ured these lines, of the Russian poet, Derzhavin--

"God! thus to Thee my lowly thoughts can soar,
Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good,
'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude."

The tears were indeed standing in her eyes, as she turned and placed
her hand in that of Bernard.

"You must think it strange," she said, "that I, to whom all this is no
novelty should be thus affected. It is a weakness from which I shall
never recover."

"Not weakness, dear Faith," said Bernard, "but the impressibility of a
poetical temperament. Only an insensible heart could be unmoved."

"If these rocks could speak, what legends they might tell of vanished
races," said Faith. "There is something inexpressibly sad in the fate
of those who once were the masters of these woods and fields, and
streams.

"They but submit to the common fate, which compels the inferior to
make way for the superior race, as my father says."

"How beautiful," she continued, "must this goodly land have seemed to
the Indian hunter, when, after the day's chase, he dropped the deer
upon the ground, and, from this high point, looked over the green
forests and shining stream. I should not wonder, if now, in the voice
of the cataract, he fancies he hears the groans of his ancestors, and
the screams of demons."

"There are traditions connected with this place," said Bernard, "but
they are fast fading away, and promise soon to be forgotten."

"Are you acquainted with any?"

"A friend of mine has endeavored to rescue one from oblivion, but I
doubt if it would interest you."

"I am interested in everything that relates to this people. Tell me
the story now. What more fitting place for romance!"

"A fitting place certainly, but no fitting time. Romance would hardly
mitigate the keenness of the air, or diminish the probability of
taking cold, were you to stand here listening to Indian legends.
Besides, the tale is in manuscript, and I should not be able, relying
on memory, to do it justice."

"You shall read it to me this evening, where you cannot make such
excuses," she replied, taking again his arm, and resuming their walk,
"by the light of candles, and near the parlor fire, where we may hear,
and not feel the wind."

"But where would be the accompaniments of the tale? The framing I fear
would spoil the picture."

"You will have the benefit of contrast,