A MEETING IN THE WOODS.

Pallas was in "her elements." There's nothing a genuine cook likes so well as to be given carte blanche for a wedding. If the Wildes had invited a hundred guests to stop with them a fortnight, she would hardly have increased the measure of her preparations. No wonder the old soul was happy in the prospect of the really excellent match her darling was to make, as well as in the promise that she was to go with her and take the culinary department of the new household under her charge.

"We's goin' to lib soon whar' de clo'es massa gives us 'll do us some good, Saturn. We can go to meetin' once more like 'spectable colored quality should. An' de house 'll be bran new, and I'm to keep de keys of all de closets myself—and young missus will set at de head ob de table, wid plenty of silber, as my missuses have allers done. An' you'll have to have some pride about you, and get ober bein' so sleepy. Nebber hear nor see any ting so cur'us as we goin' back into dat berry family. Now, Saturn, don't you let me cotch you cookin' or eatin' a single egg, 'cause I want 'em all for cake. Masser only brought home twenty dozen, which ain't near enough. I want ebery one dem pullets lays. An' you feed em chickens up good and fat an' dem wild turkeys in de pen. Dis isn't a bad country for a cook, arter all. I've been reck'nin' up, an' I find we can have wild turkey and partridges and salmon and ven'sen and chicken, and masser's brought home ebery ting from de grocery-stores a pusson could ask. Whar's dat citron now? Saturn, has you been in dat citron? Laws, I cotch you in dat, you'll nebber forget it! Stop eatin' dem raisins! I declar' to gracious, ef I trus' you to chop a few raisins for me, you eat half of 'em up. Cl'ar out de kitchen—immejetly! I'd rudder get 'long alone."

Poor Saturn had to "fly round" more than was agreeable to his temperament; but he contrived to keep up his strength and his spirits upon stolen sweets, and he tried to be excessively useful.

"Wall, wall, his arpetite does beat all; he's gettin' ole and childish, my nigger is and I s'pose I mus' humor him a little. His heart is set on de good tings ob dis worl'. I'se 'fraid he'll hate to gib up eatin' and sleepin' when he comes to die. Dar ain't no eatin' and drinkin' thar, Saturn; no marryin' nor givin' in marriage."

"Wha' for? is eatin' wicked, Pallas?"

"Not on dis yearth, where it is a necessary evil. But dar—dar's better tings. We'll sing dar, Saturn," she continued, anxious to rekindle the religious ardor which she was fearful of cooling by her picture of the purely spiritual pleasures of the next world. "We'll set under de tree ob life, by side de beautiful ribber, and sing all de hymns and psalms;" and she struck up, in a voice of rich melody,

while her husband joined in the strain with equal fervor.

Alice loved to hear them singing at their work; not only because of their musical voices, but the enthusiasm, the joy and expectation swelling through them, awakened her own young soul to hope and prayer.

A happier face than hers, as she sat in the little parlor, sewing upon the wedding-garments, it would be difficult to find—a kind of intense radiance from the utter content and love within shone through her features. When a young girl is about to marry the man she loves, with the full approval of her judgment and conscience, the consent of parents and friends, when her heart is full of hopes, when she blushes in solitude at her own happy thoughts, as she sits quietly sewing upon rich and delicate fabrics which are to enhance her beauty in his eyes, then she experiences the most blessed portion of her life.

The sunshine of promise rested upon the house. All its delightful activity was pervaded by thrilling anticipations. And yet there was a shadow—a light shadow, which at times would darken and again entirely disappear. It was the dread of Ben. The men at the mill reported having caught glimpses of some one whom they were quite sure was him, at different times, in different lonely places in the forest.

Saturn came in, one day, with the whites of his eyes of frightful circumference, averring that a ghost had run after him in the woods. What could be the purpose of a person thus hovering about in concealment? surely nothing good. Alice was not herself, personally, much afraid. She did not think Ben would harm her, but she felt that he was hanging about, that his eyes watched every preparation, that he would know when Philip came, and she was afraid he would have another opportunity to attempt his life. The courage which would not quail on the battle-field will fail before a secret and unknown evil. Even the raftsman, brave and powerful as he was, felt that uneasiness which springs from such a source. Many a time he went out with his rifle on his shoulder, resolved that if he met with the wretched and desperate youth, he would deal with him severely. His search was always in vain. Alice gave up all her rambles, much as she longed to get again into the heart of the whispering pine-forest.

