the tawny Indians may be
lurking hereabout. Mr. Ward says he thinks they will be dangerous
neighbors for us."

Mary had thrown her shawl over her head, and was just stepping out.
"It is but a step, as it were, and I promised good-wife Clements that I
would certainly come. I am not afraid of the Indians. There's none of
them about here except Red Sam, who wanted to buy me of Mr. Ward for his
squaw; and I shall not be afraid of my old spark."

The girl tripped lightly from the threshold towards the dwelling of her
neighbor. She had passed nearly half the distance when the pathway,
before open to the moonlight, began to wind along the margin of the
river, overhung with young sycamores and hemlocks. With a beating heart
and a quickened step she was stealing through the shadow, when the
boughs on the river-side were suddenly parted, and a tall man sprang
into the path before her. Shrinking back with terror, she uttered a
faint scream.

"Mary Edmands!" said the stranger, "do not fear me."

A thousand thoughts wildly chased each other through the mind of the
astonished girl. That familiar voice--that knowledge of her name--that
tall and well-remembered form! She leaned eagerly forward, and looked
into the stranger's face. A straggling gleam of moonshine fell across
its dark features of manly beauty.

"Richard Martin! can it be possible!"

"Yea, Mary," answered the other, "I have followed thee to the new world,
in that love which neither sea nor land can abate. For many weary
months I have waited earnestly for such a meeting as this, and, in that
time, I have been in many and grievous perils by the flood and the
wilderness, and by the heathen Indians and more heathen persecutors
among my own people. But I may not tarry, nor delay to tell my errand.
Mary, thou knowest my love; wilt thou be my wife?"

Mary hesitated.

"I ask thee again, if thou wilt share the fortunes of one who hath loved
thee ever since thou wast but a child, playing under the cottage trees
in old Haverhill, and who hath sacrificed his worldly estate, and
perilled his soul's salvation for thy sake. Mary, dear Mary, for of a
truth thou art very dear to me; wilt thou go with me and be my wife?"

The tones of Richard Martin, usually harsh and forbidding, now fell soft
and musical on the ear of Mary. He was her first love, her only one.
What marvel that she consented?

"Let us hasten to depart," said Martin, "this is no place for me. We