BEN AND ALICE.

"Now that the wedding-feast is disposed of, I must remind you all that there is yet work to be done. I have not heard from the mill; and poor old Saturn must be searched for, as well as that unfortunate young man who has made us so much trouble. It frets me to think I can do nothing. Philip, you must do service in place of my broken arm."

The party were making ready to go out again, when two or three men came from the mill, to inquire after the family, and to relate to the captain the story of the vast damage his property had sustained.

"Oh, what is de riches of dis worl', masser," said Pallas, as she, too, paused from her work to hear their interesting narrative of wreck and chaos upon every side, with accounts which had reached them from people farther down, where the tornado had made a yet more terrible visitation. "What is de riches of dis worl', when a bref of de Almighty can sweep 'em away like as dey were dust and trash. My ole masser he turn you 'way, 'cause yer had no riches, and your chile-wife, she die of grief; and you come out here and work and work in de wilderness half as long as de chil'en of Israel—and you set your foot down, you will be rich, and your chile shall have much to gib her husband when she got one—and de storm come, and all yer pine-trees is laid low, and yer mill-wheel is broken at de fountain, and your riches pass 'way in de whirlwind."

"It's time for me to begin thinking of these things I suppose, Pallas. But, as to my losses—I can stand 'em. My wood-choppers must work briskly this winter, among this fallen timber—and as for the old mill, I think it has gone to pieces to hasten the fulfillment of my plan of erecting a steam-mill in its place. I've worked for Alice, and now I must work for Virginia."

"Let us at least," said the clergyman, who was standing by, "be reminded of our duty by this humble colored woman—let us offer up thanks for our wonderful preservation."

All knelt, except the disabled raftsman, while the minister offered up a heartfelt thanksgiving, when the party set forth into the tangled forest again. Alice, who had been overcome more by anxiety than by fatigue, was so recruited, that she insisted upon going with Philip. Her familiarity with the woods she thought would enable her to trace the way to the spot where Ben would doubtless be found a corpse; the fact that he was high up in the branches of a tall tree when the tempest struck the spot, making it almost certain that he was destroyed. Two or three foresters, Raymond, and Philip, followed their guide, as she wound through and climbed over matted branches and fallen trunks, pausing occasionally for some trace of the familiar aspect of yesterday. In many places the forest looked actually as if a band of giant reapers had passed that way and mowed down the trees in mighty swaths. Again, when the tornado had taken a more whirling moment, the great trunks would be twisted and snapped off in long splinters, ten or twelve feet from the ground. An overwhelming sense of the terrific power of their unwelcome visitor oppressed them, as they beheld its ravages in the broad daylight.

"And yet, dear Philip, it may have been sent by Providence to save me from a fearful fate—or at least, it did save me, and I am grateful—oh, so grateful," whispered the young wife, as Philip assisted her over a huge tree which lay, torn up by the roots, across their path.

"It must have been somewhere about here," she said, presently.

"I am sure I have no idea of the locality," answered Philip.

"Yes! there is the ledge of rock, and the cavern into which he thrust me. Poor Ben! I forgive him all. I hardly dare go on—I am afraid I shall see some dreadful sight;" and she shuddered.

"Perhaps you had better rest yourself, while we search this vicinity closely."

"Oh, no! I am too nervous to be left alone. I will keep by your side," and she clung to his arm, growing paler every moment, and scarcely daring to look before her.

"Hush!" exclaimed one of the foresters, half-an-hour later, turning back toward the young couple who were some distance behind. "Don't let her come near. We've found him; he's dead as a hammer."

Alice sat down upon a fallen tree-trunk, faint and trembling.

"Stay here, dearest, a few moments. I will come back to you," and Philip went forward with the men to where, amid the ruins of the forest,—Ben lay, a crushed and senseless human thing. He was dreadfully mutilated, and to every appearance dead. They dragged him out from under the heavy branches, and as they did so, a low groan startled them. One of the men sank down and took the head upon his knee.