One afternoon, when her father was at the mill, and Pallas, as usual, busy in the kitchen, as she sat sewing and singing to herself in a low voice, the bright room suddenly grew dark, and looking up at the open window, she saw Ben standing there gazing at her. If she had not known of his vicinity, she would not have recognized him at the first glance; his face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, his hair long and tangled, his clothing soiled and worn.

"Don't scream!" he begged, as he saw that she perceived him, in a voice so hollow that it checked the cry rising to her lips. "I ain't going to harm you. I wouldn't harm a hair of your head—not to save the neck yer so anxious to see hanging from the gallows. I know where your father is, and I just crept up to have a look at you. You look happy and content, Alice Wilde. See me! how do you like your work?"

"It is not my work, Ben, and you know it. Do not blame me. I pity you; I pray for you. But do go away from here—do go! I would rather you would harm me than to harm those I love. Oh, if you really care for me, go away from this spot—leave me to my happiness, and try and be happy yourself. Be a man. Go, Ben—let us alone. If you do not go, you will certainly be taken by others, and perhaps punished."

"Catch a weasel asleep, but you can't catch me. You may put twenty men on the watch. How pleasant it must be for you to sit here making your weddin'-clothes; I think of it nights, as I lay on the hemlock boughs, with my eyes wide open, staring up at the stars. What's that song I used to like to hear you sing so well, Alice?

The maiden shuddered to her heart's core as his voice rose wild and mournful in the sweet tune to which the ballad was set, "Ha! ha! Alice, it's the same little canoe that you used to come up to the mill in so often, in those pleasant old times—

Alice seemed to be listening to her own dirge;

and with an unearthly shriek he bounded away through the garden and into the woods, leaving Alice so overcome, that Pallas, who had been attracted to the door by the strange voice, brought her the "camfire" bottle to restore her.

"He's a ravin' maniac, that poor boy is, my chile. He ought to be cotch'd and put in de 'sylum at onct 'fore harm's done. Mercy, chile, I was jus' goin' to take down de rifle to 'fend my pickaninny. I was 'fraid he'd t'ar you all to pieces, like a ragin' wild beas'."

"You wouldn't have had courage to fire, would you? I'm sure I shouldn't."

"In course I should have had courage. S'pose I'd stan' by and see my chile toted off into the woods by a madman? Tush! even a hen'll fight for her chickens. Ef I hadn't a rifle, I'd spring on 'em, tooth and nail, ef he laid a hand on my chile;" and the old negro woman breathed hard, holding herself erect, and looking so determined, that she inspired courage in the one who regarded her.

"Then I shall choose you for my body-guard," said Alice, "for I begin to feel like a poor little chick in a big field, with an unseen hawk in the air which might pounce on it at any time. Oh, Pallas, didn't he look fearful?"

"Awful, missus, awful! We can't be too kerful of a fanatick—and poor Ben's got to be one, sure 'nuff. Poor Ben! a year ago he was as merry a young pusson as dese yere ole eyes car' for to see; and so willin' and kind, allers lookin' out to do a little sarvice, bringin' us game and berries, and makin' us furnitur' and fixin's about de house,—ready to work all day, jus' to hab you say, 'Tank you, Ben,' or gib him one smile. I jes' wish dis weddin' was safe ober. I has a sense as suthin' is goin' to happen. And you know, chile, when ole Pallas has a sense, it allers comes to suthin'."

"Don't tell me of it, if you have, Pallas, for I'm nervous enough already. There comes father now. I feel safe when he is near."

