Edward Lindsay had recently returned from Europe, where a long series of years passed in the successful prosecution of a lucrative mercantile business, had gained for him an independence that in his own country would be considered wealth. Continuing in heart and soul an American, it was only in the land of his birth, that he could resolve to settle himself, and enjoy the fruits of well-directed enterprise, and almost uninterrupted good fortune. Early impressions are lasting; and among the images that frequently recurred to the memory of our hero, were those of a certain old farm-house in the interior of Pennsylvania, and its kind and simple-hearted inhabitants. The farmer, whose name was Abraham Hilliard, had been in the practice of occasionally bringing to Philadelphia a wagon-load of excellent marketing, and stopping with his team at the doors of several genteel families, his unfailing customers. It was thus that Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay obtained a knowledge of him, which eventually induced them to place in his house, as a boarder, their only surviving child Edward: that during the summer season, the boy, whose constitution was naturally delicate, might have a chance of acquiring confirmed health and hardihood, united with habits of self-dependence; it being clearly understood by all parties, that young Lindsay was to be treated, in every respect, like the farmer's own children. The experiment succeeded: and it was at Oakland Farm that Edward Lindsay's summers were chiefly spent from the age of eight to eighteen, at which time he was sent to Bordeaux, and placed in the counting-house of his maternal uncle. And twice when Philadelphia was visited by the malignant fever which in former years spread such terror through the city, and whose ravages were only checked by the return of cold weather, the anxious parents of our hero made him stay in the country till the winter had fairly set in. During his long residence in Europe, Edward Lindsay was so unfortunate as to lose both father and mother, and, therefore, his arrival in his native town was accompanied by many painful feelings. The bustle of the city, and the company into which the hospitality of his friends endeavoured to draw him, were not in accordance with his present state of mind, and he imagined that nothing would be more soothing to him than a visit to the country, and particularly to the place where so much of his boyhood had been passed. While his mother lived, she had frequently sent him tidings of his old friends at Oakland Farm, none of whom were letter writers; but since her death, they seemed to be lost sight of, and it was now many years since Edward had heard anything of them.