oldier belonging to a company commanded by Sir Edward
Houstoun during the war--that this soldier had received his death-wound
in defending his commander from a sword-cut, and that Sir Edward had
always considered his widow and only child as his especial charge. The
widow had soon followed her husband to the grave, and the child had been
placed by Sir Edward with the wife of a country clergyman. To Mr. and
Mrs. Merton, Lucy had been as an own and only daughter.

"The good old people made quite a lady of her," said Mrs. Pye. "She can
read and write equal to the parson himself, and I've hearn folks say
that her 'broidery and music playin' was better than Mrs. Merton's own;
but, poor thing! Mrs. Merton died, and still the parson begged Sir
Edward to let her stay with him--she was all that was left now, he
said--so Sir Edward let her stay. Mr. Merton died a year ago, and when
Mr. Pye wrote to the lady--that's your mother, Mr. Edward--about her,
she said she'd better come here and stay with us, and she would pay her
board, and give her money for clothes, and five thousand dollars beside,
whenever she should get married. I'm sure she's welcome to stay, if it
was without pay, for we all love her, but, somehow, it don't seem the
right place for her--and, as to marrying, I don't think she'll ever
marry any body around her, for, kind-spoken as she is, they wouldn't any
of them dare to ask her, though they're all in love with her beautiful
face."

In a week Edward Houstoun's friends had grown weary of ruralizing--they
found no longer any music in the crack of a fowling-piece, or any
enjoyment in the dying agonies of the feathered tribes, and, having
resisted all their persuasions to return with them, he was left alone.

"I shall report you as love-sick, or brain-sick, reclining by purling
streams, under shady groves, to read Shakspeare, or Milton, or Spenser,
for each of these books I have seen you at different times put in your
pocket, and wander forth with a most sentimental air--doubtless to make
love to some Nymph or Dryad."

"Make love! Ah! there, I take it, you have winged the right bird, Van
Schaick."

"If I had seen a decent petticoat since we took leave of Mynheer Van
Winkle and his daughter, on board the good sloop St. Nicholas, I should
think so too, Osgood."

"At any rate, it would be wise to report our suspicions to his lady
mother."

"Your suspicions of what--lunacy or love?" asked Edward Houstoun.

"A disti