The influence which Henry Tracy was enabled to exert can only be fully known when all results and causes shall be developed in the clearer, brighter light of eternity; but a vast amount of good was manifest, even to those whose moral vision was not the clearest. Many a young mind was stimulated to exert its dormant energies, and feeling its strength, rushed on to distinction. His pleasing manners were a beautiful accompaniment to his cultivated mind, and gave a decided tone to those of the young who had any taste for what was refined and elegant. Nor was the renovation he was accomplishing altogether hidden from himself; a great change was working—he saw it; it did not fill his heart with pride, it only stimulated him to further progress, and warmed his gratitude to God. One thing was certain: he had entwined himself around the hearts of all, and his own affections were more truly interested than they had ever been before, beyond his parents' roof. It seemed to be the place where God would have him be—'The very niche he was designed to fill.' It was also the means of deciding him as to the calling he should pursue for life. To be suitably fitted to take the spiritual charge of a people, no matter how secluded or unpolished they might be, was now his highest aim; and after a suitable time he made known to the principal men that this was his intention, and that he must leave them, and go where he could obtain the necessary instruction. Little did he realize the hold he had of their affections, until this determination was expressed. Nothing would satisfy their yearning towards him but his promise, that, when through his course of study, he would come and be their minister.

'We will build you a church just on the spot which you have selected, and we will put you up a house, that you shall call your home as long as you live; only promise that you will come and spend your days with us.'

How could he say 'Nay'? Three years in all has he been separated from them, and now for more than a year he has been settled over them as their pastor. They have erected a church, and it stands, as we have seen, on a beautiful knoll that commands a lovely view of the surrounding waters; and they have built the parsonage, and it is near the church, embracing the same enchanting water view, although somewhat obstructed by its embowering trees and shrubbery. It is, however unoccupied, for Henry is yet a single man, and whether his affections are engaged, it matters not. He has made no declaration of them, and retains his old situation with the Widow Andrews.

A favorite resort of his has been the cottage of Mary Brown. He loves to ramble amidst the seclusion of the thick forest, to call in at the poor cottages, give a word of comfort or instruction, and then rest himself at the table of the widow, and listen to her ready converse about the things of a better world. Sometimes, too, he seems not at all unwilling to listen while the widow talks of one she loves most dearly. Henry had met with Hettie Brown occasionally at Mr. Rutherford's. He had been struck with her appearance, and we need not be surprised at this, for she is some years older now than when we last saw her. The pretty girl with sun-burnt face, and curly raven locks, and dark hazel eyes, is now a lovely young woman. Nor was it her appearance alone that surprised him. Hettie had studied nature rather than books, but she had gathered quite a little store; and the ease with which she conversed, and the variety that her mind brought forth, together with the deep interest she manifested as he poured out from his own more enlarged mind the treasures of knowledge, convinced him that she had a desire for improvement, and an appetite for acquiring information that would make her an agreeable scholar.

A warm yet lovely afternoon had tempted Henry to seek the refreshing shade among the pines; and not caring to extend his walk, he directed his steps at once to the widow's cottage.

At that period of the day, he generally expected to see her sitting a little back from the house, beneath the shade of a large white pine, whose thick and spreading branches afforded a cool and pleasant shelter from the rays of the summer sun. Missing her in her usual seat, he entered the cottage; the moment he stood upon the threshold, he raised his hands and remained perfectly stationary, looking in silent astonishment at the scene before him.

His eye met that of the widow; it was mild and calm as ever, but no smile returned his greeting, and she turned away immediately towards the object that then engrossed her heart, and perhaps intending thereby to direct his notice thither also.

It was enough, indeed, to have chained a mother's attention; for on the bed by which she was sitting, lay her only son, for whose sake she lived thus alone, senseless, but still alive; his pallid countenance and sunken eye and cheek, his short faint breathing, all plainly indicated that life was held but by a slender thread—so slender, that a trifle might sunder it for ever. Close by the head of the sufferer stood his sister, gently waving a large fan, and thereby relieving in some measure the closeness of the atmosphere, which, to one so weak as he appeared, must have been oppressive in the extreme. Neither mother nor daughter attempted to offer any explanation of the circumstances; and Henry had too much delicacy, and was too sincerely affected by what he saw, to intrude any questions, or interrupt the perfect silence of the sick chamber.

