Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 9, 1897, Page 6

‘mot seen for twelve months, 3 3 CONDEMNED CHAPTER XLIX.—(Continued.) “Madam, will you please to look orce more at that card and read the name aloud?” “Welby Dunbar,” said the lady, look- ing up inquiringly. “Is there nothing familiar in the sound of that name?’ asked Welby, impressively. “Nothing whatever.’ Have you no vague recollection of heard it before, under ‘some- ngular and interesting circum- on stances th eworld,” your recollec- back to that winter's d. when I, a poor, forlorn, orphan boy, was dragged iuto your splendid drawing room by the three gentileraen who captured me in Canal st ay “Dear m tion back “Fulke, yes! I have much reason to | remember that boyish freak of yours! It gave me more anguish than almost any event of my life! But I, Fulke, have never once reproached you with it! Te bave done so, indeed, would have been ungenerous, since all your subsequent conduct has been perfectly irreproachable! So good, so affection- ate, so solicitous to please me have my love, that, wher be- away loved you in y, as the son since then, my dear, I have loved you from the bottom of my heart, and for your own personal me ed “Oh, that you may ¢ gard me for m, lady! for that venture to make upon you “But, my dear Fulke, why have you recalled that long-past circumstance to my mind?” “Madam; dear, Mrs. Greville; my more than mother! try to recall in de- tail the events of that night; recollect the account given you of my capture by the gentlemen who arrested me. Recollect that they told you that they found me crying oysters in Canal street; that I resisted their attempts to capture me with all my boyish strength! That I persisted in as- serting myself to be an emigrant from England, a fish boy, in the service of old Carnes of Water street, my name Welby Dunbar!” “I remember that; but what of it? And what freak has made you use that false name again?’ “Lady, aid the young man, contin- uing ,without immediately a her question, “remember, when these gentlemen retired me alone with you, I still pe asserting that I was not your still re: ed the splendid destiny that was forced upon me, but to which L had conceived I had no right!” + “I know that you did, Fulke; but why you did it, I cannot imagine, un- le it was because your poor father left nothing, and I, who ned to en- rich you for his sake, was only your step-motirer!” “No, madam, it was not that,” said the young man, sorrowfully it was not that; it was because, in sad truth, {i was uot w you claimed me to be i was not your step-son; my name was not Fulke Greville; I was, indeed, what I declared myself to be—a new: ly-arrived emigrant from England; a h boy, in the service of old Carnes of Water street; and my name was Welby Dunbar! I had no means of proving my identity; the ship by, which I came had sailed again! my emigrant companions. had dispersed in every direction. Old Carnes could tes- tify only to the fact that upon a cer- tain day I had come to him for em- ‘ployment. That proved nothing, as any runaway schoolboy might have done that for a fre: So I had no means of proving my identity! All my unsupported words were disregarded. I bore so striking a resemblance to your missing step-son, whom you had as to seem his counterpart, or himself. 1 was a minor, in the power of those who believed and asserted the.nselves to be my legal guardians! And thus, in spite of all my protestations, I was torn from my humble sphere, and the condition of a gentleman forced upon me—upon me, a poor, forlorn and nameless orphan. I say nameless, lady, for of my own origin I know nothing, not even that my parents bore the name that was given to me! But oh! lady, do you imagine that, even while protesting against the greatness thrust upon me, the poor fish boy was not much tempted to be silent, and ‘to take the goods the gods provided? He was! His one dream—poor outcast as he had been—was to rise to the condi- tion of a gentleman by his own exer- tions! For that he came to this land of freedom and equality. For that he would have toiled long years. And when, unexpectedly, the opportunity of springing at once into that rank was forced upon him, do you not think he was sorely tempted to embrace it?) He was, Mrs. Greville; he was! But the boy, poor in everything else, was rich in the possession of a pure conscience; that conscience would not permit him to accept a tempting position to which he had no right! He protested against taking it; and even when he knew ‘that his protestations were all in yain, he warned you, when you should find out your mistake, not to brand him as an imposter! And he resolved that, -during his minority, he would obey his self-styled mother and self-constituted guardians; do all he could to prove himself grateful for their bounty; and to make the best use of his opportuni- ties for improvement; and that, as ~soon as he should attain his majority, and be free to act for himself, he would, at any” sacrifice of personal feeling or pecuniary prospects, aband- on