hreshold, the parson,
with his wife and daughter, a pretty girl of sixteen, in tears, came up
to me to apologise. The mother declared the girl would be the death of
her, and the parson informed me, with great humility, that his daughter,
baying entered the room, and seeing the saddle-bags, had taken and
hidden them, believing that they belonged to her sweetheart, who was
expected on a visit. Upon this, the girl cried most violently, saying
she only wished to play a trick to Charley. She was an honest girl, and
no thief.

I thought proper to pretend to be satisfied with this explanation and
ordered my supper, and, shortly afterwards, to my great relief, new
guests arrived; they were four Missourian planters, returning home from
a bear-hunt, in the swamps of the St. Francis. One of them was a Mr
Courtenay, to whom I had a letter from Captain Finn, and, before the day
had closed, I received a cordial invitation to go and stay with him for
at least a week.

As he spoke French, I told him, in that language, my saddle-bag
adventure; he was not surprised, as he was aware of the character of our
host. It was arranged that Mr Courtenay and I should sleep in a
double-bedded room on the first floor; the other hunters were
accommodated in another part of the house. Before retiring for the
night, they all went to visit their horses, and the young girl took that
opportunity to light me to the room.

"Oh, Sir," she said to me, after she had closed the door, "pray do not
tell the other travellers what I did, or they would all say that I am
courting Charley, and my character would be lost."

"Mark me," replied I, "I have already told the story, and I know the
Charley story is nothing but a--what your father ordered you to say.
When I went to the corn-house, the tracks I followed were those made by
your father's heavy boots, and not by your light pumps and small feet.
The parson is a villain; tell him that; and if it were not too much
trouble, I would summon him before some magistrate."

The girl appeared much shocked, and I repented my harshness, and was
about to address her more kindly, when she interrupted me.

"Spare me, Sir," she said, "I know all; I am so unhappy; if I had but a
place to go to, where I could work for bread, I would do it in a minute,
for here I am very, very miserable."

At that moment the poor girl heard the footsteps of the hunters
returning from the stable, and she quitted me in haste.

When Mr C