Lucy (Chapter_20)

rose high, on the right--where they walked, sometimes shaded by the branches of the majestic-oaks, the spreading chestnut, or by projecting rocks. No sign of a human habitation appeared, and Mrs Fairely could scarcely believe it possible, that such wild solitudes could exist, so near the populous haunts of men--After a long walk, they reached a point where the carriage could not follow them, but to Lucy, all the horse and foot paths which crossed the country were well known, and assisting her benefactoress (as she still called her) they with much difficulty and fatigue climbed up the high hill, beyond which was the cottage of Lucy's parents,--more full than a mile, still remained, and they were obliged more than once to stop and rest--When at last Lucy discerned the path, which led through the woods, to the home of her infancy, her heart beat so violently, and her limbs trembled to such a degree, she could scarcely walk--Mrs Fairely had to support her, and even then it was with difficulty she went on--

The wood was passed, and opened on a large field of wheat, beyond which was the orchard, over which they saw the {white} smoke, curling its snowy vapours to the clouds--The field--the orchard--were crossed, and Lucy sent round a fearful and trembling glance of enquiry--but no person appear'd in sight--she listened, but the loud prattle of the children, the whistle of the plough-boy, not even the well known bark of the house-dog, were heard--all was silent--all was dreary. The fence round the neat little yard, in which Lucy had so often fed her poultry, had fallen down, and was half destroyed, a heap of wood was thrown against her favorite rose-bush, which was crushed and broken--her little grass-plot was covered with corn-stocks and rubbish, and a fine old maple, which had sheltered the cottage, and under whose shade, she had so often played, was leveled with the ground, cut-up for fine wood, and its once beautiful branches were scattered over the ground. All was ruin and desolation, and Lucy's heart, told her too truly, that William at least could not be there. With increased trepidation and alarm

she at last reached the door, and on pushing it open, saw, not her father, her mother, or her William, but a strange man and woman, ragged and dirty, sitting over a miserable dinner. They started on her entrance--she could not speak, but sunk down on the first chair, and burst into tears.--Mrs Fairely, had to make all the enquiries; every answer to which increased the agony of our poor out-cast. [The man, without cermony had resumed his seat, and without looking up, went on eating his herring and corn bread; the woman, somewhat more civilly, pointed to an old broken chest and begged the lady might be seated, while she did the same, and wiping her mouth with a corner of her apron, finishing the morsel of fish she had in her hand, told what she knew--["But that I have much to say, about the matter ma'am, seeing as how be; we are strangers in these here parts--How som'ever, the long and short of the story is, so far as I had an understanding of it,

the poor old mother, died of a broken-heart, and the young man {William that ruinated the poor thing of a daughter}, has took himself off, to foreign parts--So the poor grey-headed old man, not being able to stand the like, or to help himself on the farm, seeing as how the rascally negroes eat him out o'house and home, went {too soon} away, too--but where, is more than we can tell you--As for the girl, its the opinion of all the folks here-a-bouts that she made away with herself--but her body, not being to be found, above yearth, they reckon as how she threw herself in Rock-Creek and so was drown'd. And so, Ma'am thats all as I knows, fer we haven't been long here; the man that bought the place, rented it to us, and we hasn't had much sight o'the old neighbours, and know nothing but what some black-people told us, so ma'am thats the up-shot o'the business." [Mrs Fairely, who rejoiced at the belief which prevailed that Lucy was dead, took care not to let them know her, but said she was a young lady in the city, who had

she was a young lady in the city, who had been a friend of the family, and was much grieved for their misfortunes--this they believed; never for a moment suspecting, a young Lady, so handsomely dressed, could be the poor girl, whose story they had told.--Mrs Fairely, then drew Lucy's arm within hers, and bidding them good bye, went out--But she had not gone very far when Lucy entreated her to go and ask if there was a { ?}, across the country to Rock-Creek church {was possible for the carriage} as she was sure her mother was buried there--Mrs Fairely, would fain have avoided such a prolongation of their ride, but Lucy so humbly, and so fervently begged this last favour, that she could not refuse, the more so, as she considered this as the finishing stroke to Lucy's virtuous schemes--Every gleam of hope, was now extinguished, every tie broken, which had united her to society.--[The man grumbled out directions, telling them a little below Pieries Mill, was a waggon road, which crossed the country, into the Montgomery-road --but that the old road through the fields was shut up.