"That I have done right, sir; and that I will keep the child!"

"_You will?_" thundered the squire, in an awful voice.

"Yes, sir!" replied Mrs. Gower, slightly appalled by his terrible look, but never flinching in her determination.

"You--you--you--abominable--female, you!" stammered the squire, unable to speak calmly, from rage. Then he added: "Well, well! I won't get excited--no, ma'am. You can keep the brat, ma'am! But mind you, if it ever comes across me, I'll wring its neck for it as I would a chicken's!"

"Then I _may_ keep the little darling?" said good Mrs. Gower, gratefully. "I am sure I am much obliged, and----"

"There! there! there! Hold your tongue, ma'am! Don't let me hear another word about it--the pest! the plague! Be off with you now, and send up dinner. Let the turkey be overdone, or the pudding burned, at your peril! 'Better a stalled ox with quietness, than a dry morsel,' as Solomon says. Hurry up there, and ring for Lizzie!"

Mrs. Gower hastened from the room, chuckling at having got over the difficulty so easily. And from that day forth, little Aurora, as her kind benefactress called her, was domesticated at Mount Sunset Hall.

CHAPTER VI.

LIZZIE'S LOVER.

"Fond girl! no saint nor angel he Who wooes thy young simplicity; But one of earth's impa.s.sioned sons, As warm in love, as fierce in ire, As the best heart whose current runs Full of the day-G.o.d's living fire."

FIRE WORSHIPERS.

The inn of St. Mark's was an old, brown, wooden house, with huge, unpainted shutters, and great oak doors, that in summer lay always invitingly open. It stood in the center of the village, with the forest stretching away behind, and the beach spreading out in front. Over the door swung a huge signboard, on which some rustic artist had endeavored to paint an eagle, but which, unfortunately, more closely resembled a frightened goose.

Within the "Eagle," as it was generally called, everything was spotlessly neat and clean; for the landlord's pretty daughter was the tidiest of housewives. The huge, oaken door in front, directly under the above-mentioned signboard, opened into the bar-room, behind the counter of which the worthy host sat, in his huge leathern chair, from "early morn till dewy eve." Another door, at the farther end, opened into the "big parlor," the pine floor of which was scrubbed as white as human hands could make it; and the two high, square windows at either end absolutely glittered with cleanliness. The wooden chairs were polished till they shone, and never blazed a fire on a cleaner swept hearth than that which now roared up the wide fire-place of the "Eagle."

It was a gusty January night. The wind came raw and cold over the distant hills, now rising fierce and high, and anon dying away in low, moaning sighs among the shivering trees. On the beach the waves came tramping inward, their dull, hollow voices booming like distant thunder on the ear.

But within the parlor of the "Eagle" the mirth and laughter were loud and boisterous. Gathered around the blazing fire, drinking, smoking, swearing, arguing, were fifteen or twenty men--drovers, farmers, fishermen, and loafers.

"This yer's what _I_ calls comfortable," said a l.u.s.ty drover, as he raised a foaming mug of ale to his lips and drained it to the last drop.

"I swan to man if it ain't a rouser of a night," said a rather good-looking young fellow, dressed in the coa.r.s.e garb of a fisherman, as a sudden gust of wind and hail came driving against the windows.

"Better here than out on the bay to-night, eh, Jim?" said the drover, turning to the last speaker.

"Them's my sentiments," was the reply, as Jim filled his pipe.

"I reckon Jim hain't no objection to stayin' anywhere where Ca.s.sie is,"

remarked another, dryly.

"Who's taking my name in vain here?" called a clear, ringing voice, as a young girl, of some eighteen years of age, entered. Below the middle size, plump and round, with merry, black eyes, a complexion decidedly brown, full, red lips, overflowing with fun and good-nature--such was Ca.s.sie Fox, the pretty little hostess of the "Eagle."

Before any one could reply, an unusual noise in the bar-room fell upon their ears. The next moment, Sally, the black maid-of-all-work, came into the "big parlor," with mouth and eyes agape.

"Laws, misses," she said, addressing Ca.s.sie, "dar's a gemman--a rale big-bug--out'n de bar-room; a 'spectable, 'sponsible, 'greeable gemman, powerful hansom, wid brack eyes an' har, an' a carpet-bag!"

"Sakes alive!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Ca.s.sie, dropping the tray, and turning to the looking-gla.s.s; "he's handsome, and--_my hair's awfully mussed_!

Gracious! what brings him here, Sally?"

"Got cotch in de storm; 'deed he did, chile--heard him tell ma.r.s.e so my own blessed self."

"Goodness!" again e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the little hostess. "I'm all in a fl.u.s.terfication. Handsome! dear, dear!--my hair's all out of curl! Black eyes!--I must unpin my dress. Nice hair! Jim Loker, take your legs out of the fire, n.o.body wants you to make andirons of 'em."

"Ca.s.s! Ca.s.s, I say! Come here, you Ca.s.s!" called the voice of mine host from the bar-room.

Ca.s.sie bustled out of the room and entered the bar. Old Giles Fox stood respectfully before the stranger, a young man wrapped in a cloak, tall and handsome, with a sort of dashing, reckless air, that well became him.

"Here, Ca.s.s," said her father, "this gentleman's going to stay all night. Show him into the best room, and get supper ready. Be spry, now."

"Yes, sir," said Ca.s.sie, demurely, courtesying before the handsome stranger, who glanced half carelessly, half admiringly, at her pretty face. "This way, sir, if you please."

The stranger followed her into the parlor, and encountered the battery of a score of eyes fixed full upon him. He paused in the doorway and glanced around.

"Beg pardon," he said, in the refined tone of a gentleman, "but I thought this room was unoccupied. Can I not have a private apartment?"

he added, turning to Ca.s.sie.

"Oh, yes, to be sure," replied the little hostess; "step this way, sir,"

and Ca.s.sie ran up-stairs, followed by the new-comer, whose dark eyes had already made a deep impression in the susceptible heart of Ca.s.sie.

He threw himself into a chair before the fire and fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the glowing coals. Ca.s.sie, having placed his dripping cloak before the fire to dry, ran down stairs, where he could distinctly hear her shrill voice giving hasty orders to the servants.

Supper was at length brought in by Ca.s.sie, and the stranger fell to with the readiness of one to whom a long journey has given an appet.i.te.

"There," he said at last, pushing back his chair. "I think I have done justice to your cookery, my dear--Ca.s.sie--isn't that what they call you?"

"Yes, sir; after Ca.s.siopia, who was queen in furrin parts long ago.

Efiofia, I think, was the name of the place," said Ca.s.sie, complacently.

"What?" said the stranger, repressing a laugh. "What do you say was the name of the place?"

"Efiofia!" repeated Ca.s.sie, with emphasis.

"Ethiopia! Oh, I understand! And who named you after that fair queen, who now resides among the stars?"

"Mother, of course, before she died," replied the namesake of that Ethiopian queen. "She read about her in some book, and named me accordingly."

The stranger smiled, and fixed his eyes steadily on the complacent face of Ca.s.sie, with an expression of mingled amus.e.m.e.nt and curiosity. There was a moment's pause, and then he asked:

"And what sort of place is St. Mark's--I mean, what sort of people are there in it?"

"Oh, pretty nice," replied Ca.s.sie; "most all like those you saw down stairs in the parlor."

"But, I mean the gentry."

"Oh, the big-bugs. Well, yes, there is some of 'em here. First, there's the squire----"