me."

Again they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy for a
night-ramble. But it happened that a light cloud passed over the
daughter's spirit; she looked gravely into the fire and drew a breath
that was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of a little
struggle to repress it. Then, starting and blushing, she looked
quickly around the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her
bosom. The stranger asked what she had been thinking of.

"Nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile; "only I felt lonesome
just then."

"Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people's
hearts," said he, half seriously. "Shall I tell the secrets of yours?
For I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth
and complains of lonesomeness at her mother's side. Shall I put these
feelings into words?"

"They would not be a girl's feelings any longer if they could be put
into words," replied the mountain-nymph, laughing, but avoiding his
eye.

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing in their
hearts so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since it could not
be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his, and
the proud, contemplative, yet kindly, soul is oftenest captivated by
simplicity like hers. But while they spoke softly, and he was watching
the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings, of a
maiden's nature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper and drearier
sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the choral
strain of the spirits of the blast who in old Indian times had their
dwelling among these mountains and made their heights and recesses a
sacred region. There was a wail along the road as if a funeral were
passing. To chase away the gloom, the family threw pine-branches on
their fire till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose,
discovering once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. The
light hovered about them fondly and caressed them all. There were the
little faces of the children peeping from their bed apart, and here
the father's frame of strength, the mother's subdued and careful mien,
the high-browed youth, the budding girl and the good old grandam,
still knitting in the warmest place.

The aged woman looked up from her task, and with fingers ever busy was
the next to speak.

"Old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as young ones.
You've been wishing and planning and letting your h