That beautiful spot, now known as Mount Auburn, was formerly covered by a forest, which in the early days of New England was the scene of many a startling incident and wild adventure; the wolf howled in its thickets, and the wild cat issuing from its borders, found an easy prey among the flocks of the neighboring farmers: on this account, the utmost skill and energy of the colonists were often taxed, to save their property from pillage and destruction. The young men of those times were bold and expert in the chase, and stimulated by rewards offered by the colony, they often pursued their game many miles from Boston, and seldom returned without trophies of their skill and success. In this way, the vicinity of the town was soon cleared of these scourges of newer and less populous settlements. At the period of our narrative, however, the race of wild animals was not extinct, and the chase was kept up as one of the most agreeable and salutary sports which the austerity of those days would permit.

It was a fine evening in September, 1691, when two young men, who had been engaged all day with a company of sportsmen, were returning leisurely home on horseback. They were both members of Harvard college, room mates and intimate friends. They lingered a mile or two behind their associates, and though travelling after dark was not very safe in those days, yet the beauty of the evening tempted them to loiter, and possibly they were not unwilling to encounter some little adventure, to make up for a dull and unsuccessful chase. At any rate, their conversation was sufficiently interesting to detain them awhile on the road.

'Have you heard from your cousin Mary of late?' said James Lyford to his companion.

'Why do you ask that question? I have no such cousin as you refer to,' replied his friend.

'I have heard you call her cousin Mary,' said James, 'and it was fair to judge from your manner of speaking, that she bore this relation to you.'

'Cousin,' replied Walter, 'is a name that belongs to every body or nobody, as the case may be. It is a very convenient term, and affords a good house to shelter in, when you are bored with questions. I have forty such cousins as Mary.'

'Then you have forty such houses to shelter in,' said Lyford. 'Verily, Walter, you will have no want of inns on the road to matrimony.'

'Forty inns are none too many for a road that promises to be so long, as the one you think I am travelling. To be serious, Lyford, I wish you would let me alone about Mary. She is beautiful and good, but I dare not marry in this Puritan land. I must not reside here; and much as I love Mary Graham, I can never take her to the lighter habits and frivolous scenes of licentious France. You are aware that my parents have left Virginia for Paris; that city must be my home. I must grapple with its temptations, perhaps fall under their power; but duty, honor, nay love itself forbid me to take Mary to its blighting influences. But why talk of such subjects? I am but twenty-one years old and this passion of love, the wise heads say, is not to be depended on; my own feelings may change. And now, Lyford, you have the reasons why Mary Graham must still be my cousin.'

'You speak like a philosopher, nay like a Christian too. I hope your practice will correspond with your precepts, and that you will be careful not to overact the cousin, in your intercourse with Mary. If the cousin in speech becomes the lover in practice and example, it may wake a responsive affection in her own heart, and if so, she cannot quench it, as you may, among the gayeties of Paris. It may fade the bloom on her cheek and quench the light in her eye; but it cannot, like yours, be overcome by excitement abroad, or change at home.'

'Your remarks are very just,' said Walter; 'but why speak in this tone of warning? think you, Lyford, I would trifle with her feelings? I have no evidence that she returns my love; and do you pretend to see ought that is reprehensible in my conduct?'

'Yes, Walter; and if your purposes are not serious in the matter, you ought not to persist in those attentions, which clearly indicate your love to her, and may produce similar feelings on her part. You deceive yourself in this affair, and, it may be, you are deceiving her also. Love is always in advance of the judgment, and you speak like one little acquainted with its snares.'

'And what right have you,' replied Walter, 'to catechise me after this fashion? It is one of your worst faults, Lyford, that you see every thing in a dark and suspicious form. As to Mary, she never suspected me of anything but friendship and good will. She does not love me. Would to heaven she did! Were it not for the fatal dislike of my parents to this Puritan race, I would rather live with Mary Graham on a mountain fastness, or in the solitude of the desert, than to occupy, without her, the throne of England or France; but my filial duties interpose, and the stern demands of such parents as mine must not be disregarded.'

