Chapter 3

'Twas when the fields were swept of Autumn's store,
And growing winds the fading foliage tore
Behind the Lowmon hill, the short-lived light,
Descending slowly, ushered in the night;
When from the noisy town, with mournful look,
His lonely way the meager peddler took.
--WILSON.

A storm below the highlands of the Hudson, if it be introduced with an
easterly wind, seldom lasts less than two days. Accordingly, as the
inmates of the Locusts assembled, on the following morning, around their
early breakfast, the driving rain was seen to strike in nearly
horizontal lines against the windows of the building, and forbade the
idea of exposing either man or beast to the tempest. Harper was the last
to appear; after taking a view of the state of the weather, he
apologized to Mr. Wharton for the necessity that existed for his
trespassing on his goodness for a longer time. To appearances, the reply
was as courteous as the excuse; yet Harper wore a resignation in his
deportment that was widely different from the uneasy manner of the
father. Henry Wharton had resumed his disguise with a reluctance
amounting to disgust, but in obedience to the commands of his parent. No
communications passed between him and the stranger, after the first
salutations of the morning had been paid by Harper to him, in common
with the rest of the family. Frances had, indeed, thought there was
something like a smile passing over the features of the traveler, when,
on entering the room, he first confronted her brother; but it was
confined to the eyes, seeming to want power to affect the muscles of the
face, and was soon lost in the settled and benevolent expression which
reigned in his countenance, with a sway but seldom interrupted. The eyes
of the affectionate sister were turned in anxiety, for a moment, on her
brother, and glancing again on their unknown guest, met his look, as he
offered her, with marked attention, one of the little civilities of the
table; and the heart of the girl, which had begun to throb with
violence, regained a pulsation as tempered as youth, health, and buoyant
spirits could allow. While yet seated at the table, Caesar entered, and
laying a small parcel in silence by the side of his master, modestly
retired behind his chair, where, placing one hand on its back, he
continued in an attitude half familiar, half respectful, a listener.

"What is this, Caesar?" inquired Mr. Wharton, turning the bundle over to
examine its envelope, and eying it rather suspiciously.

"The 'baccy, sir; Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little
good 'baccy from York."

"Harvey Birch!" rejoined the master with great deliberation, stealing a
look at his guest. "I do not