Five years prior to the emigration of Deacon Wilder, Mr. Gorton, a former neighbour, had, with his family, removed to Kentucky, and found a home near Lexington. Around his fireside in Virginia once had gathered three young children, Robert, Madeline and Marian. Robert, the eldest, was not Mr. Gorton’s son, but the child of a sister, Mrs. Hunting, who on her death bed had bequeathed her only boy to the care of her brother. Madeline, when three years of age, was one day missed from her father’s house. Long and protracted search was made, which resulted, at length, in the discovery of a part of the child’s dress near a spot where lay a pool of blood, and the mutilated remains of what was probably once the merry laughing Madeline. As only a few of the bones and a small part of the flesh was left, it was readily supposed that the wolves, of which there were many at that time in the woods, had done the bloody deed. Amid many tears the remains were gathered up, placed in a little coffin, and buried beneath the aged oak under which they were found. Years passed on, and the lost Madeline ceased to be spoken of save by her parents, who could never forget. Marian, the youngest and now the only remaining daughter of Mr. Gorton, was, at the time of her father’s emigration, fourteen years of age. She was a fair, handsome girl, and already toward her George Wilder, who was four years her senior, had turned his eyes, as toward the star which was to illuminate his future horizon. But she went from him, and thenceforth his heart yearned for the woods and hills of Kentucky, and it was partly through his influence that his father had finally determined to remove thither. Thus, while Charlie, creeping to the far end of the waggon, wept as he thought of home and Ella, George was anticipating a joyous meeting with the beautiful Marian, and forming plans for the future, just as thousands have done since and will do again. CHAPTER V. THE NEW HOME. It is not our intention to follow our travellers through the various stages of their long, tiresome journey, but we will with them hasten on to the close of a mild spring afternoon, when the whole company, wearied and spiritless, drew up in front of a large, newly built log house, in the rear of which were three smaller ones. These last were for the accommodation of the negroes, who were soon scattering in every direction, in order to ascertain, as soon as possible, all the conveniences and inconveniences of their new home. It took Aunt Dillah but a short time to make up her mind that “Kentuck was an ugly-looking, out-of-the way place, the whole on’t; that she wished to gracious she’s back in old Virginny;” and lastly, that “she never should have come, no how, if marster hadn’t of ’sisted and ’sisted, till ’twasn’t in natur to ’fuse.”