BY JEANNETTE HOLLY.

AAt an early day in the history of our Nation, there had emigrated to the Southeastern shore of the Old Dominion, an English gentleman, whose manners and carriage bespoke aristocratic lineage, and whose free use of money made it evident to those in the same locality, that he must have been a man of parts in the country whence he had come.

He had bought up acres and acres of the land lying contiguous to the Dismal Swamp, but occupied a hewn log house some miles distant from that place of ill repute. The report gained credence that he had left the Old Country “for the good of his health,” in other words, his knowledge of and participation in the plots and counter-plots against the government, made it safer for both himself and some, whose fingers had ever held the pulse of the Nation, that he should live elsewhere; and we find him making himself a home across the waters, with stint of nothing, for a vessel never made harbor, that it did not bring a large consignment to Theodore Stanton.

In the course of time he erected for himself and family a commodious house, many of the necessary materials coming from abroad, and he was ever ready to welcome to his board any wayfarer with whom he came in contact.

It was during the time that his house was building, and he had been scouring the country for help for the work, when one day, a young Indian boy presented himself at his door asking, “Work for me do?” He spoke very indifferent English, but Mr. Stanton understood he had come in response to his inquiries for hands, and he asked, “What can you do?”

“Ride horse, shoot gun, hunt deer.”

His appearance appealed to Mr. Stanton, and he nodded his head saying, “You can hunt deer and bear for me, eat.”

That seemed satisfactory and from that time on, he called Mr. Stanton’s, home, and sure enough supplied the family with all the game they could use.

But his especial attention seemed to be paid to Mr. Stanton’s little girl, Alice, to whom he was devoted, and who never seemed so happy or contented, as when perched on Powhatan’s shoulders and scouring the country for flowers, nuts or berries. He had been at his chosen home now, for a long time, and had learned to speak and understand our tongue very well. He said he was descended from old Chief Powhatan and that little Pocahontas was his kin, but that his father had been badly treated and set aside and would not go with his tribe of Indians; but if any questions were asked, as to where his father was, a stolid look would settle over his countenance, and he would make no reply; occasionally he would disappear, and be gone for a day or two, but always came back, ready for his appointed duty, to hunt the meat for Mr. Stanton. He was as straight as an arrow, and it required little imagination to believe he might be descended from a line of kings, his bearing was so dignified and regal. To no one was he communicative or unbending, save little Alice, over whom he watched with jealous care.

Mrs. Stanton, Alice’s mother, had never liked him, and often expressed uneasiness at the feeling that seemed to exist between her ewe lamb, and this dusky son of the forest, and she begged her husband to consign her to her sister’s care, in England, in that way breaking up the association, and giving Alice, at the same time, opportunities for education that she would lack in the States.

“No, wife, don’t ask me that; I have made sacrifices enough, God knows. I cannot stand to be parted from my little one; send for tutors, governesses or any other sort of SSS, that you want, I will bear all expense, but let me see my dear daughter every day, that’s a dear.” Mrs. Stanton said no more, but she watched with ever growing sorrow; the glow of pride that came to Powhatan’s dark countenance, when gazing at “Laughing Water,” as he called Alice.

The gentle girl was now turning sixteen, and had developed into great loveliness, but seemed wholly unconscious of her charms, and really I believe, that was the one thing that drew so many worshippers to her shrine.

About this time a party of gentlemen had arrived from old England, looking at lands for the settlement of some emigrants who were anxious to throw in their fate with the new settled country, and among them were the sons of some of Mr. Stanton’s early and close friends.

Frank Berkley, nephew of the ex-governor, was among the number, and soon won his way to the hearts of old and young alike, by his kindliness and sprightliness.

Alice seemed unusually lively, when he was regaling her with his exploits at college or his tilts with the fair sex at home, and her merry laugh would ring out at his bright wit or mirthful sallies.

None seemed to observe the vengeful scowls Powhatan would throw at the jolly crowd, as he crossed and recrossed the Hall, but would never enter the parlor, nor join in any of the sports. I said none—none save the anxious mother, who ever had her eye on her darling and when as a great secret Alice confided to her, that Frank wanted to take her across the water with him as his bride, she assented cheerfully, for she felt that to be the only way to save her child from some direful fate.

