He had travelled far and alone； his whole life， indeed，had been a solitary path， for， with the lofty caution of hisnature， he had kept himself apart from those who mightotherwise have been his companions. The family， too，though so kind and hospitable， had that consciousnessof unity among themselves and separation from the worldat large which in every domestic circle should still keep aholy place where no stranger may intrude. But this eveninga prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and educatedyouth to pour out his heart before the simple mountaineers，and constrained them to answer him with the same freeconfidence. And thus it should have been. Is not thekindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of birth？
The secret of the young man’s character was a highand abstracted ambition. He could have borne to livean undistinguished life， but not to be forgotten in thegrave. Yearning desire had been transformed to hope，and hope， long cherished， had become like certainty that，obscurely as he journeyed now， a glory was to beam on allhis pathway， though not， perhaps， while he was treadingit. But when posterity should gaze back into the gloom ofwhat was now the present， they would trace the brightnessof his footsteps， brightening as meaner glories faded， andconfess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to histomb with none to recognize him.
“As yet，” cried the stranger， his cheek glowing and his eyeflashing with enthusiasm— “as yet I have done nothing.
Were I to vanish from the earth to-morrow， none wouldknow so much of me as you—that a nameless youth cameup at nightfall from the valley of the Saco， and opened hisheart to you in the evening， and passed through the Notchby sunrise， and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask，‘Who was he？ Whither did the wanderer go？’ But I cannotdie till I have achieved my destiny. Then let Death come： Ishall have built my monument.”
There was a continual flow of natural emotion gushingforth amid abstracted reverie which enabled the family tounderstand this young man’s sentiments， though so foreignfrom their own. With quick sensibility of the ludicrous， heblushed at the ardor into which he had been betrayed.
“You laugh at me，” said he， taking the eldest daughter’shand and laughing himself. “You think my ambition asnonsensical as if I were to freeze myself to death on thetop of Mount Washington only that people might spy atme from the country roundabout. And truly that would bea noble pedestal for a man’s statue.”
“It is better to sit here by this fire，” answered the girl，blushing， “and be comfortable and contented， thoughnobody thinks about us.”
“I suppose，” said her father， after a fit of musing， “thereis something natural in what the young man says； and ifmy mind had been turned that way， I might have felt justthe same. It is strange， wife， how his talk has set my headrunning on things that are pretty certain never to come topass.”
“Perhaps they may，” observed the wife. “Is the manthinking what he will do when he is a widower？”
“No， no！” cried he， repelling the idea with reproachfulkindness. “When I think of your death， Esther， I think ofmine too. But I was wishing we had a good farm in Bartlettor Bethlehem or Littleton， or some other townshipround the White Mountains， but not where they couldtumble on our heads. I should want to stand well with myneighbors and be called squire and sent to General Courtfor a term or two； for a plain， honest man may do as muchgood there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quitean old man， and you an old woman， so as not to be longapart， I might die happy enough in my bed， and leave youall crying around me. A slate gravestone would suit me aswell as a marble one—with just my name and age， and averse of a hymn， and something to let people know that Ilived an honest man and died a Christian.”
“There， now！” exclaimed the stranger； “it is our natureto desire a monument， be it slate or marble， or a pillar ofgranite， or a glorious memory in the universal heart ofman.”
“We’re in a strange way to-night，” said the wife， withtears in her eyes. “They say it’s a sign of something whenfolks’ minds go a-wandering so. Hark to the children！”
They listened accordingly. The younger children hadbeen put to bed in another room， but with an opendoor between； so that they could be heard talking busilyamong themselves. One and all seemed to have caughtthe infection from the fireside circle， and were outvyingeach other in wild wishes and childish projects of whatthey would do when they came to be men and women. Atlength a little boy， instead of addressing his brothers andsisters， called out to his mother.
“I’ll tell you what I wish， mother，” cried he， “I want youand father and grandma’m， and all of us， and the strangertoo， to start right away and go and take a drink out of thebasin of the Flume.”
Nobody could help laughing at the child’s notion ofleaving a warm bed and dragging them from a cheerful fireto visit the basin of the Flume—a brook which tumblesover the precipice deep within the Notch.
The boy had hardly spoken， when a wagon rattledalong the road and stopped a moment before the door. Itappeared to contain two or three men who were cheeringtheir hearts with the rough chorus of a song whichresounded in broken notes between the cliffs， while thesingers hesitated whether to continue their journey or putup here for the night.
“Father，” said the girl， “they are calling you by name.”
But the good man doubted whether they had reallycalled him， and was unwilling to show himself toosolicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his house.
He therefore did not hurry to the door， and， the lash beingsoon applied， the travellers plunged into the Notch， stillsinging and laughing， though their music and mirth cameback drearily from the heart of the mountain.
“There， mother！” cried the boy， again； “they’d have givenus a ride to the Flume.”