"What's become of him?" asked Philip.
"De Lord above alone knows where he be now—oh! oh! He was tuk right up to glory, wid his weddin' garment on. I see him sailin' off, but I couldn't help him. Laws! if missus isn't a goin' to faint dead over."
"Give her to me, and get something for her to eat and drink, if you can find it, Pallas. She's worn out."
"I've kep' up a fire in de kitchen, which is low, an' not much hurt. I'll spread a bed down dar and lay her down on de floor till I make some right strong tea. Lord be merciful to me a sinner! It's times as make ole Pallas's heart ache. Come 'long wid her, masser—I'll tro a mattress on de floor. Dar, lay her down, I'll hab de tea direckly. Sech sights as I see yesterday is 'nuff to unsettle anybody as sots dar heart on de tings ob dis worl'. When I heard my chile scream, I tought a knife went right tru me—I could n' run, nor do nuthin', I was jes' all weak and trimbling. Dar I stood, lookin' into de woods, wid eberybody out ob sight, when I hear de storm a comin'. First I tought it was de ribber broking loose; I looked round, but dat was jes' as peaceable as a lamb. Here, honey, set up, and drink yer tea. Den I tought de woods on fire, as dey was onct, when dey made sech a roar, but dey wan't. Den I looked up to see if de sky was fallin', which was de fust I saw ob de wind. It war a whirlin' and a roarin' like eber so many tousend, hundred mill-wheels. It look for all de worl' like a big funnel wid water pourin' tru. I was so scart, I run back to de house, hollerin' for my ole man, who was settin' on de fence, lookin' t'odder way. But he didn' hear me. It went right past, holdin' me up agin de wall as ef I war nailed. I seen de air all full ob ebery ting, chickens and pigs and boards and trees, and it tuk my ole man right up off dat fence an' carried him up to de nex' worl'. I see him, wid my own eyes, ridin' off in de chariot ob de wind, way over de woods, way off, off, out ob sight. Oh, missus, when I see him goin' so, I mos' wish I was 'long. I know Saturn was a foolish nigger, and a mighty sleepy-headed. He was n' no use to me much—he was a great cross; but dar neber was a better-hearted husband. He min' me like a chile. And he was so fond of presarbed plums, and such a hand to help 'bout de kitchen—'pears to me I hain't no heart. But laws, what bus'ness I to speak my troubles, and you neber to know where your own fadder is. If masser don't come back, I'll jes' lay down an' die. Poor ole nigger no more use. Dar's Saturn tuk away in de clouds wid his bes' raiment on, as de Bible commands; and neber one moufful ob de weddin' feas' which is standin' on de table, and de rain leaking down upon it—oh! hi! hi!"
"Poor Pallas, I'm sorry for you. But, Philip, I must go—I feel stronger now."
"No, no, my own darling Alice, you are not fit for further exertion. Remain here in the hands of your nurse. Pallas, I leave my wife to your care. She is in a fever now. Change her clothing and give her hot drinks. I must be off. Keep up heart, dearest, till I get back."
He had hastily disposed of a cup of tea and a few mouthful of food, kissed his bride, and was hurrying from the house, to go again into the woods for tidings, when a tumult outside drew all three to the door. Every one of the missing party, except poor old Saturn, whose own case was hopeless, and the raftsman himself, were coming up in a group. Virginia and Mrs. Raymond had encountered them in their search for the clearing, and had led them out of the woods. Mr. Raymond and the clergyman had been together overtaken by the tempest; but it was not so severe where they were, as in that part of the forest reached by Mr. Wilde and Philip. Trees had fallen before and around them, but they had escaped unharmed. Night coming on, and the rain and changed character of the scene bewildering them, they had not been able to make their way out of the woods; and of course had suffered from anxiety, in common with their friends. Their astonishment and joy at beholding the bride and groom in safety were only held in check by the uncertainty which hung about the fate of their host. Not one would enter the house, until that fate was known; taking from Pallas the cakes and cold meat she brought them, they hastened away—all but Alice, who was really too ill from exposure and surpense, to make any further effort.
"Yes, you rest yourself, and try to be composed, honey. Ef your dear, good father is really taken away, you hab much to be thankful for, that yer not left unpertected in this bleak worl'. You've a husband dat loves you as his heart's blood—and yer father himself will smile in de heaben above, to tink how glad he is, all was made right, and you with some one to care for you, 'fore he was tooken away. Dar', dar', don't hurt yourself a sobbin' so. I cried all night, and now dese poor ole eyes hab no more tears lef'. When I tought I was lef' all alone—no masser, no missus, no husband—my heart was like a cold stone. I feel better now. Ef masser war here, I could almost rejoice, spite of my 'flictions. I mus' bustle round and get suthin' ready for all dese tired, hungry people to eat, and get dem bed-clo'es dried where de rain beet in. De table sot, jus' as it wos, when I was out here goin' fer to put de coffee on, and herd you scream. My poor ole man. He's gone up, sure, for I saw him go. Saturn 'll neber eat no more woodchuck pie in dis life—hi! hi! Now, now, pickaninny, guess whose comin', and who they're a-bringin'. You needn't jump out of yer skin, chile, if it is yer own father—hurt, too, I'm afraid, by the way he looks."
Alice sprang to the door. Philip was lending her father the aid of his strong young arm. Mr. Wilde walked with difficulty, and his arm hung down in a helpless manner.