Septimius Felton; Or, the Elixir of Life: Iii

SEPTIMIUS, the next day, lost no time in writing a letter to the direction given him by the young officer, conveying a brief account of the latter’s death and burial, and a signification that he held in readiness to give up certain articles of property, at any future time, to his representatives, mentioning also the amount of money contained in the purse, and his intention, in compliance with the verbal will of the deceased, to expend it in alleviating the wants of prisoners. Having so done, he went up on the hill to look at the grave, and satisfy himself that the scene there had not been a dream ; a point which he was inclined to question, in spite of the tangible evidence of the sword and watch, which still hung over the mantel-piece. There was the little mound, however, looking so incontrovertibly a grave, that it seemed to him as if all the world must see it, and wonder at the fact of its being there, and spend their wits in conjecturing who slept within ; and, indeed, it seemed to give the affair a questionable character, this secret burial, and he wondered and wondered why the young man had been so earnest about it. Well ; there was the grave ; and, moreover, on the leafy earth, where the dying youth had lain, there were traces of blood, which no rain had yet washed away. Septimius wondered at the easiness with which he acquiesced in this deed ; in fact, he felt in a slight degree the effects of that taste of blood, which makes the slaying of men, like any other abuse, sometimes become a passion. Perhaps it was his Indian trait stirring in him again ; at any rate, it is not delightful to observe how readily man becomes a blood-shedding animal.

Looking down from the hill-top, he saw the little dwelling of Rose Garfield, and caught a glimpse of the girl herself, passing the windows or the door, about her household duties, and listened to hear the singing which usually broke out of her. But Rose, for some reason or other, did not warble as usual this morning. She trod about silently, and somehow or other she was translated out of the ideality in which Septimius usually enveloped her, and looked little more than a New England girl, very pretty indeed, but not enough so perhaps to engross a man’s life and higher purposes into her own narrow circle ; so, at least, Septimius thought. Looking a little farther,— down into the green recess where stood Robert Hagburn’s house, — he saw that young man, looking very pale, with his arm in a sling, sitting listlessly on a half-chopped log of wood, which was not likely soon to be severed by Robert’s axe. Like other lovers, Septimius had not failed to be aware that Robert Hagburn was sensible to Rose Garfield’s attractions ; and now, as he looked down on them both from his elevated position, he wondered if it would not have been better for Rose’s happiness if her thoughts and virgin fancies had settled on that frank, cheerful, able, wholesome young man, instead of on himself, who met her on so few points ; and, in relation to whom, there was perhaps a plant that had its root in the grave, that would entwine itself around his whole life, overshadowing it with dark, rich foliage and fruit that he alone could feast upon.

Lntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by JAMES R. OSGOOD St Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,

For the sombre imagination of Septimius, though he kept it as much as possible away from the subject, still kept hinting and whispering, still coming back to the point, still secretly suggesting that the event of yesterday was to have momentous consequences upon his fate.

He had not yet looked at the paper which the young man bequeathed to him ; he had laid it away unopened ; not that he felt little interest in it, but, on the contrary, because he looked for some blaze of light which had been reserved for him alone. The young officer had been only the bearer of it to him, and he had come hither to die by his hand, because that was the readiest way by which he could deliver his message. How else, in the infinite chances of human affairs, could the document have found its way to its destined possessor ? Thus mused Septimius, pacing to and fro on the level edge of his hill-top, apart from the world, looking down occasionally into it, and seeing its love and interest away from him ; while Rose, it might be looking upward, saw occasionally his passing figure, and trembled at the nearness and remoteness that existed between them ; and Robert Hagburn looked too, and wondered what manner of man it was who, having won Rose Garfield (for his instinct told him this was so), could keep that distance between her and him, thinking remote thoughts.

