THE COLD HOUSE-WARMING.

"It's an ill-wind dat blows nobody no good; and dat yar wind dat blowed de fire right down on our cabin did us some good ater all. Masser 'ud libbed in dat log-house till de day he died, hadn't been for dat fire dat frighted me so, and made me pray fasser 'n eber I prayed afore. Lord! Miss Alice, it looked like de judgment-day, when we sailed down de ribber in de light ob de pine-woods. 'Peared to me de worl' was all on fire. I see Saturn a shakin' in his boots. He tole me, nex' day, he tought it was de day of judgment, sure 'nuff. I heard him askin' de good Lord please forgib him fur all de 'lasses he'd taken unbeknown. My! my! I larfed myself to pieces when I tought of it arterward, case I'd never known where de 'lasses went to hadn't been for dat fire. Dis new house mighty nice. Ben didn't forget ole niggers when he built dis—de kitchen, and de pantry, and my settin'-room is mighty comfor'able. Ben's a handy young man—smart as a basket o' chips. He's good 'nuff for most anybody, but he's not good 'nuff for my pickaninny, and he ought to hab sense 'nuff to see it. Ye'd best be kerful, Miss Alice; he's high-tempered, and he'll make trouble. 'Scuse me for speakin'; I know ye've allers been so discreet and as modest as an angel. None can blame you, let what will happen. But I wish dat Mr. Moore would go way. Yes, I do, Miss Alice, for more 'n one reason. Don't tink ole Pallas not see tru a grin'-stone. Ef he wants to leab any peace o' mind behind him, he'd better clar out soon. Thar! thar, chile, nebber mind ole nigger. My! how purty you has made de table look. I'm much obleeged for yer assistance, darlin'. I'se bound to hab a splendid supper, de fust in de new house. 'Taint much of a house-warmin', seein' we'd nobody to invite, and no fiddle, but we've done what we could to make things pleasant. Laws! ef dat nigger ob mine wasn't sech a fool he could make a fiddle, and play suthin' for us, times when we was low-sperited."

Pallas' tongue did not go any faster than her hands and feet. It was the first day in the new house, and Alice and herself had planned to decorate the principal apartment, and have an extra nice supper. Ever since her father left for the mill, in the middle of the day, after the furniture was moved in, while Pallas put things "to rights," she had woven wreaths of evergreens, with scarlet dogberries and brilliant autumn-leaves interspersed, which she had festooned about the windows and doors; and now she was busy decorating the table, while the old colored woman passed in and out, adding various well-prepared dishes to the feast.

Pallas had been a famous cook in her day, and she still made the best of the materials at her command. A large cake, nicely frosted, and surrounded with a wreath, was one of the triumphs of her skill. A plentiful supply of preserved strawberries and wild-plum marmalade, grape-jelly, and blackberry-jam adorned the board. A venison-pie was baking in the oven, and a salmon, that would have roused the envy of Delmonico's, was boiling in the pot, while she prepared a sauce for it, for which, in times gone by, she had received many a compliment.

Philip had been taken into the secret of the feast, as Alice was obliged to depend upon him for assistance in getting evergreens. He was now out after a fresh supply, and Alice was beginning to wish he would make more haste, lest her father should return before the preparations were complete.

Again and again she went to the door to look out for him; and at last, six o'clock being come and past, she said with a pretty little frown of vexation:

"There's father coming, and Mr. Moore not back!"

The feast waited until seven—eight—and yet Philip had not returned.

Several of the men who had been busy about the house during the day were invited into supper; and at eight o'clock they sat down to it, in something of silence and apprehension, for every one by this time had come to the conclusion that Philip was lost in the woods. Poor Alice could not force herself to eat. She tried to smile as she waited upon her guests; but her face grew paler and her eyes larger every moment. Not that there was any such great cause for fright; there were no wild animals in that vicinity, except an occasional hungry bear in the spring, who had made his way from some remote forest; but she was a woman, timid and loving, and her fears kept painting terrible pictures of death by starvation, fierce wolves, sly panthers, and all the horrors of darkness.