Upon hearing her account of Ben's looks and words, the raftsman resolved more firmly than ever to take him into custody if possible. Leaving Pallas, who was a better man than her husband, with a double-barreled gun, to defend the house, if necessary, in their absence, he summoned his full force and hunted the woods for twenty-four hours without success. He then stationed two men in the outskirts, in view of the house, to be relieved every eight hours by two others, and to keep up the watch, on double wages, day and night, till the enemy was taken or the wedding over.

On the third day of his watch, one of the men, while standing by the garden-fence, eating his lunch, his rifle leaning against the rails beside him, was suddenly knocked down, and by the time he got upon his feet again, he saw Ben Perkins vanishing into the forest with the weapon on his shoulder. The news of this mishap was any thing but encouraging, for the chances of his doing mischief were increased tenfold by the fact of his having possession of a loaded gun. Yet Alice sung and sewed, praying silently to Heaven that all might be well, and, happy in the faith and hope of youth, went on with her preparations; and Pallas finished shelves full of frosted cake and other niceties; and Saturn hewed wood and brought water, receiving his reward as he went, from his wife's benevolent hand; and Mr. Wilde was alert and vigilant, ready for all emergencies.

It was now near the middle of September; the blackberries were gone; and the grapes were yet green and unpalatable. Pallas was in want of wild-plums to pickle, and of wild-mint to flavor some of the dressings for dishes yet to be cooked. She set forth into the woods, having no occasion for personal fears, and not finding what she desired, wandered further into their depths than she had intended. Suddenly she started, with a—"Hi! hi! what's this?"

"If you've any thing in that basket a starving man can eat, give it to me." It was Ben Perkins who spoke, from behind a fallen tree, where he was crouching, lifting his emaciated face to her view.

"I hab nothin' at all; and ef I had, why should I gib it to you, when you'se makin' us all de trouble you can?"

"You've turned against me, too, Aunt Pallas," he said, in so hopeless a tone, that she paused from her purpose of getting away as fast as she could. "I've done you many favors in days gone by; I've never refused to lend you a helpin' hand, and I've never done nothin' to injure you; but you, too, will try to get me on to the gallows. Go and tell 'em where I am, if you want to. I don't know as I've strength to get away any longer. It's a week sence any thing has passed my lips but a nest full of bird's-eggs I climbed up after yesterday. Say, won't you bring me a piece of bread?"

"You go home wid me, and behabe yourself, and you shall hab all de bread you want. Nobody's starving you but yourself."

"Ha! ha! you're a cute 'un, ain't you now? I don't think I shall put my foot into that trap."

"Well, den, you gib me dat gun what you've got thar'. Gib me dat gun and I'll bring you suthin' to eat, and won't tell where you are."

"No—no! you can't come that game."

"You doesn't s'pose I'd bring you any ting to eat or help keep you alive, when you're tryin' yer bes' to kill my masser's frien's, do ye? It's you is foolish, Ben. What for you be so bad, so wicked for, Ben? You use to be a nice boy. I like you berry much a year ago. I can't bar' to see you hurtin' yerself so—let alone odders. Come, now, yer gib me back dat gun, an' ac' like a man 'stid of a wil' beas', and I'll do all I can for you, sartain sure, Ben."

"Pallas, I tell you, I'm starving. I want somethin' to eat. Let that gun alone. I swear to you, I won't use it on any of your family. I wouldn't hurt a hair of Alice's head—nor her father's. But I want that rifle—it's none of your business why. Won't ye give me suthin' to eat, for the sake of old times, Pallas?"

That miserable, hungry, beseeching look—how could she refuse it?

"You've acted like a crazy man, Ben, and you've done berry wrong to yourself as well as odders. I can't help you, 'less you promise to do better. Gib me dat gun, and take yer Bible oath you'll never try to hurt him that's to be Miss Alice's husband, an' I'll help you all I can."

"Why should I promise not to harm him? hasn't he done all he could to injure me? hadn't I ought to kill him if I can? wouldn't it be right and justifiable for me to take his heart's blood?—as he's taken mine, but in a different way. I was a homeless, poor, hard-workin' young man, with nuthin' but my hands to rely on. I hadn't no education, I hadn't no money, but I loved the captain's daughter—I worshiped her shadow. She'd have been mine—I know she would—if he hadn't come along and got her away from me. He, who had every thing, came and robbed me of the only thing I cared to have. He used his education and his money and his fine ways to steal my only hope. As soon as he come hangin' round I was nuthin'—Miss Alice walked right over me to get in his arms. I tell ye, that man has robbed me and wronged me and murdered me, as it were. I ought to be revenged."