Yes; there was Septimius, treading a path of his own on the hill-top; his feet began only that morning to wear it in his walking to and fro, sheltered from the lower world, except in occasional glimpses, by the birches and locusts that threw up their foliage from the hillside. But many a year thereafter he continued to tread that path, till it was worn deep with his footsteps and trodden down hard ; and it was believed by some of his superstitious neighbors that the grass and little shrubs shrank away from his path, and made it wider on that account ; because there was something in the broodings that urged him to and fro along the path alien to nature and its productions. There was another opinion, too, that an invisible fiend, one of his relatives by blood, walked side by side with him, and so made the pathway wider than his single footsteps could have made it. But all this was idle, and was, indeed, only the foolish babble that hovers like a mist about men who withdraw themselves from the throng, and involve themselves in unintelligible pursuits and interests of their own. For the present, the small world, which alone knew ot him, considered Septimius as a studious young man, who was fitting for the ministry, and was likely enough to do credit to the ministerial blood that he drew from his ancestors, in spite of the wild stream that the Indian priest had contributed ; and perhaps none the worse, as a clergyman, for having an instinctive sense of the nature of the Devil from his traditionary claims to partake of his blood. But what strange interest there is in tracing out the first steps by which we enter on a career that influences our life ; and this deepworn pathway on the hill-top, passing and repassing by a grave, seemed to symbolize it in Septimius’s case.

I suppose the morbidness of Septimius’s disposition was excited by the circumstances which had put the paper into his possession. Had he received it by post, it might not have impressed him ; he might possibly have looked over it with ridicule, and tossed it aside. But he had taken it from a dying man, and he felt that his fate was in it ; and truly it turned out to be so. He waited for a fit opportunity to open it and read it ; he put it off as if he cared nothing about it ; but perhaps it was because he cared so much. Whenever he had a happy time with Rose (and, moody as Septimius was, such happy moments came), he felt that then was not the time to look into the paper, — it was not to be read in a happy mood.

Once he asked Rose to walk with him on the hill-top.

“ Why, what a path you have worn here, Septimius ! ” said the girl. “You walk miles and miles on this one spot, and get no farther on than when you started. That is strange walking ! ”

“ I don't know, Rose ; I sometimes chink I get a little onward. But it is sweeter—yes, much sweeter, I find — to have you walking on this path here than to be treading it alone.”

“ I am glad of that,” said Rose ; “for sometimes, when I look up here, and see you through the branches, with your head bent down and your hands clasped behind you, treading, treading, treading, always in one way, I wonder whether I am at all in your mind I don’t think, Septimius,” added she, looking up in his face and smiling, “ that ever a girl had just such a young man for a lover.”

“ No young man ever had such a girl, I am sure,’said Septimius; “so sweet, so good tor him, so prolific of good influences ! ”

“ Ah, it makes me think well of myself to bring such a smile into your face ! But, Septimius, what is this little hillock here so close to our path P Have you heaped it up here for a seat ? Shall we sit down upon it for an instant ? — for it makes me more tired to walk backward and forward on one path than to go straight forward a much longer distance.”

“ Well ; but we will not sit down on this Hillock,” said Septimius, drawing her away from it. “ Farther out this way, if you please, Rose, where we shall have a better view over the wide plain, the valley, and the long, tame ridge of hills on the other side, shutting it in like human life. It is a landscape that never tires, though it has nothing striking about it ; and I am glad that there are no great hills to be thrusting themselves into my thoughts, and crowding out better things. It might be desirable, in some states of mind, to have a glimpse of water, —to have the lake that once must have covered this green valley, — because water reflects the sky, and so is like religion in life, the spiritual element.”

“ There is the brook running through it, though we do not see it,” replied Rose ; “ a torpid little brook, to be sure ; but, as you say, it has heaven in its bosom, like Walden Pond, or any wider one,”

As they sat together on the hill-top, they could look down into Robert Hagburn’s enclosure, and they saw him, with his arm now relieved from the sling, walking about, in a very erect manner, with a middle-aged man by his side, to whom he seemed to be talking and explaining some matter. Even at that distance Septimius could see that the rustic stoop and uncouthness had somehow fallen away from Robert, and that he seemed developed.

“What has come to Robert Hagburn ?” said he. “He looks like another man than the lout I knew a few weeks ago.”

“Nothing,” said Rose Garfield, “ except what comes to a good many young men nowadays. He has enlisted, and is going to the war. It is a pity for his mother.”

“A great pity,” said Septimius, “Mothers are greatly to be pitied all over the country just now, and there are some even more to be pitied than the mothers, though many of them do not know or suspect anything about their cause of grief at present.”

“ Of whom do you speak ? ” asked Rose.

