most tempted to ask what ailed it." A traveller was
moving slowly up the side of the river, and ever and anon stopping, as
if to muse over some particular object. It was Elliot. He had returned
from Greenland, and, in disguise, had come to the place of his birth--to
the dwelling of his mother and his sister; he had heard that his mother
was ill--that anxiety, on his account, had reduced her almost to the
grave--and that she was now but slowly recovering. He had been able to
acquire no information respecting Whitaker; and the weight of his
friend's blood lay yet heavy on his soul, for he considered himself as
his murderer. It was with feelings of the most miserable anxiety that he
approached the place of his birth. The stately beeches that lined the
avenue which led to his mother's door were in sight; they stooped and
raised their stately branches, with all the gorgeous drapery of leaves,
as if they welcomed him back; the very river seemed to utter, in accents
familiar to him, that he was now near the hall of his fathers. Oh! how
is the home of our youth enshrined in our most sacred affections! by
what multitudinous fibres is it entwined with our heart-strings!--it is
part of our being--its influences remain with us for ever, though years
spent in foreign lands divide us from "our early home that cradled life
and love." Elliot was framed to feel keenly these sacred influences--and
often, even after brief absences from home, he had experienced them in
deep intensity; but now the throb of exultation was kept down by the
crushing weight of remorse, and the gush of tenderness checked by bitter
fears. He entered the avenue which led up to the house. Yonder were the
windows of his mother's chamber--there was a light in it. He would have
given worlds to have seen before him the interior. As he quickened his
pace, he heard the sound of voices in the avenue. He turned aside out of
the principal walk; and, standing under the branches of a venerable
beech, which swept down almost to the ground, and fully concealed him,
he waited the approach of the speakers, in hopes of hearing some
intelligence respecting his family. Through the screen of the leaves he
presently saw that it was a pair of lovers, for their arms were locked
around each other, and their cheeks were pressed together as they came
down the avenue--treading as slowly as though they were attempting to
show how much of rest there might be in motion.

"To-morrow, then, my sw