sweet girl who, though willing to die herself to prevent him from marrying Macourah, yet positively refused to take his life to defeat the same event. It may be well to state, in addition, that the only reason Conattee ever had for believing that Selonee had not kept his secret from every body, was that Medoree, the young wife of the latter, looked on him with a very decided coolness. "But, we will see," muttered Conattee as he felt this conviction. "Selonee will repent of this confidence, since now it will never be possible for him to persuade her to take a seat in the Arm-chair of Tustenuggee. Had he been a wise man he would have kept his secret, and then there would have been no difficulty in getting rid of a wicked wife."

THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN.

CHAPTER I.

"THEY talk," said the stranger somewhat abruptly, "They talk of the crimes of wealthy people, and in high life. No doubt there are very great and many wrong doers among the rich, People in possession of much wealth, and seeing how greatly it is worshipped, will very naturally presume upon and abuse its powers;—but it is not among the rich only, and in the great city, that these things happen. The same snake, or one very much like it, winds his way into the wigwam and the cabin—and the poor silly country girl is as frequently the victim, as the dashing lady of the city and city fashions. For that matter she is the more easily liable to imposition, as are all persons who occupy insulated positions, and see little of the great struggles of busy life. The planter and the farmer who dwell in the remote interior find the face of the visitor too interesting, to scrutinize it very closely. A pleasant deportment, a specious outside, a gentle and attractive manner, will win their way in our forest world, without rendering necessary those formal assurances, that rigid introduction, and those guaranties of well known persons, which the citizen requires before you partake of his bread and salt. With us,

on the contrary, we confide readily; and the cunning stranger, whom other communities have expelled with loathing, rendered cautious and conciliatory by previous defeat, adopts the subtlety of the snake, and winds his way as artfully as that reptile, when he comes among us. We have too many sad stories of this sort. Yours is one of them. This poor girl, Ellen Ramsay, was abused thus, as I have shown you, by this scoundrel, Stanton. But finish your narrative. She had a short time of it, and a sad one, I do not doubt, with a creature so heartless and so vile."

"But a poor eleven months; and the change was too rapid," said young Atkins, "not to let us see that she was any thing but happy. To-day, the gayest of all God's creatures, as much like a merry bird in spring-time, singing over its young;-to-morrow as gloomy and miserable as if there was neither song nor sunshine in God's whole earth."

"Poor thing!" exclaimed Walter.

"It was the shortest life," said the other, "to begin so well, that I ever saw, and the story which you have heard is pretty much the truth."

"But the funeral?" said Walter.

"Ah! that was not exactly as you heard it," was the reply of Atkins. "I was at the funeral of Ellen Ramsay, as indeed was very nearly all the village, and I could refer you to twenty who will tell you the matter just as it occurred. In the first place, it is not true that any body expected Robert Anderson to be present. He sent no message of any kind to Stanton. It was very well known that he was sick-actually in bed, and had been so for more than a week before the death of Ellen. People almost thought they might go off together. There was a sort of sympathy between them, though I don't think, from the hour of her unlucky marriage, that the eyes of the two ever met, till they met in the world of spirits-unless it were, indeed, in their dreams. But they seemed to pine away, both of them, about the same time, and though he stood it longest, he did not outlast her much. When she died, as I tell you, he was very feeble and in bed. Nobody ever expected him to leave it alive, and least of all that he should leave it then, to stand among the people at her grave. The circumstances of her marriage with Stanton, were too notorious, and too much calculated to embitter his feelings and his peace, to make it likely that he would be present at such a scene. She had cast him off, slightingly, to give a preference to the more showy stranger, and she had spoken to him in a manner not soon to be forgiven by a man of sensibility. But he did forgive-that I know—and his love for Ellen was unimpaired to the last. She did not doubt this, when she married Stanton, though she expressed herself so. That was only to find some excuses to him, if not to her own conscience, for her conduct. I'm sure she bitterly re

pented of all before very long. She was just the girl to do wrong in a hurry, and be sorry for it the next minute."

"But the funeral?" said Walter.

"Ah! true-the funeral. Well, as I was telling you, when the coffin was brought round to the burial place-you know the spot, among a thick grove of stunted oaks, and the undergrowth is always kept down by old Ramsay—who should come out from behind one of the largest old trees, but Robert Anderson. He was pale as a ghost, and his limbs trembled and tottered as he walked, but he came forward as resolutely as if he felt no pain or weakness. Stanton started when he saw him. He never expected his presence, I assure you. Every eye saw his agitation as Robert came forward; and I tell you, there was not a person present who did not see, as well as myself, that the husband of the poor girl looked much paler at that moment than her sick lover. Robert did not seem to see Stanton, or to mind him as he came forward; indeed, he did not seem to see any body. His eyes were fixed only on the coffin, which was carried by me, Ralph Mason, Dick Rawlins, and I think Hiram Barker. He did not shed a tear, which we all wondered at, for all of us expected to see him crying like any child, because we knew how soft-hearted he always was, and how fond he had been of Ellen. At first, we thought his not crying was because of his anger at being so ill-treated, which was natural enough; but what he said afterwards soon did away with that notion. He came close to my side, and put his hand on the lid of the coffin near the name, and though he said not a single word to us, we seemed to understand that he meant we should stop till he read it. We did stop, and he then read the plate aloud, something in this manner—‹ Ellen' -and then he stopped a little as he came to the word 'Stanton'and you could see a deep red flush grow out upon his cheek and forehead, and then he grew pale as death-and held upon the coffin as if to keep himself from falling-then he seemed to muster up strength, and he read on, in very deliberate and full accents, as if he had thrown all his resolution into the effort-' Ellen Stanton!' These words he repeated twice, and then he passed on to the rest—'Wife of George STANTON, BORN APRIL 7, 1817. DIED,'-Here he stopped again, poor fellow! as if to catch his

breath. He only gasped when he tried to go on with the reading. He could only say-Died. Died!' and there he stopped like a man choking. By this time, Stanton came up close to him and looked at us, as if to say Why don't you go forward—why do you suffer him to stop you'-but he said nothing. Robert did not seem to mind or to notice him, but, with another effort, recovering his strength and voice, he read on to the end DIED MARCH 27, 1836-AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS AND NINETEEN DAYS.' Old John Ramsay by this time came up, and stood between him and Stanton. He looked up from the coffin, first at one and then at the other-and said quietly-without any appearance of anger or passion :"

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This, Mr. Ramsay, is your daughter, Ellen-she was to have been my wife—she was engaged to me by her own promise, and you gave your consent to our marriage. Is not this true, Mr. Ramsay?"

"True," said the old man very mildly, but with a deep sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul ;-" but you know, Robert,

Then it was that Robert seemed to lose himself for a moment. His eye brightened with indignation and his speech came quick. "I know that she is here!" he exclaimed-" here, in her coffin, dead to you, your daughter-dead to me, my wife-your Ellen ! my Ellen!-My Ellen-my poor Ellen!" And then he sobbed bitterly upon the coffin. I believe that most of the persons present -and all had crowded round us-sobbed too. But I could not see them, for my own heart was overflowing. The interruption did not continue long. Robert was the first to recover himself. He had always a right idea of what was proper; and no doubt, just then, he felt, that, according to the world's way of thinking, he was doing wrong in stopping the dead in its last progress to the place of rest. He raised up his head from the coffin plate, and said to us, speaking very slowly, for his breath seemed only to come in sobs, and then after great efforts―

"Do not think, my friends, when I speak of the pledges Ellen Ramsay made to me, that I am come here to utter any reproaches of the dead, or to breathe a single syllable of complaint against the blessed creature, who was always a sweet angel, now looking up