It was evening; and all that met the eye was joy and animation in the little village of Bennington, in which, not only the great body of the opposing armies, either as conquerors or prisoners, but the best portion of the patriotism, wisdom, and beauty of young Vermont, were now congregated. There her statesmen and sages—many of whom had mingled in the strife of the day—were gathered to rejoice over a result which their own heads, and hearts, and hands, through the anxious days and nights of the preceding month, had been unceasingly engaged in securing for their country and their homes. There, too, the old men and striplings, drawn from all the neighboring settlements by the ominous sounds which had reached them from the distant battlefield, and there the maids and matrons, whose solicitude for the near and dear ones, supposed to be engaged in the conflict, would not permit them to stay behind, were all found mingling with the victors, and participating in their exultations. Bright lights were streaming from every window, or dancing in every direction in the streets; while the smiling faces and animated voices, everywhere seen and heard among the commingling throng, seemed to tell only of a scene of universal joy and triumph. But as joyous and lively as was the scene, in its predominating features, it was yet not without its painful contrasts. The broken sob, or the low wail of sorrow, was heard rising sadly on the night air, in every interval that occurred in the more boisterous but irrepressible manifestations which characterized the hour. And, even in the same dwellings, these two contrasted phases in war's exciting but melancholy picture were not unfrequently presented; for, while in one room might be heard the notes of joy and exultation, in another might be distinguished the stifled groan of some wounded soldier, or the lamentations of the bereaved over the body of a slain relative.

Among the most noted of the class last mentioned was the late residence of Esquire Haviland, situated in the outskirts of the village, and recently occupied as the quarters of the officers of the Rangers, on the invitation of the patriotic but singular and mysterious man, who, at its sale by the commissioners of confiscation, had purchased the establishment, among several others of a valuable description thus sold in this section of the country. To this residence, the scene of a former portion of our story, we will now once more, and for the last time, repair.

While in one part of the building the officers just named, with other distinguished persons, were engaged in discussing the incidents of the day, in another and more retired apartment, on a pillowed couch, lay the wounded Father Herriot, who, having been stricken down in the last moments of the battle, as before intimated, had been borne hither to complete the willing sacrifice he had made of his life to the cause of his country. On a small table, within his reach, lay several documents, which were fresh from the hand of that ready writer, the accomplished secretary of the Council of Safety, who had just left the apartment. And around his bedside stood those in whom all his private interests and sympathies had been for some time secretly concentrated, though to two of them personally unknown till a few hours before, when he had beer brought in wounded and committed to their care. Those persons were Henry Woodburn, Bart Burt, Sabrey Haviland, and Vine Howard, who, ignorant of his particular wishes or intentions, and wondering why the presence of all of them should be desired at the same time, had been summoned to his bedside to hear his last communication and receive his blessing.

“My prayer is answered,” said Herriot, after looking round affectionately a while upon his expectant auditors, who, at his request, after the room was cleared of other company, had advanced to his bedside. “My last prayer has been to be permitted to see all of you, in whose personal welfare I have been led to take a peculiar interest, assembled before me while life and reason remained, so that I could commune with you; and the prayer has been graciously answered. Still, when, at the close of our first, and, as we all then supposed, final triumph to-day, Miss Haviland, with her friend, at my request, was conveyed here to her former home, of which I had become the purchaser, I then thought to have met you all here this evening under circumstances in which I could have actively shared with you in the rejoicings that our victory so naturally calls forth, as well as in the happiness, which, as far as regards you, I believed I could superadd by my own acts. But He who holds the fate of individuals, as well as that of armies, in his hands, has seen fit to deny me such participation; and He doeth all things well.”

“Your wound is not necessarily a mortal one, Father Herriot and I trust you may yet live to enjoy the fruits of a victory you have contributed so much by your bravery to win,” observed Woodburn, feelingly.

“That may not be. I feel the destroyer busily at work here, undermining the citadel,” responded the other, placing his hand on that part of his chest where the bullet had entered. “But I regret not having made the poor sacrifice of my life for so righteous a cause. And though I shall not live to see the happiness I would be the means of imparting, yet the wish and the duty of doing what I proposed to that end remains to be fulfilled, and for this purpose I have requested your presence.”

The speaker here paused, as if at a loss how he should open the subject which seemed to rest on his mind. But at length he resumed:—

“Miss Haviland, what you have done and suffered for the cause, in which you so nobly took your stand, is known to many. The part you have acted in the events of this day is known to still more; but have not those events had a bearing on your happiness beyond what would arise from the bare liberation of your person?”

“They have, sir,” replied the maiden, frankly, but with an air of surprise at the unexpected question.

“And have I been correctly informed, by the person who has just left us, and who has long been my confidential friend and adviser, that, by the relinquishment of a certain contract, you are now left free to bestow your hand on one whose character and feelings may be more congenial with your own?”

“Why am I questioned in so unusual a manner, and by one so much a stranger?” asked the former, in a half-remonstrating, half-beseeching tone.

