night past your father's house, only to see where you were,
and yet I lingered; I found flowers on my brother's grave, and thought
that some maiden loved him."

"When she loved you."

"That Wednesday night I would go, but couldn't."

"Tell me all that happened to you that night; it is a mystery to us
all; you did not even tell your mother."

"It is not much. I had abandoned my intention of going that night, and
was restless and uneasy, when George rushed in and told me you were
lost. He had learned all that was known, and told it very clearly. I
knew of the chopping, and where the path led up to it, and I thought
you would tarn back to the old road, and might enter the woods, on the
other side. Everything seemed wonderfully clear to me. My great love
kindled and aroused every faculty, and strung every nerve. I was
ready in a moment. George brought me two immense hickory torches, that
together would burn out a winter night; and with one of our sugar camp
tapers. I lighted one, as I went. I must have reached the point where
you left the old road, in ten minutes. I was never so strong, I seemed
to know that I would find you, and felt that it was for this I had
staid, and blamed myself for the selfish joy I felt, that I could
serve and perhaps save you.

"I examined the old road, and in one wet place, I found your track
going north, and a little further was the old path, that led to the
slashing. At the entrance to it, the leaves had been disturbed, as if
by footsteps; I saw many of them, and thought you had become lost, and
would follow the path; so I went on. When I reached the slashing, I
knew you would not enter that, but supposed you would skirt around
on the east and south side, as the path led southwesterly to it. Of
course I looked and searched the ground, and could occasionally see
where a footfall had disturbed the leaves.

"I concluded that sooner or later, you would realize that you were
lost; and then--for I knew you were strong and brave--would undertake
to strike off toward home, without reference to anything; and I knew,
of course, that you would then go exactly the wrong way, because
you were lost. After skirting about the slashing, I could find no
foot-marks in the leaves; and I struck out southerly, and in a little
thicket of young beeches and prickly ash, hanging to a thorn, I found
your hood. Oh, God! what joy and thankfulness were mine; and there in
the deep leaves, going westerly, was your tra