"Afterwards when Cromwell an' his men marched into Ulster to take revenge, my great grandmaither begged successfully for the lives o' Lady O'Niel an' her two grandsons. They were not, tho' I am glad to say, the children o' Sir Phelim, but o' a younger son, who had died before the massacre. My grandmaither, when she grew up, married Owen O'Niel, an' 'tis there that the one strain o' Irish cooms into our bluid. But this Owen died young, an' my grandmaither went back to her ain people, with naithin' to show the Irish in her children, but the name an' accent. My maither, Jeannie, married, as you know, a full blooded Scotchman, William Irvine, an' I anaither, Douglas McIlwaine – yet they tell me the Irish accent has descended as far as me," and my grandmother looked at me with a half merry, half serious question in her eye.
"Just enough to make your speech roll musically, grandmother. So then I am a cousin of Ellen O'Niel's as well as Thomas Mitchell?"
"Yes, but verra deestant. She's a direct descendant o' James, a brother of the Owen who was my ancestor, an' who also married a Scotch lass as his brother did, in spite of the law an' the custom. The grandson o' James was amangst the first o' the Scotch Irish settlers who came with the McElroys, an' aithers to Pennsylvania in the year 1729, in the good ship, George and Ann. The Mitchells came a few years later, an' your Uncle Thomas' sister married the youngest son o' this first emigrant, some sixteen years syne."
"They moved from Pennsylvania to Baltimore?"
"Yes; James O'Niel was a shrewd man, and whilst made money in the ship traffic; but when Thomas was last on, he brought news that James had lost his ship, and that his business was being taken frae him by richer traders. Thees child Ellen has nae aither heritage, I suppose, than her name, an' mayhap beauty – her race are a comely people."
"Poor child!" said I, "'Tis a pity she must come here."
"The purposes o' God in His providences are inscrutable, lad; but that He maun work final good out o' this event you need nae meesdoot. Martha's a pious woman, an' her intentions are good, though without doot she is overly selfrighteous, an' has nae understanding o' the feelings o' the young. But remember, my son, 'twere better to hae o'er mooch religion than not enow, an' what e'er experience life may bring you ne'er lose reverence, lad, for the earnest and beautiful faith of your forefaithers. Because there be some who pervert its solemnity to sternness – do not conclude that Presbyterianism is a hard and narrow faith. There be some, lad, that wad make it appear so, but 'tis in their perverted minds, an' not in those lofty an' consoling doctrines which turn life into a joyful though toilsome pilgrimage to a blissful eternity."
"Should I ever be inclined to think Presbyterianism a cold, hard faith, grandmother," I answered, "I shall but need to think of you."
"Aye, laddie, think o' your old grandmaither, an' that she told you thees – that during a pilgrimage o' seventy-five years, – an' my life has known mony vicissitudes, Donald, an' mooch hardship an' danger – nae trouble e'er came to her that her religion dinna gie her strength to endure calmly, and hopefully; and nae joy that her faith dinna make the sweeter an' brighter – as being but a faint foretaste o' that perfect an' eternal happiness to which she felt assured she was journeying."
As grandmother spoke these words, there grew upon her face a rapt and absent look, and her lips parted in a smile of perfect satisfaction. I like to remember her thus – the silky bands of her white hair shining beneath her soft cap, her wrinkled hands crossed upon the finished ball, her alert brown eyes dreamy and tender, and over all her kind, bright face, that look of pure content – as of faith assured, and Heaven already realized.
CHAPTER III
Some weeks later the news came that Uncle Thomas had returned, bringing with him the "Irish lass," and a huge bundle of linens, muslins, laces, tea, spices, and other goods and delicacies such as were difficult to come by in our remote settlement. The horses were saddled as early the next morning as my mother's energetic household management permitted, and she and grandmother, who sat her horse as erectly as either of her daughters, rode across the fields to my aunt's, even more eager to inspect the contents of the bundles, which Uncle Thomas had brought, than to see our new kinswoman. I accompanied them, on foot, to lay down the fences, and to watch my grandmother's horse, lest he stumble, though I did not dare avow the last named object to the dear old lady, who liked not to be treated as if she were in any sense incapacitated by her age.
When Thomas and I entered the big room, after stabling the horses, we could see the three women in the adjoining spare room, gathered about the bed which was piled so high with "feather-ticks" that my little mother, standing, could not much more than see the top, on which was laid out an array of fine dry goods, the like of which had seldom been seen in our neighborhood.
