upon Horse Shoe, and her pale
and wan countenance was seen bathed in tears.

"Mr. Robinson!" she exclaimed, with a faltering voice; "you don't know
me?--me, Mary Musgrove. Father, it is our friend, Horse Shoe Robinson!"
Then placing the vessel upon the ground, she ran to the sergeant's side,
as he sat upon his horse, and leaning her head against his saddle, she
wept bitterly, sobbing out: "It is me, Mary Musgrove. John--our
John--that you loved--he is dead--he is dead!"

In an instant Allen Musgrove was at the gate, where he greeted the
sergeant with the affection of an old friend.

This recognition of the miller and his daughter at once confirmed the
sergeant in his determination to end his day's journey at this spot. In
a few moments Mildred and her companions were introduced into the
farm-house, where they were heartily welcomed by the in-dwellers,
consisting of a sturdy, cheerful tiller of the soil, and a motherly
dame, whose brood of children around her showed her to be the mistress
of the family.

The scene that ensued after the party were seated in the house was, for
some time, painfully affecting. Poor Mary, overcome by the associations
called up to her mind at the sight of the sergeant, took a seat near
him, and silently gazed in his face, visibly laboring under a strong
desire to express her feelings in words, but at the same time stricken
mute by the intensity of her emotions.

After a long suspense, which was broken only by her sobs, she was
enabled to utter a few disjointed sentences, in which she recalled to
the sergeant the friendship that had existed between him and John
Ramsay; and there was something peculiarly touching in the melancholy
tone with which, in accordance with the habits inculcated by her
religious education, and most probably in the words of her father's
frequent admonitions, she attributed the calamity that had befallen her
to the kindly chastisement of heaven, to endure which she devoutly, and
with a sigh that showed the bitterness of her suffering, prayed for
patience and submission. Allen Musgrove, at this juncture, interposed
with some topics of consolation suitable to the complexion of the
maiden's mind, and soon succeeded in drying up her tears, and restoring
her, at least, to the possession of a tranquil and apparently a resigned
spirit.

When this was done, he gave a narrative of the events relating to the
escape of Butler and his subsequent recapture at the funeral of Jo