"You is wuss den crazy, Ben Perkins; and I'll tell ye de trute, if ye get as mad as fire at me for it. 'Tain't noways likely my missus would eber 'ave taken up wid ye, if Philip Moore had neber seen her. She's a lady, born and bred; she came of a high family—and it was in her blood. She wouldn't neber have taken up wid you. She liked you, and we all liked you; but she wouldn't a married you. You'd no business to 'spect she would. It's you is all de wrong. Den when a young man what is suitable to her comes along, and can't no more help fallin' in love wid her sweet face den you can, when he loves her, and wants to marry her, and she loves him, as she naturally would, you get wicked and ugly, and want to kill him. Fie, man! you don't love her! Ef you did, you couldn't neber break her heart, killing her husband as is to be. What would you gain by it? 'Stid of likin' and pityin' you, she'd shudder to hear your name, and she'd wilt away and die, and you'd be her murderer, well as his. For shame! call dat love? Why, ef you really loved her, you'd try to make her happy, and seein' you couldn't hab her, you'd be glad she got de man she like bes'. You is a bad fellow, Ben Perkins, and you jus' show how lucky it is Miss Alice didn't take up wid you."

"She thinks I'm so bad, too, doesn't she?—oh, yes, of course she must; she must hate me, and wish me dead. I know it, but I couldn't help it. Oh, Pallas, tell her not to think too hard of me. I was never well brought up. I'd only my wild passions to guide me. I've done wrong only because my heart was so set upon her. Yet I've struggled against temptation—I've tried to wish she could be happy without me. Tell her, when I was on the river alone with Philip Moore, I might have put him out of the way, but for her sake I wouldn't do it. Often and often as we sat together in that little boat, alone on the water, the devil in my heart set me on to strangle him and throw him overboard, I don't know why I didn't do it, 'ceptin' it seemed as if Alice's eyes was lookin' at me and wouldn't let me do it. One night he was asleep, his head on his arm, and I was bending over him—my hand was on his throat, when she took hold of me and held me back. I seen her as plain as I see you now. She had on a long, white dress, and her hair was streamin' down her shoulders, and her feet was bare. She looked at me so—I couldn't stand it; and I made up my mind never to lay hands on that person again. And I felt so much more like a man, I could look her straight in the face agin, when I got back. But I told lies, and tried to get in her good graces. Do you think that was so very bad, under the circumstances, Aunt Pallas? I never meant to do nuthin' worse; but when I seen all my plans knocked in the head, and that person meeting her agin and making up, and she lookin' so like an angel, and so proud and happy, and all of 'em casting scornful eyes on me, the devil broke out again worse 'an ever, and I set fire to Philip Moore's store, hopin' to burn him up; and since then I've been about as desp'rate as a man ever gets to be. Part the time I'm as good as crazy, I think such thoughts out here in the woods alone—and agin I'm quite cool and reflect all over my bad conduct. I'd take it all back, if I could, for her sake;" and he burst out weeping.

"Yer poor, mis'able soul, I pity you. But I mus' say you did wrong. 'Tain't too late to repent and be saved. Gib up all dose wil', wicked feelin's, be resigned to de will ob Providence which doesn't allow of your having the girl you happen to love fust. 'Tain't for us to hab all we want in dis yere worl'. 'Tain't for us to revenge our enemies. Chris' says do good to dem dat despitefully use yer. And nobody has used you bad. He says love your enemies. O Ben! Ben! ef, instid of bein' de wicked bein' you has, you had prayed to de Lord Jesus to sabe yer from temptation, and sence yer couldn't be happy in dis life, to make yer good, yer wouldn't be hidin' here in dis state. People has had troubles 'fore yer. Don't tink yer de only one, poor boy. Dar's plenty of tears for Chris' to wipe away on dis yearth."

