On the borders of one of those lakes whose silvery surfaces may be frequently seen imbosomed among the wild highlands of New England, near the margin of a forest that encircled its waters with a drapery of dark green foliage, and luxuriant vines, and stretched far away over the circumjacent mountains, the outlaw had chosen his retreat. A few roods of ground were cleared around his lodge, which was secured from view in the direction of the lake, by a narrow file of trees and underwood, and on all other sides, by the unbroken forest. Here the refugee lived, sequestered from the world, his only companion his child; with a single attendant, an African, the menial of the lodge, and only visiter of the village that lay over the mountains, and was the nearest within many miles of circuit, where the servant went for the supplies of the family. The outlaw suffered no stranger to enter his precincts, partly because he feared lest justice should find an avenue to his guilt, and partly because he dreaded an interruption to the communion of affection between him and his daughter. He loved his child as few fathers love their offspring. He had always cherished her as the “apple of his eye.” But since his recent misfortunes, all other feelings had become extinct, or submerged in this one passion. He loved her because she was the image of her mother, who had been the young idol of his soul. He loved her because she was a part of himself, and his own dark eye flashed beneath her brow. She was all the world had left him which he could call his own. To make her father happy, and witness his cloudy features clear away in smiles, was the dearest delight of the affectionate daughter. He could not bear her a moment from his presence, which she, at the least sound of danger as instinctively sought, as the timid lamb bounds away to its dam. Music was to both father and child an exhilaration of pleasure, and relieved of its weariness many a lonely hour. He had instructed her to play the guitar, whose strings responding to the skilful touch of her fingers, trilled in his ear the sweet airs of his youth; while her zephyr-like voice poured forth, in rich harmony with his deep bass, those lays that awakened fostered memories in his bosom. She read to him from his favorite Spanish authors, a few of which he had brought to be companions of his exile. A daily and indulged employment for the Mexican was sailing upon the lake, and angling for fish that were numerous in its waters. He had constructed for his daughter a light canoe with which she accompanied her father. While he fished, she sported with her little bark, which she learned to scull with such art, that like the shell of the Nautilus, it seemed of itself to glide through the waters. When the wind was high, so lightly and fearless did she skim over the curling tops of the waves, and so shrill and clear she sounded her notes on the air, that her father called her his Bird of the Lake.