white buildings, with green blinds, till the surrounding hills shut in the view. They both stood silent, as they looked, she, unwilling, by an exclamation, to break the charm; and he, with his mind full of the lovely creature before him. Surely, never so angelic a being gazed upon that scene! As, with kindling countenance and suspended breath, her dark eyes flashing with enthusiasm, her soul drank in the sublimity and sparkling radiance that enveloped her, she seemed no being of mortal mould, but some celestial visitant. The rapt expression of her face gradually settled into awe, and she softly murmured these lines, of the Russian poet, Derzhavin-- "God! thus to Thee my lowly thoughts can soar, Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good, 'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude." The tears were indeed standing in her eyes, as she turned and placed her hand in that of Bernard. "You must think it strange," she said, "that I, to whom all this is no novelty should be thus affected. It is a weakness from which I shall never recover." "Not weakness, dear Faith," said Bernard, "but the impressibility of a poetical temperament. Only an insensible heart could be unmoved." "If these rocks could speak, what legends they might tell of vanished races," said Faith. "There is something inexpressibly sad in the fate of those who once were the masters of these woods and fields, and streams. "They but submit to the common fate, which compels the inferior to make way for the superior race, as my father says." "How beautiful," she continued, "must this goodly land have seemed to the Indian hunter, when, after the day's chase, he dropped the deer upon the ground, and, from this high point, looked over the green forests and shining stream. I should not wonder, if now, in the voice of the cataract, he fancies he hears the groans of his ancestors, and the screams of demons." "There are traditions connected with this place," said Bernard, "but they are fast fading away, and promise soon to be forgotten." "Are you acquainted with any?" "A friend of mine has endeavored to rescue one from oblivion, but I doubt if it would interest you." "I am interested in everything that relates to this people. Tell me the story now. What more fitting place for romance!" "A fitting place certainly, but no fitting time. Romance would hardly mitigate the keenness of the air, or diminish the probability of taking cold, were you to stand here listening to Indian legends. Besides, the tale is in manuscript, and I should not be able, relying on memory, to do it justice." "You shall read it to me this evening, where you cannot make such excuses," she replied, taking again his arm, and resuming their walk, "by the light of candles, and near the parlor fire, where we may hear, and not feel the wind."