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ful days is attended with more pain than pleasure. We miss the beloved faces of long ago, or, if met, they are wrinkled with age and unrecognizable. The old trees under which the childish feet pat

tered are gone. The cabin has disappeared or fallen to ruin. Nothing lasts; nothing is as it was; so, disappointed and weary with the ashes of former joys, we turn away.

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Another day was drawing to a close, and the slanting rays of the descending sun fell on a palatial old Virginia mansion on the Rappahannock. It was that residence of Mr. Stevens. In that house Robert Stevens had died at a great age. No one living at this time knew Robert Stevens, unless it was his son Elmer, an ancient man, who still clung to the old spot. There was a strange tradition of Robert Stevens. He lived away back almost a hundred years ago and was one of the great rebel's" officers. He was a son of John Smith Stevens, whose father Philip Estevan, or Stevens, was a friend of Captain John Smith and Pocahontas. Though these traditions and rumors were current, people were skeptical about them, and no one thought the family half so old. Besides, they had never displayed any extraordinary ability. Noah, the oldest son of Mr. Elmer Stevens, was an officer in the provincial militia, but had not distinguished himself to a great degree.

Mr. Stevens was walking along the pebbled path which led from the great stiles in front of his house to the broad piazza. He paused under the wide-spreading branches of his favorite chestnut and gazed down at the river, glistening like a belt of silver in the pale light of the departing day. His hair was almost white as snow, and his shoulders were somewhat stooped, yet his frame was strong despite his great age.

As the old man still stood gazing on the beautiful and picturesque scene about him, he discovered the form of a wayfarer coming slowly and wearily down the turnpike which ran past the house. He was too far away for the dim eyesight of Mr. Stevens to distinguish more than an outline of a man. "Perchance he will come here, then I shall see who he is," the old man thought. Having nothing else to do, he watched him, and when the pedestrian reached a point of the road opposite the stiles he paused and, turning abruptly around, came toward them. He crossed the stiles and advanced. slowly up the white pebbled path to where the proprietor of the mansion stood. Pausing before him, the pedestrian, who was himself an old man, leaned heavily on his staff and asked:

"Do you own this plantation?"

"I do, my friend; will you not come in and accept of my hospitality?"

"I am weary and thirsty, sir, and would like to sit on your piazza."

Mr. Stevens led the way to the broad piazza, where he drew up a couple of great, old-fashioned arm-chairs, and bade his companion seat himself and rest awhile.

"Now I will have some refreshments brought you. Won't you have a mug of cider and some bread?"

The stranger nodded his head until the silver locks trembled. Mr. Stevens called a negro boy and ordered him to bring up some cider and bread for the traveller.

"Have you lived here long?" asked the traveller, as he partook sparingly of the refreshments. "Most of my life has been spent here."

66

You have a great plantation."

"In my young days I had a passion for the sea and, with a younger brother, became a sailor." "Did you serve long?"

"Several years.

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"And your brother; is he still a sailor?"

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Alas, no; he is dead."

'Drowned?"

"No."

"Killed in some sea fight?"

"His fate is unknown. We were serving on board a New England privateer about fifty years

ago, and he was wounded in a battle with a French frigate. He was landed at Boston, where we have relatives, and, recovering, wandered to a town on the frontier and was captured by the Indians." “Did you never seek to find him?”

"Yes; I have tried often to find him, but could not.

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66 And you have never seen him?"

“No; I have never seen him since we parted that day in Boston."

The pedestrian heaved a sigh and looked puzzled. After a moment he asked:

66 Have you no other brothers or sisters?" "No, sir."

"And your father was wealthy?"

"He left behind him several great plantations and more riches than I or my children will ever need."

"By the loss of your brother, you came into the inheritance of all this wealth, when, if he had lived, he might, had your father so willed it, divided it with you?"

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He would have done so, stranger," Mr. Stevens vehemently cried. He should do so were he living even yet. I had my father so construct his will as to provide that, if my brother should ever return, he would have one half of the plantations. Four have been set apart for him with the increase

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thereof, and willingly would I give them to him, could he but return; but no, George is dead. used to hope, long years ago, that he lived; but that hope exists no longer. He is dead."

The pedestrian was moved, when the old man, with his silken handkerchief, brushed a glistening tear from his eyes. After a long silence, the trav

eller asked:

.66 Were you with the fleet of Sir Hovenden Walker, which was wrecked in the mouth of the St. Lawrence?"

แ I was.

"Did you land?"

"I did. With a few others in a boat we were lost from the other vessels, and were attracted by a light on the shore, where a stranger had builded a fire."

"I was that stranger."

Mr. Stevens was so affected by this announcement, that he could only sit and stare at the pedestrian in amazement. After a few moments, he

gasped :

“You!"

"Yes, I; do you not recognize me?" "No."

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Why did your boat crew abandon me on that morning, after I had saved your life?"

"When day dawned, and the fog cleared away,

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