One September night a family had gathered round theirhearth and piled it high with the driftwood of mountainstreams，the dry cones of the pine， and the splintered ruinsof great trees that had come crashing down the precipice.
Up the chimney roared the fire， and brightened the roomwith its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother hada sober gladness； the children laughed. The eldest daughterwas the image of Happiness at seventeen， and the agedgrandmother， who sat knitting in the warmest place， was theimage of Happiness grown old. They had found the “herbheart’s-ease” in the bleakest spot of all New England. Thisfamily were situated in the Notch of the White Hills， wherethe wind was sharp throughout the year and pitilessly coldin the winter， giving their cottage all its fresh inclemencybefore it descended on the valley of the Saco. They dweltin a cold spot and a dangerous one， for a mountain toweredabove their heads so steep that the stones would oftenrumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.
The daughter had just uttered some simple jest thatfilled them all with mirth， when the wind came throughthe Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage，rattling the door with a sound of wailing and lamentationbefore it passed into the valley. For a moment it saddenedthem， though there was nothing unusual in the tones. Butthe family were glad again when they perceived that thelatch was lifted by some traveller whose footsteps hadbeen unheard amid the dreary blast which heralded hisapproach and wailed as he was entering and went moaningaway from the door.
Though they dwelt in such a solitude， these peopleheld daily converse with the world. The romantic passof the Notch is a great artery through which the lifebloodof internal commerce is continually throbbingbetween Maine on one side and the Green Mountains andthe shores of the St. Lawrence on the other. The stagecoachalways drew up before the door of the cottage. Thewayfarer with no companion but his staff paused here toexchange a word， that the sense of loneliness might notutterly overcome him ere he could pass through the cleftof the mountain or reach the first house in the valley.
And here the teamster on his way to Portland marketwould put up for the night， and， if a bachelor， mightsit an hour beyond the usual bedtime and steal a kissfrom the mountain-maid at parting. It was one of thoseprimitive taverns where the traveller pays only for foodand lodging， but meets with a homely kindness beyond allprice. When the footsteps were heard， therefore， betweenthe outer door and the inner one， the whole family roseup， grandmother， children and all， as if about to welcomesome one who belonged to them， and whose fate waslinked with theirs.
The door was opened by a young man. His face at firstwore the melancholy expression， almost despondency，of one who travels a wild and bleak road at nightfall andalone， but soon brightened up when he saw the kindlywarmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring forwardto meet them all， from the old woman who wiped a chairwith her apron to the little child that held out its armsto him. One glance and smile placed the stranger on afooting of innocent familiarity with the eldest daughter.
“Ah！ this fire is the right thing，” cried he， “especiallywhen there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quitebenumbed， for the Notch is just like the pipe of a greatpair of bellows； it has blown a terrible blast in my face allthe way from Bartlett.”
“Then you are going toward Vermont？” said the masterof the house as he helped to take a light knapsack off theyoung man’s shoulders.
“Yes， to Burlington， and far enough beyond，” repliedhe. “I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford’s to-night，but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. It is nomatter； for when I saw this good fire and all your cheerfulfaces， I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me andwere waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down among you andmake myself at home.”
The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair tothe fire when something like a heavy footstep was heardwithout， rushing down the steep side of the mountainas with long and rapid strides， and taking such a leap inpassing the cottage as to strike the opposite precipice.
The family held their breath， because they knew thesound， and their guest held his by instinct.
“The old mountain has thrown a stone at us for fear weshould forget him，” said the landlord， recovering himself.
“He sometimes nods his head and threatens to comedown， but we are old neighbors， and agree together prettywell， upon the whole. Besides， we have a sure place ofrefuge hard by if he should be coming in good earnest.”
Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished hissupper of bear’s meat， and by his natural felicity of mannerto have placed himself on a footing of kindness withthe whole family； so that they talked as freely togetheras if he belonged to their mountain-brood. He was of aproud yet gentle spirit， haughty and reserved among therich and great， but ever ready to stoop his head to thelowly cottage door and be like a brother or a son at thepoor man’s fireside. In the household of the Notch hefound warmth and simplicity of feeling， the pervadingintelligence of New England， and a poetry of nativegrowth which they had gathered when they little thoughtof it from the mountain-peaks and chasms， and at thevery threshold of their romantic and dangerous abode.
