moment, when, starting up, he seized the rifle he
had laid aside, and making a considerable detour, in order to reach a
small bridge higher up the stream, he crossed it, and pursued his way
to the village.

Holden, notwithstanding he had lived so long in the vicinity and
had often been in the village, never made his appearance without
attracting attention. The little boys and girls, and even their
elders, seldom passed him without turning to look again. The
singularity of his dress, and fine tall person, as straight as his
rifle, and a beard, that waved like a prophet's, on his breast, would
have commanded observation anywhere. Joined to this was an air of
dignity and gravity that, in spite of the coarseness of his apparel,
insured respect. However much the rude and vulgar might feel disposed
to insult, they were too much awed by his presence to attempt it. They
might speak disrespectfully, indeed, of him in his absence, but before
him they were cowed and mute. The mystery, besides, with which their
imaginations surrounded him, invested him with a power the greater,
perhaps, on account of its indefiniteness. They forgot in gazing
at him, that his only means of living they were acquainted with was
derived from the sale of the oysters and fish he caught in the river,
and of the large baskets he made with his own hands. The meanness of
the occupation was lost sight of when they saw his majestic appearance
and heard the grand tones of his deep voice.

Holden proceeded down the street, hardly recognizing--though such was
not his wont--the friendly greetings with which he was sainted by many
that passed, until he arrived opposite the house of Mr. Armstrong.
Here his progress was arrested by a tap on a window, and looking up
he saw the bright face of Miss Armstrong, who was beckoning to him.
He stopped; the face disappeared to re-appear at the door, and Faith
invited him to come in. He hesitated, but the irresolution was only
momentary, for instantly he turned and entered the house.

"I doubted," he said, "whether it were right to inflict the gloom of
an old man on one so young. What have age and despondency in common
with youth and happiness?"

"But you do not doubt my sympathy? Is there anything I would not do to
make you happy, Father Holden?"

"No. I trust in thee as a parent in his child. Thou art as incapable
of deception as the heavens of a stain. I have known thee, Faith,
since thou wast a child, and thou hast al