Gently rising from her seat, the widow touched the arm of her Hettie, who resigned the place and the fan, and turning her sad yet beautiful eyes toward the young minister, and stepping lightly to the door, signified that she wished him to follow.

He offered his arm, and in silence she led him to a shade sufficiently removed, so that the sound of their voices could not reach the cottage. Resigning her arm, he motioned her to a seat.

'Thank you; I cannot sit, but must return immediately. You have heard of my brother's illness?' looking full at Henry.

'Not a word. But tell me what could have brought him so low in so short a period. When I was here a few days since, your mother said nothing of his being sick.'

'He was brought home two days ago in the condition you now see him.'

Hettie was much affected, and it was some time before she could command her feelings so as to give a clear recital of all she knew: 'That he was found lying by the road—that he was at first supposed to be dead—that a litter was made, and upon it he was brought home—that the ground where he lay was covered with blood, and other marks of a violent scuffle—that he had not spoken a word, nor could any one give the least explanation of the matter.'

'Let me go with you to him at once,' said Henry.

Henry entered the cottage with her. Little, however, could be done besides keeping the sufferer as quiet as possible, and administering some slight nourishment; and thus he lay from week to week, living, breathing, barely able to make himself understood by sign or word, and nothing more. But Henry was not the only male friend who clung to them in this their hour of need. David Cross had been almost a constant attendant from the moment William had been brought home. David had always been a visitor at the cottage; he had been invariably kind to the widow, watching over her in her loneliness, seeing to her little wants, calling and sitting many long hours, and apparently not unwilling to listen to her instructions, and ready to do any act of kindness, insomuch that she felt for him almost the affection of a mother. She pitied him, too, in his peculiar situation; he had no mother, or none that he had ever known as such—it was said that she had died many years ago; he had no brother, sister, or other relative beside his father; from him he had never received many tokens of affection. He would no doubt have been proud to see him rise in the world: and, as we have seen, was very willing to accomplish this end at the expense of others; but he was morose in his disposition, often unkind to the young man, supplying him indeed with money, but as often lavishing his curses upon him as any thing else.

Dave was naturally of a kind nature, but had been bred among those who were rough and rude; his manners, of course, were more or less tinctured by his education; his associates were such as would be likely to lead him into wild adventures and corrupt practices. The only counteracting influence had been that which the widow exerted over him; and his conduct towards her evinced a kindness of feeling, and a sensibility to better things, which those who saw him among his wild companions would never have imagined. The heart of the widow yearned over him, and she never lost the hope that David Cross would one day rise above his present ways.

And besides all this, there was in his heart a strong and long-enduring attachment for Hettie; he had been fond of her when but a girl; and his interest for her had become an absorbing feeling of his heart. During her long stay at Mr. Rutherford's, he had never lost sight of her; but having either business to attend to for his father in that region, or feigning it for his own ends, he would frequently take small parcels or trifling errands from the mother to the daughter, and many a precious bundle of good things had he brought from Hettie, through the kindness of Mrs. Rutherford, to comfort and cheer the widow. He was, therefore, by no means an unwelcome visitor at either house; his personal appearance was not unpleasant—a manly, open countenance, a kind manner, mingled indeed with some roughness, and a fearless, straightforward, animated way, calculated to make a favorable impression. Hettie seemed always glad to see him; so much so, that many of the family firmly believed that she had other feelings towards him than mere neighborly kindness. Mrs. Rutherford knew her heart in this matter, and was convinced that such was not the case.

Hettie indeed did not love him, nor did she feel that she ever could; and was careful to do nothing that might give him occasion to indulge a false hope in regard to her. David had, as I have said, sympathized with William on his sick bed; he it was who had brought Hettie home, and day and night, with Henry Tracy, had been untiring in doing every thing for their relief.

William's consciousness returned to him long before he had any ability to hold conversation, and the dilemma in which he found himself involved occupied almost constantly his waking thoughts. The desperate character of Cross; the vile plot that had been executed against the unsuspecting and noble-minded Rutherfords; the fate of the trunk for which he had fought so desperately, the least whisper of which had not reached his ear: all these subjects distracted his weak and flickering senses—a terrible secret lay in his breast, which he had not the power to reveal in any way that would be intelligible, and when revealed, must crush to ruin the hopes of the friend who was watching at his side, by bringing the father to an ignominious end. At times, in the agony of his contending thoughts, he would groan aloud, and the large drops would gather on his pale forehead. Hettie or the mother would bend over him, and say some soothing word, and wipe his clammy face, and inquire 'why he groaned? or where the pain was? or what they could do for him?' but he would shake his head, and closing his eyes, give up awhile his troubled thoughts and fall asleep. Thus day after day and week after week stole on, and still he lay in his feebleness, gaining strength, if at all, by a very slow and almost imperceptible progress.

