Down upon the shore, so built as to form a picturesque feature in the landscape, stood an old boat-house, in which Ben Benson made his home when out of active service at the Mansion. Here the stout old seaman kept his fishing-tackle, his rifle, and a thousand miscellaneous things that appertained to his various avocations, for Ben was not only a naturalist and philosopher at large, but a mechanic of no ordinary skill. He not only devised his own fishing-flies, wove his own shad-nets, and game-baskets, but performed the duties of a ship-carpenter whenever his boats got out of order, or a new one was wanted for the river.

On the day of Lina's great sorrow, Ben was standing in front of the boat-house, superintending a kettle of pitch that was boiling over a fire of dried logs and bark. The boat which had been almost torn to pieces on the night when Mabel Harrington so narrowly escaped a terrible death, was now turned upside down, and Ben was preparing to calk the bottom and repair the injuries it had received.Lina saw him as she came down the avenue, and her pace quickened. The thin shawl she had flung about her was fluttering in the wind, but there was a fever in heart and brain, which rendered her insensible to the blast which swept the curls back from her burning forehead, and rustled through her light garments. The little Italian grey-hound, which had been for months her special pet, had followed her, unperceived, striving in vain to win some sign of attention from the distracted girl.

Lina flew down the bank, and Ben looked up as the sound of her footsteps warned him who it was that approached.

"I knowed that it was you, Miss Lina," he said, while every feature in his rough face softened, as he looked toward her. "Sakes alive! what brought ye out here such a day as this—this wind is enough to snap you right in two."

"I don't mind the cold, Ben; I wanted to talk to you."

"Wal, if there's any one thing Ben Benson kin do for you, you've only jest to mention it, and consider it done a'ready."

"I know it, Ben, and that is why I come. I wanted to ask you something."

"Why, you're shakin' worse nor a poplar leaf, and you're as white as if you hadn't a drop of blood in your precious little body. What on arth's the matter with you, Lina? See that ere dog; now, ain't he a pretty specimen of an animal exotic to be out of a hot house in such a wind as this."

Ben gathered the shivering little creature to his bosom with one hand, snugly enveloping him in the capacious folds of his pilot jacket, while with the other he seized Lina's hands, and leaning back against the boat, stood looking at her with a half-pitying, half-affectionate glance, that was indescribably comic and touching."I should like to know what Mister Ralph was a-thinkin' on, to let you come out alone sich a day as this."

That name made Lina shudder, and a sudden spasm contracted her features.

"No one knew that I was coming out. Oh, Ben! I want to ask something—do not refuse to tell me, or I shall die! How came I here—where was I born—oh, who am I, Ben?"

"Sakes alive! How she goes on! One question at a time, if you please, Miss Lina! What on arth's been putting sich ideas into your little head? Now no circumwenting—speak the truth, if you be a woman."

"Oh, Ben, I have always wondered and longed to know something about myself, and of late, this desire has increased. I can think of nothing else. Do not put me off—I shall die if I am kept longer in this suspense."

Ben began to hug the pretty dog more and more tenderly to his bosom, as if it was that which needed comforting, and not the poor girl before him. At last, turning himself uneasily about, like a man disturbed by a sudden recurrence of painful memories.

"Now, don't go to gettin' oneasy idees into your little head; there's nothin' wuss for the femenine constitution. When you're well enough, let yerself alone, and be satisfied."

"Oh, Ben, don't—don't! You are my friend—you have always been kind to me; do not turn from me, now, when I am tortured by these strange doubts. There is no one else of whom I can ask an explanation, and you cannot refuse it! I am so very, very, unhappy, Ben—dear, good Ben!"

"There, there, Miss Lina!" Ben muttered, hoarsely, patting her hand with his hard palm; then, clasping it again in his huge fingers, and looking at it earnestly, as if it had been a delicately wrought sea-shell. "Don't say no more—now don't—when Ben Benson gives advice, 'taint without a reason. Now, you just listen to me, and then run away, and don't get no more tantrums in that little head o' yours. Hain't the madam, Mrs. Harrington, always been like a mother to you—hain't she treated you as if you had been her own flesh and blood—do you want to make her unhappy now, little gal, do you worry her about such things?"

"You know I would rather die, Ben!"

"I do believe you would, Miss Lina, I raly do! But there ain't no question about dyin'—you've only to be patient and good, as is nat'ral to you—take things as they come, and that's enough. I ain't a goin' to have you ask me no questions, and I know you won't do it."

"But, Ben."

"Hush!" said Ben, pressing her hands hard between his broad palms, and dropping them tenderly downward. "I can't listen to another word of this 'ere. It ain't of no use," and with a gesture of stubborn sorrow, Ben walked deliberately into his domain, and closing the door, bolted it against Lina, leaving her shivering in the cold.

Lina looked ruefully at the closed door, and her heart sunk as she heard the heavy bolt drawn within. The last faint hope died out then; and, without a word, she turned and walked away into the woods, desolate beyond comparison with any former moment of her life. The wind grew sharp, and whistled through the light indoor garments with which she had recklessly come forth; her lips turned purple with cold; her hands were so numb, that they fell apart as she attempted to clasp them; the tears rushed warm from her eyes, and dropped away, frozen, like hail: and yet poor Lina struggled on, thinking the cold only another pang of anguish, which it was her duty to bear.