_Helen_. How quiet and soft it all lies in this solemn light. Is it illusion?--can it be?--that old, familiar look, that from these woods and hills, and from this moon-lit meadow, seems to smile on me now with such a holy promise of protection and love?--The merry trill in this apple-tree is the very sound that, waking from my infant sleep in the hush of the summer midnight, of old lulled, nay, wakened my first inward thought. Oh that my heart's youngest religion could come again, the feeling with which a little child looks up to these mighty stars, as the spangles on his home-roof, while he stands smiling beneath the awful shelter of the skies, as under a father's dome. But these years show us the evil that mocks that trust. 'Tis he,--What a mere thread of time separates me from my fate, and yet the darkness of ages could not hide it more surely. Already he has reached the lane. Another minute will show me all. Will the pacquet be in his hand, or will it not? I will be calm--it shall be like a picture to me. Ah! there is an immeasurable power about us, a foreign and strange thing, that answers not to the soul, that seems to know or to heed nothing of the living suffering, rejoicing being of the spirit. Why should I struggle with it any longer? From my weeping childhood to this hour, it hath set its iron bars about me; no--softly yielding, hath it not sometimes, the long, undreamed-of vistas opened, bright as heaven,--and now, maybe--how slow he moves--even now perchance.--This is wrong. The Infinite is One. The Goodness Infinite, whose everlasting smile lighteth the inner soul, and the Power Infinite, whose alien touch without, in darkness comes, they are of One, and the good know it. _The Messenger_. (_Coming up the path_.) Bless you, Miss! The pacquet had been gone this hour! _Helen_. Gone! Well.--And Elliston--what said he? _Mess_. I brought this note of yours back, Miss Helen. Father Elliston was gone. Here has been an Indian killed on Sandy Hill this evening, Alaska's own son as it turns out, and such a hubbub as they are making about it you never heard. I met a couple of squaws myself, yelling like mad creatures, and the woods are all alive with them. The priest has gone down to their village to pacify them if it may be,--so I brought the note back, Miss Helen, for there was no one there but a little rascal of an Indian, and I would not trust the worth of a feather with one of them. Was I right? _Helen_. Yes. Give it to me. How far is it to the British camp? _Mess_. Why, they are just above here at Brandon's Mills they say, that is, the main body. It can't be over three miles, or so. _Helen. Three_ miles! only three miles of this lovely moonlight road between us.--William McReady, go to that camp for me to-night. _Mess_. To the British camp? _Helen_. Ay.