“I knew,” rejoined the other, “that you, as well as the rest of those present, might, at first, wonder why and how I should have kept myself apprised, as I confess I have long done, of all that concerned the individual interests, and even inclinations, as far as could be conjectured, of each of you. And I know, also, that my ways are not like those of other men. But cannot you trust to the motives of a dying man, and let him proceed in his own manner?”

“I can—I will, Father Herriot,” answered Sabrey, touched by the appeal. “And I will not affect to misunderstand you. I have been freed from fetters under which I have suffered—perhaps unnecessarily—both persecution and embarrassment of feeling. And I am thankful,” she continued, throwing a grateful glance to Woodburn—“greatly thankful for that generous forbearance by which this was effected without bloodshed. Yes, I am free, doubly free; but whoever takes me,” she added, slightly coloring, “must now receive a penniless bride.”

“Perhaps not,” said Herriot, musingly—“perhaps not. But I did not mean to be understood as imposing any conditions to the act I was about to perform, after ascertaining your entire deliverance from the power and supposed claims of one whom I deem a bad man, as well as a foe to his country. Here, deserving girl,” he continued, taking up one of the documents from the table and extending it towards her, “here is a deed of gift, from me to you, of all this, which was your father's estate. Take it; it is freely given and worthily bestowed.”

Surprise at an act as unexpected as it was munificent, kept all mute for some seconds; when Sabrey, whose sensibilities were too deeply moved to permit her to speak, threw upon the donor a look which her grateful emotions made more eloquent than any language she could have summoned for a reply; and then, turning, she silently extended her hand to Woodburn, with the deed still laying across the open palm.

“Which?—the hand or the paper?” asked the latter, in a low tone, and with a slightly apprehensive air.

“Either, or both,” replied the maiden, as a blush stole over her conscious cheek.

“The hand, then,” exclaimed the delighted lover, grasping the coveted prize, and bearing it in triumph to his lips.

“It is all right; but no words,” said Herriot, making a motion for silence to Woodburn, who was about to address him—“no words. I have much to say—let me proceed. Bart,” he continued, after a thoughtful pause, as he turned to the young man who had stood mutely noting the proceedings with a puzzled look—“Bart, do you remember the old Rose Homestead, which was confiscated, and also purchased by me?”

“Well, yes,” replied Bart, looking up with an inquiring, doubtful expression—“yes, for as many as two several reasons, or more,” he added, with one glance to Woodburn, and another, and more significant one, to Vine, who was standing demurely at his side.

“Would you like it for your own?” asked the former.

“My own!” exclaimed Bart, casting an incredulous but searching look at the other's countenance, in which, however, he read something that at once changed his demeanor; and, in a softened and respectful tone, he replied to the question, “Yes, Father Herriot, as soon as the smell of toryism got fairly out of it, I would like it grandly, that's a fact.”

“It is yours, then, as this deed will show,” said Herriot, handing to the surprised and hesitating young man the instrument in question; “it is yours; but have you no one to share it with you?”

“Well, don't know exactly, but may be the chap that helped me fix up my spy disguises, and gave me so many good hints for ferreting out the tories, won't object much to that, seeing we have had considerably the start of the captain and his lady here, in the way of finished bargains,” replied Bart, turning, with an expression of droll gravity, to the blooming girl at his side, who, thereupon, with an arch and blushful smile, placed her hand in his, which had been extended to receive it.

“Who are you, Father Herriot?” exclaimed the now completely surprised Woodburn; “who are you, to take such an interest in us, and bestow on us gifts so valuable, with so little hope, as you can have, of any adequate return?”

“Listen, and you shall be answered,” replied Herriot; “for the time has now arrived when you all should know the relation in which we stand to each other; and I know not but I have already delayed the disclosure of this fact too long. Perhaps I should have made it, as I had nearly done, when, at the breaking out of the war, you and Bart visited my hermit cabin in the vicinity of the Connecticut. But when I found you about to embark in the cause of liberty, for which I stood ready to make any sacrifice, I concluded to defer it, lest the discovery, which I had but then just made myself, should turn you from a service that I thought none were at liberty to withhold. I therefore, after communicating to you enough to lead you, in case of my death, to all the knowledge I wished you to obtain, encouraged you on your way. And it has all, doubtless, been for the best; for who knows but your individual exertions were needed to turn the scale which has been so long trembling at equipoise? But the events of this day,” continued the patriot, kindling at the thought—“the events of this day, which will be memorable through all, time, have turned that scale in favor of American freedom. I read it with a prophetic eye, which is made for me too clear for error or misconception. Our avenging armies will henceforth go on conquering and to conquer, till the last vestige of British usurpation is swept from the land.”

Here the speaker paused a while to recover from his exhaustion, and indulge his mental vision, apparently, with the enrapturing glimpses he was catching of the future destiny of his country. But soon arousing himself from his reverie, he resumed,—

“Harry Woodburn, you had once a paternal uncle?”

