it."
"I have seen them often enough," replied the young man; "the owner of this one should be proud."
"It is yours," said Durand.
"What do you mean?"
"I bought it for you," was the simple reply.
"Pierre! Pierre! I repeat, you are ruined."
"Hush; I may as well add that under the saddles I have placed double pockets, which contain many things I have forgotten."
"But there are two horses," he cried.
"One for you and one for myself. At all events, I must see you fairly on your way."
Oliver made no reply, but turned away to dress in order to hide his emotion. When he was in full costume his friend burst out laughing, and told him he looked like a Calabrian bandit.
"And now which way do we go?" asked the captain.
"Straight forward," replied Oliver.
"Yes," cried the captain, "just so, as you are going round the world."
In two hours, after a hearty and warm shake of the hand, they parted. They were too deeply moved to speak.
CHAPTER II.
SAMUEL DICKSON GIVES ADVICE TO HIS BROTHER
On the same day on which the Patriot anchored in the Bay of Massachusetts an interesting event took place between seven and eight in the morning in a pretty village named Northampton, at no great distance from Boston.
Everybody was excited. A crowd of men, women, and children pressed around a number of waggons, each drawn by six horses. They stood in front of a brick house, the only inn of the village. Four magnificent saddle horses, with very handsome harness, were held by a young intelligent-looking Negro, who at the same time smoked a short pipe.
The crowd was very excited, but very decorous and quiet – as a New England crowd always is – waiting simply for an explanation.
Suddenly the sharp trot of a horse was heard at the entrance of the street. This served to create a new sensation in the crowd.
"Samuel Dickson!" cried the people; "At last he has come. Now he will make them listen to reason."
The new arrival was a man of middle age, with a pleasant countenance, delicate and intelligent features, clothed in the dress of a rich farmer, and in those parts was looked up to as a most important individual.
He made his way carefully through the crowd, bowing on either hand, and rather puzzled at the ovation he was receiving.
"Ah! Ah! That is you, massa," said a Negro, with a chuckle, as he approached the inn door.
"Sandy, is that you? Then I suppose the others are inside," he remarked, as he dismounted and handed him the bridle.
"Yes, Massa Samuel, dem all dere."
"I am glad of it," he replied, "for I have come a long way to see them. Look after my horse, he is rather fresh."
Then, bowing once more to the crowd, Samuel Dickson entered the inn, closing the door behind him.
In a large and comfortable room six persons, two women and four men, were seated at one of those copious breakfasts which are never seen to such perfection as in America. Upon benches round the room sat about twenty persons in a humbler station in life, amongst others two coloured young women, who were eating from bowls and plates placed on their knees.
Those at the table were the members of the family – father, mother, daughter, and three sons. Those around were the servants.
Joshua Dickson, the head of the family, was in reality a man of fifty-five, not, however, looking more than forty. He was a man of rude manners, but frank, honest expression. He was six feet high, as powerful as Hercules, a true type of those hardy pioneers who opened up the forests of the New World, drove back the Indians, and founded stations in the desert, which in time became rich and flourishing towns.
His sons were named Harry, Sam, and Jack, aged respectively thirty, twenty-eight, and twenty-six. They were all three as tall as their father, and about as Herculean – true Americans, with no thought of the past, only looking to the future.
Susan Dickson, the mother of this trio of giants, was a woman of about fifty – small, elegant, but extremely active, with delicate features and a pre-possessing physiognomy. She looked much younger than she really was – thanks to her really admirable complexion and the singular brightness of her eyes. She must have been rarely beautiful in her youth.
Diana, the child of her old age, as she loved to call her, was scarcely sixteen, was the idol of the family, the guardian angel of the fireside; her father and brothers actually worshipped her. It was something wonderful to see their rude natures bending like reeds before the slightest wish of this delicate child, and obeying her most fantastic orders without a murmur.
Diana was a charming brunette, with blue and dreamy eyes, slight and flexible form; she was pale; a look of profound melancholy was to be remarked on her countenance, giving to her physiognomy that angelic expression rarely found except in the Madonnas of Titien. This sadness, which all the family saw with sorrow, had only been in existence a few days. When questioned on the subject, even by her mother, she had no answer to give.
"It is nothing at all," she said, "only a slight feeling of sickness, which will soon pass away."
Hearing this, all had ceased to question her, though all felt uneasy, and slightly annoyed at her reticence. Still, as she was the spoiled child of the family, no one had the heart to blame her or pester her with questions. They had seduced her to govern them unquestioned that it appeared hard now to want to curb her will.
The entrance of the stranger into the hall where the emigrants were breakfasting like persons who knew the value of time, caused no small stir; they ceased eating, and, glancing at one another, whispered amongst themselves. The stranger, leaning on his riding whip, looked at them with an odd kind of smile.
The chief of the family, though himself somewhat surprised, was the first to recover himself. He rose, held out his hand, and spoke in what he intended should be a jovial tone. The attempt was a failure.
"My good brother," he said, "this is indeed a surprise. I really did not expect to see you; but sit down beside my wife and have some breakfast."
"Thank you; I am not hungry."
"Then excuse me if I finish my meal," continued the emigrant.
"Brother," presently said Samuel, "for a man of your age you are acting in an extraordinary manner."
"I don't think so," replied the other.
"Let me ask you where are you going?"
"Northward, to the great lakes."
"What is the meaning of this?"
"My friend, I am told there is good land to be had but for the taking."
"May I ask who put this silly idea in your head?"
"No one. It is a splendid country, with splendid forests, water in abundance, a delicious climate, though rather cold, and land
