A week after the events narrated in the preceding chapters, a small company was collected in a parlor of one of the houses of Hillsdale.  It consisted of a gentleman, of some fifty years of age; his wife, a fine-looking matron, some years his junior; their daughter, a bright blue-eyed flaxen-haired girl, rounding into the most graceful form of womanhood, and a young man, who is not entirely a stranger to us.

The judgment of the doctor, respecting the wound of Pownal—­for it is he—­had proved to be correct, and, on the second day after the hurt, he had returned to the village, with his friend William Bernard, in the house of whose father he was, for the present, domiciliated.  The young men had been acquainted before, and the accident seemed to have established a sort of intimacy between them.  It was, therefore, with no feeling of reluctance, that Pownal accepted an invitation to desert his boarding-house for a while, for the hospitality of his friend.  Perhaps, his decision was a little influenced by the remembrance of the blue eyes of Miss Bernard, and of the pleasant effect which, from their first acquaintance, they had exerted upon him.  However that may be, it is certain, that, although somewhat paler than usual, he appeared to be quite contented with his condition.

It was evening, and candles were lighted, and Mr. Bernard, or as he was more commonly, or, indeed, almost universally, called, Judge Bernard, from having been one of the judges of the Superior Court, was sitting in an arm-chair, reading a newspaper; Mrs. Bernard was busy with her knitting; the young lady employed upon one of those pieces of needle-work, which, in those days, were seldom out of female hands, and Pownal looking at her all he dared, and listening to an occasional paragraph read by the Judge from his newspaper.

“You are the cause of quite a sensation in our little community, Thomas,” said the Judge, laying down his spectacles and newspaper at the same time.  “Mr. Editor Peters and the gossips ought to be infinitely obliged to you for wounding yourself, and affording him an opportunity to display his inventive genius and the brilliancy of his imagination, and giving them something to talk about.  Here, Anne, read the article aloud for our edification.”

The young lady ran her eye hastily down the column, and could not restrain her laughter.

“Excuse me, papa,” she said, “it is too much for my poor nerves.  Only think of it; Mr. Peters loads Mr. Pownal’s gun with sixteen buck-shot, topples him off a precipice twenty feet high, breaks three of his ribs, and makes a considerable incision in his skull.  Never was there such a wonderful escape.  It is too horrible.”

“How the newspapers are given to big stories!” said Mrs. Bernard.

“I dare say,” cried Anne, “the editor has authority for what he says, for now that my attention is drawn to it, I think there must be something in the incision.  Have you not remarked, mamma, that Mr. Pownal is at times light-headed?”