The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the
melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild
and bleak road, at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he
saw the kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring
forward to meet them all, from the old woman, who wiped a chair with
her apron, to the little child that held out its arms to him. One
glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent
familiarity with the eldest daughter.
"Ah, this fire is the right thing!" cried he; "especially when
there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed; for the
Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a
terrible blast in my face all the way from Bartlett."
"Then you are going towards Vermont?" said the master of the house,
as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man's shoulders.
"Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond," replied he. "I meant
to have been at Ethan Crawford's tonight; but a pedestrian lingers
along such a road as this. It is no matter; for, when I saw this
good fire, and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled
it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down
among you, and make myself at home."
The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire
when something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down
the steep side of the mountain, as with long and rapid strides, and
taking such a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite
precipice.
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