assenger safely across,"
smiled William Dulan.

"I dare say it may; but, at any rate, I wouldn't try it, Master
William--'specially as it's a long, dark, slushy road between here and
the widow's."

"Why, Uncle Ben, do you think I am a young chicken, to be killed by
wetting my feet?" asked William, laughing. "Besides, at this very
moment, my good mother is waiting for me, and has a blazing fire, a
pot of strong coffee, and a bowl of oysters, in readiness. I would not
disappoint her, or myself, for a good deal."

"If it were not for this confounded lameness in my feet, I would not
stop at this vile hole to-night," said the elder traveler, who was no
other than Richard Delany, whom imperative business had called to this
part of the country, and who had thus become, very reluctantly, the
traveling companion of William Dulan.

"Nobody asked you, sir," exclaimed the old man, who did not seek
popularity.

William Dulan, who by this time had resumed his cloak, and received a
lighted lantern from the old ferryman, took his way to the river,
accompanied by the latter. Arrived at its edge, he turned, shook hands
with the old man, and stepped upon the ice. Old Ben remained, with his
eyes anxiously strained after the light of the lantern as it was borne
across the river. It was already half-way across--suddenly a breaking
sound, a fearful shriek, a quenched light, and all was dark and still
upon the surface of the ice; but beneath, a young, strong life was
battling fiercely with death. Ah! who can tell the horrors of that
frightful struggle in the dark, cold, ice-bound prison of the waters?

The old man turned away, aghast with horror, and his eyes fell upon
the countenance of Richard Delany, which was now lit up with demoniac
joy, as he muttered between his teeth:

"Good, good, good! Alice shall be mine now!"

* * * * *

It was night in the peaceful cottage of the widow. All the little
_agremens_ her son had pictured were there. A little round-table,
covered with a snowy cloth, stood in readiness. An easy-chair was
turned with its back to the fire, and on it a dressing-gown, and
before it lay a pair of soft, warm slippers. The restless, joyous,
anxious mother was reading over, for the twentieth time, her son's
last letter, in which he promised to be home, punctually, on that
evening. Hours flew on, but he did not come. At length, one o'clock
struck, and startled the widow from her meditati