“ I mean those many good and sweet young girls,” said Septimius, “ who would have been happy wives to the thousands of young men who now, like Robert Hagburn, are going to the war. Those young men — many of them, at least — will sicken and die in camp, or be shot down, or struck through with bayonets on battle-fields, and turn to dust and bones ; while the girls that would have loved them, and made happy firesides for them, will pine and wither, and tread along many sour and .discontented years, and at last go out of life without knowing what life is. So you see, Rose, every shot that takes effect kills two at least, or kills one and worse than kills the other.”

“ No woman will live single on account of poor Robert Hagburn being shot,” said Rose, with a change of tone ; “ for he would never be married were he to stay at home and plough the field.”

“ How can you tell that, Rose ? ” asked Septimius.

Rose did not tell how she came to know so much about Robert Hagburn’s matrimonial purposes; but after this little talk it appeared as if something had risen up between them, — a sort of mist, a medium, in which their intimacy was not increased ; for the flow and interchange of sentiment was balked, and they took only one or two turns in silence along Septimius’s trodden path. I don’t know exactly what it was ; but there are cases in which it is inscrutably revealed to persons that they have made a mistake in what is of the highest concern to them ; and this truth often comes in the shape of a vague depression of the spirit, like a vapor settling down on a landscape ; a misgiving, coming and going perhaps, a lack of perfect certainty. Whatever it was, Rose and Septimius had no more tender and playful words that day ; and Rose soon went to look after her grandmother, and Septimius went and shut himself up in his study, after making an arrangement to meet Rose the next day.

Septimius shut himself up, and drew forth the document which the young officer, with that singular smile on his dying face, had bequeathed to him as the reward of his death. It was in a covering of folded parchment, right through which, as aforesaid, was a bullet-hole and some stains of blood. Septimius unrolled the parchment cover, and found inside a manuscript, closely written in a crabbed hand ; so crabbed, indeed, that Septimius could not at first read a word of it, nor even satisfy himself in what language it was written. There seemed to be Latin words, and some interspersed ones in Greek characters, and here and there he could doubtfully read an English sentence ; but, on the whole, it was an unintelligible mass, conveying somehow an idea that it was the fruit of vast labor and erudition, emanating from a mind very full of books, and grinding and pressing down the great accumulation of grapes that it had gathered from so many vineyards, and squeezing out rich viscid juices, •—potent wine,— with which the reader might get drunk. Some of it, moreover, seemed, for the further mystification of the officer, to be written in cipher ; a needless precaution, it might seem, when the writer’s natural chirography was so full of puzzle and bewilderment.

Septimius looked at this strange manuscript, and it shook in his hands as he held it before his eyes, so great was his excitement. Probably, doubtless, it was in a great measure owing to the way in which it came to him, with such circumstances of tragedy and mystery ; as if—so secret and so important was it — it could not be within the knowledge of two persons at once, and therefore it was necessary that one should die in the act of transmitting it to the hand of another, the destined possessor, inheritor, profiter by it. By the bloody hand, as all the great possessions in this world have been gained and inherited, he had succeeded to the legacy, the richest that mortal man ever could receive. He pored over the inscrutable sentences, and wondered, when he should succeed in reading one, if it might summon up a subject-fiend, appearing with thunder and devilish demonstrations. And by what other strange chance had the document come into the hand of him who alone was fit to receive it? It seemed to Septimius, in his enthusiastic egotism, as if the whole chain of events had been arranged purposely for this end ; a difference had come between two kindred peoples; a war had broken out; a young officer, with the traditions of an old family represented in his line, had marched, and had met with a peaceful student, who had been incited from high and noble motives to take his life ; then came a strange, brief intimacy, in which his victim made the slayer His heir. All these chances, as they seemed, all these interferences of Providence, as they doubtless were, had been necessary in order to put this manuscript into the hands of Septimius, who now pored over it, and could not with certainty read one word!

But this did not trouble him, except for the momentary delay. Because he felt well assured that the strong, concentrated study that he would bring to it would remove all difficulties, as the rays of a lens melt stones ; as the telescope pierces through densest light of stars, and resolves them into their individual brilliancies. He could afford to spend years upon it, if it were necessary ; but earnestness and application should do quickly the work of years.