It was at the close of a lowery day; the shadows of night were deepened by a dark canopy of clouds which hung over the barrens. The Widow Brown had lighted her lamp and placed it on the stand by the bed of her son, wishing to sit as close to him as she could, while plying her busy needle. David Cross was reclining on a low cot-bed; he had taken Hettie to Mr. Rutherford's that day, and expecting to watch part of the night, was anticipating a few hours' sleep. A gentle tap was heard, and as the widow opened the door, a woman, clad in somewhat better garments than was usual among the people of that region, stood panting for breath, and looking with great earnestness, and in much apparent agitation—

'Are you alone, Mrs. Brown?'

'There is no one here, Margaret, but David, besides my sick son.'

'Oh, do step out here a moment—do, Mrs. Brown;' and the widow closed the door and followed the woman a few paces from the house. She knew her well—poor Margaret! and she pitied her too; for Margaret she had heard was once a pretty, happy girl; her home had been far from there. In an evil hour, she had listened to the flattering tale of the deceiver, and now she was a miserable dependant on the will of Cross—his slave to do his bidding.

'I have run all the way, Mrs. Brown, from my house, and I want you to go right back with me.'

'Not to-night, Margaret, surely; the weather looks so threatening, and I don't like to leave William, and Hettie gone too. What has happened, Margaret?'

'You must go, ma'am, this blessed minute, for poor Ned Saunders is dying, and he says he cannot die in peace until he sees you. He has been raving crazy ever since the night he was brought to my house; but this morning he had a long sleep, and when he came out of it, his reason was all straight—but such a distressed creature you never see. He says he cannot live, and that he must see you—as he has something to tell you which he dare not tell to any one else. You don't know, Mrs. Brown, what a worry I am in; for you see Cross has charged me, by the worth of my life, to let him know the moment Ned had his reason. But I am afraid there have been some evil doings, from what Ned says; and if Cross should get there before I return, there is no telling what he might do to me.'

'Well, Margaret, wait here a minute until I put my things on.'

The widow was soon in readiness; and having committed matters to the charge of David Cross, without giving any particulars further than that she had a call to a neighbor's, closed the door and went on her way, dark as was the night and gloomy the errand on which she was bound.

Margaret led the way; and excited by an impulse of some terrible kind, hurried on through the dark forest with maniac impetuosity. Their path was a difficult one to traverse, for it lay through an unfrequented region, and the opening by which they went, it was almost impossible to trace by the feeble light which yet glimmered from the close of day. Guided almost by instinct, Margaret pioneered, and the widow followed with all the speed she could make. For awhile they skirted the side of a thick and tangled swamp, and then turning a little to the right, came at once upon the feeble twinkle of a pine torch from the window of a log hut.

'Anybody been here, Ned?'

'No one. Has she come?'

'She is here.'

And the sick man raised his eyes to catch a glimpse of her he had wished so much to see, while a smile almost lighted up his wild and haggard countenance.

'Oh, Aunty!'—this was the familiar title by which the good woman was generally addressed—'oh, Aunty! I'm so glad you're come. I'm a'most gone.'

'I hope not, Edward.'

'Yes, I am. I thought I couldn't die till I see you. You've often talked to me, you know—and I thought it was all foolish—I don't think so now.'

He had to pause, for his feelings were greatly excited, and his frame apparently near dissolution. She put her hand upon his forehead, and felt that the death-damp was gathering there. She wiped his face with a cloth, and bathed his temples with some spirit: this revived him a little, and apparently in an agony to unburden his mind, he seized the first return of a little strength.

'Oh, I have been so wicked! I shall go to hell—I know I shall.'

'Are you truly sorry, Edward, that you have sinned against God?'

'Oh, yes! I'm sorry—but what shall I do? I know I deserve to be punished; but oh, Aunty! how can I meet God?'

