sing without; and I felt that any effort I might make to soften the
acerbity of his reflections would be idle.

There are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain--when,
instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting. I made no
attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on
by his side, silent as he. Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness
in my own reflections to give me occupation. Though troubled by no
heart-canker of the past, I had a future before me that was neither
brilliant nor attractive. The foreknowledge I had now gained of
squatter Holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that I was
treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma. Once, or twice,
was I on the point of communicating my business to my travelling
companion; and why not? With the openness of an honest heart, had he
confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret
of his life. Why should I withhold my confidence from him on a subject
of comparatively little importance? My reason for not making a
confidant of him sooner has been already given. It no longer existed.
So far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all
likelihood I should have him on my die. At all events, I felt certain
that I might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of the
_situation_, that might be worth having.

I was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting
his counsel thereon, when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards
me. In the former movement, I imitated his example.

"The road forks here," said he. "The path on the left goes straight
down to Holt's Clarin'--the other's the way to my bit o' a shanty."

"I shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered
me, and say `Good-night.'"

"No--not yet. I ain't a-goin' to leave ye, till I've put you 'ithin
sight o' Holt's cabin, tho' I can't go wi' ye to the house. As I told
ye, he an' I ain't on the best o' tarms."

"I cannot think of your coming out of your way--especially at this late
hour. I'm some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I can make out
the path."

"No, stranger! Thar's places whar the trace is a'most blind, and you
mout get out o' it. Thar'll be no moon on it. It runs through a thick
timbered bottom, an' thar's an ugly bit o' swamp. As for the lateness,
I'm not very reg'lar in my hours; an' thar's a sort o' road up the