"Poh! poh! child, don't look so scart," said her father, though he was evidently hurrying his meal, and quite unconscious of the perfection of the salmon-sauce, "there's no cause. He's lost; but he can't get so fur in the wrong direction but we'll rouse him out with our horns and lanterns and guns. We'll load our rifles with powder and fire 'em off. He hasn't had time to get fur."

"Likely he'll make his own way back time we're through supper," remarked one of the men cheerfully, as he helped himself to a second large piece of venison-pie. "'Tain't no use to be in a hurry. These city folks can't find thar way in the woods quite like us fellers, though. They ain't up to 't."

Alice looked over at the speaker; and, albeit she was usually so hospitable, wished he would make more speed with his eating. Pallas waited upon the table in profound silence. Something was upon her mind; but when Alice looked at her anxiously she turned her eyes away, pretending to be busy with her duties.

Ben Perkins had been asked to supper, but did not make his appearance until it was nearly over. When he came in he did not look anybody straight in the face, but sitting down with a reckless, jovial air, different from his usual taciturn manner, began laughing, talking, and eating, filling his plate with every thing he could reach.

"Have you seen any thing of Mr. Moore?" was the first question put to him, in the hope of hearing from the absent man.

"Moore? no,—ain't he here? Thought of course he'd be here makin' himself agreeable to the women;" and he laughed.

Whether Alice's excited state exalted all her perceptions, or whether her ears were more finely strung than those around her, this laugh, short, dry, and forced, chilled her blood. He did not look toward her as he spoke, but her gaze was fixed upon him with a kind of fascination; she could not turn it away, but sat staring at him, as if in a dream. Only once did he lift his eyes while he sat at the table, and then it was toward her; they slowly lifted as if her own fixed gaze drew them up; she saw them clearly for an instant, and—such eyes! His soul was in them, although he knew it not—a fallen soul—and the covert look of it through those lurid eyes was dreadful.

A strange tremulousness now seized upon Alice. She hurried her father and his men in their preparations, brought the lanterns, the rifles, the powder-horns; her hands shaking all the time. They laughed at her for a foolish child; and she said nothing, only to hurry them. Ben was among the most eager for the search. He headed a party which he proposed should strike directly back into the wood; but two or three thought best to go in another direction, so as to cover the whole ground. When they had all disappeared in the wood, their lights flashing here and there through openings and their shouts ringing through the darkness, Alice said to Pallas:

"Let us go too. There is another lantern. You won't be afraid, will you?"

"I'll go, to please you, chile, for I see yer mighty restless. I don't like trabelling in de woods at night, but de Lord's ober all, and I'll pray fas' and loud if I get skeered."

A phantom floated in the darkness before the eyes of Alice all through that night spent in wandering through forest depths, but it was shapeless, and she would not, dared not give shape to it. All night guns were fired, and the faithful men pursued their search; and at daybreak they returned, now really alarmed, to refresh their exhausted powers with strong coffee and a hastily-prepared breakfast, before renewing their exertions.

The search became now of a different character. Convinced that the missing man could not have got beyond the hearing of the clamor they had made through the night, they now anticipated some accident, and looked closely into every shadow and under every clump of fallen trees, behind logs, and into hollows.

Drinking the coffee which Pallas forced upon her, Alice again set forth, not with the others, but alone, walking like one distracted, darting wild glances hither and thither, and calling in an impassioned voice that wailed through the wilderness, seeming to penetrate every breath of air,—"Philip! Philip!"

And now she saw where he had broken off evergreens the day before, and fluttering round and round the spot, like a bird crying after its robbed nest, she sobbed,—"Philip! Philip!"

And then she saw him, sitting on a log, pale and haggard-looking, his white face stained with blood and his hair mottled with it, a frightful gash across his temple and head, which he drooped upon his hand; and he tried to answer her. Before she could reach him he sank to the ground.

"He is dead!" she cried, flying forward, sinking beside him, and lifting his head to her knee. "Father! father! come to us!"

They heard her sharp cry, and, hastening to the spot, found her, pale as the body at her feet, gazing down into the deathly face.

"Alice, don't look so, child. He's not dead—he's only fainted. Here, men, lift him up speedily, for he's nigh about gone. Thar's been mischief here—no mistake!"

