GATHERING TOGETHER.

The first ray of morning startled the young couple from their sweet but troubled sleep.

"You shiver!" exclaimed Philip, looking at the damp, disordered attire of his wife; "I ought not to have allowed you to fall asleep in those wet garments."

"It is but a momentary chill, dear Philip. Oh, let us go and find my father. Certainty will be more endurable than this dreadful suspense."

They arose, pursuing their search through the gray dawn which brightened soon into as glorious a September day as ever shone. There was no use in trying to convict Mother Nature of crime and bloodshed; she appeared totally unconscious of the waste and ruin she had spread over the land the previous day. Through the wrecked wilderness they struggled forward, silent, sad, looking in every direction for traces of their friends, and making their way, as correctly as they could discern it, with the river for a guide, toward the home which they expected to find overwhelmed and scattered by the storm.

It was four or five hours before they came in sight of the cabin, so toilsome was their course; many times Alice had been obliged to rest, for hunger and fatigue were becoming overpowering, and now Philip had to support her almost entirely, as she clung to his arm.

"Take courage, dearest,—there is the house, and standing, as I live!"

The storm, sweeping on, had just touched with its scattering edges the house, which was unroofed and the chimney blown down, and otherwise shaken and injured, though not totally demolished. As the two came in sight of it, they perceived old Pallas, sitting on the front step in an attitude of complete despondency, her apron thrown over her face, motionless and silent. She did not hear them nor see them until they stood by her side.

"Pallas! what is the news? where is my father?"

The old woman flung her apron down with a mingled laugh and groan.

"Oh, my chile, my darlin', my pickaninny, is dat you, an' no mistake?" Springing up, she caught her young mistress to her bosom, and holding her there, laughed and sobbed over her together. "Sence I seen you safe agin, and young masser, too, bof of you safe and soun', as I neber 'spected to behold on dis yearth agin, let me go now, 'long wid my ole man—O Lord! let thy serbent depart in peace!"

"My father—have you heard from him since the storm?"

"No, darlin', not from one single soul, all dis awful night. De ladies dey were wid me till de mornin' broke, den dey set out, cryin' and weepin' and wringin' dere han's, to look for all you who was in de wood. Oh, dis has been a turrible season for a weddin'. I had a sense all de time suthin' was goin' to happen. My poor ole man!"

"What's become of him?" asked Philip.

"De Lord above alone knows where he be now—oh! oh! He was tuk right up to glory, wid his weddin' garment on. I see him sailin' off, but I couldn't help him. Laws! if missus isn't a goin' to faint dead over."

"Give her to me, and get something for her to eat and drink, if you can find it, Pallas. She's worn out."

"I've kep' up a fire in de kitchen, which is low, an' not much hurt. I'll spread a bed down dar and lay her down on de floor till I make some right strong tea. Lord be merciful to me a sinner! It's times as make ole Pallas's heart ache. Come 'long wid her, masser—I'll tro a mattress on de floor. Dar, lay her down, I'll hab de tea direckly. Sech sights as I see yesterday is 'nuff to unsettle anybody as sots dar heart on de tings ob dis worl'. When I heard my chile scream, I tought a knife went right tru me—I could n' run, nor do nuthin', I was jes' all weak and trimbling. Dar I stood, lookin' into de woods, wid eberybody out ob sight, when I hear de storm a comin'. First I tought it was de ribber broking loose; I looked round, but dat was jes' as peaceable as a lamb. Here, honey, set up, and drink yer tea. Den I tought de woods on fire, as dey was onct, when dey made sech a roar, but dey wan't. Den I looked up to see if de sky was fallin', which was de fust I saw ob de wind. It war a whirlin' and a roarin' like eber so many tousend, hundred mill-wheels. It look for all de worl' like a big funnel wid water pourin' tru. I was so scart, I run back to de house, hollerin' for my ole man, who was settin' on de fence, lookin' t'odder way. But he didn' hear me. It went right past, holdin' me up agin de wall as ef I war nailed. I seen de air all full ob ebery ting, chickens and pigs and boards and trees, and it tuk my ole man right up off dat fence an' carried him up to de nex' worl'. I see him, wid my own eyes, ridin' off in de chariot ob de wind, way over de woods, way off, off, out ob sight. Oh, missus, when I see him goin' so, I mos' wish I was 'long. I know Saturn was a foolish nigger, and a mighty sleepy-headed. He was n' no use to me much—he was a great cross; but dar neber was a better-hearted husband. He min' me like a chile. And he was so fond of presarbed plums, and such a hand to help 'bout de kitchen—'pears to me I hain't no heart. But laws, what bus'ness I to speak my troubles, and you neber to know where your own fadder is. If masser don't come back, I'll jes' lay down an' die. Poor ole nigger no more use. Dar's Saturn tuk away in de clouds wid his bes' raiment on, as de Bible commands; and neber one moufful ob de weddin' feas' which is standin' on de table, and de rain leaking down upon it—oh! hi! hi!"

