"Thank you, sir; thank you for so much. You shall hear me in private; but there is that in my heart which tells me you must hear me in public also. I shall be free to speak. I never am so confident that I have my commission about me as when I stand in the pulpit."

"I will go with you, my friend," said the Colonel, after a pause, " for I can refuse you nothing, and my fair neighbours, who cannot proceed this evening, shall go also."

CHAPTER II.

Praise the grace whose threats alarmed thee,
Roused thee from thy fatal ease;

Praise the grace whose promise warmed thee,

Praise the grace which whispered peace.—Anonymous.

HAD the accident, which for the present retarded the farther progress of Mrs. Belcour, on her intended journey, occurred at any other tavern than Mr. Scoreum's, whom, notwithstanding his vocation, she still considered as entitled, from his family connexion, to something of her respect; and, had his guest been any other than Colonel Berkley, her chagrin would have been without bounds. As the case stood, no sooner had she recovered from the excessive alarm into which she had been thrown, than she manifested peculiar satisfaction at hearing that her neighbour, Colonel Berkley, was in the house; and the latter had scarce given his consent to the proposition of his old

comrade, than Mr. Scoreum entered, with the intimation, that Mrs. Belcour and her daughters had descended to the adjoining parlour, and would be glad to see the Colonel and the gentleman to whom they were so much obliged for assistance in the moment of their late alarm.

Colonel Berkley gladly obeyed the summons. Very cordial were the greetings between the Colonel and his fair neighbours. "And where," said Mrs. Belcour, "is the gentleman who assisted us from the coach? I understand he is no other than a Methodist preacher."

"He is indeed a Methodist preacher," replied the Colonel; and I find he is an old friend of mine: yes, young ladies, and in many a prank has your father and myself been joined by that gruff old fellow in our boyish days."

"Indeed," said Eliza; "I should be quite glad to see him; pray, Colonel, what is his name?"

"His name,” replied the Colonel, after a pause, “is Perkins."

"Perkins!" said Maria; "surely I recollect that name. I hope, Colonel, he has no connexion with the family who gave celebrity to our famous haunted hollow. I can remember, Eliza, when to be carried to the haunted hollow and given to Tom Perkins, was a threat which never failed to make you behave pretty, even when you were most disposed to behave naughty."

"I have no doubt," said Eliza, smiling, "it had been tried on little Miss Maria before my time, and therefore had the advantage of experience to recommend it. But indeed the haunted hollow bears a very indifferent report, at Rosemount, even now. I hope, as Maria said, this reverend gentleman is not a relation of the famous Tom."

"He is actually," said the Colonel, gravely, "his son. Well do I remember the valley, young ladies, which you say, at Rosemount, is called the haunted hollow. It was no threat in my young days," he continued, and sighed at recollections it called up, "to be carried to Tom Perkins. He was a jovial miller in the employment of your grandfather, old Mr. Belcour. Well, God alone knows who is innocent and who is guilty; but poor Perkins was condemned most unjustly, so we boys, at least, thought. His widow, with her son and daughter-her son, the very man now in the house-left the country, and neither your husband's father, madam, or mine, could ever succeed in their inquiries concerning them. This day, after an absence of fifty years, I again embrace our old playfellow. What a hard tug," added the Colonel; "what a hard tug he must have had through life! what a rough time of it compared to mine! A sickly, broken-hearted mother, a helpless little sister, to maintain; and every man's hand, in a manner, against them: his father hung for horse-stealing! what a time Tom must have had, said he, as he continued to soliloquize, for he seemed all at once to have forgot the presence of the ladies; "what a lot was his, compared to mine; but now what a prospect he has, compared to mine ?"

"I hope you do not suppose, Colonel," said Mrs. Belcour, "that his plain coat and rough manners give him any advantage over you, in that particular?"

"By no means, by no means, madam. His advantages over me are in things of more consequence. But here he comes."

His heavy tread, sounding along the passage, announced his approach; and when he hastily opened wide the door to admit his large person, Maria whis

pered to her sister, "Eliza, when I am a naughty girl, threaten to send me to Tom Perkins; the threat has lost none of its force." He made not the slightest inclination of his head, upon entering, but walking directly up to Mrs. Belcour, extended his hand towards her ; she gave him hers, not without something of that instinctive horror with which she would have put it into a blacksmith's vice. He shook it tenderly, however, as he said, "I am right well pleased to see you; you had a narrow escape-God make you thankful for it. And these are your children ?"

They are the daughters of Will Belcour," said the Colonel, significantly.

"I see it," replied the preacher. "I see it; sit still," he added, seeing Maria about to arise from her seat to receive him. "Sit still, honey!" using, as he no doubt thought, such a mild tone of voice as might be calculated to remove the terrors of a child; "and do you bring these pretty dears up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord ?" said the old preacher; "that is the main point, after all, Madam Belcour; we must not forget that the wicked will be turned into hell, and all the people who forget God."

The Colonel, who began to fear his friend was about to trench on ground that would render him at least unpleasant to the ladies, hastened to say, "They are as good as they are beautiful, my old friend. There is no wickedness about them, I promise you."

"Then," said the preacher, "they are rare creatures; such indeed as it has not been my good fortune to meet before."

"You may say that," said the Colonel. "I agree with you to a tittle in that opinion."

"They are not," continued the preacher, as though he did not notice the Colonel's remark, "among the swearers, the sabbath-breakers, and drunkards, and extortioners ; nor yet amongst unjust and covetous persons; nor yet are they slanderers or backbiters. 1 grant you they are not such, as I shall too surely find in yon meeting-house this evening, and with whom I will deal presently (God willing) after my poor manner as best I may; but these dear young babies are wicked, if the man after God's own heart knew what was the meaning of the word."

Observing that Mrs. Belcour showed some displeasure at the turn the conversation had taken, the Colonel's newly awakened feelings of friendship for his old companion could have alone restrained his indignation within bounds. He only said, however, "This is the first and will probably be the last time, friend Tom, that these young ladies will be called wicked."

"Blessed children of light then," said the old man, solemnly, "will they be. Let us hear, however, who are they that, according to David, are to be considered wicked: they are those who do not seek after God; those of whom it may be said, that God is not in all their thoughts. O, my dear young children, as my mouth is open, so my heart is enlarged towards you; and let me beg you to remember what I now tell you, you are wicked so long as God is not in all your thoughts, so long as you do not think of him when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way, when you lie down and when you rise up.'"

"To be sure," said the Colonel, "in that point of view, you may say it; but then they are not what the world calls wicked."

VOL. I.