Captain Wilde breathed hard as he glared about upon his men. The thought had occurred to him that some one had attempted to murder the young man for his valuable watch and chain and the well-filled purse he was supposed to carry. But no—the watch and money were undisturbed;—may be he had fallen and cut his head—if he should revive, they would know all.

They bore him to the house and laid him upon Alice's white bed in the pretty room just arranged for her comfort; it was the quietest, pleasantest place in the house, and she would have him there. After the administration of a powerful dose of brandy, the faint pulse of the wounded man fluttered up a little stronger; more was given him, the blood was wiped away, and cool, wet napkins kept around his head; and by noon of the same day, he was able to give some account of himself.

He was sitting in the very spot where they had found him, on the previous afternoon, with a heap of evergreens gathered about him, preoccupied in making garlands, so that he saw nothing, heard nothing, until something—it seemed to him a club wielded by some assailant who had crept up behind him—struck him a blow which instantly deprived him of his senses. How long he lay, bleeding and stunned, he could only guess; it seemed to be deep night when he recalled what had happened, and found himself lying on the ground, confused by the pain in his head and faint from loss of blood. He managed to crawl upon the log, so as to lean his head upon his arms, and had been there many hours. He heard the shouts and saw the lights which came near him two or three times, but he could not make noise enough to attract attention. When he heard Alice's voice, he had lifted himself into a sitting posture, but the effort was too great, and he sank again, exhausted, at the moment relief reached him.

His hearers looked in each other's faces as they heard his story. Who could have done that murderous deed? What was the object? the pleasant young stranger had no enemies,—he had not been robbed; there were no Indians known to be about, and Indians would have finished their work with the scalping-knife.

Alas! the terrible secret preyed at the heart of Alice Wilde. She knew, though no mortal lips had revealed it, who was the would-be murderer. A pair of eyes had unconsciously betrayed it. She had read "murder" there, and the wherefore was now evident.

Yet she had no proof of that of which she was so conscious. Should she denounce the guilty man, people would ask for evidence of his crime. What would she have to offer?—that the criminal loved her, and she loved the victim. No! she would keep the gnawing truth in her own bosom, only whispering a warning to the sufferer should he ever be well enough to need it; a matter by no means settled, as David Wilde was doctor enough to know.

Despite of all the preventives within reach, a fever set in that night, and for two or three days, Philip was very ill, a part of the time delirious; there was much more probability of his dying than recovering. Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas had that skill picked up by the necessity of being doctors to all accidents and diseases around them; and they exerted themselves to the utmost for their unfortunate young guest.

Then it was that Mr. Wilde found where the heart of his little girl had gone astray; and cursed himself for his folly in exposing her to a danger so probable. Yet, as he looked at her sweet face, worn with watching and trouble, he could not but believe that the hand of the proudest aristocrat on earth was none too good for her, and that Philip would recognize her beauty and worth. If she must love, and be married, he would more willingly resign her to Philip Moore than to any other man. Alice lacked experience as a nurse, but she followed every motion of the good old colored woman, and stood ready to interfere where she could be of any use.

Sitting hour after hour by Philip's bedside, changing the wet cloths constantly to keep them cool, she heard words from his delirious lips which added still more to her despair—fond, passionate words, addressed not to her, but to some beloved woman, some beautiful "Virginia," now far away, unconscious of her lover's danger, while to her fell the sad pleasure of attending upon him.

"Oh, that he may live, and not die by the hand of an assassin, so innocent a victim to a needless jealousy. Oh, that he may live to save this Virginia, whoever she may be, from the fate of a hopeless mourner. It will be joy enough for me to save his life," she cried to herself.

The crisis passed; the flush of fever was succeeded by the languor and pallor of extreme prostration; but the young man's constitution was excellent, and he recovered rapidly. Then how it pleased Pallas to cook him tempting dishes; and how it pleased Alice to see the appetite with which he disposed of them. Women love to serve those who are dear to them; no service can be so homely or so small that their enthusiasm does not exalt it.

Yet the stronger Philip grew, the more heavily pressed a cold horror upon the soul of Alice. Ben Perkins had not been to the house since the wounded man was brought into it; and when Alice would have asked her father of his whereabouts, her lips refused to form his name. She hoped that he had fled; but then she knew that if he had disappeared, her father would have mentioned it, and that the act would have fixed suspicion upon him. She felt that he was hovering about, that he often beheld her, when she was unaware of the secret gaze; she could not endure to step to the door after dark, and she closed the curtains of the windows with extremest care, especially in Philip's room.