Amid these musings he was interrupted by his Aunt Keziah ; though generally observant enough of her nephew’s studies, and feeling a sanctity in them, both because of his intending to be a minister and because she had a great reverence for learning, even if heathenish, this good old lady summoned Septimius somewhat peremptorily to chop wood for her domestic purposes. How strange it is, — the way in which we are summoned from all high purposes by these little homely necessities ; all symbolizing the great fact that the earthly part of us, with its demands, takes up the greater portion of all our available force. So Septimius, grumbling and groaning, went to the wood-shed and exercised himself for an hour as the old lady requested; and it was only by instinct that he worked, hardly conscious what he was doing. The whole of passing life seemed impertinent ; or if, for an instant, it seemed otherwise, then his lonely speculations and plans seemed to become impalpable, and to have only the consistency of vapor, which his utmost concentration succeeded no further than to make into the likeness of absurd faces, mopping, mowing, and laughing at him.

But that sentence of mystic meaning shone out before him like a transparency, illuminated in the darkness of his mind ; he determined to take it for his motto until he should be victorious in his quest. When he took his candle, to retire apparently to bed, he again drew forth the manuscript, and, sitting down by the dim light, tried vainly to read it ; but he could not as yet settle himself to concentrated and regular effort ; he kept turning the leaves of the manuscript, in the hope that some other illuminated sentence might gleam out upon him, as the first had done, and shed a light on the context around it ; and that then another would be discovered, with similar effect, until the whole document would thus be illuminated with separate stars of light, converging and concentring in one radiance that should make the whole visible. But such was his bad fortune, not another word of the manuscript was he able to read that whole evening; and, moreover, while he had still an inch of candle left, Aunt Keziah, in her nightcap, — as witch-like a figure as ever went to a wizard meeting in the forest with Septimius’s ancestor,— appeared at the door of the room, aroused from her bed, and shaking her finger at him.

“Septimius,” said she, “you keep me awake, and you will ruin your eyes, and turn your head, if you study till midnight in this manner. You'll never live to be a minister, if this is the way you go on.”

“ Well, well, Aunt Keziah,” said Septimius, covering his manuscript with a book, “ I am just going to bed now.”

“ Good night, then,” said the old woman ; “ and God bless your labors.”

Strangely enough, a glance at the manuscript, as he hid it from the old woman, had seemed to Septimius to reveal another sentence, of which he had imperfectly caught the purport ; and when she had gone, he in vain sought the place, and vainly, too, endeavored to recall the meaning of what he had read. Doubtless his fancy exaggerated the importance of the sentence, and he felt as if it might have vanished from the book forever. In fact, the unfortunate young man, excited and tossed to and fro by a variety of unusual impulses, was got into a bad way, and was likely enough to go mad, unless the balancing portion of his mind proved to be of greater volume and effect than as yet appeared to be the case.

The next morning he was up, bright and early, poring over the manuscript with the sharpened wits of the new day, peering into its night, into its old, blurred, forgotten dream ; and, indeed, he had been dreaming about it, and was fully possessed with the idea that, in his dream, he had taken up the inscrutable document, and read it oft as glibly as he would the page of a modern drama, in a continual rapture with the deep truth that it made clear to his comprehension, and the lucid way in which it evolved the mode in which man might be restored to his originally undying state. So strong was the impression, that when he unfolded the manuscript, it was with almost the belief that the crabbed old handwriting would be plain to him. Such did not prove to be the case, however ; so far from it, that poor Septimius in vain turned over the yellow pages in quest of the one sentence which he had been able, or fancied he had been able, to read yesterday. The illumination that had brought it out was now faded, and all was a blur, an inscrutableness, a scrawl of unintelligible characters alike. So much did this affect him, that he had almost a mind to tear it into a thousand fragments, and scatter it out of the window to the west-wind, that was then blowing past the house ; and if, in that summer season, there had been a fire on the hearth, it is possible that easy realization of a destructive impulse might have incited him to fling the accursed scrawl into the hottest of the flames, and thus returned it to the Devil, who, he suspected, was the original author of it. Had he done so, what strange and gloomy passages would I have been spared the pain of relating! How different would have been the life of Septimius, — a thoughtful preacher of God’s word, taking severe but conscientious views of man’s state and relations, a heavy-browed walker and worker on earth, and, finally, a slumberer in an honored grave, with an epitaph bearing testimony to his great usefulness in his generation.

