Alice sobbed aloud, and the rough men standing around were grave and silent. The last sentence had been spoken in a whisper, and it was evident that life was ebbing away rapidly. He closed his eyes, and the sweat gathered on the pallid face, but a short time since, rich with the olive and crimson of health and youth. "I shan't be twenty-two till next month," he whispered, with shut eyes. "Put it on my tombstone, and let 'em put on it-- "'Oh, his heart, his heart was broken For the love of Alice Wilde.'" They stood looking at him. "Alice--good-by. Alice--where are you? Alice!" "Here, Ben--here I am;" but she spoke to a corpse. He died with the name of the woman he had loved with all the power of his passionate nature trembling upon his last breath. The next day they buried him in a lovely spot on the bank of the river; and, spite of all his errors and crimes, he was not unwept and not unmourned. Once he had been gay and frank, kind and honest, handsome and merry--and the memory of his good qualities swept away the judgment passed upon his later actions. Poor Saturn's remains were not discovered; and Pallas, with the superstition of her class, was inclined to believe that he had been translated bodily, in the chariot of the wind, to that better world of which they had spoken so much together. It was a pleasant belief, and afforded her great consolation. "He allers was so fond of dressin' and good clo'es; and he'd been taken up in his new suit as if a-purpose to please him. Ef he'd only a partaken of de weddin'-feas', he couldn't hab been better prepared 'an he was. Hi! hi!" It was a picturesque-looking party which sailed away from Wilde's mill one brilliant day in September. "One doesn't see such a bridal-party every day, or take such a bridal tour," remarked Virginia to the groomsman by her side. "It's better than six fashionable weddings, with the usual routine. I used to have a contempt for the romantic--but I'm beginning to like it." Yes, even the aristocratic Virginia, the beautiful metropolitan, began to be infatuated with the romance of the forest. We may yet hear of more remarkable changes than her change of opinion. We may yet see a villa, charming as those which grace our lordly Hudson, rising amid the elms and beeches on the banks of that fairer Western river--for love, beauty, taste, and money can accomplish wonders more surprising than making the wilderness blossom like a rose--and "out West" Aladdin's lamp is no myth. But, for the present, we will leave this picturesque party sailing down this broad, silver river in the purple and gold of an autumn day--leave it to its joyous light, and leave that one new-made grave to its silence and shadow. THE END. THE GOLDEN BELT CHAPTER V. THE CARIB'S PLEDGE.