olted from the kitchen through the entry into the store.

"O, Buckland, what will become of us!" exclaimed Flora, rising with
difficulty from her chair, and throwing herself upon my breast.

"Don't be afraid, Flora," I replied, pressing her to my heart, while the
tears started in my eyes. "She shall not abuse you, whatever happens to
me. While she did it only with her tongue, I bore it; but when she took
hold of you, I couldn't stand that, Flora--no, I could not."

"I can bear it very well, Buckland." She never called me "Buck," as
everybody else did about the place. "I only fear what they will do to
you."

"I can take care of myself, dearest Flora. I am strong and tough, and I
can stand almost anything," I answered, pressing her to my heart again,
for she seemed to be the only person in the world who loved me.

And how I loved her--poor orphan child, weak, sick, and deformed! It
seemed to me it would have been different if she had been well and
strong, and able to fight her own battle with the hard and cruel world.
She was helpless and dependent, and that which shut her out from the
rest of the world endeared her to me, and wound her in with every fibre
and tendril of my heart.

Mrs. Fishley did not immediately return; neither did her husband appear
upon the battle-field; and I concluded that she could not find him.

While, folded in each other's arms, we waited in almost breathless
anxiety for the coming of our tyrants, let me give the reader a few
necessary particulars in regard to our antecedents and surroundings.

Torrentville, where the story opens, is situated in the south-western
part of Wisconsin, though, for obvious reasons, it will not be found on
the map. It was located on a stream, which we called the "Creek," though
it has since received a more dignified and specific name, about seven
miles from Riverport, on the Wisconsin River. At the time of which I
write it contained two thousand inhabitants. Captain Fishley--he had
been an officer in the militia in some eastern state, and his title had
gone west with him--kept the principal store in the place, and was the
postmaster.

My father had moved from the State of New York to Torrentville when I
was eight years old, and soon after the death of my mother. He had three
children, Clarence, Flora, and myself. He bought a farm just out of the
village, employed a housekeeper, and for four years got along very well.
But he was too ambitious, and worked too h