ed the ledges, and stood, silent and stern, gazing at the
destruction of his beloved woods.

The winds had died. The fires had evidently ceased to spread. Portions
of the forest that had been kindled and not consumed were burning now
with slow, sullen combustion, like brands without flame. Stripped of
their foliage, shorn of their boughs, and seen in the dull and smoky
daylight, through the rain, they looked like a forest of skeletons, all
of glowing coal, brightening, darkening, and ever crumbling away.

All at once Pomp seemed to rouse himself, and direct his attention more
particularly at the part of the woods in which the patriots' camp had
been.

"Come with me, Pepperill, if you would help do a good job!"

They started off, and were soon out of sight. As Penn turned from gazing
after them, he heard a voice calling from the opposite side of the
ravine. He looked, but could see no one. The figure to which the voice
belonged was hidden by the bushes. The bushes moved, however; the figure
was descending into the ravine. It arrived at the bottom, crossed, and
began to ascend the steep side towards the cave. Penn concealed himself,
and waited until it had nearly emerged from the thickets beneath him,
and he could distinctly hear the breath of a man panting and blowing
with the toil of climbing. Then a well-known voice said in a hoarse
whisper,--

"Massa Hapgood! dat you?"

And peering over the bank, he saw, upturned in the rain and murky light,
among the wet bushes, the black, grinning face of old Toby.

He responded by reaching down, grasping the negro's hand, and drawing
him up.

The grin on the old man's face was a ghastly one, and his eyes rolled as
he stammered forth,--

"Miss Jinny--ye seen Miss Jinny?"

Penn did not answer immediately; he was considering whether it would be
safe to conduct Toby into the cave. Toby grew terrified.

"Don't say ye hain't seen her, Massa Penn! ye kill ol' Toby if ye do! I
done lost her!" And the poor old faithful fellow sobbed out his
story,--how Virginia had disappeared, and how, on discovering the woods
to be on fire, he had set out in search of her, and been wandering he
scarcely knew where ever since. "Now don't say ye don't know nuffin'
about her! don't say dat!" falling on his knees, and reaching up his
hands beseechingly, as if he had only to prevail on Penn to _say_ that
all was well with "Miss Jinny," and that would make it so. Such faith is
in simple souls.