sas
smartness, I returned to the hall, took my pistols from the holsters,
placed them in my belt, and, seizing my rifle, I followed his trail upon
the soft ground of the fields. It led me to a corn-house, and there,
after an hour's search, I found my lost saddle-bags. I threw them upon
my shoulders, and returned to the house just as a terrible shower had
commenced. When within fifteen yards from the threshold, the parson,
with his wife and daughter, a pretty girl of sixteen, in tears, came up
to me to apologize. The mother declared the girl would be the death of
her, and the parson informed me, with great humility, that his daughter,
having 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