he last of his Warren
Russets, a few days before.

It was certain, therefore, that the house was not on fire; and,
invigorated by this thought, he descended the stairs. A strong current of
fresh, cold air extinguished the light he carried. As this was contrary to
his usual experience when he went down cellar in the evening after an
apple or a mug of cider, it assured him that there was a screw loose
somewhere. Returning to the room above, he procured a lantern, and
proceeded to the cellar again to renew his investigations.

The squire felt the cold blast of the April air, and immediately made his
way to the cellar door, holding the lantern up as high as his head, to
ascertain the nature of the mischief which the fanatical abolitionists had
perpetrated. He saw that the cellar door was broken through. The rotten
boards lay upon the steps, and with another malediction upon the mob, he
placed the lantern upon a barrel, and proceeded to repair the damage. As
he stepped forward, he stumbled against the body of the enterprising hero
of this volume, who lay as calm and still as a sleeping child.

The squire started back, not a little alarmed at the sight of the
motionless body. He felt as though a terrible retribution had fallen upon
somebody, who had been killed in the act of attempting to destroy his
property. Seizing his lantern, he retreated to the cellar stairs by which
he had descended, and stood there for a moment, his tongue paralyzed, and
his knees smiting each other, in the agony of terror.

We do not know what he was afraid of, but we suppose that instinctive
dread which some people manifest in the presence of death, had completely
overcome him. Certainly there was nothing to be afraid of, for a dead man
is not half so likely to do a person an injury as a living one. But in a
few minutes Squire Pemberton in some measure recovered his
self-possession.

"There is a dead man down here!" he called up the staircase, in quaking
tones.

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton. "Who is he?"

"I don't know," replied the squire.

"Look and see who it is, father," added Mrs. Pemberton. "Perhaps he isn't
dead."

"Stone dead," persisted the squire. "He fell into the cellar and broke his
neck."

"Go and see who it is--will you?"

"Well, you come down and hold the light," said the squire, who was not
quite willing to say that he was scared out of his wits.

Mrs. Pemberton descended the stairs, followed by Susan and F