dows of the woods.

Jemima looked right and she looked left. Should she ride on and leave
her pa in the hands of that designing creature? Perish the thought,
better anything than that! She touched her horse. It turned sharply, and
swept down the highway like a greyhound. She struck him on the flank,
then the tiny lash of her whip quivered about his ears till he dashed
on, flinging back dust and stones with his hoofs.

The party was riding fast. Mr. Hawkins by Elsie, Mr. Rhodes close to the
widow--so close, that somehow her right hand, whip and all, had got
entangled with his. They were on a curve of the road, around which
Jemima came sweeping like a torrent. With a single bound her horse
rushed in between them, leaving the widow's gauntlet glove in the grasp
of that frightened man, and the cornelian-headed whip deep in the mud of
the highway.

Not a word was spoken. The widower sank abjectly down in his saddle, and
with his apprehensive eyes turned sideways on the spinster,
surreptitiously thrust the stray glove into the depths of his pocket.
The widow, convulsed with mingled laughter and rage, gave no doubt of
genuine color now, for her face was crimson. Thus, like two prisoners
under military guard, they moved on, with Jemima riding in grim
vigilance between them.

The spot chosen for the chowder-party commanded a splendid sea view and
a broad landscape in the background, of which the distant mansion of
Piney Cove was a principal object. It was an abrupt precipice, clothed,
except in the very front, with a rich growth of trees; splendid masses
of white pine and clumps of hemlock darkened with the deep green of
their foliage such forest trees as cast their leaves from autumn till
spring time. The broken precipice in front was tufted here and there
with clumps of barberry bushes and other wild shrubs, which might have
aided a daring adventurer to climb up it, had the temptation been
sufficient.

Between this precipice and the shores of the ocean, stood the little
tavern we have before spoken of, from which the negroes of Piney Point
were now bringing up a huge iron pot wherein to cook the chowder, which
would be nothing if not culminated in the open air, over a fire of
sticks, and eaten beneath the hemlock trees.

A bridle path led to the top of this precipice, winding along the back
slope of the hill, and by this route the highway party rode to the
summit, some fifteen minutes before Elizabeth and Mr. North join