the thought of a single hour."
"But the life of a good Minister of the Gospel, Ernest, living in some quiet country town, dividing his time between his parishioners and his books, and dwelling in a home like the cottage yonder—what say you to such a life, Ernest?"
He raised his eyes, and again surveyed me earnestly—"Ambitious as I am, I would sacrifice every thought of ambition for a life such as you picture—but upon one condition,"—he paused—
"And that condition?" I said in a low voice.
"Ask your own heart," was his reply, uttered in a tremulous voice.
I felt my bosom heave—was agitated, trembling I knew not why—but I made no answer.
There was a long and painful pause.
"The night is getting chill," I said at length, for want of something better to say: "Father is waiting for us. Let us go home."
I led the way down the path, and he followed moodily, without a word. As he helped me over the stile I saw that his face was pale, his lips tightly compressed. And when we came into the presence of his Father, he replied to the old man's kind questions, in a vacant and abstracted manner. I bade him "good night!" at last; he answered me, but added in a lower tone, inaudible to the old man, "Young and rich and beautiful, you are beyond the reach of—a country clergyman."
The next morning while we were at breakfast, a letter came. It was from my mother. To-morrow she would come and take me from the cottage!
The letter dropped from the old man's hand, and Ernest rising abruptly from the table, rushed from the room.
And I was to leave the home of my happiest hours, and go forth into the great world! The thought fell like a thunderbolt upon every heart in the cottage.
CHAPTER VI.
AMONG THE PALISADES.
After an hour Ernest met me on the porch; he was very pale.
"Frank," said he, kindly, "To-morrow you will leave us forever. Would you not like to see once more the place yonder,"—he pointed across the river to the Palisades—"where we spent so many happy hours last summer?"
He spoke of that dear nook, high up among the rocks, encircled by trees, and canopied by vines, where, we had indeed spent many a happy hour.
I made no reply, but put on my sun-bonnet and took his arm, and in a little while we were crossing the river, he rowing, while I sat in the stern. It was a beautiful day. We arrived at the opposite shore, at a point where the perpendicular wall of the Palisades, is for a mile or more, broken by a huge and sloping hill, covered with giant forest trees. Together we took the serpentine path, which, winding toward all points of the compass, led to the top of the Palisades. The birds were singing, the broad forest leaves and hanging vines quivered in the sun, the air was balmy, and the day the very embodiment of the freshness and fragrance of June. As we wound up the road (whose brown graveled surface contrasted with the foliage), we saw the sunlight streaming in upon the deep shadows of the wood, and heard from afar the lulling music of a waterfall. Departing from the beaten road, we wandered among the forest trees, and talked together as gladly and as familiarly as in other days. There we wandered for hours, now in sunlight, now in shadow, now resting upon the brow of some moss-covered rock, and now stopping beside a spring of clear cold water, half hidden by thick green leaves. As noon drew near, we ascended to the top of the forest hill, and passing through a wilderness of tangled vines, came suddenly upon a rude farmhouse, one story high, built of logs, whose dark surface contrasted with the verdure of the garden and the foliage of the overshadowing tree. It was the same as in the year before. There was the well-pole rising above its roof and the well-bucket moist with clear cold water, and in the doorway stood the farmer's dame, who had often welcomed us to her quiet home.
"Bless me! how handsome my children have grown!" she cried, "and how's the good Domine? Come in, come in; the folks are all away in the fields; come in and rest you, and have some pie and milk, and"—she paused for breath—"and some dinner."
The good dame would take no denial, and we sat down to dinner with her—I can see the scene before me now—the carefully sanded floor, the old clock in the corner, the cupboard glistering with the burnished pewter, the neatly spread table, the broad hearth, covered with green boughs, and the open windows, with the sunbeams playing through the encircling vines. And then the good dame with her high cap, round, good-humored face, and spectacles resting on the bridge of her hooked nose. As we broke the home-made bread with her, we were as gay as larks.
"Well, I do like to see young folks enjoy themselves," said the dame.—"You don't know how often I've thought of you since you were here last summer. I have said, and I will say it, that a handsomer brother and sister I never yet did see."
"But you mistake," said Ernest, "We're not brother and sister."
"Only cousins," responded the dame, surveying us attentively, "Well, I'm glad of it, for there's no law ag'in cousins marryin', and you'd make such a handsome couple." And she laughed until her sides shook.
CHAPTER VII.
IN THE FOREST NOOK.
Leaving the farmhouse, we bent our way to the Palisades again. We had been gay and happy all the morning, now we became thoughtful. We entered a narrow path, and presently came upon the dear nook where we had spent so many happy hours. It was a quiet space of green-sward and velvet moss, encircled on all sides, save one, by the trunks of giant forest trees—the oak, the tulip poplar and the sycamore—which arose like rugged columns, their branches forming a roof far overhead. Half-way between the sward and the branches, hung a drapery of vines, swinging in the sunlight, and showering blossoms and fragrance on the summer air. Light shrubbery grew between the massive trunks of the trees, and in one part of the glade a huge rock arose, its summit projecting over the sward, and forming a sort of canopy or shelter for a rustic seat fashioned of oaken boughs. Looking upward through the drapery of vines and the roof of boughs, only one glimpse of blue sky was visible. Toward the east the glade was open, and over the tops of the forest trees (which rose from the glen beneath), you saw the river, the distant village and my cottage home shining in the sun. At the foot of the oak which formed one of the portals of the glade, was a clear cold spring, resting in a basin of rock, and framed in leaves and flowers. Altogether the dear nook of the forest was worthy of June.
For a moment we surveyed this quiet scene—thought of the many happy hours we had spent there in the previous summer—and then turning our faces to the east, we stood, hand link'd in hand, gazing over forest trees and river upon our far-off cottage home.
"Does it not look beautiful, as it shines there in the sun?"—I said.
Ernest at first did not reply, but turned his gaze full upon me. His face was flushed and there was a strange fire in his eyes.
"To-morrow you leave that home forever," he exclaimed, and I trembled, I knew not why at the sound of his voice—"I will never see you again—I—" he dropped my hand and turned his face away. I saw his head fall on his breast, and saw that breast heave with agitation; urged by an impulse I could not control, I glided to his side, put my hand upon his arm, and looked up into his face.
"Ernest," I whispered.
He turned to me, for a moment regarded me with a look of intense passion and then caught me to his heart. His arms were around me, my bosom heaved against his breast, his kiss was on my lips—the first kiss since childhood, and O, how different from the kiss which a brother presses