Aunt Martha, mounted upon the bed-stool, was drawing to the edge of the bed piece after piece of her treasures, and all were talking volubly as they examined each article with eyes, fingers, tongues and even noses. I smiled as the thought came into my mind that Uncle Thomas had used the wisdom of a serpent combined with the harmlessness of a dove, according to the Bible injunction, in thus diverting Aunt Martha's worrying spirit for a while from the Irish lass thrown, so unwelcome, upon their charities. Uncle Thomas would sacrifice anything for peace in his household, though he lacked not courage where another than his wife was concerned.
"Where is our new cousin, Thomas?" I asked, as I hung my hat upon the stag antlers near the door.
"There," he said, pointing to the farthest window; then, after a moment's hesitation, he approached her and said, with shy, off-hand manner, "This is another cousin, Ellen, and his name is Donald McElroy."
The girl, who had been leaning listlessly on the window sill, turned a thin pale face towards me, and nodded silently.
"You must be very tired, Cousin Ellen," I said as kindly as I could, moved somehow with sympathy by the utter dejection of her attitude and expression.
When I spoke directly to her she looked me full in the face, and I noted the singular beauty of her eyes. They were large, almond-shaped, the bluest I have ever seen, and rayed with minute, dark lines which centered in the wide pupils. Moreover, the dark lashes, which fringed thickly their white lids, curved upward, and when they were lifted almost touched the gracefully arched black brows. Otherwise her face was not pretty; it was too long, too thin and too pale; the nose was somewhat sharp and the lips were compressed in an expression that denoted either sullenness or restrained misery, while the black hair, which had been cropped like a boy's, was stubbly and unbecoming.
"I am not tired," she answered, rather scornfully; "I'm very strong."
"But you are lonely," I said, "I wish we had brought Jean with us." Then casting about in my mind for some more available resource to offer her, I asked impulsively: "Would you like to go duck shooting this afternoon with Thomas and me? Jean goes with me sometimes."
"I would like it, but I cannot go."
"And why not?"
"My Aunt Martha says that girls should be satisfied to keep busy within doors. I am to learn to spin, and to weave, and then I'll not have time to get lonesome, she says."
"Do you not know how to spin and weave, Ellen? Why, even Jean can spin, and she's but thirteen," put in Thomas.
"My mother did not make me do the things I detested," answered Ellen with a flash of her eyes toward Thomas; then to me, with some show of interest, "Who is Jean?"
"My little sister. What do you like to do, Cousin Ellen?"
"Nothing that's useful."
"Then what sort of play do you like?"
"To shoot, to climb, to swim, to chop wood, to drive sheep and to read."
I opened my eyes wide, I suppose, for I never heard of a girl who liked such things. "And you can do these things?" I asked.
"Yes, my father taught me, and my mother said I needed outdoor life to make me strong, and at night my father would read to us, or else my mother would teach me."
"But you may like to spin; Jean does."
"No; I shall hate everything I have to do here; I would rather have died than to have come." As she said this I noticed a singular quality in her voice, though not until afterwards did I analyze it. There was a sort of tremor in certain tones, though tremor is, perhaps, too strong a word, since it was rather the suggestion of a harp-like vibration. – like the faintest echo of a sob.
"I wish I might have died when my mother did," she continued, with rising passion. "Why did God leave me alone in the world with no one to love me?" and the strange child burst into a storm of weeping, and ran out of the room, her face hidden by her arm, her slight body shaken by sobs.
"Isn't she queer, Don?" said Thomas, while Aunt Martha came from the room to inquire what was the matter, followed by my mother and grandmother.
"O, 'twas Ellen," I explained, making as light of the matter as possible; "she was answering our questions, and spoke of her mother, which started her to crying."
"Poor child!" said my mother; "I do not wonder she is unhappy, having so recently lost both her parents."
"She is by no means humbled by her afflictions, nor does she seem ever to have been taught respect and obedience," replied Aunt Martha. "Last night I stayed in her room to see that she said her prayers, and when she kneeled down she began to count the beads about her neck and to kiss the crucifix hung to them. I called her to me, and asked her if she did not know they were idolatrous symbols, that she was breaking the second commandment in using them, and that she ought to pray to the unseen God rather than to a wooden cross; and then I bade her give me the beads that I might put it out of her power to sin in that way again. But she refused to give them up, said they were the last thing her mother had kissed, and that her father had told her to say her prayers to them every day; then she grew violent and said she would part with them only with her life. I took her to her Uncle Thomas this morning, and urged him to remonstrate with her, but she again became angry and wept and stormed till Thomas bade me let the child's beads alone; since they were the gift of her dead parents, he could not see how they could do her harm, even though she did attach a superstitious importance to them. So you see, mother, that already this Irish girl is bringing trouble to my household, as I was forewarned she would. Last night was the first time I have ever heard Thomas say a word in favor of idolatry, and not for months has he spoken to me so sternly."