"Poor Pallas, I'm sorry for you. But, Philip, I must go—I feel stronger now."

"No, no, my own darling Alice, you are not fit for further exertion. Remain here in the hands of your nurse. Pallas, I leave my wife to your care. She is in a fever now. Change her clothing and give her hot drinks. I must be off. Keep up heart, dearest, till I get back."

He had hastily disposed of a cup of tea and a few mouthful of food, kissed his bride, and was hurrying from the house, to go again into the woods for tidings, when a tumult outside drew all three to the door. Every one of the missing party, except poor old Saturn, whose own case was hopeless, and the raftsman himself, were coming up in a group. Virginia and Mrs. Raymond had encountered them in their search for the clearing, and had led them out of the woods. Mr. Raymond and the clergyman had been together overtaken by the tempest; but it was not so severe where they were, as in that part of the forest reached by Mr. Wilde and Philip. Trees had fallen before and around them, but they had escaped unharmed. Night coming on, and the rain and changed character of the scene bewildering them, they had not been able to make their way out of the woods; and of course had suffered from anxiety, in common with their friends. Their astonishment and joy at beholding the bride and groom in safety were only held in check by the uncertainty which hung about the fate of their host. Not one would enter the house, until that fate was known; taking from Pallas the cakes and cold meat she brought them, they hastened away—all but Alice, who was really too ill from exposure and surpense, to make any further effort.

"Yes, you rest yourself, and try to be composed, honey. Ef your dear, good father is really taken away, you hab much to be thankful for, that yer not left unpertected in this bleak worl'. You've a husband dat loves you as his heart's blood—and yer father himself will smile in de heaben above, to tink how glad he is, all was made right, and you with some one to care for you, 'fore he was tooken away. Dar', dar', don't hurt yourself a sobbin' so. I cried all night, and now dese poor ole eyes hab no more tears lef'. When I tought I was lef' all alone—no masser, no missus, no husband—my heart was like a cold stone. I feel better now. Ef masser war here, I could almost rejoice, spite of my 'flictions. I mus' bustle round and get suthin' ready for all dese tired, hungry people to eat, and get dem bed-clo'es dried where de rain beet in. De table sot, jus' as it wos, when I was out here goin' fer to put de coffee on, and herd you scream. My poor ole man. He's gone up, sure, for I saw him go. Saturn 'll neber eat no more woodchuck pie in dis life—hi! hi! Now, now, pickaninny, guess whose comin', and who they're a-bringin'. You needn't jump out of yer skin, chile, if it is yer own father—hurt, too, I'm afraid, by the way he looks."

Alice sprang to the door. Philip was lending her father the aid of his strong young arm. Mr. Wilde walked with difficulty, and his arm hung down in a helpless manner.

"Oh, father, are you hurt?"

"Nothing to speak of—not worth mentioning,—a little bruised, and my left arm broken. Positively, I don't feel a bit of pain, since I see you unharmed, my darling."

"But you'll come to a realizing sense of it, by the time we have set it, after its going so long unattended to," said Philip.

"If I groan, punish me for it," replied the sturdy raftsman.

The broken limb was soon set and splintered, and the friends had time to look in each others' faces, and realize they were altogether and safe.

"You have not told us how you escaped so remarkably," said they to Alice.

"Not anodder word at presen'," said Pallas, opening the door to the dining-room. "De weddin'-feas' has not been eaten—sech as it is, ye mus' stan' in need of it. 'Tain't what it would have been yesterday,—but I've did my bes' under de circumstances."

"Take my place, Philip; I'll lie here on this lounge, and when puss is through, she can feed me."

"If missus'll cut up his food, I'll wait on massa."

As the declining energies of the party were recruited by the dinner, their spirits rose to something of the hilarity of the previous day;—if it had not been for genuine sympathy with the sorrow of the old servant, mirth would have prevailed in proportion to their past distress. An occasional exclamation, smothered in its birth, told them their host was not quite so easy as he affected to be; but he would let no one pity him, bearing his pain with fortitude.

In the center of the table stood the bride's-cake, a snowy pyramid, the triumph of Pallas's skill, wreathed about with garlands. It was fair to look upon, within and without, and sweet to the taste as agreeable to the eyes.

"Dar' was de whites of fifty eggs beaten up in dat cake," its maker declared, in an aside to Virginia.

