withstand it.

All the way home, his thoughts were dwelling upon his promise and upon the means of fulfilling

"As it is your own promise, my son, and made without consulting me, you must suffer the consequences yourself."

"There is that new horse I promised you when you were fifteen, and your birthday comes next month, I believe."

"If you give up these, I can let you have the money to do as you please with it."

Charles had had little opportunity in his life to cultivate the Spartan virtue of self-denial, the corner-stone of so much that is noble and elevated, and even his generosity was put to the proof, as all these long-desired possessions were slipping from his

"Yes, father, I must do it, for I promised Keziah; besides, I can do very well with old Roanoke and my gun; the watch is the hardest thing to give up," and Charles sighed.

And, in due time, a miserable-looking figure, bare- footed, and with but one poor garment and no bundle, stood in the broad gravel-walk leading to Mr. Peyton's front door.

"There, Charles, is your purchase," said he, smiling. "Go tell her where she is to stay." Charles led the way across a broad lawn sloping gently down, then through a grove of trees carefully cleared of underbrush, and then, winding his way among a cluster of whitewashed cabins, he came to one a little larger and more carefully built than the rest. An idiot boy was basking in the sun before the door; within, an aged, infirm, but happy-looking woman lay in the bed.

Fortunately, the management of Keziah was left entirely to Charles. She had learned his sacrifices for her, and her devotion to him knew no bounds. She begged to be allowed to wait upon him and attend to his wardrobe. Her uncouth figure and coarse hands seemed but ill fitted for any in-door work, especially the needle, but no shirts could have been more neatly stitched or elaborately made than Charles's. The work she put upon one would have made three in the ordinary way.

Her habits were peculiar. It was asserted for a long time that she never slept nor ate. But Charles, having investigated the matter, discovered that her only meal was a late but very substantial supper, and that she slept on the stairs, or threw herself, with no covering nor bed, on the floor in the passage leading to his room, or, if any one in the family were ill, near their door, so that, at the slightest noise, she was up and wide awake, to render any service that might be required.

So, much to Nathan's discomfiture, Keziah, grasping the handle of a well-sharpened carving-knife, the blade of which was hidden in her dress, headed the march; and doubtless, if she had been put to the proof, her yellow turban would have been, like Henry the Fourth's white plume, a guide to the hottest of the fray.

The morning light came slowly on. At every breath of clear, bracing air, Charles felt renewed vigor, and, ordering the covering of the wagon to be put back, he lay gazing out on the earth and glowing sky he had never thought to see again but with spiritual eyes, and felt that he could almost realize the emotions of the widow's son, as, at the gate of Nain, he rose and looked around on the crowd whose mourning was changed into wonder, and on Him whose heart was ever open to our sorrows, and touched with a feeling for our infirmities.

He felt so tranquil in his helplessness, so full of trustfulness and hope, when, having no power to do any thing for himself, he had placed himself, and all

His mother smiled sadly, and whispered to him not to talk, for it might disturb Virginia. There was little danger of that, for she had fallen into a sleep of perfect exhaustion, and her slumber was so profound that Charles was at first alarmed, so like death were her pale cheeks, her eyes sunken with long watching and tears, and her lips lightly parted, through which, so gently did her bosom heave, no breath seemed to come.

He turned from his young wife to his mother and sister, and saw, in the cold, truth-telling light of the morning, lines of care and sorrow that had been newly traced in the last few weeks. A feeling of passionate love for them—love that would have held life cheap if his death could shield them from one pang or fear, mingled with a conviction of his great weakness, swelled his heart almost to bursting.

What had he done for these men, that they should devote their lives so willingly to him and his? His parents had been faithful to the great responsibility they took up with their lives, his sister was untiring in her efforts for the improvement and education of her family, but beyond a general feeling of kindness and interest, he could recall nothing that would account for such fidelity. Excepting in the case of Keziah, he could remember no instance of self-denial that could excite their gratitude.

"Hereafter, if God spares my life, it shall not be so," thought he; "I am rich—as far as this world is concerned; I have nothing to strive for—my lines are cast to me in pleasant places—I will devote my life to them who are now so willing to offer theirs for me. I will make it my chief object to

With a few words of earnest prayer, he looked again on the dark throng around him, letting his eyes rest on each face, that he might impress it, with his vow, on his memory. One of them step- ped close to the wagon, and in a whispered voice said,

"Please, Mas'r Charles, would it 'sturb Miss Virginia if we sung a little? We can hold out so much better if we can sing."

"No, a cannon would hardly disturb her now," replied he; "sing, if you wish to."

And the voices of the motley crowd rose in singular harmony in the clear morning air. The most delicate ear would have been puzzled to detect a false note, no matter how varied or intricate the tune might be. The songs they sung were principally the joyous and triumphant hymns heard only at a Methodist camp-meeting, and especially suited to encourage and animate persons in doubtful or hazardous situations.

Keziah was indignant at this interruption to the stillness that had prevailed. In angry tones she demanded silence, but in vain.

"Mas'r said we might sing," shouted Orful, from the farther extremity of the line.

The faint whisper of that voice reached the ear to which it was addressed through the confused murmuring around. Her great love seemed to quicken all her senses. In a moment the yellow turban was stretched over the side of the wagon, that Charles might communicate his wishes with the least possible exertion.

"You know this is the only road till we reach Derrick's cross-roads, four miles off. So, unless the people are already on their way toward us, they can not hear us; if they are, no noise can harm us. It cheers me to hear them sing."

"Sing away, boys," said Keziah, with a condescending nod; and again the strange harmony rose in the air. Even the horses seemed to feel the inspiriting power of the music, and moved more rapidly.

The favorite melody of "The old Ship of Zion" was just commenced, when a trampling of many horses was heard. A silence full of horror and dread fell over those in the wagon. Charles grasped his mother's hand, and threw himself over the unconscious Virginia, as if to shield her with his body—it was all he could do. Margaret clasped her infant closer to her breast, and threw her arm around her little Harry. She cast a glance of agony on Philip, whose boyish face was the calmest there.

"I am not frightened, mother—don't think of me," said he, in reply to her look.

These were the only words spoken. Keziah strided on far in advance of the rest, and, if it should prove to be the enemy approaching, woe to the first man that should cross her path. No womanish fears, no feminine tenderness was in her heart, but the fierceness and pitilessness of a lioness fighting for her young.

Nearer and nearer came the sound of hurrying hoofs, and, as all strained their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the approaching crowd, each heart grew stiller and more resolute, excepting that beating in the breast of the young Lord Orville, who, shaming his illustrious name, stood trembling fearfully, while the tongs clattered in sympathy in his hands. At last he fairly turned, and, fleeing for safety, hid himself behind the trunk of some fallen monarch of the forest. Peter, with uplifted shovel, looked in supreme contempt on the base flight of his whilome companion in arms.

"Hi! I allers know'd he no count," said he, and stretched his short neck to see what was coming.

Orful heard the shout, and, peering over his rampart, saw, to his great relief, a crowd of the young men of the surrounding country, who, having attended to the safety of their own families, were on their way to escort the defenseless inhabitants of Cedar Hill to Somerton.

Learning that all was quiet in the neighborhood, and that the threatened disturbance had nearly passed over, Charles dismissed his faithful defenders with earnest expressions of thankfulness, and left them to return home under the guidance of Nathan, while the family pursued their way to Somerton, to wait there for a more settled state of security, and to give Charles the repose he needed after so much excitement. Keziah accompanied the family, being unwilling to trust her young master to other hands until he was quite recovered.

CHAPTER I.