But the hour of departure was at hand, and assisting the fair Edith into the carriage, Ralph had the satisfaction of placing her beside the sweetly sad, the lovely, but still deeply suffering girl, to whom he owed so much in the preservation of his life.  She was silent when he spoke, but she looked her replies, and he felt that they were sufficiently expressive.  The aunt had been easily persuaded to go with her niece, and we find her seated accordingly along with Colonel Colleton in the same carriage with the young ladies.  Ralph rode, as his humor prompted, sometimes on horseback, and sometimes in a light gig—­a practice adopted with little difficulty, where a sufficient number of servants enabled him to transfer the trust of one or the other conveyance to the liveried outriders.  Then came the compact, boxy, buggy, buttoned-up vehicle of our friend the pedler—­a thing for which the unfertile character of our language, as yet, has failed to provide a fitting name—­but which the backwoodsman of the west calls a go-cart; a title which the proprietor does not always esteem significant of its manifold virtues and accommodations.  With a capacious stomach, it is wisely estimated for all possible purposes; and when opened with a mysterious but highly becoming solemnity, before the gaping and wondering woodsman, how “awful fine” do the contents appear to Miss Nancy and the little whiteheads about her.  How grand are its treasures, of tape and toys, cottons and calicoes, yarn and buttons, spotted silks and hose—­knives and thimbles—­scissors and needles—­wooden clocks, and coffee-mills, &c.—­not to specify a closely-packed and various assortment of tin-ware and japan, from the tea-kettle and coffee-pot to the drinking mug for the pet boy and the shotted rattle for the infant.  A judicious distribution of the two latter, in the way of presents to the young, and the worthy pedler drives a fine bargain with the parents in more costly commodities.

The party was now fairly ready, but, just at the moment of departure, who should appear in sight but our simple friend, Chub Williams.  He had never been a frequent visiter to the abodes of men, and of course all things occasioned wonder.  He seemed fallen upon some strange planet, and was only won to attention by the travellers, on hearing the voice of Lucy Munro calling to him from the carriage window.  He could not be made to understand the meaning of her words when she told him where she was going, but contented himself with saying he would come for her, as soon as they built up his house, and she should be his mother.  It was for this purpose he had come to the village, from which, though surprised at all things he saw, he was anxious to get away.  He had been promised, as we remember, the rebuilding of his cabin, by the men who captured Rivers; together with sundry other little acquisitions, which, as they were associated with his animal wants, the memory of the urchin did not suffer to escape him.  Ralph placed in his