"Good; there lies your path, and if you are not too proud, there is gold for you."

"Keep your gold, sir, we know each other now, but mark me, man of crime, Ida Somers can remember, if she dare not revenge."

"Ah! do you threaten?-But she is gone." The villain and the base seducer stood alone in that little chamber.

PAGE VI.-THE VISION.

The existence of such a band as we have described was calculated to carry terror through that portion of the country, and even reaching beyond Pittsburg, and extending down the Ohio river. Merchants visiting the east for the purchase of goods went in companies, and fully armed, frequent were the encounters they had with portions of the gang. The secret of the cave was kept, for well Ponteet knew that Ida would not betray them, her life depended on her silence. He also knew that the very morning after the disappearance of Ida the old man vacated his mountain home, and left it with his youngest grand-child; with this knowledge he felt perfectly secure in liberating Ida, and she had sworn not to betray them. Strange that a bandit should put so much faith in the oath of an injured woman.

On the very evening of the day that Ida left the cave, an old man borne down with sorrow, and wearisomeness, accompanied by a lovely young girl arrived at a lone inn, on the road leading direct to Cumberland. Their appearance attracted the attention of the few persons residing in the vicinity of the public house, and much curiosity was excited to know who they were, and from whence they came. But

grief has no tongue, though expressive, and the good folks who would have listened to their tale of wo read in the looks of the aged man and his youthful companion a history of human life. What is life but true history-the pages are numbered, the index written, and its chapters divided. The great book is open, and the characters move on and play their respective parts and carry out each chapter, in accordance with the text.

The old man looked forward to the end of his journey with a sigh; he had pictured life's close on the mountaintop: he had even selected out the old oak tree beneath whose branches he wished to be laid, and then he would say to his children: "You can plant flowers on my grave." Alas! the flowers are dead now; they withered when Ida left them!

The morning after their arrival at the inn, the old man arose somewhat refreshed, and calling for his grand-daughter, he bid her get ready for their journey; having breakfasted, and bid their kind host farewell, they set forth.

"Grandfather, dear Grandfather—”

"You are going the wrong way; that is the road we came." "I know it, my dear child-I know it-bear with an old man's actions. We will return to our mountain home. I had a dream last night; "it is my destiny-and I must obey"-"Yes," muttering to himself "I must avenge her wrongs-the hand of heaven points out the way, and I will follow its directions."

On-on they went―the old man seemed to have renewed vigor; he hurried on-and Mary, for that was her name, and we are not aware of having given it before-trudged gaily on at his side, for the idea of going home had a most pleasing effect upon her.

"Listen, my child come closer I dreamt last night that Ida had returned to our hut. I saw her in my dream enter the lone chamber. I witnessed her tears-and even heard her words—for it seemed in my dream as if she missed us from the house, and wept; she laid down on the bed - then the door opened, a man entered I heard distinctly—yes, it rings in my ears yet, a scream— -the man rushed from the house, holding aloft a bloody dagger. Ida is dead - weep for her, my child—your sister is murdered!"

The old man wept, for he saw the tears on the cheek of his only companion now in the wide world. The tears of youth are like dew-drops-they nourish where they fall, but those of the aged are distillations of a broken heart— they fall like snow-flakes on a shattered tomb.

"Dear Grandfather - this is but a dream; dreams are the effect of grief and sorrow, as they are of joy."

"Not always, Mary; sometimes, I have no doubt, they are the mere visions of the past, retrospective shadows: but yet, my child, they may be the presages of the future. Dreams are not, cannot be alone the coinage of the brain: for thoughts and ideas, although silenced, are still there; they may take forms and shapes, and dream too-all, however, is mystery, but a mystery which time sooner or later will unravel. But come, child, walk faster; we must reach home before nightfall.”

On-on they went-age and youth--the past and the future, were jogging on in sorrow. At last they reached the foot of the Little Savage: up-up, they toiled - the lone hut was in sight-the little gate was passed - they entered all was silent; they passed into the sleeping room-Ida's room; she was there, apparently asleep. The old man gazed-his limbs trembled; he approached the bed

"Yes," he exclaimed, "it is blood

she sleeps

aye,

she sleeps in death—and that man—the man I saw in my dream- -was her murderer! Mary, kneel with me and pray your sister is dead."

PAGE VII-GRIEF OF AGE.

After the events related in the last page, a sternness, amounting almost to savageness, took possession of the old man; to Mary, however, he was kind and gentle: but his features, when he did not address her, were iron. His veins swelled, and seemed as if they were bursting; he was trying to conquer-self! The grave of Ida was dug beneath the tree the old man had in the days of his happiness, selected out as the spot for his own. Roses bloomed on it: and there the old man knelt - did he pray? Yes, for her who lay beneath the green sod: but there - yes, while on bended knee, the old man took an oath-it was a dreadful one—a fearful resolve for an old grey-headed man—but it was uttered and recorded, either for or against him, in that book whose pages are only to be examined when the last trump sounds, and the graves give up their dead.-It is the book of fate.

A few days after the funeral ceremony, the old man put his house in order, and taking Mary into the little room, he placed in her hands a letter addressed to a gentleman in Philadelphia. "This, my child, you deliver in accordance to its direction; and this, for yourself, only to be opened after my death. I am going on a journey, dear child, and in the mean time you remain with Mrs. Jones-shut up the house, take the small box with you-here is the key-in it you will money; and when hear of my death, open the letter

find

you

addressed to you-read it carefully-then go to Philadelphia- find out the gentleman whose name is on the envelope-in him you will find an--uncle! We parted many years ago as enemies--I have asked his pardon for what I did years ago. He has readily granted it; he is now a popular preacher, and will receive you with all kindness and affection, for he is a good man. No words, my child; destiny for a time divides us!-- Heaven bless you -- farewell!"

"Dear Grandfather, do not leave me; what will become of me when you are gone ?"

"Fear nothing, my child; Mrs. Jones will call for you in the morning. Heaven bless you--heaven bless you."

"Yes," murmured the old man, after he reached his chamber, "it is done--I will leave the house; but let me read it once more. Poor Ida, she must have written it after receiving the fatal blow; let me read it again-Near the six oaks the pointed rock, near the river-sixteen paces from its bank-a door concealed-a cave-robbers-Ponteet, my murderer; worse than that-pity me, Grandfather -poor Mary-heaven bless you all-I am now dying-I, I was young and he a villain-pardon-pardon.' Yes, my child, I have pardoned—O! villain, villain !— The cave-robbers-strange forms in the forest-the numerous robberies-ah! he is near me !"

PAGE VIII.-THE SKELETON ROCK.

The wolf, as he prowled along the base of the Little Savage mountains, avoided the six oaks, which the reader will remember stood near the robber's cave. Apart from the dreaded cave and its mysterious inmates, the wolf had an