"I hardly know," replied his sister, "but yet something linked them together in my mind. It seemed as if the oak asked me, 'What is their antiquity to mine?' And yet the antiquity of their families is their greatest claim to our reverence."
"No! no!" cried Walter Prevost, eagerly. "Their antiquity is nothing, for we are all of as ancient a family as they are. But it is that they can show a line from generation to generation, displaying some high qualities, ennobled by some great acts. Granted that here or there a sluggard, a coward, or a fool may have intervened, or that the acts which have won praise in other days may not be reverenced now. Yet I have often heard my father say that, in looking back through records of noble houses, we shall find a sum of deeds and qualities suited to and honored by succeeding ages, which, tried by the standard of the times of the men, shows that hereditary nobility is not merely an honor won by a worthy father for unworthy children, but a bond to great endeavors, signed by a noble ancestor on behalf of all his descendants. Edith, you are not saying what you think."
"Perhaps not," answered Edith, with a quiet smile; "but let us have some lights, Walter, for I am well nigh in darkness."
The lights were brought, and Walter and his sister sat down to muse over books--I can hardly say to read--till their father reappeared; for the evening prayer and the parting kiss had never been omitted in their solitude ere they lay down to rest. The conference in the hall, however, was long, and more than an hour elapsed before the three gentlemen entered the room. Then a few minutes were passed in quiet conversation, and then, all standing round the table, Mr. Prevost raised his voice, saying: "Protect us, O Father Almighty, in the hours of darkness and unconsciousness. Give us thy blessing of sleep to refresh our minds and bodies; and if it be thy will, let us wake again to serve and praise thee through another day more perfectly than in the days past, for Christ's sake."
The Lord's Prayer succeeded, and then they separated to their rest.
Before daylight in the morning Sir William Johnson was on foot and in the stable. Some three or four negro slaves--for there were slaves then on all parts of the continent--lay sleeping soundly in a small sort of barrack hard by; and as soon as one of them could be roused, his horse was saddled, and he rode away without stopping to eat or say farewell. He bent his course direct toward the banks of the Mohawk, flowing at some twenty miles distance from the cottage of Mr. Prevost; and before he had been five minutes in the saddle was in the midst of the deep woods which surrounded the little well cultivated spot where the English wanderer had settled.
About a mile from the house a bright and beautiful stream crossed the road, flowing onward toward the greater river; but bridge there was none, and in the middle of the stream Sir William suffered his horse to stop and bend its head to drink. He gazed to the eastward, but all there was dark and gloomy under the thick overhanging branches. He turned his eyes to the westward, and they rested on a figure standing in the midst of the stream, with rod in hand, and his back turned toward him. He thought he saw another figure, too, amidst the trees upon the bank; but it was shadowy there, and the form seemed shadowy, too.
After gazing for a moment or two, he raised his voice and exclaimed: "Walter! Walter Prevost!"
The lad heard him, and laying his rod upon the bank, hastened along over the green turf to join him; but at the same moment the figure among the trees--if really figure it was--disappeared from sight.
"Thou art out early, Walter," said Sir William. "What do you at this hour?"