'If you are truly sorry, and pray to God to have mercy on you for Christ's sake, He will forgive you, Edward; for He has said so.'

'Oh, has He said so? Where? tell me quick, Aunty; for I feel the cold creeping over my heart—tell me quick.'

'In the Bible, Edward: it is full of promises to those who repent of sin, and turn to God through Jesus Christ. He came into the world for that very purpose. He hung upon the cross for us poor sinners: and while he hung there, he pardoned a thief that was hanging beside him, and about to die. He says, "Whosoever cometh to me, I will in nowise cast out."'

'You don't think He will save such a worthless sinner as I am?'

'Oh, yes, Edward; if you throw yourself upon His mercy, and ask Him to forgive you.'

The dying man turned his eyes away from the widow, raised them towards heaven, and clasped his trembling hands together,

'God have mercy upon me, a poor sinner—a dreadful sinner! for Christ's sake; for Christ's sake, only for Christ's sake!'

And the widow wiped away the big drops that stood upon his clay-cold, forehead. Again he fixed his eye upon her—

'But, oh! there's a dreadful load upon my heart—there are—some things—I have done—that must be told—I cannot keep them. Come, lean your head down close to me.'

The widow was by no means anxious to hear his tale of sins and misdoings, but she obeyed his request. He was greatly excited; his breath flew back and forth like a weaver's shuttle, and he could only get the words out by catches.

'You know—Rutherford's house—has been burnt—and I don't know—but some of them were burnt in it. Cross—hired me and two others. We wanted to get a trunk—a tin trunk—I fired the house. They got the trunk—and I brought it along. Your son Bill met me on the road and struck me from the horse—and tried to get the trunk. We grappled—and I thought I'd killed him—but I don't know nothing since then—that's all—oh dear! Why did I go? Cross, Cross, Cross—did it all;—but, oh God!—here it comes—'

He ceased speaking—his lips trembled, his eyes rolled back convulsively—he clutched at the clothing, a spasm shook his frame—it was death's last stroke; and as the quivering limbs settled into rest, breath and pulse were still.

The widow saw that he was dead; and clasping her hands in silent horror, she looked at poor Margaret for an explanation. Margaret shook her head.

'Don't speak; I believe it is all true, but you must not stay here a minute longer. The poor fellow is dead, you can do him no good; and Cross may be the death of me, if he finds you have been here—hark!'

The noise of approaching footsteps was distinctly heard; but before they could make the least effort at concealment, the door opened, and Cross entered.

The widow spoke to him in her mild, pleasant way. He manifested great confusion tried to speak calmly, but his voice choked and trembled greatly. He cast his eye quickly on the bed—

'What! dead? Ned is not dead?'

'Yes,' said the widow; 'he has just breathed his last. Can I be of any service to you, Margaret, by staying here? If I can—'

'Oh no,' replied Cross, quickly; 'there is no use, we won't trouble Mrs. Brown.'

'Well, then, I will be going, as it is getting late in the evening.' So wishing them good-night, she quietly stepped from the door, walked slowly a few paces, and then hurried along with as much speed as the darkness would permit.

No sooner did Cross perceive that the widow was gone, than his countenance assumed an aspect of the fiercest rage.

'How is this?'—clenching his fist, and shaking it near to the head of the trembling, wretched female—'how is this? How came that old canting hypocrite here?'

'Ned begged me to go for her: he said he could not die in peace until he saw her.'

'Die in peace!' and he stamped his foot with rage—'die in peace! and did not I charge you, by your life, to let no human being see him in his reason, but myself?' And saying this, he caught her by the hair, and dashed her with his utmost power to the floor. She arose, without uttering a word or groan, upon her knees; she caught him by the arm; he endeavoured to thrust her from him, but her hold was the grasp of despair; at once he drew a poniard, that he always carried in a concealed case at his side; she saw it glitter as he held it up in the act of plunging it to her heart.

'Oh mercy, mercy! for God's sake—for the sake of him who calls you father, don't kill me! Remember all I have suffered for you—the mother of your only child, though you have never owned me. Have not I always done your bidding? lost my soul and body for you?'

Pity, or some other motive, unnerved his arm—he could not just then do the deed; but hurling her from him, threw her to the other side of the cabin, like a reptile that he hated.

