“As yet,” cried the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm—­“as yet I have done nothing.  Were I to vanish from the earth to-morrow, none would know so much of me as you—­that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed through the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more.  Not a soul would ask, ’Who was he?  Whither did the wanderer go?’ But I cannot die till I have achieved my destiny.  Then let Death come:  I shall have built my monument.”

There was a continual flow of natural emotion gushing forth amid abstracted reverie which enabled the family to understand this young man’s sentiments, though so foreign from their own.  With quick sensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he had been betrayed.

“You laugh at me,” said he, taking the eldest daughter’s hand and laughing himself.  “You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I were to freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington only that people might spy at me from the country roundabout.  And truly that would be a noble pedestal for a man’s statue.”

“It is better to sit here by this fire,” answered the girl, blushing, “and be comfortable and contented, though nobody thinks about us.”

“I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of musing, “there is something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had been turned that way, I might have felt just the same.—­It is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certain never to come to pass.”

“Perhaps they may,” observed the wife.  “Is the man thinking what he will do when he is a widower?”

“No, no!” cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness.  “When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine too.  But I was wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett or Bethlehem or Littleton, or some other township round the White Mountains, but not where they could tumble on our heads.  I should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called squire and sent to General Court for a term or two; for a plain, honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer.  And when I should be grown quite an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around me.  A slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one, with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to let people know that I lived an honest man and died a Christian.”

“There, now!” exclaimed the stranger; “it is our nature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a glorious memory in the universal heart of man.”

“We’re in a strange way to-night,” said the wife, with tears in her eyes.  “They say it’s a sign of something when folks’ minds go a-wandering so.  Hark to the children!”