Hidden Hand. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

sir, how can I help her? I am not a physician to prescribe——"

      "She is far past a physician's help."

      "Nor am I a priest to hear her confession——"

      "Her confession God has already received."

      "Well, and I'm not a lawyer to draw up her will."

      "No, sir; but you are recently appointed one of the justices of the peace for Alleghany."

      "Yes. Well, what of that? That does not comprise the duty of getting up out of my warm bed and going through a snow-storm to see an old woman expire."

      "I regret to inconvenience you, sir; but in this instance your duty demands your attendance at the bedside of this dying woman——"

      "I tell you I can't go, and I won't! Anything in reason I'll do. Anything I can send she shall have. Here, Wool, look in my breeches pocket and take out my purse and hand it. And then go and wake up Mrs. Condiment, and ask her to fill a large basket full of everything a poor old dying woman might want, and you shall carry it."

      "Spare your pains, sir. The poor woman is already past all earthly, selfish wants. She only asks your presence at her dying bed."

      "But I can't go! I! The idea of turning out of my warm bed and exposing myself to a snow-storm this time of night!"

      "Excuse me for insisting, sir; but this is an official duty," said the parson mildly but firmly.

      "I'll—I'll throw up my commission to-morrow," growled the old man.

      "To-morrow you may do that; but meanwhile, to-night, being still in the commission of the peace, you are bound to get up and go with me to this woman's bedside."

      "And what the demon is wanted of me there?"

      "To receive her dying deposition."

      "To receive a dying deposition! Good Heaven! was she murdered, then?" exclaimed the old man in alarm, as he started out of bed and began to draw on his nether garments.

      "Be composed; she was not murdered," said the pastor.

      "Well, then, what is it? Dying deposition! It must concern a crime," exclaimed the old man, hastily drawing on his coat.

      "It does concern a crime."

      "What crime, for the love of Heaven?"

      "I am not at liberty to tell you. She will do that."

      "Wool, go down and rouse up Jehu, and tell him to put Parson Goodwin's mule in the stable for the night. And tell him to put the black draught horses to the close carriage, and light both of the front lanterns—for we shall have a dark, stormy road——Shut the door, you infernal——I beg your pardon, parson, but that villain always leaves the door ajar after him."

      The good pastor bowed gravely, and the major completed his toilet by the time the servant returned and reported the carriage ready.

      It was dark as pitch when they emerged from the hall door out into the front portico, before which nothing could be seen but two red bull's-eyes of the carriage lanterns, and nothing heard but the dissatisfied whinnying and pawing of the horses.

CHAPTER II.

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THE MASKS.

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      "What are these,

       So withered and so wild in their attire

       That look not like th' inhabitants of earth

       And yet are on't?"

      —Macbeth.

      "To the Devil's Punch Bowl," was the order given by Old Hurricane as he followed the minister into the carriage. "And now, sir," he continued, addressing his companion, "I think you had better repeat that part of the church litany that prays to be delivered from 'battle, murder and sudden death,' for if we should be so lucky as to escape Black Donald and his gang, we shall have at least an equal chance of being upset in the darkness of these dreadful mountains."

      "A pair of saddle mules would have been a safer conveyance, certainly," said the minister.

      Old Hurricane knew that, but, though a great sensualist, he was a brave man, and so he had rather risk his life in a close carriage than suffer cold upon a sure-footed mule's back.

      Only by previous knowledge of the route could any one have told the way the carriage went. Old Hurricane and the minister both knew that they drove, lumbering, over the rough road leading by serpentine windings down that rugged fall of ground to the river's bank, and that then, turning to the left by a short bend, they passed in behind that range of horseshoe rocks that sheltered Hurricane Hall—thus, as it were doubling their own road. Beneath that range of rocks, and between it and another range, there was an awful abyss or chasm of cleft, torn and jagged rocks opening, as it were, from the bowels of the earth, in the shape of a mammoth bowl, in the bottom of which, almost invisible from its great depth, seethed and boiled a mass of dark water of what seemed to be a lost river or a subterranean spring. This terrific phenomenon was called the Devil's Punch Bowl.

      Not far from the brink of this awful abyss, and close behind the horseshoe range of rocks, stood a humble log-cabin, occupied by an old free negress, who picked up a scanty living by telling fortunes and showing the way to the Punch Bowl. Her cabin went by the name of the Witch's Hut, or Old Hat's Cabin. A short distance from Hat's cabin the road became impassable, and the travelers got out, and, preceded by the coachman bearing the lantern, struggled along on foot through the drifted snow and against the buffeting wind and sleet to where a faint light guided them to the house.

      The pastor knocked. The door was immediately opened by a negro, whose sex from the strange anomalous costume it was difficult to guess. The tall form was rigged out first in a long, red, cloth petticoat, above which was buttoned a blue cloth surtout. A man's old black beaver hat sat upon the strange head and completed this odd attire.

      "Well, Hat, how is your patient?" inquired the pastor, as he entered preceding the magistrate.

      "You will see, sir," replied the old woman.

      The two visitors looked around the dimly-lighted, miserable room, in one corner of which stood a low bed, upon which lay extended the form of an old, feeble and gray-haired woman.

      "How are you, my poor soul, and what can I do for you now I am here?" inquired Old Hurricane, who in the actual presence of suffering was not utterly without pity.

      "You are a magistrate?" inquired the dying woman.

      "Yes, my poor soul."

      "And qualified to administer an oath and take your deposition," said the minister.

      "Will it be legal—will it be evidence in a court of law?" asked the woman, lifting her dim eyes to the major.

      "Certainly, my poor soul—certainly," said the latter, who, by the way, would have said anything to soothe her.

      "Send every one but yourself from the room."

      "What, my good soul, send the parson out in the storm? That will never do! Won't it be just as well to let him go up in the corner yonder?"

      "No! You will repent it unless this communication is strictly private."

      "But, my good soul, if it is to be used in a court of law?"

      "That will be according to your own discretion!"

      "My dear parson," said Old Hurricane, going to the minister, "would you be so good as to retire?"

      "There is a fire in the woodshed, master," said Hat, leading the