"But, Martha, you dinna use due discretion with the child," said my grandmother; "couldna you hae waited till she hae gotten used to her new surroundings, an' her grief for her parents had some abated, afore you began to abuse her religion? You will soon hae the child set in stubborn defiance, at this rate; hae na' I told you that ne'er yet micht an O'Niel be driven – that they wad be easier led to hell, than driven to heaven?"
"Such language sounds irreverent to me, mother," Aunt Martha replied, with her most pious air, "and if that is the character of the O'Niels they must be a stiff necked people. In my opinion anyone should be grateful to be driven in the right way. But, be that as it may, I cannot risk the effect of an idolatrous example upon my own children, even could I bring myself to tolerate such practices in my house. If Ellen persists in saying prayers to her beads she must do so without my knowledge or consent, and I shall consider it my duty to speak out against such practices whenever the opportunity is afforded."
"Well, Martha, you maun need take your ain way, and reap the fruit of it," said my grandmother, in her sharpest tone; and my mother as usual rushed in with soothing words, diverting the conversation into smoother channels, by further laudation of the beauty of the table linens they were already beginning to hem.
Ellen did not come into dinner, and no one appeared to notice her absence, though Uncle Thomas watched the door, I thought. After dinner I took my rifle on my shoulder, and went down to the canebrake where I hoped to find a flock of wild ducks. Thomas had been sent by his father with more seed to the fields, where the men were sowing wheat, so could not go with me. I went by the dining room, and found platters of wheaten bread, and spice cake still on the side table with which I filled my pockets, for my appetite would be as hearty as ever in three hours, and I might need bait for the ducks.
My way lay under a sycamore tree, on the edge of the creek behind the barn, and as I stooped to pass beneath a low bough, something jumped from a branch just before me. I raised my head quickly, and saw the child, Ellen, standing in the path.
"May I go hunting with you, now?" she said, eagerly. "You asked me this morning, so I brought my bonnet, and I have been watching for you."
"But you've had no dinner."
"I'm not hungry, and I can't eat when she looks at me."
"Who?"
"The one I must call Aunt Martha; do you like her?"
"Well, I never thought about it, much, but I don't believe I am as fond of her as I ought to be."
"Ought to be, – why?"
"She is my real blood aunt, you know – my mother's sister."
"That's nothing. She's hateful, just as much as if she weren't – this morning she stole my crucifix – I left it on my dresser, and it's gone. O, I know she stole it!"
"Don't let's talk about that now," I said, "but sit down here and have lunch together. I'm hungry still, though I've had my dinner." This was not strictly true, but I managed to eat enough to keep her at it till I thought she was satisfied, and then I bade her follow me, and not to let me walk too fast for her.
She scouted the idea, saying: "My father was tall, like you, and walked fast always, and he never had to wait for me."
She kept up without seeming to try, and helped me to pile brush for a blind on the edge of the brake, keeping as still as possible when we were hidden behind it.
A flock rose presently, and flew straight over our heads toward the river. I took aim, brought down one, then loaded quickly, and hit a second, as the flock circled, calling noisily to each other.
Ellen ran fleetly into the marshy grass, and brought both of the dead ducks to me.
"I wish you had two rifles with you," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I might be loading one, while you shoot the other."
I smiled at her enthusiasm. "The next flock that rises is yours," I said, "I want to see how well you can aim."
In less than half an hour we again heard a whirring in the brake, and this time the flock flew low, and between us and the river, affording Ellen a fine chance. She waited with a coolness that surprised me, then took careful aim and shot the leader.
"Well done!" I said, seizing the gun to reload, and getting it ready to pick off one of the scattered flock before they could all get back into the brake.
By the time the light began to fail we had six ducks, two of which Ellen had killed. Already we were good friends, and the child looked so happy, as she tripped lightly beside me, that I could not believe that she would ever again seem to me sullen and forbidding as she had that morning.
"It's a pity you're a girl, Ellen," with the patronizing air of a youth of nineteen.
