The time of the year had now arrived when Holden was wont to show himself more than usually restless and excitable.  He had been wandering one day since early in the morning, shooting partridges and squirrels, until late in the afternoon he found himself at the Falls of the Yaupaae.  This was for him a favorite place of resort, and here, stretched on the ground, he would lie for hours, with his eyes fastened on the foaming water, listening to the cataract’s roar, as if it soothed his humor.  Holden threw himself on the moss that exuberantly covers the rocks, and essayed the spell.  But this time, in vain.  He lay but a moment, when, starting up, he seized the rifle he had laid aside, and making a considerable detour, in order to reach a small bridge higher up the stream, he crossed it, and pursued his way to the village.

Holden, notwithstanding he had lived so long in the vicinity and had often been in the village, never made his appearance without attracting attention.  The little boys and girls, and even their elders, seldom passed him without turning to look again.  The singularity of his dress, and fine tall person, as straight as his rifle, and a beard, that waved like a prophet’s, on his breast, would have commanded observation anywhere.  Joined to this was an air of dignity and gravity that, in spite of the coarseness of his apparel, insured respect.  However much the rude and vulgar might feel disposed to insult, they were too much awed by his presence to attempt it.  They might speak disrespectfully, indeed, of him in his absence, but before him they were cowed and mute.  The mystery, besides, with which their imaginations surrounded him, invested him with a power the greater, perhaps, on account of its indefiniteness.  They forgot in gazing at him, that his only means of living they were acquainted with was derived from the sale of the oysters and fish he caught in the river, and of the large baskets he made with his own hands.  The meanness of the occupation was lost sight of when they saw his majestic appearance and heard the grand tones of his deep voice.

Holden proceeded down the street, hardly recognizing—­though such was not his wont—­the friendly greetings with which he was sainted by many that passed, until he arrived opposite the house of Mr. Armstrong.  Here his progress was arrested by a tap on a window, and looking up he saw the bright face of Miss Armstrong, who was beckoning to him.  He stopped; the face disappeared to re-appear at the door, and Faith invited him to come in.  He hesitated, but the irresolution was only momentary, for instantly he turned and entered the house.

“I doubted,” he said, “whether it were right to inflict the gloom of an old man on one so young.  What have age and despondency in common with youth and happiness?”

“But you do not doubt my sympathy?  Is there anything I would not do to make you happy, Father Holden?”