sure I would keep my word. And if he only takes that notion into his head, he is too careful to run the chance of spoiling all by coming here.'—

Still, with some little mistrust as to John's soldiership when it crossed the path of his love,—which naturally, she reflected, makes a man rash,—she thought it best to provide against accident, by throwing herself into the company of the officers who loitered about the door in idle discourse with her father. She accordingly left her room and, with an anxious and troubled heart, went out and seated herself quietly on the steps of the porch, where she remained for some time a silent but inattentive listener to the conversation of those around her.

As a part of that system of things by which it is contrived that the current of true love shall never run smooth, I have ever found that when it was peculiarly fitting that some grandam, uncle, cousin, father or guest, should retire early to bed, in order that some scheme of interest to young lovers might be successfully achieved,— precisely on such nights is the perversity of fate most conspicuous, in inclining the minds of such grandam, uncle, cousin, and so forth, to set up much longer than they are wont;—thus showing that the grooves and dove-tails of things in this world, are not nicely fitted to the occasions of those who deal in the tender passion.—' And so it befel for poor Mary Musgrove this night.

The hour was now fast verging upon eleven, and she anxiously noted every sentence that was spoken, hoping it was to be the last;—and then she trembled to think that John, regardless of the danger, might be lurking near, and indiscreetly expose himself. And still the talkers discoursed as if they meant to sit up all night. It was a delicious, cool hour, after a sultry day, and there was luxury in the breeze; but as the minutes were counted over by the maiden, in their slow passage, her fears increased. At length, far off—as if it were a mile away—the clear notes of one whistling an old tune were heard. Mary involuntarily started from her seat, and moved along the little pathway towards the gate—her heart beating against her bosom as if it would have 'overbourne its continents.'—The signal notes freshened upon the air, and the tune came forth blithely and boldly, showing that the way-farer was trudging, with a light heart, down the main road towards the mill. The party in the porch, however, were too much engrossed in their colloquy to notice the incident. The whistling came still nearer— until, at last, it seemed to be scarce a gunshot from the house. Beyond this point it did not advance; but here indicated that the person from whom it proceeded had halted. If Mary's cheek could have been brought to the light, it would have shown how the blood had deserted it from very fear: her whole frame shook with this emotion. To exhibit her unconcern, which, in truth, was most sadly affected, she mingled amongst the company in the porch, and leant against the door-post. Still the whistling continued, with no symptom of retreat, and Mary impatiently walked towards the further end of the house. 'John Ramsay makes a fool of himself,'—she muttered peevishly.—'Hasn't he the sense to see I cannot get out?— What keeps the simple man dallying, shilly-shally, at the fence, as if he actually wanted them to take him?—I don't believe in the mighty sense and wisdom of these men!—If John had halt' an eye he would see that I couldn't get away to-night.'

As the maiden grew fretful, her fears had less mastery over her; and now, taking heart of grace, she returned to the porch.—

'Sergeant,'—said Macdonald, calling to one of his men,—'take two files and patrolc the road until you ascertain who that fellow is that makes himself so merry to-night.—I thought it some fool,'—he continued, addressing himself to Allen Musgrove,—'who, as the poet says 'whistled as he went for want of thought,' but he seems to have a hankering after these premises, that is not exactly to my mind. Perhaps, after all, Blary,'—he added, privately in the maiden's ear,—'it is the lad I was telling you of;—and as he 'is a bashful youth, we will bring him in by force. You know, he can't help that;— and old dad here can never blame you if I should make the fellow come to see you against your will. Sergeant, treat the man civilly, you understand.'—

'It is not worth your while to be sending after Adam

Gordon,'—said Mary, with some slight confusion in her accent,—'he is only half-witted; and almost the only thing he does for a living, is to come down of nights here to the mill-dam, to bob for eels. If it wasn't for that, his mother would go many a day without a meal.'

'No matter, we will bring Adam in,'—replied the lieutenant,—'and if he is good at his sport—why we will go and join him.'

'He is shy of company,'—said Mary, still faltering in her speech,—'and will not come amongst strangers.'—

Partly from a spirit of resignation, partly to avoid further exposure of her feelings, and in part too, perhaps, from some slight feeling of remorse, such as is natural to a virtuous and youthful mind, at being obliged to practice a deceit, however lawful, (as I contend it was in this case,) the maiden withdrew into the parlour, where, unseen by any, she offered up a stiort and earnest prayer for direction and forgiveness.

