It was a cold, windy night in the winter of 179-. The tall pines that had climbed to the highest summits of the Green Mountains, bent beneath the rushing of the blast; and as the wind careered among their branches, gave out moans and shrieks that seemed in the darkness like the wailing of weird spirits. Ever and anon the air would be filled with tiny particles of ice and snow, and the cold, fitful gleaming of the moon, as it occasionally emerged from behind a cloud, only served to make the scene more desolate, as the tall, gaunt shadows were rendered distinctly visible. But in the quiet little valley that lay nestling at the very foot of one of the tallest peaks, there were no traces of storm. The strife of the elements disturbed not its repose, for the encircling mountains bent over it lovingly, and with their giant arms seemed to ward off all dangers, and keep back all foes that might harass this—the pet lamb that rested in their embrace. A single farm-house, rudely constructed of logs, stood beneath the shadow of forest-trees; and, indeed, but few of those ancient dwellers in the valley had as yet bowed their haughty heads at the stroke of the woodman’s axe. Every thing around the little dwelling betokened that it was the abode of one of the hardy pioneers who had left the sunny banks of the Connecticut for a home amid the wilds of Vermont. But there was a ruddy light gleaming from the small window, that spoke invitingly of peace and comfort within; and occasionally the sound of woman’s voice singing a low, soft lullaby fell dreamily upon the ear; or rather, might have done so, had there been an ear to listen. In the principal apartment of the house—the one that served alike for kitchen and parlor, sat Andrew Gordon and his fair and gentle wife—Amy. A bright-eyed boy, apparently about four years old, played upon the nicely-sanded floor, and in the mother’s arms lay a babe, very lovely, but very fragile, upon whose face the eyes of Amy Gordon dwelt with a long, yearning gaze. Few words were spoken by the little group. The husband and father sat gazing thoughtfully upon the glowing embers; the wife rocked the child that was cradled upon her breast; and little Frederick silently builded his “cob-house,” stopping now and then to scan with a pleased eye the progress of his work, or uttering an exclamation of disappointment as the tottering fabric fell to the floor.