The first light snow of November had fallen when the invalid was able to sit up all day; but, although he knew that his long absence would excite consternation among his friends at Center City, and that business at home required his attention, he found each day of his convalescence so pleasant, that he had not strength of will sufficient to break the charm. To read to his young friend while she sewed; to watch her flitting about the room while he reclined upon a lounge; to talk with her; to study her changing countenance, grew every day more sweet to him. At first he thought it was gratitude—she had been so kind to him. But a thrilling warmth always gathered about his heart when he remembered that passionate voice, crying through the pine-woods with such a sobbing sound—"Philip! Philip!"

Finding himself thus disposed to linger, he was the more chagrined to perceive that Alice was anxious to have him go; she gave him no invitation to prolong his visit, and said unequivocally, that if he did not wish to be ice-bound for the winter, he would have to depart as soon as his strength would permit. Her father had promised him, when he came up, to take him down the river again when he was ready, as he should be obliged to go down again for his winter stores; and he now waited his visitor's movements.

No words had passed between Alice and Pallas on the subject of the attempted murder, yet the former half knew that the truth was guessed by the faithful servant who also hastened the departure of their guest.

"I declare, Aunt Pallas, I believe I have worn out my welcome. I've been a troublesome fellow, I know; but it hurts my vanity to see you getting so tired of me," he said, laughingly, one day, when they were alone together, he sitting on the kitchen-steps after the lazy manner of convalescents, trying to get warmth, both from the fire within and the sun without.

"Ole folks never gets tired of young, bright faces, masser Philip. But ole folks knows sometimes what's fer de best, more 'n young ones."

"Then you think Miss Alice wants to get rid of me, and you second your darling's wishes—eh, Pallas?" and he looked at her, hoping she would contradict him.

"I'd do a' mos' any thing for my pickaninny—I lub her better den life; an' dar' never was anudder such a chile, so pretty and so good, as I know as has been wid her sence she drew her firs' bref. If I tought she wanted you to go, I'd want you to go, too, masser, not meanin' any disrespeck—and she do want you to go; but she's got reasons for it;" and she shook her yellow turban reflectively.

"Do you think she is getting to dislike me?"

"Dat's her own bisness, ef she is; but dat ain't de main reason. She don't like de look of that red scar down your forrid. She knows who made dat ugly scar, and what fer they did it. She tinks dis a dangerous country for you, Masser Moore, and Pallas tink so too. Go way, masser, quick as you can, and nebber come back any more."

"But I shall come back, Aunt Pallas, next spring, to bring you something nice for all you've done for me, and because—because—I shan't be able to stay away," he answered, though somewhat startled and puzzled by her revelation.

"Why not be able to stay 'way?" queried she, with a sharp glance.

"Oh, you can guess, Aunt Pallas. I shan't tell you."

"People isn't allers satisfied with guessing—like to have things plain, and no mistake 'bout 'em," observed Pallas.

"Just so. I am not satisfied with guessing who tried to kill me, and what their object was. I am going to ask Alice, this evening. She's evidently frightened about me; she won't let me stir a step alone. So you think your pickaninny is the best and the prettiest child alive, do you?"

"Dat I do."

"So do I. What do you suppose she thinks of such a worthless kind of a person as myself? Do, now, tell me, won't you, auntie?"

"You clar out, young masser, and don't bozzer me. I'se busy wid dis ironin'. You'd better ask her, if yer want to find out."

"But can't you say something to encourage me?"

"You go 'long. Better tease somebody hain't got no ironin' on hand."

"You'll repent of your unkindness soon, Aunt Pallas; for, be it known to you, to-morrow is set for my departure, and when I'm gone it will be too late to send your answer after me;" and the young man rose, with a very becoming air of injured feeling which delighted her much.

"Hi! hi! ef it could only be," she sighed, looking after him. "But we can't smoof tings out in dis yere worl' quite so easy as I smoof out dis table-cloth. He's one ob de family, no mistake; and masser's found it out, too, 'fore dis."