"I wish I were a boy!" with a profound sigh; "I'd live in the woods, and eat roots, berries, and game; I'd never have to weave and spin for my keep, then. Why must I wear skirts and live in the house just because I'm a girl, Cousin Donald?"
"I'm not sure I can give a better answer than the one Aunt Martha would likely make you. God fixed it that way. He meant women for the home, and men for the fields and for war. There's one good thing, maybe, about being a girl – that is, some persons might think it a compensation, – you will never have to fight, or go to war."
"I think fighting would be fine, a heap more fun than staying at home and hearing about it. Don't women ever go to war?"
"Of course not, child, though in this valley they have more than once helped to fight Indians."
"I do wish I were a boy," she repeated, "or I'd like better still to be a splendid, big man like you."
This flattery, whether intentional or not, had its effect upon me, and I constituted myself Ellen's champion from that moment. When we reached the house I marched boldly in with her to Aunt Martha, and after announcing that I had taken the child to the river to pick up ducks for me, made Aunt Martha a peace offering of half of them.
CHAPTER IV
My father had destined me for a lawyer, there being at that time need for one in our valley – a fact which sounds strangely now, when knights of quill and ink horn are everywhere so numerous. An accumulation of legal lore requiring, as was then thought, the deep laid foundation of a thorough classical education, I was sent, after old David Ramsey had imparted to me such measure of his learning as his failing powers permitted, to the Augusta Academy, to continue my Greek and Latin, while at the same time I read Coke and Blackstone, and practiced on legal forms.
We had just begun a second session of eleven months, and I flattered myself I was making some progress in comprehending the great underlying principles of law, as well as in unlearning certain faults of pronunciation and scanning acquired under old David, when my studies encountered a sudden interruption in an event whose influence upon my after life was of sufficient importance to justify me in briefly recording it.
The class room that August afternoon was hot and buzzing, and most of the lads in the Greek class awaited the coming of the master with a sort of drowsy impatience, while a few bent their eyes upon well thumbed books, and read the coming lesson over greedily, hoping to make up for previous neglect by diligent use of an unexpected respite. When the master did come, he had an absent and very serious look upon his face, and he heard us recite with surprising indifference to mistakes. We knew intuitively that he held something in waiting, to tell us as soon as the lesson should be over, and a subdued inward excitement quickly counteracted our drowsiness.
After the last line had been recited, he got on his feet, his tall gaunt figure, stern mouth and Roman nose more impressive than usual, and told us, as quietly as if he were announcing the next day's lesson, that news had been received of a confederated rising of the Indians in the Ohio Valley, and that Colonel Lewis had been ordered to call out the militia, to enlist volunteers, and to march to the frontier to meet the savages. He, the master, being a militia man, was in duty bound to go, and as it was but two days to the one set for the mustering, he would not meet his class again until his return – if it should be God's will to spare his life and liberty, and allow him to come back to more peaceful pursuits. Meantime, he hoped we would not neglect our studies, or grow careless of our duty to our parents, and our country. That duty, at present, was to train our minds by constant exercise, and to fill our brains with varied knowledge, that we might become useful and honored citizens in a commonwealth, standing upon the threshold of a future which promised to be one of glorious and continued progress. Then he bade us good-by feelingly, and left us, each one envying him his chance of adventure and danger, and each sheepishly conscious of tears in his eyes. A moment later I made a sudden but resolute decision, and having put my books, desk, and other school belongings in the care of a fellow student, struck out across the fields, and walked the twelve miles to the home stile by sunset.
"Father," I said, before he had time to express astonishment, "I am going with Colonel Lewis to whip the Indians."
The day after the next, my father accompanied me to the mustering, and gave full consent to my enlistment for the campaign.
The long march we made through an almost trackless wilderness, and the effectual check we gave Cornstalk and his warriors, are, now, facts of history, and since they in no way serve to help on my story, I must resist the temptation to dwell upon our brief campaign. I cannot even stop to point out convincingly the far reaching and most important consequences to the cause growing out of this victory. But this much of a digression must be forgiven me – though my story halts while I say it.
