For a moment it
saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But
the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was
lifted by some traveller, whose footsteps had been unheard amid the
dreary blast which heralded his approach, and wailed as he was
entering, and went moaning away from the door.
Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily
converse with the world. The romantic pass of the Notch is a great
artery, through which the life-blood of internal commerce is
continually throbbing between Maine, on one side, and the Green
Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other. The
stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. The
way-farer, with no companion but his staff, paused here to exchange
a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him
ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain, or reach the
first house in the valley. And here the teamster, on his way to
Portland market, would put up for the night; and, if a bachelor, might
sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime, and steal a kiss from the
mountain maid at parting. It was one of those primitive taverns
where the traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a
homely kindness beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard,
therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole
family rose up, grandmother, children, and all, as if about to welcome
someone who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs.
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