“I have been told so,” was the reply.

“Who, by his folly and wickedness, disgraced himself and ruined your father,” proceeded the former.

“I had such an uncle,” responded Woodburn, with an expression of gathering interest and surprise; “or, rather, I had an uncle, who, though not a bad man, was, I have understood, at one time, a very indiscreet one; and, by his indiscretion, lost his own property, and deeply involved that of my father. But I do not feel to condemn him as much as your words imply you expect I should.”

“Or as he has always condemned himself,” rejoined Herriot, with an air of deep self-abasement. “But I thank God for giving me the means, and the will, for making ample restitution to such as remain of my injured brother's family, or of my own. Harry, I am that uncle. I am the erring Charles Woodburn.”

“I am surprised, deeply surprised,” said the other; “for, attributing the interest you have taken in me to other causes, I have, till within a few minutes, been totally unprepared for such a revelation. And now it seems as if it could not be. You could not have much resembled my father, and you bear another name.”

“I did not strikingly resemble my more staid brother, in person or character,” responded the former, meekly; “and my reasons for assuming another name are explained by the circumstances under which you first saw me, the accused of a revolting crime, of which, as I then declared, I was never guilty. And this the wicked men, who combined against me, and hunted me out, even in this new settlement, full well knew. But they knew, also, that I had somewhere at command the large amount of money that had been left me by a wealthy and heirless gentleman, whom I had previously rescued from death. Are you now satisfied that I am the man I claim to be, and, as such, willing to acknowledge me?”

“Fully, now—not only satisfied of the identity, but willing, nay, proud to acknowledge the relationship,” said Woodburn, with warmth and rising emotion. “Nor is this all, my uncle, my friend! The acts you have just performed will ever—”

“Enough, enough!” interrupted the former; “but let me go on. I have still another and more humiliating duty to perform. Bart,” he continued, turning, with an agitated countenance, to the young man, “as forsaken and guideless as you have been, many a parent has had a less deserving offspring. And had you not done more for yourself than he, who should have been your protector and guide, has done for you, you had been less than nothing among men. But listen; for the story of your origin, which, thus far, has been as a sealed book to you, must now be disclosed Your father contracted a private, but legal marriage, with a woman, who, as the world falsely esteemed it, was below him in station; and, in his pride, he refused to acknowledge her, and, having squandered the property that should have been applied to her support, absconded from the country. In after years, however, conscience drove him back, but only to find her dying of destitution and a broken heart, and to learn from her last words that the offspring of their connection, a male infant, had been thrown unacknowledged on the charity of the public. Aroused by a new sense of duty, he diligently sought for the child—followed it from its first lodgment to its next asylum in the city; from that to another in the country; and then, through various shifts and wanderings, till the trace was lost far in the interior; when he gave up the search, and again left the country. In the process of time, he once more returned to New England, in altered circumstances, and located himself in this settlement, where he soon met with a youth, whose countenance so strikingly resembled that of his deceased wife, as to put him instantly on inquiry and research, which, in a few weeks, resulted in supplying the broken chain of evidence, and in identifying the youth as his lost son. Bart, you were, and still are, that son. I was, and still am, that father. Do I die, my much injured son, acknowledged and forgiven?”

The young man was too deeply affected by his surprise and emotion to utter a word in reply; but tears, which all the wrongs and hardships he had endured had failed to wring from him, now stole out on his sunburnt cheeks, testifying, not only his gratification at the discovery, but that the slumbering fountain of a naturally generous nature was now effectually stirred within his bosom. And the speaker, seeming satisfied with the answer which this evidence implied, soon proceeded:—

“Little more now remains to be imparted. You remember, Harry, that at the visit at my cabin, to which I have already alluded, I showed you two small casks, labelled 'Printers Type,' concealed under a stone in the cellar?”

“I do; and the impression they caused of the absurdity of bringing that kind of property into our new settlement,” replied the other.

“They were so marked for greater security,” resumed the former; “for they contained silver coin, and, at that time, nearly all the property I possessed. Of these, one has been recently appropriated to the purchase of confiscated estates, whenever a lack of money in others was likely to prevent a sale at a fair value. The other remains in the same spot. And this, and the rest of my property, except what I have just conveyed, and except, also, bequests of small farms to Dunning and Piper, for their friendship to you, and faithfulness to the cause, you will find, by my will here on the table, to be equally divided between you, my son and nephew. And now,” he added, in a faltering tone, and in accents of touching tenderness, “now, my children, having said all I wished to communicate, I will commend you to our common Parent above. Kneel and receive my blessing.”

Hand in hand, and side by side, with the fair sharers of their gushing sympathies, the young men now reverently knelt around the dying patriot, and bowed their faces beneath his outspread hands to receive the proffered blessing, which was then pronounced with much fervor, but with the last words he was destined ever to utter; for after waiting a while after he had ceased to speak, the tearful group gently removed his hands from their heads, and arose to be greeted by a face pale in death.