She could no longer doubt that the figure
she had seen on the hill was Birch, and she felt certain that, instead
of flying to the friendly forces below, her brother would be taken to
the mysterious hut to pass the night.
Frances and her aunt held a long and animated discussion by themselves,
when the good spinster reluctantly yielded to the representation of her
niece, and folding her in her arms, she kissed her cold cheek, and,
fervently blessing her, allowed her to depart on an errand of
fraternal love.
CHAPTER XXX
And here, forlorn and lost, I tread,
With fainting steps, and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go.
--GOLDSMITH.
The night had set in dark and chilling, as Frances Wharton, with a
beating heart but light step, moved through the little garden that lay
behind the farmhouse which had been her brother's prison, and took her
way to the foot of the mountain, where she had seen the figure of him
she supposed to be the peddler. It was still early, but the darkness and
the dreary nature of a November evening would, at any other moment, or
with less inducement to exertion, have driven her back in terror to the
circle she had left. Without pausing to reflect, however, she flew over
the ground with a rapidity that seemed to bid defiance to all
impediments, nor stopped even to breathe, until she had gone half the
distance to the rock that she had marked as the spot where Birch made
his appearance on that very morning.
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