“I can prove beyond the power of refutation,” the naturalist eagerly exclaimed, “by Paley, Berkeley, ay, even by the immortal Binkerschoek, that a compactum, concluded while one of the parties, be it a state or be it an individual, is in durance—”

“You will ruffle the temper of the child, with your abusive language,” said the cautious trapper, “while the lad, if left to human feelings, will bring her down to the meekness of a fawn. Ah! you are like myself, little knowing in the natur’ of hidden kindnesses!”

“Is this the only vow you have taken, Ellen?” Paul continued in a tone which, for the gay, light-hearted bee-hunter, sounded dolorous and reproachful. “Have you sworn only to this? are the words which the squatter says, to be as honey in your mouth, and all other promises like so much useless comb?”

The paleness, which had taken possession of the usually cheerful countenance of Ellen, was hid in a bright glow, that was plainly visible even at the distance at which she stood. She hesitated a moment, as if struggling to repress something very like resentment, before she answered with all her native spirit—

“I know not what right any one has to question me about oaths and promises, which can only concern her who has made them, if, indeed, any of the sort you mention have ever been made at all. I shall hold no further discourse with one who thinks so much of himself, and takes advice merely of his own feelings.”

“Now, old trapper, do you hear that!” said the unsophisticated bee-hunter, turning abruptly to his aged friend. “The meanest insect that skims the heavens, when it has got its load, flies straight and honestly to its nest or hive, according to its kind; but the ways of a woman’s mind are as knotty as a gnarled oak, and more crooked than the windings of the Mississippi!”

“Nay, nay, child,” said the trapper, good-naturedly interfering in behalf of the offending Paul, “you are to consider that youth is hasty, and not overgiven to thought. But then a promise is a promise, and not to be thrown aside and forgotten, like the hoofs and horns of a buffaloe.”

“I thank you for reminding me of my oath,” said the still resentful Ellen, biting her pretty nether lip with vexation; “I might else have proved forgetful!”

“Ah! female natur’ is awakened in her,” said the old man, shaking his head in a manner to show how much he was disappointed in the result; “but it manifests itself against the true spirit!”

“Ellen!” cried the young stranger, who until now had been an attentive listener to the parley, “since Ellen is the name by which you are known—”

“They often add to it another. I am sometimes called by the name of my father.”

“Call her Nelly Wade at once,” muttered Paul; “it is her rightful name, and I care not if she keeps it for ever!”

“Wade, I should have added,” continued the youth. “You will acknowledge that, though bound by no oath myself, I at least have known how to respect those of others. You are a witness yourself that I have forborne to utter a single call, while I am certain it could reach those ears it would gladden so much. Permit me then to ascend the rock, singly; I promise a perfect indemnity to your kinsman, against any injury his effects may sustain.”

Ellen seemed to hesitate, but catching a glimpse of Paul, who stood leaning proudly on his rifle, whistling, with an appearance of the utmost indifference, the air of a boating song, she recovered her recollection in time to answer,—