a position to which he had no just right. Lady, I appeal to yourself to judge whether the first section of these resolutions has not been kept? For the rest, I have to inform you, ‘that, immediately upon reaching my major- ity, I re-assumed my boyhood’s name. I went to Paris to seek you, with the intention of making the reyelation that I have made this day. But you were i been a drunkafd or a_ felon! --TO-- - WEALTH. >) zy then far on your journey to the East. My communication was not ‘such an one as could properly be made by let- ter, or trusted to the uncertainty of the Eastern mails. Thus I was unwill- ingly compelled to defer it to this long- wished for personal interview. This, madam, is the explanation I had to make to you. Lad. in all the years of our intimate friendship, you have never known me to vary in the least degree from truth. The statement that I made you when a boy, I repeat to you now that lamaman. Do you be- lieve me?” ‘ Mrs. Greville had listened in perfect silence to this explanation, and as, gradually, the conviction of its truth forced itself upon her mind, she grew paler and paler, until at last, at its clese, she sank back in her chair, upon the very verge of swooning. Her lips were mute, her eyes closed, her face as white as death. On seeing her condition, Welby’s | feelings entirely overcame him. Throw- | ing himself at her feet, he seized and covered her hands with kisses, ex- claiming, in a broken voice: “Lady! Mrs. Greville! oh, my more than mother! look at me! speak to me! I was no willing imposter!” “Oh! my son! my son! my lost son!” led the lady, in a yoice so broken by anguish as to be almost inaudible. “He is not lost, dear lady he is not lost! Whatever becomes of the poor fellow at your feet, your son is safe! he is found! And, if my resolution to | make the disclosure I have made had required a spur, it would have gained it from the moment that I had certain intelligence of the real Fulke Gre- ville’s’ existence! Lady, listen, and be happy! When he ran away from school he cast himself upon the protec- tion of his uncle, Captain Wi}liam Ful- joy—of Fuljoy’s Isle—an old retired sea captain, ing on a remote island upon the coast of Maryland. But I be- lieve you know who Captain Fuljoy wa Well, the captain brought him up as his son; sent him to the Univer- sity of Virginia, and afterwards to West Point, and finally procured him a commission in the regular army. He now holds the rank of colonel, and though under a temporary cloud, he is universally esteemed as a gentleman of high moral and intellectual excel- lence. Oh, lady! look up!and while you rejoice in the recovery of your rightful step-son, speak a word of for- giveness—a word of kindness to the poor fellow who has so long and so un- willingly held his rank in society and his place in your ffections!” “And do you faney it is of him I thirk? of him, the froward, the per- verse, the stiff-necked boy who fled from my charge and has held himself aloof from my knowledge all these many years? No, no, no—I thought not of him, but of you—of you, my good! my loving! my true-hearted one! And to think that, after all, you are not my son!” exclaimed the lady, throwing her arms around Well dropping her head upon his shoulder, and bursting into a passion of tears. Neither spoke for a time; but at length the lady lifted her head, and, laying both her hands upon the shoul- ders of Welby, gazed sadly in his face, as she said: “Oh! I might have known that you were not Fulke Greville. Bearing his perfect form and features as you do, yet your mind is so much higher, and heart so much tenderer, and your s © much more refined than ever his were! O, my dear boy! it is scarce-- ly half an hour since I told you that, before Fulke Greville ran away from school, I had cherished him from a sense of duty, and as my late hus- band’s son; but that since you came back you had so changed that I grew to love you for your own personal mer- its! Ah, Welby! little did I think that the boy who ran away and the boy who was brought back, so exact in per- sonal appearance, so different in char- acter, were different in identity, too! Aud to think that you, so good, so true, | ville? so loving, are not my son! Oh, what shall I do! Oh, sorrow! sorrow!” cried Mrs. Greville, bursting anew into tears. “Lady, dear lady! my mother, my saviour, almost my creator, listen to me. You have been a mother to me; you have saved me from utter indi- gence; you have made me what I am! But for you, I might still have been an oyster-carrier; or, worse than that, in the despair of uncultivated talent and unsatisfied ambition, I might have You saved me from all that! You rescued me almost from the gutter! You gave me a home and a mother! You gave me an education and a profession! You have made me a man! And now, oh, lady, let me ask you—is not the boy that you have thus ‘loved, thus reared and thus established, as near to you, by all that you have done for him, us any step-son could be?’ “Yes, yes, my own dear boy, yes; but still I wish you were my son—I wish you bore my name! It is hard, it is distressing, to find’ that you are not what for so many years I held you to be!” “Mrs. Greville! dear Mrs. Greville! I hore you do not hold me to have been a willing imposter during all these,| years?’ inquired Welby, sadly. “Imposter! No, my dear! How should you have been? You protested against the position in which we placed you, until you were silenced by authority. You resisted until you were con juered by irresistible foree. What, then, could you do but what you have done?— wait for your legal majority, when yeu should be free to act for yourself? My boy, you have acted well throughout, and with a rare wisdom indeed in one so young! And, as for my part, I can- not regret the mistake we made, since it rescued an excellent lad from the perils of poverty and rendered me hap- py for ever so many years! You see, my dear, that the effect of the shock your communication gaye me is al- ; ready passing away! I shall get en- tirely over it presently!” Welby kissed her hands in silence. ° “And now let me tell you, Welby! dear Welby! that though I very much regret that your name is not Greville, yet I cannot let you go! To cease to love you, to cease to take pride in you, to cease to look forward with ambi- tion to your professional eareer, would be to cease to have a future of my own! To cast you off would be death! Therefore, dear boy, take what name! you will, but rest in my house, my! only son, and best-beloved!” “Lady! dearest lady——’ “Mother, Welby—I am _ stilt your mother.” “Mother, then—angel mother, your magnanimity overpowers me! Noth- ing—no, nothing—not my whole life’s devotion can ever repay you!” said the young man, in a voice choked with emotion. “Do you not know that the delight I take in you repays me? It is some- thing, my dear, to have a son like you!” : “Mother, dear mother, there is an- other, however, who has a son’s claim: upon you! I must not supplant him!’ “You allude to Colonel Fulke Gre- For the future I can only re- gard that gentleman as the son of my late husband! Upon me, or my prop- erty, he has no legal claim whatever; his father left no property. It is true that I promised him, on his death-bed, to provide for Fulke as if he were my own son. And I should have kept my promise; but since he withdrew him- | self from my protection, and threw | himself upon that of his uncle; and | since he has remained silent for such | a great number of years, there can be but little regard for me on his part! Nevertheless, when he marries and set- tles, I will offer him that portion of | property which my affection for his | father first prompted me to set aside | to accumulate for him. But I have much mistaken the haughty spirit of | Fulke Greville, if he accepts it.” Here Welby felt inclined to relate the story of Colonel Greville’s mar-'! riage, with all its singular cireum- stances; but rightly judging that the | lady had heard exciting news enough for one day, he resolved to defer that | | | second communication to another ead casion, “And now,” said Mrs. Greville, “there | is another who must be informed of this change of name—Lois!” At the mention of her, the blood rushed in torrents to his face, and then | receding, left them pale as marble, | while his whole frame shook with | emotion. | “Why are you so agitated, my dear? Believe me, Lois will not be so much | shocked as I was! The young receive | new impressions with much more ease | than the middle-aged.” “Lois! Lois! oh, madam! how will this revelation affect my relations with | Lois?” “Not at all, I imagine! not Fulke Greville, you are still my son! “And, what is more, you are still | yourself! And that, my Welby, is, after all, the best praise I can bestow upon you! And if you have not inher- ited the old-time-honored name of Fulke Greville, yet you will do better than that—you will make your own il- lustrious! Yes, my dear Welby, I am } not young; yet I hope to live to see you an eminent lawyer and statesman yet!” said the lady, cheerfully. “Oh! heaven grant that I may ful- fill your expectations, mother! But Lois! how shall I tell Lois, that for so many years I have borne a false name and held a false position!” “You need not tell her yourself! You have had pain enough, extreme pain, indeed, in making the communication to me. Leave me to inform Lois! I expect her in every moment. So now retire to your hotel, my son, and order your baggage sent here immediately. I will have your room prepared for your reception. Come home in time to dine with us at 8, and then you will see at a glance, by the reception that ; Lois will give you, what effect my communication has had upon her, for, in the interim, it will have to be made!” Welby arose and took the lady’s kind hand, and pressed it fervently to his lips; but she drew him to her bosom in a warm embrace and kissed him fondly. And so Welby entered the house he had entered two hours before with so many dreadful misgivings—left it hap- pier than he had ever been in the whole course of his life!