Meantime the patrole had set out, and, after the lapse of a short time, returned, when the officer reported that before his arrival, the person they had gone in quest of, had left the place,—and, in the darkness of the night, they had no clue to follow him. This was scarcely announced before the same whistle was heard, at the same remote point where it had first attracted Mary's notice.

'It is as our young mistress has said,'—muttered Macdonald,—'some bumpkin, too shy to be caught,—and not worth the catching.—We have sat it out to-night long enough, friend Musgrove,— so, let's to bed.'

In a few moments the party betook themselves to their several places of rest.

As Mary prepared herself for her couch, the anxious events of the night busied her thoughts, and the image of John Ramsay was summoned up alternately to be reproved and applauded.—'If he is fool-hardy,'—she said, as she laid her head on the pillow,—'no one will say he isn't wise besides. And if he will be thrusting his head into danger, he (knows right well how to get it out again' So God bless him, for a proper man, as he is!'—And thus' in a better temper with her lover, the maiden fell asleep

In order to avert all suspicion of disloyalty from the

miller's family, Christopher Shaw had offered his services to Macdonald, to do duty as one of the detachment, during the period of Butler's detention in the house. The offer had been accepted, and Christopher was appointed to serve in the character of a quarter master, or purveyor for the little garrison,—a post, whose duties did not materially interfere with his daily occupation at the mill.

Mary was in the habit of communicating to Christopher all her secrets, and of enlisting his aid in her plans whenever it was necessary. And now, soon after the morning broke, the maiden arose and went to the mill, where she communicated to Christopher all the perplexities of the preceding night.

.'The thing must be managed to-day,'—said the young man, after he had heard the whole story.—'I have provisions to collect from the neighborhood;—and what is to hinder you, Mary, from riding out with me,—if it should only be to buy some eggs?—and then, what is to hinder us from popping in upon David Ramsay, and there fixing the whole matter?'

'Will not the lieutenant be sending some of his own men with you?'—inquired the maid.

'He doesn't suspect us,'—answered Christopher, as cautiously as if the walls of his mill had ears.—'At any rate, we can try it, you know, and if the thing should take a wrong turn, you can only stay at home; and we may, at the worst, make another venture at night.'—

I have the letter in my bosom,'—said Mary,—'and will be ready immediately after breakfast.'

When the appointed time arrived, things went as favourably as Mary could have wished. Her good spirits had returned; and she plied her household duties with a Iiappy cheerfulness in her looks, that completely disarmed all suspicion. She received the banter of Macdonald, as to the cause of her restlessness on the preceding night, with perfect good nature,—and when Christopher announced to the commanding officer his purpose of going out upon a purveying ride, and invited 1 ls cousin to accompany him,—she accepted the proposal with such a tone of laughing pleasure, as put it on the footing of a pastime.

The horses were brought to the door, and the maiden and her escort rode cheerily forth. They were not long in accomplishing the five or six miles that brought them to David Ramsay's cabin. I need not tell the affectionate concern with which Mary Musgrove met her lover, John Ramsay; nor how she upbraided him as a silly fellow, for tramping and trudging about the mill, and whistling his signals, when he ought to have known, by her not coming to meet him, that there was good reason for it. Nor is it important to detail the circumstances of Horse Shoe's and John's fruitless expedition, and their disappointment at not seeing Mary; and how shrewdly, last night, Robinson guessed the true cause of it;—and how entirely he agreed with the maiden, before hand, in thinking John a venturesome, hair-brained fool, to put himself in danger, when he might have been certain it would have ended as it .did, in a run from 'the rascally red coats,'—as John had to run, to get out of the clutches of the patrole.—My story requires that 1 should pass these things by, and go to the business in hand.

Horse Shoe and Ramsay had grown exceedingly impatient,—both because they were in hourly danger of being surprised by casual parties of the enemy, and because the time for useful action was fast gliding away. They had used every precaution to keep their visit to David Ramsay's a profound secret to the neighbourhood; and had, with that object, lain perdue in one of the small cabins, from which they might watch the approach of visiters, and, if need required, secure an immediate retreat. During the day, they seldom left their concealment,—confining all their out-door operations to the night.

A consultation was held in David Ramsay's cabin,— the letters were produced and delivered to Horse Shoe, and the instructions intended for him by Butler were carefully read. It was resolved that Horse Shoe should set out for the Dove Cote without delay,—taking the route through the mountain country of North Carolina, as that least likely to be interrupted by the British troops.