But, in the mean time, here was the troublesome day passing over him, and pestering, bewildering, and tripping him up with its mere sublunary troubles, as the days will all of us the moment we try to do anything that we flatter ourselves is of a little more importance than others are doing. Aunt Keziah tormented him a great while about the rich field, just across the road, in front of the house, which Septimius had neglected the cultivation of, unwilling to spare the time to plough, to plant, to hoe it himself, but hired a lazy lout of the village, when he might just as well have employed and paid wages to the scarecrow which Aunt Keziah dressed out in ancient habiliments, and set up in the midst of the corn. Then came an old codger from the village, talking to Septimius about the war, — a theme of which he was weary: telling the rumor of skirmishes that the next day would prove to be false of battles that were immediately to take place, of encounters with the enemy in which our side showed the valor of twenty-fold heroes, but had to retreat ; babbling about shells and mortars, battalions, manœuvres, angles, fascines, and other items of military art; for war had filled the whole brain of the people, and enveloped the whole thought of man in a mist of gunpowder.

In this way, sitting on his doorstep, or in the very study, haunted by such speculations, this wretched old man would waste the better part of a summer afternoon, while Septimius listened, returning abstracted monosyllables, answering amiss, and wishing his persecutor jammed into one of the cannons he talked about, and fired off, to end his interminable babble in one roar ; [talking] of great officers coming from France and other countries ; of overwhelming forces from England, to put an end to the war at once ; of the unlikelihood that it ever should be ended ; of its hopelessness ; of its certainty of a good and speedy end.

Then came limping along the lane a disabled soldier, begging his way home from the field, which, a little while ago, he had sought in the full vigor of rustic health he was never to know again ; with whom Septimius had to talk, and relieve his wants as far as he could (though not from the poor young officer’s deposit of English gold), and send him on his way.

Then came the minister, to talk with his former pupil, about whom he had latterly had much meditation, not understanding what mood had taken possession of him ; for the minister was a man of insight, and from conversations with Septimius, as searching as he knew how to make them, he had begun to doubt whether he were sufficiently sound in faith to adopt the clerical persuasion. Not that he supposed him to be anything like a confirmed unbeliever; but he thought it probable that these doubts, these strange, dark, disheartening suggestions of the Devil, that so surely infect certain temperaments and measures of intellect, were tormenting poor Septimius, and pulling him back from the path in which he was capable of doing so much good. So he came this afternoon to talk seriously with him, and to advise him, if the case were as he supposed, to get for a time out of the track of the thought in which he had so long been engaged ; to enter into active life ; and by and by, when the morbid influences should liave been overcome by a change of mental and moral religion, he might return, fresh and healthy, to his original design.

“What can I do?” asked Septimius, gloomily. “ What business take up, when the whole land lies waste and idle, except for this war ? ”

“There is the very business, then,” said the minister. “ Do you think God’s work is not to 'be done in the field as well as in the pulpit ? You are strong, Septimius, of a bold character, and have a mien and bearing that gives you a natural command among men. Go to the wars, and do a valiant part for your country, and come back to your peaceful mission when the enemy has vanished. Or you might go as chaplain to a regiment, and use either hand in battle, — pray for success before a battle, help win it with sword or gun, and give thanks to God, kneeling on the bloody field, at its close. You have already stretched one foe on j our native soil.”

Septimius could not but smile within himself at this warlike and bloody counsel ; and, joining it with some similar exhortations from Aunt Keziah, he was inclined to think that women and'' clergymen are, in matters of war,, the most uncompromising and bloodthirsty of the community. However, he replied, coolly, that his tnorai impulses. and his feelings of duty did not exactly impel him in this direction, and that he was of opinion that war was a business in which a man could not engage with safety to his conscience, unless his conscience actually drove him into it; and that this made all the difference between heroic battle and murderous strife. The good minister had nothing very effectual to answer to this, and took his leave, with a still stronger opinion than before that there was something amiss in his pupil’s mind.

