g, old Sylvester with Margaret's help, lifted the boy to the deep
window-seat; and, standing on either hand, the widow and the old man
each at his side, Sylvester taking one hand of the child in his, began--

"My child, you are the youngest of this name and household, to you God
may have entrusted the continuance of our race and name, therefore thus
early would I have you learn the lesson your brother's errors may
teach."

"That should come last," the widow interposed gently. "The story itself
should teach it, if the story be true."

"Perhaps it should, Margaret," old Sylvester rejoined. "I will let the
story speak for itself. It is, my child, a year ago this day, that an
excellent man, Mr. Barbary, the preacher of this neighborhood,
disappeared from among living men. He was blameless in his life, he had
no enemy on the face of the earth. He was a simple, frugal, worthy
man--the last time alive, he was seen in company with your brother
Elbridge, by the Locust-wood, near the pond where you go to gather
huckleberries in the summer, and hazels in the autumn. He was seen with
him and seen no more."

"But no man saw Elbridge, father, lift hand against him, or utter an
angry word. On the contrary, they were seen entering the wood in close
companionship, and smiling on each other."

"Even so, Margaret," said Sylvester, looking at the child steadily, and
waving his hand in silence toward the widow. "But what answer gave the
young man when questioned of the whereabout of his friend? Not a word,
Margaret--not a word, my child."

"Is Mr. Barbary dead, grandfather?" the child inquired, leaning forward.

"How else? He is not to be found in pulpit or field. No man seeth his
steps any more in their ancient haunts. No man hearkens to his voice."

"But the body, father, was never found. He may be still living in some
other quarter."

"It was near the rock called High Point, you will remember, and one
plunge might have sent him to the bottom. The under currents of the lake
are strong, and may have easily swept him away. There is but one belief
through all this neighborhood. Ethan Barbary fell by the hand--Almighty
God, that I should have to say it to you, my own grandson--of Elbridge
Peabody."

The child sat for a moment in dumb astonishment, glancing, with
distended eyes and sweat upon his brow, fearfully from the stern face of
the old man to the downcast features of the widow, when recovering
speech he asked:--

"Why shou