"Where's Alice?"

Ben unclosed his eyes, as he asked the question, moving them about from one face to another with a searching glance.

"I'm dying—bring her quick. Oh, do bring her, won't you?"

The gasping voice was loud and thrilling in the eagerness of its entreaty. Philip turned away and went for his wife.

"Do you think you can bear the sight?"

"If he wishes to see me, I shall not deny a dying man. He took many a step for me, in his better days—poor boy."

Ben seemed to distinguish her footsteps as she drew near. He could not stir, but his eyes turned in that direction.

"Are you cryin' for me?" he asked, as she stood by his side, the tears flowing down her cheeks like rain. "It's enough to make a man die happy to see you cryin' for him, Alice."

"O Ben! I wish I could help you," she sobbed.

"I'm past earthly help, and I'm glad of it. It's the best thing could happen to a used-up fellow like me. I don't blame you for it, Alice, but I'm to blame for things I've done, and I won't ask you to forgive me. My head's been on fire for weeks—I've been in a strange state—I can't recall what I've did or said. Then I got hurt, I don't know how—and when I could think again, that burning pain in my head was gone. I knew I was dyin', and I wanted to see you. I wanted to carry the pictur' of your face to the next world. I shouldn't be ashamed to show it to the angels—if they'll have any thing to do with a poor, ignorant fellow like me, as Pallas said they would. You're married, ain't you?"

"She is my wife," said Philip, gently, taking her hand.

"It made me crazy to think of it once; but it's over now. Alice, you've my blessin' and my wishes that you may be happy all your life. Forgive me the trouble I've made ye, and may you and him be happy long after the grass grows over poor Ben Perkins."

Alice sobbed aloud, and the rough men standing around were grave and silent. The last sentence had been spoken in a whisper, and it was evident that life was ebbing away rapidly. He closed his eyes, and the sweat gathered on the pallid face, but a short time since, rich with the olive and crimson of health and youth.

"I shan't be twenty-two till next month," he whispered, with shut eyes. "Put it on my tombstone, and let 'em put on it—

They stood looking at him.

"Alice—good-by. Alice—where are you? Alice!"

"Here, Ben—here I am;" but she spoke to a corpse.

He died with the name of the woman he had loved with all the power of his passionate nature trembling upon his last breath.

The next day they buried him in a lovely spot on the bank of the river; and, spite of all his errors and crimes, he was not unwept and not unmourned. Once he had been gay and frank, kind and honest, handsome and merry—and the memory of his good qualities swept away the judgment passed upon his later actions.

Poor Saturn's remains were not discovered; and Pallas, with the superstition of her class, was inclined to believe that he had been translated bodily, in the chariot of the wind, to that better world of which they had spoken so much together. It was a pleasant belief, and afforded her great consolation.

"He allers was so fond of dressin' and good clo'es; and he'd been taken up in his new suit as if a-purpose to please him. Ef he'd only a partaken of de weddin'-feas', he couldn't hab been better prepared 'an he was. Hi! hi!"

It was a picturesque-looking party which sailed away from Wilde's mill one brilliant day in September.

"One doesn't see such a bridal-party every day, or take such a bridal tour," remarked Virginia to the groomsman by her side. "It's better than six fashionable weddings, with the usual routine. I used to have a contempt for the romantic—but I'm beginning to like it."

Yes, even the aristocratic Virginia, the beautiful metropolitan, began to be infatuated with the romance of the forest.

We may yet hear of more remarkable changes than her change of opinion. We may yet see a villa, charming as those which grace our lordly Hudson, rising amid the elms and beeches on the banks of that fairer Western river—for love, beauty, taste, and money can accomplish wonders more surprising than making the wilderness blossom like a rose—and "out West" Aladdin's lamp is no myth.

But, for the present, we will leave this picturesque party sailing down this broad, silver river in the purple and gold of an autumn day—leave it to its joyous light, and leave that one new-made grave to its silence and shadow.

THE END.