"Then I should call it a very egg-spensive and egg-stravagant article," remarked Mr. Raymond, who had heard the assertion.

"'Tain't any too nice for de bride it was made fer, masser."

"There's a ring in it," said Alice, as she performed the duty of the occasion by cutting the cake. "Who has it?"

Everybody took their piece with curiosity, and finally Mr. Irving held up the golden circlet, giving, at the same time, a glance towards Virginia, too expressive to be misunderstood.

"You'll be married next, Mr. Irving, and we hold ourselves all invited to the wedding," said Mrs. Raymond.

"I hope I may be," replied that gentleman, with a second glance toward the bride-maid; but she was looking to her plate, and did not seem to hear him.

Virginia had pursued the art of flirtation too long to abandon it at once.

As they lingered over the closing cup of coffee, Alice related the circumstance which had probably saved her life. It seemed she could not endure to dwell upon the terror of her flight in that wild maniac's arms, passing it over as briefly as possible.

"When I had given up all hope of rescue, and felt as if actually dying, from the terror of my situation, my abductor suddenly paused, before what seemed to be a small ledge of rock, such as frequently juts out of the ground in these woods, especially near the river. Pushing aside a vine which trailed thickly before it, he thrust me into the mouth of a cave, but instead of following me in, as I expected, he drew the vine carefully over it again, and sprung away, singing,—

"The feeling of exquisite relief which came to me in that moment was quickly superseded by the thought of his speedy return. While I stood there, trembling, waiting for him to get out of sight and hearing, in the hope that I might creep out and elude him, I heard the roar of the approaching tempest. Peering through the foliage, I felt my rocky shelter tremble, and saw the forest fall prostrate. As soon as the first shock was over, I crept out, thinking nothing but of the destruction of my friends. Too distracted to feel any personal fear, I wandered through the storm, I knew not how many hours, until, by the merest chance, a flash of lightning revealed Philip, not four feet away from me."

"The first thing you did, I suppose, was to give him a curtain-lecture, for staying out nights," remarked Mr. Raymond.

"And now, dear father, I think the roof blew off, and the house blew to pieces almost, and your arm was broken, on purpose to convince you of the necessity of spending your winter with us. It would be foolish to try to make this comfortable again, this fall. Your men can put a roof on, to protect it from the weather, and we'll leave it to its fate."

"Since he's disabled and can't defend himself, we'll take him captive," said Philip.

"Have it as you like, children, I expect to be led around by apron-strings after this. Next spring, I'll take Virginia, and come back here, and will put up the handsomest mansion that ever graced this river-side—it shall be large enough to accommodate the whole family, present and prospective. You needn't color up, little girl,—I was only thinking of Virginia's future spouse—eh, Virginia,—what's Mr. Irving blushing for?"

"I don't know—men should never blush—it's a weakness."

"I wish I could be as unmoved as you," he whispered in her ear, for he sat by her side. "It would be more becoming to me than it is to you. Women were made to blush and tremble."

"Were they, Mr. Irving, then you'd better leave those things to them, and not be intruding upon their sphere."

"Perhaps I shall obey you, Miss Moore," he said, recovering all his coolness.

She felt that he was a man not to be trifled with. Sensitive and full of sensibility as he might be, he was not the man to let a woman put her foot on his neck. He might worship the foot, but he would not submit to be trampled upon by it. He would love, truly and deeply, but he must be respected and loved in return. His was just the spirit fitted to take the reins and curb the too headstrong and wilful disposition of Virginia—under the control of a wise and gentle nature like his, her faults might change into virtues.

Philip was secretly regarding them, delighted to see how soon he recovered his self-possession, and how quietly he made his companion feel it. He saw that she fretted under it, and finally, giving up, exerted herself to be friendly and agreeable.

"They will be well matched. I never saw a better mate for my naughty cousin. I had an idea of it, when I invited him to act as groomsman. She'll be a good while giving up, though."

That Virginia would not yield to this new mastership very soon was evident. When they had left the dining-room, and were standing on the portico, Mr. Irving desired to place the ring which had fallen to him upon her finger—but she refused it with considerable hauteur.

"I only desired you to wear it for safe-keeping. It's a lady's ring, and I don't know what to do with it. Mrs. Raymond, will you accept it?"

He placed it on the finger of the married lady with as pleasant an air, as if it had been accepted where he first offered it.

"I had not ought to wear it; give it to some fair maiden."

"There is but one, and she will not have it. If there were others, I should certainly offer it. So you see it is chance only that has left it to you."

"Well, I'm not very much flattered Mr. Irving—but the ring is just as pretty, and I ought to be thankful to chance."

So the ring was lost to Virginia, without the satisfaction of her having annoyed the one who offered it.