I did n' want
to look hard at her. I kep' my peace, a spurt, an' then I runned an'
bawled out, 'Glory be to God!' an' then I stopped, an' made proper
thanks to Un. An' there she was, same as ef I'd a-walked off from her an
hour ago! It felt so long as ef I'd been livun years, an' they would n'
know me, sca'ce. Somehow I did n' think I could come up wi' her.

"I started, in the name o' God, wi' all my might, an' went, an'
went,--'t was a five mile, wi' goun round,--an' got her, thank God! 'T
was n' the Baccaloue, (I sid that long before,) 't was t' other
schooner, the Sparrow, repairun damages they 'd got day before. So that
kep' 'em there, an' I'd a-been took from one an' brought to t' other.

"I could n' do a hand's turn tull we got into the Bay agen,--I was so
clear beat out. The Sparrow kep' her men, an' fotch home about
thirty-eight hundred swiles, an' a poor man off th' Ice: but they, poor
fellows, that I went out wi', never comed no more; an' I never went
agen.

"I kep' the skin o' the poor baste, Sir: that's 'e on my cap."

When the planter had fairly finished his tale, it was a little while
before I could teach my eyes to see the things about me in their places.
The slow-going sail, outside, I at first saw as the schooner that
brought away the lost man from the Ice; the green of the earth would
not, at first, show itself through the white with which the fancy
covered it; and at first I could not quite feel that the ground was fast
under my feet. I even mistook one of my own men (the sight of whom was
to warn me that I was wanted elsewhere) for one of the crew of the
schooner Sparrow of a generation ago.

I got the tale and its scene gathered away, presently, inside my mind,
and shook myself into a present association with surrounding things, and
took my leave. I went away the more gratified that I had a chance of
lifting my cap to a matron, dark-haired and comely, (who, I was sure, at
a glance, had once been the maiden of Benjie Westham's "troth-plight,")
and receiving a handsome curtsy in return.

* * * * *

FREMONT'S HUNDRED DAYS IN MISSOURI.

III.

THE FORCED MARCH TO SPRINGFIELD.

_Bolivar, October 26th_. Zagonyi's success has roused the
enthusiasm of the army. The old stagers took it coolly, but the green
hands revealed their excitement by preparing for instant battle. Pistols
were oiled and reloaded, and swords sharpened. We did all this a month
ago,