"Well, Stephen, what news from old Barrington?"

"Oh, well, I thought I knew ye," he answers, not the least
disconcerted. "How do you do? and how's your folks? All
well, I hope. I took this 'ere paper, you see, to help a poor
furriner, who could n't make himself understood any more
than a wild goose. I though I'd just start him for'ard a little.
It seemed a marcy to do it."

Well and shiftily answered, thou ragged Proteus. One cannot
be angry with such a fellow. I will just inquire into the present
state of his Gospel mission and about the condition of his tribe
on the Penobscot; and it may be not amiss to congratulate him
on the success of the steam-doctors in sweating the "pisen" of
the regular faculty out of him. But he evidently has no wish to
enter into idle conversation. Intent upon his benevolent errand
he is already clattering down stairs. Involuntarily I glance out
of the window just in season to catch a single glimpse of him
ere he is swallowed up in the mist.

He has gone; and, knave as he is, I can hardly help
exclaiming, "Luck go with him!" He has broken in upon the
sombre train of my thoughts and called up before me pleasant
and grateful recollections. The old farm-house nestling in its
valley; hills stretching off to the south and green meadows to
the east; the small stream which came noisily down its ravine,
washing the old garden-wall and softly lapping on fallen stones
and mossy roots of beeches and hemlocks; the tall sentinel
poplars at the gateway; the oak-forest, sweeping unbroken to
the northern horizon; the grass-grown carriage-path, with its