fe
from pursuit. Passing by the little trading-station, where Springfield
now stands, he traversed the beautiful country lying between that and
the Mauvaisterre. But the alternation of stately timber and lovely
prairie had no charms for him: he sought not beauty or fertility, but
seclusion; for his pilgrimage had become wearisome, and his step was
growing heavy. Remorse was at his heart, and fear--the appealing face of
his patient victim kept his crime in continual remembrance--and he knew,
that like a blood-hound, his enemy was following behind. It was a weary
load! No wonder that his cheeks were thin or his eyes wild!

He passed on till he came to a quiet, secluded spot, where he thought
himself not likely soon to be disturbed by emigration. It was sixteen
miles west of the place where Jacksonville has since been built, upon
the banks of the lower Mauvaisterre, seven miles from the Illinois
river. The place was long known as Cutler's grove, but a town grew up
around it, and has been christened by the sounding name of Exeter. Those
who visit it now, and have heard the story of Cutler, will commend his
judgment in selecting it for retirement; for, town as it is, a more
secluded, dreamy little place is nowhere to be found. It would seem that
the passage of a carriage through its _street_--for it has but
one--would be an event in its history; and the only things which redeem
it, in the fancy, from the category of visionary existences, are a
blacksmith's shop and a mill!

But Cutler's trail was seen upon the prairies, and the course of many an
emigrant was determined by the direction taken by his predecessor. It
was not long before others came to "settle" in the neighborhood.
Emigration was gradually encroaching, also, from the south; families
began to take possession of the river "bottoms;" the smoke from frontier
cabins ascended in almost every point of timber; and by the summer of
eighteen hundred and twenty, Cutler found himself as far from the
frontier as ever! But he was resolved not to move again: a dogged
spirit--half weariness, half despair--had taken possession of him. "I
have moved often enough," he said to Margaret, "and here I am determined
to remain, come what may!"

Actuated by such feelings--goaded by a fear which he could not conquer,
and yet was resolute not to indulge--the lurking devil in his nature
could not long remain dormant. Nothing develops evil tendencies so
rapidly as the consciousness