'Your purposes on this point must be settled,' said Lyford, 'and I must catechise you till they are. I know not that Mary loves you. I hope she never will, until you are so fully sensible of her value and your duty, as to consult her interests in the case, as much at least as your own. If you seek to gratify your vanity, by securing her love, when the obstacles to your union are not to be overcome; then your principles are not firm enough for me, and your friendship is no longer of any value.'

'Ought I to deny myself the pleasure of her society,' returned Walter, 'because the severity of Puritan habits imposes so many restraints, and is so rigid in its inquiries, and exact in its demands? I hope this people, in the march of improvement, will learn to be a little more liberal. You are too severe yourself, Lyford, and all the innocent gayeties of life look to you, as so many clouds between us and heaven.'

'Religion is not severe in her demands,' said Lyford, 'and if she appears so to you, Walter, it is because you invest her with false attributes, and view her through a false medium. Mary Graham is a sincere Christian; her cheerfulness of character you will readily admit; it is a thing of nature, and never runs into excess. She has often had occasion to rebuke the frivolous and turn back the current of levity and folly, and she never shrinks from her duty in this respect, as you well know. I should be sorry to believe any one could command her love, who is not governed by a principle of true religion; and I must add, Walter, if you fail in this point, I hope you will never possess her love.'

'Whence, Lyford, pray tell me, whence this strange interest on your part in Mary? do you mean to stand between us and tell her I am unworthy of her love? You well know I believe in the reality of religion, and reverence it too; you know my character, and cannot suspect me of dishonor. What does all this mean?'

'I mean to put you on your guard, Walter. I can only repeat what I have already said, that your present position and prospects do not warrant you in lavishing upon Mary so many proofs of your love. The course you are pursuing is unjust to her and unjust to yourself. I think you now understand me.'

'I do not understand,' said Walter, 'by what right you prescribe my duties, and undertake to regulate my social intercourse. It would seem to me, to be more wise to mind your own affairs, and let mine alone.'

'And why should I let yours alone, when they interfere with mine? Is it your privilege alone, Walter, to love Mary? Why may I not love her as well as you? She is not less the object of my regard than yours. Mary Graham is more dear to me than I can express. There is no one on earth I love so well. Moreover, she returns my love, and of this I can give you the most unequivocal proofs.'

'Now, I have it,' replied the indignant Walter; 'you mean to supplant me in Mary's love, and all this parade of friendship and religion is a mere artifice to cover your own selfish designs. Lyford, you are playing the hypocrite and the villain.'

'Tell me not thus,' said Lyford calmly. 'Much as I love Mary, I shall not stand in your way. Could I see, Walter, that to all your other virtues, you added that of sincere piety towards God, I should rejoice to see you together at the nuptial altar, and my prayers would go up with yours, that it might be a blessed union.'

'I do not understand you, Lyford: you say I must desist from my attentions to Mary, till my purposes are settled. When I ask why you interfere, you tell me, it is on account of your own love, and then, with strange inconsistency, you add, that, if I was a sincere Christian, you would rejoice in our union. Why do you thus perplex and mislead me?'

'All I have said is true, Walter: the lady you have known by the name of Mary Graham, is the beloved sister of your friend Lyford. It must remain a secret, and you must, on no account, divulge it. Do you now wonder at my love? do you object to my counsels and cautions? This dear sister is not the relative of Mr. Ellerson, with whom she resides. She is my only sister, the grand-child of Gen. Goffe, and was the little companion and solace of his last days. At his death, it was deemed expedient that, under this assumed name, she should reside with her friends at Salem. You have now the cause of my suggestions and warnings. Will you not say they are reasonable and right?'

'You have indeed opened my eyes. Pardon me, oh Lyford! that angry burst of passion which denounced my best friend. It was love to your sister that prompted my wrath; and I must have the forgiveness of her brother, before I can quietly rest.'

'It is forgiven,' said Lyford, seizing the hand of his friend, and together, in silence and tears, they dismounted at the college gate and entered the hall just at the commencement of evening prayers.