By this time, this thwarting day had gone on through its course of little and great impediments to his pursuit, — the discouragements of trifling and earthly business, of purely impertinent interruption, of severe and disheartening opposition from the powerful counteraction of different kinds of mind, — until the hour had come at which he had arranged to meet Rose Garfield. I am afraid the poor thwarted youth did not go to his love-tryst in any very amiable mood ; but rather, perhaps, reflecting how all things earthly and immortal, and love among the rest, whichever category, of earth or heaven, it may belong to, set themselves against man’s progress in any pursuit that he seeks to devote himself to. It is one struggle, the moment he undertakes such a thing, of everything else in the world to impede him.

However, as it turned out, it was a pleasant and happy interview that he had with Rose that afternoon. The girl herself was in a happy, tuneful mood, and met him with such simplicity, threw such a light of sweetness over his soul, that Septimius almost forgot all the wild cares of the day, and walked by her side with a quiet fulness of pleasure that was new to him. She reconciled him, in some secret way, to life as it was, to imperfection, to decay ; without any help from her intellect, but through the influence of her character, she seemed, not to solve, but to smooth away, problems that troubled him ; merely by being, by womanhood, by simplicity, she interpreted God’s ways to him : she softened the stoniness that was gathering about his heart. And so they had a delightful time of talking, and laughing. and smelling to flowers ; and when they were parting, Septimius said to her, —

“ Rose, you have convinced me that this is a most happy world, and that Life has its two children, Birth and Death, and is bound to prize them equally; and that God is very kind to his earthly children ; and that all will go well.”

“ And have I convinced you of all this ? ” replied Rose, with a pretty laughter. “ It is all true, no doubt, but I should not have known how to argue for it. But you are very sweet, and have not frightened me to-day.”

“ Do I ever frighten you then, Rose ? ” asked Septimius, bending his black brow upon her with a look of surprise and displeasure.

“ Yes, sometimes,” said Rose, facing him with courage, and smiling upon the cloud so as to drive it away; “ when you frown upon me like that, I am a little afraid you will beat me, all in good time.”

“Now,” said Septimius, laughing again, “you shall have your choice, to be beaten on the spot, or suffer another kind of punishment, — which ? ”

So saying, he snatched her to him, and strove to kiss her, while Rose, laughing and struggling, cried out, “The beating! the beating!” But Septimius relented not, though it was only Rose’s cheek that he succeeded in touching. In truth, except for that first one, at the moment of their plighted troths, I doubt whether Septimius ever touched those soft, sweet lips, where the smiles dwelt and the little pouts. He now returned to his study, and questioned with himself whether he should touch that weary, ugly, yellow, blurred, unintelligible, bewitched, mysterious, bullet-penetrated, blood-stained manuscript again. There was an undefinable reluctance to do so, and at the same time an enticement (irresistible, as it proved) drawing him towards it. He yielded, and taking it from his desk, in which the precious, fatal treasure was locked up, he plunged into it again, and this time, with a certain degree of success. He found the line which had before gleamed out, and vanished again, and which now started out in strong relief; even as when sometimes we see a certain arrangement ot stars in the heavens, and again lose it, by not seeing its individual stars in the same relation as before ; even so, looking at the manuscript in a different way, Septimius saw this fragment of a sentence, and saw, moreover, what was necessary to give it a certain meaning. “ Set the root in a grave, and wait for what shall blossom. It will be very rich, and full of juice.” This was the purport, he now felt sure, of the sentence he had lighted upon ; and he took it to refer to the mode of producing something that was essential to the thing to be concocted. It might have only a moral being; or. as is generally the case, the moral and physical truth went hand in hand.

While Septimius was busying himself in this way, the summer advanced, and with it there appeared a new character, making her way into our pages. This was a slender and pale girl, whom Septimius was once startled to find, when he ascended his hill-top, to take his walk to and fro upon the accustomed path, which he had now worn deep.

What was stranger, she sat down close beside the grave, which none but he and the minister knew to be a grave ; that little hillock, which he had levelled a little, and had planted with various flowers and shrubs ; which the summer had fostered into richness, the poor young man below having contributed what he could, and tried to render them as beautiful as he might, in remembrance of his own beauty. Septimius wished to conceal the fact of its being a grave : not that he was tormented with any sense that he had done wrong in shooting the young man, which had been done in fair battle ; but still it was not the pleasantest of thoughts, that he had laid a beautiful human creature, so fit for the enjoyment of life, there, when his own dark brow, his own troubled breast, might better, he could not but acknowledge, have been covered up there. [.Perhaps there might sometimes be something fantastically gay in the language and behavior of the girl.

