you leave Boston?” “I cannot tell precisely; it seems a considerable time.”  “But how did you and your child become so wet? it has not rained here to-day.”  “It has just rained a heavy shower up the river.  But I shall not reach Boston to-night if I tarry.  Would you advise me to take the old road, or the turnpike?” “Why, the old road is one hundred and seventeen miles, and the turnpike is ninety-seven.”  “How can you say so? you impose on me; it is wrong to trifle with a traveller; you know it is but forty miles from Newburyport to Boston.”  “But this is not Newburyport; this is Hartford.”  “Do not deceive me, sir.  Is not this town Newburyport, and the river that I have been following the Merrimac?” “No, sir; this is Hartford, and the river the Connecticut.”  He wrung his hands and looked incredulous.  “Have the rivers, too, changed their courses as the cities have changed places?  But see, the clouds are gathering in the south, and we shall have a rainy night.  Ah, that fatal oath!” He would tarry no longer.  His impatient horse leaped off, his hind flanks rising like wings—­he seemed to devour all before him and to scorn all behind.

I had now, as I thought, discovered a clue to the history of Peter Rugg, and I determined, the next time my business called me to Boston, to make a further inquiry.  Soon after I was enabled to collect the following particulars from Mrs. Croft, an aged lady in Middle Street, who has resided in Boston during the last twenty years.  Her narration is this:  The last summer a person, just at twilight, stopped at the door of the late Mrs. Rugg.  Mrs. Croft, on coming to the door, perceived a stranger, with a child by his side, in an old, weather-beaten carriage, with a black horse.  The stranger asked for Mrs. Rugg, and was informed that Mrs. Rugg had died, at a good old age, more than twenty years before that time.  The stranger replied, “How can you deceive me so? do ask Mrs. Rugg to step to the door.”  “Sir, I assure you Mrs. Rugg has not lived here these nineteen years; no one lives here but myself, and my name is Betsey Croft.”  The stranger paused, and looked up and down the street and said, “Though the painting is rather faded, this looks like my house.”  “Yes,” said the child, “that is the stone before the door that I used to sit on to eat my bread and milk.”  “But,” said the stranger, “it seems to be on the wrong side of the street.  Indeed, everything here seems to be misplaced.  The streets are all changed, the people are all changed, the town seems changed, and, what is strangest of all, Catharine Rugg has deserted her husband and child.”  “Pray,” said the stranger, “has John Foy come home from sea?  He went a long voyage; he is my kinsman.  If I could see him, he could give me some account of Mrs. Rugg.”  “Sir,” said Mrs. Croft, “I never heard of John Foy.  Where did he live?” “Just above here, in Orange-Tree Lane.”  “There is no such place in this neighbourhood.”  “What do you tell me!  Are the streets gone?  Orange-Tree