robbed her fair visage of a single charm.  There was, in the general cast of features, a sufficient resemblance between the two to indicate near relationship; although it was plain that the gloom seated upon the brow of her kinsmen, as if a permanent characteristic, was an unwelcome and unnatural visitant on her own.  The clear blue eye, the golden locks floating over her temples, the ruddy cheek and look of seventeen, and, generally, the frank and open character of her expression, betokened a spirit too joyous and elastic to indulge in those dark anticipations of the future or mournful recollections of the past, which clouded the bosom of her relative.  And well for her that such was the cheerful temper of her mind; for it was manifest, from her whole appearance, that her lot, as originally cast, must have been among the gentle, the refined, and the luxurious, and that she was now, for the first time, exposed to discomfort, hardship, and suffering, among companions, who, however kind and courteous of conduct, were unpolished in their habits, conversation, and feelings, and, in every other respect, unfitted to be her associates.

She looked upon the face of her kinsman, and seeing that it grew the darker and gloomier the nearer they approached the scene of rejoicing, she laid her hand upon his arm, and murmured softly and affectionately—­

“Roland,—­cousin,—­brother!—­what is it that disturbs you?  Will you not ride forward, and salute the good people that are making us welcome?”

“Us!” muttered the young man, with a bitter voice; “who is there on earth, Edith, to welcome us?  Where shall we look for the friends and kinsfolk, that the meanest of the company are finding among yonder noisy barbarians?”

“You do them injustice, Roland,” said the maiden.  “Yesternight we had experience at the Station we left, that these wild people of the woods do not confine their welcomes to kinsmen.  Kinder and more hospitable people do not exist in the world.”

“It is not that, Edith,” said the young man; “I were but a brute to doubt their hospitality.  But look, Edith; we are in Kentucky, almost at our place of refuge.  Yonder hovels, lowly, mean, and wretched—­are they the mansions that should shelter the child of my father’s brother?  Yonder people, the outcasts of our borders, the poor, the rude, the savage—­but one degree elevated above the Indians, with whom they contend,—­are they the society from whom Edith Forrester should choose her friends?”

“They are,” said Edith, firmly; “and Edith Forrester asks none better.  In such a cabin as these, and, if need be, in one still more humble, she is content to pass her life, and dream that she is still in the house of her fathers.  From such people, too, she will choose her friends, knowing that, even among the humblest of them, there are many worthy of her regard and affection.  What have we to mourn in the world we have left behind us?  We are the last of our name and race; fortune has left