That night the family sat up late, Pallas busy in the kitchen putting up her master's changes of linen and cooked provisions for the next day's journey, and the master himself busied about many small affairs demanding attention.

The two young people sat before a blazing wood-fire in the front room; the settle had been drawn up to it for Philip's convenience, and his companion at his request had taken a seat by his side. The curtains were closely drawn, yet Alice would frequently look around in a timid, wild way, which he could not but notice.

"You did not use to be so timid."

"I have more reason now;" and she shuddered. "Until you were hurt, Mr. Moore, I did not think how near we might be to murderers, even in our house."

"You should not allow it to make such an impression on your mind. It is passed; and such things scarcely happen twice in one person's experience."

"I do not fear for myself—it is for you, Mr. Moore."

"Philip, you called me, that night in the woods. Supposing I was in danger, little Alice, what would you risk for me?"

She did not answer.

"Well, what would you risk for some one you loved—say, your father?"

"All things—my life."

"There are some people who would rather risk their life than their pride, their family name, or their money. Supposing a man loved a woman very much, and she professed to return his love, but was not willing to share his meager fortunes with him; could not sacrifice splendor and the passion for admiration, for his sake—what would you think of her?"

"That she did not love him."

"But you do not know, little Alice; you have never been tempted; and you know nothing of the strength of fashion in the world, of the influence of public opinion, of the pride of appearances."

"I have guessed it," she answered, sadly.

He thought there was a shadow of reproach in those pure eyes, as if she would have added, that she had been made to feel it, too.

"I loved a woman once," he continued; "loved her so rashly that I would have let her set her perfect foot upon my neck and press my life out. She knew how I adored her, and she told me she returned my passion. But she would not resign any of her rank and influence for my sake."

"Was her name Virginia?"

"It was; how did you know?"

"You talked of her when you were ill."

"I'll warrant. But she wouldn't have sat up one night by my bedside, for fear her eyes would be less brilliant for the next evening's ball. She drove me off to the West to make a fortune for her to spend, in case she did not get hold of somebody else's by that time. Do you think I ought to make it for her?"

There was no answer. His companion's head was drooping. He lifted one of her hands, as he went on:

"I was so dazzled by her magnificence that, for a long time, I could see nothing in its true light. But my vision is clear now. Virginia shall never have my fortune to spend, nor me to twist around her jeweled finger."

The hand he held began to tremble.

"Now, little Alice, supposing I had told you of such love, and you had professed to answer it, what sacrifices would you have made? Would you have given me that little gold heart you wear about your neck—your only bit of ornamentation?"

"I would have made a sacrifice, full as great in its way, as the decline in pomp and position might have been to the proud lady," she replied, lifting her eyes calmly to his face. "I would have refused the offered happiness if, by accepting it, I thought I should ever, by my ignorance of proprieties, give him cause to blush for me—if I thought my uncultivated tastes would some time disappoint him, that he would grow weary of me as a friend and companion because I was not truly fitted for that place—if I thought I was not worthy of him, I would sacrifice myself, and try to wish only for his best happiness."

Her eyes sank, as she ceased speaking, and the tears which would come into them, gushed over her cheeks.

"Worthy! you are more than worthy of the best man in the world, Alice! far more than worthy of me!" cried Philip, in a rapture he could not restrain. "O Alice, if you only loved me in that fashion!"

"You know that I do," she replied, with that archness so native to her, smiling through her tears.

"Then say no more. There—don't speak—don't speak!" and he shut her mouth with the first kiss of a lover.

For a while their hearts beat too high with happiness to recall any of the difficulties of their new relation.

"We shall have small time to lay plans for the future, now. But I shall fly to you on the first breezes of spring, Alice. Your father shall know all, on our way down the river. Oh, if there was only a mail through this forlorn region. I could write to you, at least."

"I shall have so much to do, the winter will speedily pass; I must study the books you brought me. But I shall not allow myself to hope too much," she added, with a sudden melancholy, such as sometimes is born of prophetic instinct.

"I can not hope too highly!" said Philip, with enthusiasm. "Here comes your father. Dear Alice, your cheeks are so rosy, I believe he will read our secret to-night."