CHAPTER II.
THE DARK CLOUD.
During the walk homeward, Haverland spoke but few words, although his loquacious friend kept up a continual, unremitting stream of talk. The woodman's heart was too heavy to join him in his humorous, pointless words. Although dark and fearful suspicions had flitted before him, he had closed his eyes upon them, until he could no longer shun them, they appeared at every turn, and now resumed a terrible certainty.
Although at the time of which we refer, the Revolutionary struggle of the colonies had closed, and their freedom was placed upon a firm basis, yet universal peace by no means reigned. Dark, sanguinary, and bloody tragedies were constantly enacted upon the frontiers for a generation afterward. The mother country, failing in her work of subjugation, continued to incite the Indians to revolting barbarities upon the unoffending inhabitants. They found them too-willing instruments, and, instigated by them, a protracted war was long maintained; and, when the moving cause was removed, the savages still continued the unequal conflict. As every one acquainted with our history must know, the war on the frontiers has been an almost interminable one. As the tide of emigration has rolled westward, it has ever met that fiery counter-surge, and only overcome it, by incessant battling and effort. And even now, as the distant shores of the Pacific are well nigh reached, that resisting wave still gives forth its lurid flashes of conflict.
In a pleasant valley, stood the humble home of Alfred Haverland. His own vigorous arm had cleared off a space on all aides, so that his residence stood at some distance from the forest, which rolled away for miles. In the clearing still remained the stumps of the fallen trees, and in some places the rich, virgin soil had been broken, and was giving signs of the