Well ; but then, on this flower and shrub-disguised grave, sat this unknown form of a girl, with a slender, pallid, melancholy grace about her, simply dressed in a dark attire, which she drew loosely about her. At first glimpse, Septimius fancied that it might be Rose ; but it needed only a glance to undeceive him ; her figure was of another character from the vigorous, though slight and elastic beauty of Rose; this was a drooping grace, and when he came near enough to see her face, he saw that those large, dark, melancholy eyes, with which she had looked at him, had never met his gaze before.

“ Good morrow, fair maiden,” said Septimius, with such courtesy as he knew how to use (which, to say truth, was of a rustic order, his way of life having brought him little into female society). “ There is a nice air here on the hill-top, this sultry morning below the hill! ”

As he spoke, he continued to look wonderingly at the strange maiden, half fancying that she might be something that had grown up out of the grave ; so unexpected she was, so simply unlike anything that had before come there.

The girl did not speak to him, but as she sat by the grave she kept weeding out the little white blades of faded autumn grass and yellow pine-spikes, peering into the soil as if to see what it was all made of, and everything that was growing there ; and in truth, whether by Septimius’s care or no, there seemed to be several kinds of flowers, — those little asters that abound everywhere, and golden flowers, such as autumn supplies with abundance. She seemed to be in quest of something, and several times plucked a leaf and examined it carefully ; then threw it down again, and shook her head. At last she lifted up her pale face, and, fixing her eyes quietly on Septimius, spoke : " It is not here ! ”

A very sweet voice it was,— plaintive, low, — and she spoke to Septimius as if she were familiar with him, and had something to do with him. He was greatly interested, not being able to imagine who the strange girl was, or whence she came, or what, of all things, could be her reason for coming and sitting down by this grave, and apparently botanizing upon it, in quest of some particular plant.

“Are you in search of flowers?” asked Septimius. “ This is but a barren spot for them, and this is not a good season. In the meadow’s, and along the margin of the watercourses, you might find the fringed gentian at this time. In the woods there are several pretty flowers, — the side-saddle flower, the anemone ; violets are plentiful in spring, and make the whole hillside blue. But this hill-top, with its soil strewn over a heap of pebblestones, is no place lor flowers.”

“ The soil is fit,” said the maiden, “but the flower lias not sprung up.”

“What flower do you speak of?” asked Septimius.

“One that is not here,” said the pale girl. “ No matter. I will look for it again next spring.”

“ Do you, then, dwell hereabout ? ” inquired Septimius.

“ Surely,” said the maiden, with a look of surprise ; “ where else should I dwell ? My home is on this hill-top.”

It not a little startled Septimius, as may be supposed,-to find his paternal inheritance, of which he and his forefathers had been the only owners since the world began (for they held it by an Indian deed), claimed as a home and abiding-place by this fair, pale, strangeacting maiden, who spoke as if she had as much right there as if she had grown up out of the soil, like one of the wild, indigenous flowers which she had been gazing at and handling. However that might be, the maiden seemed now about to depart, rising, giving a farewell touch or two to the little verdant hillock, which looked much the neater for her ministrations.

“Are you going?” said Septimius, looking at her in wonder.

“ For a time,” said she.

“ And shall I sec you again ? ” asked he.

“Surely,” said the maiden, “this is my walk, along the brow of the hill.”

It again smote Septimius with a strange thrill of surprise to find the walk which he himself had made, treading it, and smoothing it, and beating it down with the pressure of his continual feet, from the time when the tufted grass made the sides all uneven, until now, when it was such a pathway as you may see through a wood, or over a field, where many feet pass every day, — to find this track and exemplification of his own secret thoughts and plans and emotions, this writing of his body, impelled by the struggle and movement of his soul, claimed as her own by a strange girl with melancholy eyes and voice, who seemed to have such a sad familiarity with him.

“ You are welcome to come here,” said he, endeavoring at least to keep such hold on his own property as was implied in making a hospitable surrender of it to another.

“Yes,” said the girl, “a person should always be welcome to his own,”

Nathaniel Hawthorne .