A few days after the evening before mentioned, Edith and her father prepared for their little journey, to visit the young student.

It was a brilliant morning in the very last of October. All journeys, at this time, were made on horseback: they were mounted, therefore, Mr. Grafton on a sedate old beast, that had served him many years, and Edith on the petite fille of this venerable "ancestress,"—gentle, but scarcely out of its state of coltship.

The Indians, at this time, were much feared, and the shortest excursions were never undertaken without fire-arms. Paul, as well as Mr. Grafton, was well armed, and served them as a guard.

As soon as they had left their own village, their course was only a bridle-path through the forest; and the path was now so hidden with the fallen leaves, that it was sometimes indicated only by marks on the trees. The trees were almost stripped of their foliage, and the bright autumn sun, shining through the bare trunks, sparkled on the dew of the fallen leaves. It was the last smile of autumn. The cold had already commenced. No sound broke the intense stillness of the forest but the trampling of their horses' feet as they crushed the dry, withered foliage.

The sky was intensely blue, and without a cloud. The elasticity of the air excited the young spirits of Edith. She was gay, and, like a young fawn, she fluttered around her father, sometimes galloping her rough little pony in front, and then returning, she would give a gentle cut with her whip to her father's horse, who, with head down, and plodding indifference, regarded it no more than he did a fly.

Mr. Grafton, delighted with his daughter's playfulness, looked at her with a quiet, tender smile: her gayety, to him, was like the play of her infancy, and he delighted to think that she was yet young and happy.

Edith had ridden forward, and they had lost sight of her, when she came galloping back, pale as death, and hardly able to retain her seat from terror.

"Edith, my child," said her father, "what has happened?"

She could only point with her finger to a thin column of blue smoke that curled above the trees. Mr. Grafton knew that it indicated the presence of Indians, at this time the terror of all the inhabitants.

"No doubt they are friendly, my dear child," said Mr. Grafton; and he sent Paul, who was armed, forward to reconnoitre.

Paul soon returned, showing his white teeth from ear to ear.

"The piccaninnies," he said.

Mr. Grafton and Edith rode forward, and in a little hollow at the foot of a rock, from which bubbled a clear spring, a young Indian woman, with a pappoose at her feet, was half reclining; another child, attached in its birch cradle to the pendent branch of an elm tree, was gently rocked by the wind. A fire was built against the rock, and venison suspended before it to roast.

It was a beautiful little domestic scene, and Mr. Grafton and Edith stopped to contemplate it. They soon learned that the husband of the Indian was in the forest; but he was friendly, and, after exchanging smiles, Edith dismounted.

She sat on the grass, caressing the young pappoose, and talked with the mother in that untaught, mute language that young and kind hearts so easily understand.

This little adventure delayed them so long that it was past noon when they reached the secluded farmhouse we have described in the first chapter of our little tale.

The old man was sitting at the door, enjoying the kindly warmth of the declining sun. Seymore was not far off, at work in his laborer's frock. A vivid blush of surprise, and pleasure, and shame, covered his temples and noble brow, as he came forward to meet them.

Edith, quick in her perceptions, understood his feelings, and turned aside her head while he drew off his laborer's frock. This gave an appearance of embarrassment to her first greeting, and the vivid delight faded in a moment from his brilliant countenance, and a melancholy shade passed over it.

They entered the house, and Edith endeavored to remove the pain she had given, by more marked attention to Seymore; but simple and sincere, ignorant as she was of all arts of coquetry, it only increased the bashfulness of her manner.

The family had already dined; but, after some delay, a repast was prepared for the travellers; and, before they were ready to depart, the long shadows of the opposite hills brought an early twilight over the little valley.

Mr. Grafton looked at his daughter; he could not expose her to a dark ride through the forest; and the pressing invitation of the good old people, that they should stay the night, was accepted.