Had not the strength and confidence of the Shawnees, and the tribes confederated with them, been shaken at Point Pleasant, and the prestige and influence of the brave and capable Cornstalk destroyed, the Indians would, doubtless months before, have made impossible that intrepid defiance of Washington, the memory of which we Scotch Irish cherish with so much pride: – that he would never surrender but if driven to bay would make a last stand in the mountain fastnesses of Augusta; and, rallying to his aid those brave pioneers, yet bid defiance to the enemy and hope to pluck victory from apparent defeat. Nor, had there been no battle of Point Pleasant, would a dauntless rifle company have been available for service under the gallant Morgan, to march to Quebec, to win the decisive battle at Freeman Farm, and the telling victories of King's Mountain and of Cowpens.
Returned from the Ohio, I went back to my books, but I could not settle down contentedly to Latin odes and Greek classics. The excitement of the march, the battle, and the victory, had aroused within me a sleeping aptitude for the life of a soldier, and I chafed at the prospect of a safe and uneventful career.
At Christmas I had two weeks' holiday, and what time I was not tracking game in the snow, was spent breaking the colts to the cutter, or coasting on a plank down the steepest hills to be found, with Jean and Ellen O'Niel behind me. My grandmother, who did not share the universal disapproval of the Irish child's "defiant spirit," had persuaded my mother to have Ellen over to spend the holidays with Jean, using the adroit argument, with both my mother and Aunt Martha, that Jean's gentle and tractable spirit might have a good influence over the untamed Ellen. She had come, but not very graciously, and sat silent among us, for the first day and evening, looking sullen and unhappy.
Few could resist, however, the contagion of our kindly home atmosphere, and by the second morning, Ellen had melted sufficiently to smile at grandmother's quaint jokes and stories of Ireland. By dinner time she was ready to listen with interest to some of my father's pioneer experiences, and that night when mother bade me give her a relation of my fight with the panther, she listened with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. We were by this time drawn in the usual family circle about the glowing fireplace, from which roasting apples and chestnuts were sending forth a rich odor. Mother sat in her special corner, her head resting against the panther's skin, and father sat beside her, grandmother opposite, and I near her on the settle, while Jean nestled close to me. Thomas, who occupied the other end of the settle, wore a radiant face, for he enjoyed the absence of restraint which he found nowhere but with us, and all the sullen reserve was gone from Ellen's countenance.
Presently Ellen, who so far had deigned only to answer us, began to talk. At first she barely asked a question into which interest or surprise had betrayed her, or made an occasional impulsive remark. But, as her reserve melted in the genial and sympathetic atmosphere, the sluice gates of pent up memories seemed suddenly to open, and she talked freely, relating anecdotes and reminiscences of her childhood, and showing a depth and warmth of emotion which surprised us. These led her on to repeat some of the stories her father had read or told to her. They were chiefly tales from Shakespeare's "Tempest," "Winter's Tale," "Hamlet," and others of the more fantastical and tragic of these dramas. None of her listeners had read them, then, though I had heard of Shakespeare, the great English playwright. We were all charmed, as much, perhaps, by the flashing expressions of intelligence and feeling which transformed Ellen's face into one almost of beauty, as by the stories themselves. Moreover that emotional quality of her voice, so prone to subtle vibrations, added a special charm to all she said.
"Now, Donald," said my father, when Ellen seemed to have spent her present memories, and had lapsed into her usual quiet, "get your fiddle, and let's have a tune."
Jean ran at once to bring my violin, and I did my best to add my share of entertainment to the evening's innocent pleasures.
"Ellen can sing sweeter than a lark, or a red bird," said Thomas, as I paused to rest my arm.
"Can she?" from Jean with eager delight. "I do love singing; sing for us, Ellen."
"I can sing only the Irish and Scotch ballads, and the Catholic hymns my mother used to sing," answered Ellen, flushing. "I do not know the solemn songs you people sing, and I shall never learn them" – the last said in a defiant tone which the occasion scarcely called for.
"Our psalms are vera sweet an' sacred to us, my dear," remarked my grandmother, with no apparent recognition of the challenge in Ellen's voice, yet choosing her words with a precision that was evidence of slight displeasure, "but we like aither sangs too, an' sing them except on the Sabbath. I love the Scotch and Irish ballads, an' though you hae already done your share aboot making the evening go by pleasantly for us a', we'd greatly like a sang or twa, if ye dinna mind to pleasure us further."
"It's a delight to please you, grandma," said Ellen impulsively, and she rose from her chair, slipped behind the settle and dropped upon the floor beside grandmother, kissing as she did so, one of the soft, wrinkled hands folded in her lap. Then, resting her head against grandmother's knee, she fixed her eyes upon the dancing flames, and began to sing somewhat unsteadily, but with more fullness and confidence, as she continued. Her voice did indeed soar and swell like a redbird's, and she threw all her heart into her singing, while the quaint words of the old ballads slipped meltingly from her lips, as drops of dew from the petals of a flower.