The party was going farther West, making explorations, and would return about Christmas time, to enjoy the festivities of that season under Mr. Stanton’s hospitable roof, and would then take shipping for home. Farewells were said, and all were well on their way, but Frank lingered. “Stay with us, Frank,” Alice said tearfully, “we will be so lonely when you are gone,” and Frank felt he would willingly tear his heart out, if it would comfort the little girl he had grown to love so much in two months.

“But,” he said, “my darling, then I would be accounted a laggard in duty, for don’t you know I was put in charge of this expedition; and will be held strictly accountable for its failure?”

“Oh!” she said, “Frank, forgive me. I will not be such a baby. I know you will soon be back, and I will try to scare away the blues and bid you a cheerful good-bye,” and he never forgot to his dying day, how she put her arms around his neck and kissed him a fond farewell. The last echo brought to him her parting words, “back soon.” They did not know that an eye had watched their parting, and the owner of that orb, had trembled with rage when he witnessed the caress.

Powhatan tried to coax her to ride or row, and had made and painted pure white, a little canoe for her, but she told him it made her tired to use the oars. “Come and see what a beauty your boat is, Minnehaha; you care no more for your poor Powhatan,” he said sadly.

“Oh yes, I do,” she replied, “but I worked so hard entertaining papa’s friends, I must rest up, but I will see the boat,” and taking his hand she ran lightly to the barn, to see and admire the little white canoe, with places all around the top for lights to be inserted, when the candles were lit at night; it certainly made a beautiful show. But his coaxing could not induce her to go on the water in it, and the craft was only rigged up to show to her friends, and still remained in Powhatan’s workshop. The mornings were beginning to be frosty and the air to show that the weeks had passed along and soon now, they might look for the return of the friends. Wild turkeys were killed and dressed, venison hams were baked and boiled, and the array of cakes and pies in the pantry, looked most tempting. On the afternoon of the 23d of December, Mr. Stanton was decorating the rooms, under the supervision of his good wife, and calling to Alice, said, “Daughter, we do need some holly so much, could you not take one of the boys, and get some from the wood on the swamp road? I must hie me to the postoffice or would get it myself.”

“Oh, yes, Pop, I will take my pony and John and soon be back.”

As she went out Powhatan met her, and having heard what Mr. Stanton said, begged to be allowed to accompany her, saying, “I will take care of you, Minnehaha.” So she could not well refuse, and when he had saddled her pony and old Thunder for himself, they mounted and rode off.

The father returned with the mail, the mother dressed for the evening meal, but Alice came not.

“Oh father,” she cried, “where can she be?” and the mother grew restless and uneasy. Presently seeing John approaching, Mr. Stanton called out,

“John, where is Miss Alice, boy?”

“Sir, I didn’t go with her; she went long that Injun, he say he take good care of her.” Mrs. Stanton was almost beside herself. Wringing her hands, she begged her husband for “God’s sake,” to take some of the men and seek the child, ere she was lost in the dreadful swamps. Searching parties scoured the country all that night, and when the next morning, Mr. Berkeley and his friends arrived, they, too, joined in the hunt, which was kept up for a whole week, but nothing was ever discovered, save Alice’s little pony, quietly grazing on the edge of the swamp.

A rumor came, that from the highest point overlooking the Lake in the Dismal Swamp, a huge black horse, with two riders, was seen to jump directly into the lake and never rose again. From the same fisherman, who dwelt on some high knoll in the swamp the report was scattered far and wide, that at 10 o’clock every bright night was seen a little white canoe, lit with firefly lamps, pushed swiftly through the waters of the lake by a beautiful girl with fair locks floating over her shoulders.

The story was that she crossed the lake and then disappeared in the dark woods beyond. But nothing was ever seen or heard of Alice or her dusky lover again. Mrs. Stanton took to her bed and died of a broken heart, leaving young Berkley to care for the stricken old man, who was soon laid beside her in the garden that had been sweet Alice’s playground. Mr. Stanton left everything he had to Frank Berkley who mourned sincerely for his lost love.