St Philips

lder, the girl Christine was now sixteen. It was December; a still clear evening; the little town of was lying in a frozen, silent way under the stars and moon. It was not yet seven, but the moon was so bright that a traveller, just entering the town by the western turnpike, slackening his horse's pace, took out his watch and read the hour distinctly on its face. He put it back again, and then rode forward on a walk. He looked about him thoughtfully, and paused with a moment's hesitation when he came to a point where the road forked. He chose the right hand way at last, guided perhaps by the " twinkling stars of household light" in the distance, and the glimmering of a sheet of ice beyond the trees in front of him. He came presently upon an old mill standing on the edge of the pond, with long icicles hanging from its silent wheel, and the moonshine playing upon its padlocked door and dangling idle rope. The pond had been frozen over only since the night before; there were white cracks veining the clear ice, and along the dam and by the bridge it had been broken in several places. The pond lay in a sort of basin, with low hills surrounding iton three sides?swamp-willows dipping down into its brink, and dark pine trees rising above it against the sky. There was a row of old poplars bordering the road along the dam, and the bridge, with its gate now shut and frozen, was a favorite tryst- ing place for the youth of on moonlight nights in summer. ...