"Why, my dear, I hae na' been up sae late for years," remarked grandmother, in a tone of alarm as the clock struck midnight; then stroking Ellen's hair, which was growing out in loose curls, "You g'ie us mouch pleasure, dear, but it's bedtime now, for a'. Come, Jean and Ellen! Good night a', and a merry Christmas to you."
Not only were cider and persimmon beer drawn from the full barrels in the cellar, but a big bowl of apple toddy was concocted early Christmas morning, and flanked by plates of doughnuts, and ginger bread, raisin and spiced cake, apples, and nuts, sat upon the long table in the big room, all day, every one being free to eat and drink his fill. This custom of my father, which usually drew to our house most of the men within a ten mile ride, always scandalized my Aunt Martha, and but for Uncle Thomas' backing we would never have gotten Ellen and Thomas to our house until after Christmas day. Uncle Thomas himself always came, however, and on this occasion Aunt Martha broke her rule and came with him, bringing too their younger son, John.
I observed a change come over Ellen's face as soon as Aunt Martha appeared in the doorway; she seemed to draw within herself, and her face took on the sullen expression which so marred its comeliness, and presently when I looked about for her, she was nowhere to be found.
"Ah, Rachael," said Aunt Martha, glancing toward the laden table between the two southern windows, and shaking her head in solemn disapproval, "I see you have not yet been able to persuade William of the sinfulness of this habit of his, of offering the intoxicating cup to all comers, at this season. Strange perversion, that this holy Christ festival should be turned into an occasion for gluttony and rioting."
"William has his own ideas, Martha, and I do not set mine against him," I heard my mother answer, from the doorway, as she followed my aunt into the bedroom. "The neighbor gentlemen will all be in presently, and a warming cup will be needed by those who do not stay to dinner."
"You are too meek with William, Rachael, and so fail of due influence. Wifely obedience is commanded in the Bible, it is true, but I do not think the sacrifice of our principles is required."
"Preaching still, eh, Martha – " called my father's cheery voice from the big room, having come in to put another log upon the roaring pile; "well, you'll have to stop now, for I see Justices McDowell and Willson riding up, and, as you know, we like not solemn faces in this house on Christmas day," and he hurried out again to meet his guests, before Aunt Martha was sufficiently recovered from her indignant surprise to make him proper answer.
The ensuing hour brought a dozen others, the most substantial freeholders in the community, nearly all of them members of the church, as well as men of influence in public affairs. A few drank only cider or beer, but most of them quaffed full cups of the spiced, apple-seasoned toddy with evident appreciation, and ate the cakes, apples and nuts without stint.
I sat about the fire with the men, proud of my privilege, but mother and Aunt Martha, after ceremonious greetings were exchanged, retired, as was customary for women when several men were met together. The talk was animated, and at times exciting, though there was but small difference of opinion among them. The Boston massacre, and recent unjust restrictions upon our commerce, were indignantly condemned, and the determined spirit of the colonists of Massachusetts warmly commended. Presently it was proposed by Justice Willson, and warmly seconded by my father, that the citizens of Augusta County, or a committee elected by them, should draw up resolutions to be sent to the Virginia assembly, expressing with no uncertain sound their fixed determination not to submit to tyranny, and to sustain Massachusetts in her noble stand against injustice and oppression at every hazard. In truth the leaders of the New England "Town Meeting," could not have shown more fervor nor more determination than these representative men of this Scotch Irish settlement in the Virginia mountains. The discussion was unabated still, and not a man had suggested returning home, when my mother announced dinner. The table had been lengthened to its utmost, by raising all its "wings" and putting the side tables at either end; but there was still no seat for me, so I wandered into my mother's room, and then across the yard to the kitchen to look for Jean and Ellen. Jean, and John Mitchell I found, eating turkey livers, gravy and potatoes before the embers, over which hung the now idle cranes, and Thomas was mending John's sled at the work bench in the back kitchen. But Ellen was not to be found, and no one had seen her for two hours. Returning to the house, I mounted the steps to the room under the gable, where grandma and Jean slept, and there found Ellen, wrapped in a blanket, and lying prone on the floor in the stream of sunshine pouring through the western window. Her chin was supported by her hands and an open book lay before her.