424 THE SMUGGLER, 



CHAPTER XXXVII, 



THERE was a solitary light in an upstairs window of farmer 

 Harris's house, and, by its dim ray, sat Harding the smuggler, 

 watching the inanimate form of her upon whom all the strong 

 affections of his heart had been concentrated. No persuasions 

 could induce him to entrust "the first watch," as he called it, 

 to others; and there he sat, seldom taking his eyes from that 

 pale but still beautiful countenance, and often stooping over to 

 print a kiss upon the cold and clay-like forehead of the dead. 

 His tears were all shed: he wept not, he spoke not; but the 

 bitterness which has no end was in his heart, and, with a 

 sleepless eye, he watched through the livelong night. It was 

 about three o'clock in the morning, when a hard knocking was 

 heard at the door of the farm; and, without a change of fea- 

 ture, Harding rose and went down in the dark. He unlocked 

 the door, and opened it, when a hand holding a paper was 

 thrust in, and instantly withdrawn, as Harding took the letter. 



"What is this?" he said; but the messenger ran away 

 without reply; and the smuggler returned to the chamber of 

 death. 



The paper he had taken was folded in the shape of a note, 

 but neither sealed nor addressed; and, without ceremony, 

 Harding opened it, and read. It was written in a free, good 

 hand, which he recognised at once, with rage and indignation 

 all the more intense because he restrained them within his own 

 breast. He uttered not a word; his face betrayed, only in 

 part, the workings of strong passioii within him. It is true, 

 his lip quivered a little, and his brow became contracted, but 

 it soon relaxed its frown; and, without oath or comment, 



