"That is not far hence," said the stranger. "I hope I may be in this part of the country—and I think I shall—I will on that eve pay you a visit; not one on which I shall be a burden to you, but one more useful to you, and more consonant to my character."
"The future will tell us all about that," said the ferryman; "at present we will see what we can do, without complaining, or taxing anybody."
The stranger and the ferryman sat conversing for some time before the fire, and then the latter pointed out to him which was his bed—one made up near the fire, for the sake of its warmth; and then the ferryman retired to the next room, a place which was merely divided by an imperfect partition.
However, they all fell soundly asleep. The hours on that day had been longer than usual; there was not that buoyancy of spirit; when they retired, they fell off into a heavy, deep slumber.
From this they were suddenly aroused by loud cries and piercing screams from one of the family.
So loud and shrill were the cries, that they all started up, terrified and bewildered beyond measure, unable to apply their faculties to any one object.
"Help—help, father!—help!" shrieked the voice of the young girl whom we have before noticed.
The ferryman jumped up, and rushed to the spot where his daughter lay.
"Fanny," he said—"Fanny, what ails thee—what ails thee? Tell me, my dear child."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, almost choked—"oh, father! are we all alone? I am terrified."