In an instant she was on her feet—a rifle was in her hand, and it was pointed in deadly aim at her vile oppressor. The gun Cross had not noticed—it always stood loaded; for Margaret (or Meg as she was called) lived alone, and in that wild place had learned how to use it. He had no idea that the poor worm he had so long trodden upon could ever turn against him; but when he beheld her eyes glaring with fury, and the deadly weapon levelled at his breast, his blood curdled at his heart. He made a step towards her.

'One step more, and you are dead!'

'Put that down, Meg; I don't want to hurt you.' The poor craven now began to cower, and thought that a few soft words would obliterate a life of abuse, carried to a point where woman's love turns to the direst hate.

'No, never! Stir but one foot—move but a single limb—and you will lie beside that wretched victim of your hellish arts. Hear me now, David Cross; I am no longer your slave. You have ruined my name; you have defrauded me of the title of wife; you have made me disown my child; you have kept me in poverty, and made me a companion of outcasts; and now you have thrust me from you, like a hideous reptile—but your hour has come; that miserable being, whom you sent here a raving maniac, has let out your secret—it is already on the wings of the wind.'

Cross trembled in every joint; a fiend, with demoniac power, seemed glaring at him in the being whom but a moment before he had so shamefully abused.

'Meg, forgive me. I have wronged you; I know I have. Don't take my life, and I will make it all right. I will say you are my wife; I will do anything you want.'

'Forgive you? Yes, I will forgive you, when you bring back my poor parents who went down to the grave mourning for her you ruined; when you can tear from my mind the memory of wrongs none but a woman's heart could ever have borne so long. Forgive you? no, never. Your life you may have! but go—before the dreadful feelings which have been burning in my heart blaze up again. Go! go quick—'

He waited not, but moved to the door, stepped trembling from the threshold, and hurried away through the dark forest.

The moment Cross had gone Margaret opened a small trunk, hastily gathered together a few articles of dress, and slipping a little roll of paper containing her stock of money into her pocket, tied up her clothing in a bundle, cast one look upon the dead body, and then quitted the wretched tenement she had so long called her home, firmly resolved never to enter it again.

She hastened at once towards the cottage of the Widow Brown, and so rapidly did she thread her way through the intricate path, that before the widow had passed over half the distance to her home, Margaret had overtaken her.

'Don't be frightened, Mrs. Brown; I did not think to reach you so soon—but stop and listen to me.'

The widow had indeed stopped, for Margaret came upon her so unexpectedly, that she was much alarmed, and deprived of the ability, even if she had the will, to escape.

'I will listen to you, Margaret, but I have heard dreadful things enough to-night. I am almost distracted now.'

'I would not add a straw to your burdens, my dear good Mrs. Brown, but I am a poor distressed creature. The whole of my life for these many years has been one scene of misery; but I can bear it no longer, and this very night will find me many miles from hence.'

'Oh, do, don't talk so, Margaret. Come go with me, and rest you for the night at least; it is so dark, and beginning to storm already.'

'This darkness and the rain are no troubles to me; but just listen one moment. You know that I have told you what I have no other human being. One secret more I must commit to you—that young man who is now at your house is my son.'

'David Cross your son, Margaret?'

'It is God's truth, and all I want of you is, whenever you think it best, to let him know what I have told you. I am now on my way to the city. I shall seek a place of service, and when I find a resting-place, if there is any such spot for me on earth, I shall let you know. But one thing I must beg of you—Cross has treated me like a brute, and I came very near taking his life to-night; but for David's sake, spare him—don't reveal the terrible tale you heard to-night. Promise me, now, won't you'—and Margaret fell upon her knees and clasped the arms of the widow—'promise me, you will not reveal it without in some way you are obliged to do it?'

'Why, Margaret, my mind is so disturbed by all these scenes, that I cannot think of things as I should like to before making any promise; but you know I love David, and would be as careful of injuring him, as my own child.'

'That is enough; but oh, do just put your hand upon my head, and say one prayer over me. I shall go lighter on my way, for I have but a heavy heart, and a weary road lies before me.'

'May God bless you, my child, for Jesus Christ's sake, and make a way for you to some place where you will be in peace; and may you yet have some comfort before you die.'

'Amen!' said Margaret; and seizing the hand of the widow, which had rested on her shoulder, she kissed it again and again, and then departed.