"I don't know nuthin about it. I've never been taught. 'Tain't nateral for a man to love his enemies. I can't do it. But if I thought you'd pity me and pray for me—if I thought Miss Alice would pray for me, I'd give up wicked thoughts, and try to govern myself."

"She does pray for yer, Ben, wid all her heart every time she prays. I've seen her cry about yer many time. She'd gib her right hand mos', to hab you good and happy. Masser's sorry for yer, too; he tought so much of you once; but course he can't let you kill his friends. Come, now, Ben, you promise to do right, and I'll stan' by yer tru thick and thin."

"Some of the time I'm good, and agin I'm bad. I didn't use to be so. It's only wretchedness has made me so ugly. I don't know how to try to be better."

"May I pray for you, Ben?"

"Yes—if you want to be such a fool," he said, reluctantly.

The good old colored woman went down on her knees there upon the mossy cushion of the earth, pouring out her soul in prayer for the haggard being, who sat, with his chin in his hands, listening to her appeal in his behalf. Tears streamed down her cheeks; the earnestness, the pathos of her sincere petitions to that great Father whom she seemed to believe had power to comfort and take care of him and adopt him as a child, touched his lonely, sullen, misanthropic nature—his sobs accompanied her "Amen!"

"I shouldn't be such a baby as to cry," he said, when she had finished, "if I wasn't so weak; but when a fellow's fasted a week he ain't none of the bravest. I thank you, though, for your prayer, Aunt Pallas—I'll remember it to my dyin' day. Here's the gun—take it. P'raps if I keep it an hour longer, I'll want to do some mischief with it. Take it, while you can get it; and bring me some food, as you promised. If you break your promise, and bring them men here to take me up, I shan't never have no faith in prayers. If you want to make a Christian of me, you mus'n't fool me."

"Neither will I," said Pallas; "I'll be back here in an hour wid bread and meat. You'd better make up your mind, by dat time, to go home wid me, gib yerself up to masser, and let him do as he feels is best wid yer. He'll act for de bes', be sure."

She took the gun and hastened off with it, glad to get that means of harm away from him. She was firmly resolved not to break her promise to him, much as she desired that he might be put in safe quarters, and this uncomfortable suspense be done away with. As he had confessed himself so changeable in his moods, she did not rely much upon his present one. Reaching home, she stowed the rifle away, saying nothing about it, and filling her basket with substantial food, she returned to the appointed spot. To her surprise, Ben was not there. She waited a few minutes, but he did not come.

"I can't bar to know a human critter is starving to def," she muttered, setting the basket in a branch of the fallen tree. "I'll leave dis here—and now I've kep' my promise I'll go straight home and tell masser all 'bout it, and he can take sech steps as he tinks bes'."

She gave a graphic account of the whole interview to the raftsman as soon as he came in to tea. When she came to that part of his confession where he spoke of being about to choke Philip, while on the river, Alice turned pale, saying with a shudder—as she recalled one of those visions which haunted her dreams during that terrible period of the journey of her lover with his deadly enemy:

"Yes! yes! I did—but it was in a dream. I beheld the skiff gliding along in the starlight, Philip sleeping, his arm under his head, and his carpet-bag for a pillow; Ben was stooping over him, his face was white as ashes, his teeth were clenched, his hands were creeping toward Philip's throat—I sprang upon him—I held his hands—I drew him back—I screamed—and the scream awoke me, and father rushed into my room to see what was the matter. You ridiculed my nightmare, father, don't you recollect?"

"Poor boy," said the raftsman, wiping a tear from his cheek, when his servant had concluded her relation. "I'm right down sorry for the lad. And when you are married and out of the way, puss, I'll take him in hand, and try and reclaim him. He'll make a man yet."

"He ain't to blame fer his faults, seeing he's never had no good broughten' up. I'll teach him the New Testament doctrines ef he'll only let me, once Miss Alice is 'way," remarked Pallas.

Mr. Wilde went to the spot indicated by Pallas—the basket of food had been taken away, but no one was in the vicinity.