After much pleasant talk with the enthusiastic young student, to which Edith listened with deep interest, Mr. Grafton was tasked to his utmost polemical and theological knowledge by the searching questions of the old Puritan. Like douce Davie Deans, he was stiff in his doctrines, and would not allow a suspicion of wavering from the orthodox standard of faith. But Edith soon gave undeniable evidence that sleep was a much better solacer of fatigue than theological discussions; and, after the evening worship had been scrupulously performed, a bed was prepared for Mr. Grafton on the floor of the room where they sat, for he would not allow the old people to give up theirs to him.

Seymore gayly resigned his poor garret to Edith, and slept, as he had often done before, in the hayloft. Slept? no; he lay awake all night thinking how lovely Edith looked in her riding Joseph,[1] which fitted closely to her beautiful shape, and a beaver hat tied under the chin, to confine her hair in riding. She was the angel of his dreams. But why did she turn aside when they met? and the poor student sighed.

Edith looked around the little garret with much interest, and some little awe. There were the favorite books, heaps of manuscripts, and every familiar object that was so closely associated with Seymore. Nothing reveals so much of another's mind and habits, as to go into the apartment where they habitually live.

The bed had been neatly made with snowy sheets, and some little order given to the room. Edith opened the books, and read the marked passages; the manuscripts were all open, and with the curiosity of our mother Eve, she read a few lines. She colored to the very temples as she committed this fault; but she found herself irresistibly led on by sympathy with a mind kindred to her own; and when she laid her head on the pillow, tears of admiration and pity filled her eyes. She lay awake, forming plans for the student's advancement; and, before sleep weighed down her eyelids, she had woven a fair romance, of which he was the hero.

Ah, that youth could be mistress of the ring and the lamp! then would all the world be prosperous and happy. But wisdom and experience, the true genii, appear in the form of an aged magician, who has forgotten the beatings of that precious thing, the human heart.

The next morning, when they were assembled at their frugal breakfast, Seymore said, "I fear you thought, from the frequent ink-spots on my little garret, that, like Luther, I had thrown my ink-bottle at the devil whenever he appeared."

"I hope," said Edith, "you have not thrown away all its contents; for I had some charming fancies last night, inspired, I believe, by that very ink-bottle."

Seymore blushed; but he did not look displeased, and Edith was satisfied.

The next morning was clear and balmy, and, soon after breakfast, they mounted their horses for their return.

There are few things more exhilarating than riding through woods on a clear autumnal morning; but Edith felt no longer the wild gayety of the previous morning. With a thoughtful countenance, she rode silently by her father's side when the path would permit, or followed quietly when it was too narrow.

"You seem to have found food for thought in the student's garret, my dear," said her father.

Edith blushed slightly, but did not answer.

They had accomplished about half their journey, when Mr. Grafton proposed turning off from the direct path to visit an old lady,—a friend of Edith's mother, an emigrant of a noble family from the mother country.

Edith followed silently, wondering she had never heard her father mention this friend of her mother before.

They soon after emerged from the forest upon open fields, cleared and cultivated with unusual care. A beautiful brook ran winding in the midst, and the whole domain was enclosed in strong fences of stone. About midway was built a low, irregular, but very large farmhouse. It consisted of smaller buildings, connected by very strong palisades; and the whole was enclosed, at some distance, by a fence built of strong timbers. It was evidently a dwelling designed for defence against Indians. They entered the enclosure by an iron gate, so highly wrought and finished that it must have been imported from the mother country.

Edith found herself in a large garden, that had once been cultivated with much care and expense. It had been filled with rose-bushes, honeysuckles, and choice English flowers; but all was now in a state of neglect and decay. The walks were overrun with weeds, the arbors in ruins, and the tendrils of the vines wandering at their own wanton will. It seemed as if neglect had aided the autumn frost to cover this favorite spot with the garb of mourning.

There was no front entrance to this singular building; and the visitors rode round to a low door at the back, partly concealed by a pent roof. After knocking several minutes, it was opened by a very old negro, dressed in a tarnished livery, with his woolly hair drawn out into a queue, and powdered. He smiled a welcome, and, with much show of respect, led them through many dark passages to a low but very comfortable room. The walls were hung with faded tapestry; and the low ceiling, crossed with heavy beams, would have made the apartment gloomy, but for two large windows that looked into the sunny garden. The sashes were of small, lozenge panes of glass set in lead; while the bright autumn sun streamed through, and shone with cheerful light on the black oak furniture, and showed every mote dancing in its beams.

