while the latter told marvelous tales of his wild Welsh country, which
he held above all other lands, and to which, the last time he was seen
in Allington, he said he was about to return.

For three days he remained in the town, selling off the most of his
stock, and then bidding his friends good-by, started late on the
afternoon of Thanksgiving Day for the adjoining town, where a few debts
were owing him, and where he hoped to dispose of the rest of his
merchandise.

As he left the village the snow began to fall heavily and this, perhaps,
was why he decided to stop at the farm-house, which was not upon the
highway, but nearly half a mile from it, upon a cross-road which led
through Peter Jerrold's farm to the town line, and which was seldom
traveled by any one except by Peter Jerrold himself and those who came
to visit him. Thus the house stood in a most lonely, secluded spot, with
only the chimney and the top of the roof visible to the people of the
neighborhood.

Here Peter Jerrold lived with his daughter Hannah, who was now nearly
fifteen, and who had kept his house since her mother's death, which
occurred when she was twelve years old.

Bright, unselfish, and very pretty, Hannah was a general favorite with
the people of Allington and many were the merry-makings and frolics held
at the old farm-house by her young friends. But these were suddenly
brought to an end by a fearful sickness which came upon Hannah, and,
which transformed her from the light-hearted, joyous girl of fifteen,
into a quiet, reserved, white-faced woman, who might have passed for
twenty-five, and whose hair at eighteen was beginning to turn gray. It