Edith looked around with surprise and delight. A lady not much past the meridian of life came forward to greet them. She was dressed in an olive-colored brocade, with a snowy lawn apron and neckerchief folded across her breast. The sleeve reached just below the elbow, and was finished with a ruffle, and black silk mitts met the ruffle at the elbow. A rich lace shaded her face, and a small black velvet hood was tied closely under the chin.

The lady's manner was rather stately and formal, as she greeted Mr. Grafton with all the ceremony of the old school of politeness, and looked at his daughter.

"She is the image of her mother," said Lady C——.

"She is a precious flower," answered Mr. Grafton, looking at Edith with pride and affection, as she stood, half respectful, half bashful, before the lady.

"You have called her Mary, I hope,—her mother's name."

"No," answered Mr. Grafton; "I have but one Mary,"—and he looked upwards.

Edith pressed closer to her father. "Call me Edith, madam," she said, with a timid smile.

Lady C—— smiled also, and was soon in earnest conversation with Mr. Grafton.

Edith was engaged in examining a room so much more elegant than any she had seen before. Her eyes were soon attracted by a full-length portrait on the opposite side of the apartment. It was a lady in the bloom of youth, dressed in the costume of the second Charles. It was evidently an exquisite work of art. To Edith, the somewhat startling exposure of the bust, which the fashion of the period demanded, was redeemed by the chaste and nunlike expression of the face. Tender blue eyes were cast down on a wounded dove that she cherished in her bosom; and the long, dark eyelash shaded a pale and pensive cheek.

Edith was fascinated by this beautiful picture. Who was she? where did she live? what was her fate? were questions hovering on her lips, which she dared not ask of the stately lady on the couch; but, as she stood riveted before it, "O that I had such a friend!" passed through her mind; and, like inexperienced and enthusiastic youth, she thought how fondly she could have loved her, and, if it were necessary, have sacrificed her own life for hers.

Lady C—— observed her fixed attention.

"That is a portrait of the Lady Ursula," she said, "who built this house, and brought over from England the fruits and flowers of the garden. Alas! they are now much wasted and destroyed."

At this moment, the old negro appeared, to say that the dinner was served.

They passed into another low room, in the centre of which was a long oaken dining-table, the upper end raised two steps higher than the lower, and the whole was fixed to the floor. At this time, the upper end only was covered with a rich damask cloth, where the lady and her guests took their seats; the other half of the table extending bare beneath them.

"In this chair, and at this table, the Lady Ursula was wont to dine with her maidens and serving-men," said Lady C——, as she took her seat in a high-backed, richly-carved chair of oak; "and I have retained the custom, though my serving-men are much reduced;" and she glanced her eye on the trembling old negro.

Edith thought how dreary it must be to dine there in solitary state, with no one to speak to except the old negro, and she cast a pitying look around the apartment.

A beauffet was in one corner, well filled with massive plate, and the walls were adorned with pictures in needle-work, framed in dark ebony.

The picture opposite Edith was much faded and defaced, but it was meant to represent Abraham offering his son Isaac in sacrifice.

"It was the work of the Lady Ursula's fingers," said Lady C——, "as every thing else you see here was created by her."

"Is she now living?" asked Edith, very innocently.

"Alas! no, my dear; hers was a sad fate; but her story is too long for the dining hour;" and as dinner was soon over, they returned to the other apartment.

Edith longed for a ramble in the garden. When she returned, the horses were at the door, and she took a reluctant leave, for she had not heard the story of the Lady Ursula.

As soon as they had turned their horses' heads outside the iron gate, Edith began her eager questions:

"Who was that beautiful woman, the original of the portrait? Where did she live? How did she die? What was her fate?" Her father smiled, and related the following particulars, which deserve another chapter.