—for, as the reader knows, before he had ever seen Mrs. Greville, bis boyhood had been mace miserable by poverty; and since he had been taken by that lady, his youth had been darkened by a sense of his false position, and burdened with the secret that he knew must be told, yet dreaded to tell. Thus Welby had never known true happiness until now! now the terrible secret was off his breast! now the dreaded revelation had been made, and had not ruined him! had, on the contrary, only con- firmed his position, Which was no lon- ger a false one! He walked to his hotel as though he trod on air! When he reached it, he sent his luggage at once to Madison Square, Then he wrote a letter to Madame de Glacie, telling her of the steps he had already taken toward the discovery of Astrea. When he had despatched this letter, it was full time for him to keep his appointment at Madison Square. He went thither immediately. He was shown into the drawing room, where Mrs. Greville and Miss Howard wait- ed to receive him. Lois looked beautiful in her evening dress of rose-colored glace silk, trim- med with fine lace, and her blooming face shaded with her sunny, auburn ringlets. As soon as Welby entered she arose and advanced to meet him, holding out her hand, and saying, in her frank and cordial manner: “T am very glad to see you, my dear Welby! Heaven bless you, Welby, but did you really fancy that your mere change of name would effect a change in my regard? Why, I think Welby Dunbar quite as pretty a name as Fulke Greville!” He pressed the hand she gave him, and led her back to her seat, where they were immediately joined by Mrs. Greville. He was too deeply moved to trust himself as yet to speak. But, happily, for the relief of all par- ties, dinner was served. After so long a separation, this was a joyful re- union. All were happy; but Welby was the happiest of the party. The evening passed pleasantly in music and conversation. Mrs. Greville and Lois told thrilling incidents and amus- for, though |. terrible her suspense must be! ing anecdotes of-their Eastern travels, and Welby gave an interesting ac- count of his experiences in the law courts of Europe. x Unwilling to separate, they sat up until a very late heur, and even then said “good-night” with reluctance. In the course of the next few days, Mrs. Greville took care to present Mr. Dunbar to her circle of fashionable ac- quaintances; her new circle; for twelve years had made such a thor- ough change in the ever-shifting scenes of New York, that, upon her return from Europe she found scarcely one of her old set remaining—certainly none that had any distinct remem- branee of the lad Welby Dunbar un- der the name of Fulke Greville. A handsome oifice, in an eligible situ- ation, was taken by Mr. Dunbar, and he was soon after admitted to practice at the New York bar. But, alas! briefs were slow to come in to the handsome and talented young lawyer. “It is because they do not know Your power, my dear Welby! How should they, indeed? But do you take up the cause of the indigent widows and orphans—there is always plenty of them, with real or imaginary wrongs to be redressed; volunteer to act for the poor who cannot pay for counsel, and do it with as much zeal as if you had thousands for a retaining fee! And that course will, at least, make you known. And if you do not at first get money, you will get fame! And, after that, wealthy clients will flow in upon you faster than you can receive’ them. I really think poor clients were invented for the especial benefit of young lawyer, as poor patients were for the young doctors. They can’t pay, but they make the skill of their bene- factors known, and so help them to more - profitable practice,” said Mrs. Greville, one morning, to her soa. Weiby felt that the advice was good, and resolved to follow it. But he knew at the same time, that to gain a lucra- ive business must be the work of years. One evening, when he had been at home about a fortnight, he found him- self at home with Mrs. Greville and Lois, in their pleasant parlor, with no prospect of being interrupted, and seized the opportunity of telling them | the strange story of Colonel Greville and Astrea, in all of its details, as far as they were known to himself. Of course, the recital filled his hear- ers with wonder and compassion. “That poor, bereaved mother, how So she was the client whose impatience hur- ried you off to Washington before you could even call upon us, whom you had not seen for three years? Poor lady! I shall write to her a sympathizing let- ter, and beg her to come on and re- main with us while these investiga- tions proceed,” said Mrs. Greville. And, as she was a prompt woman, she wrote at once, and despatched her letter in time to catch the evening mail. In four days Madame de Glacie’s an- swer came back, written in a beautiful Italian hand, and filled with the fer- vent gratitude of a warm Italian heart. But she declined the invita- tion, upon the ground that she could not leave her aged friend, Captain Ful- joy, or her imprisoned son-in-law, Col- onel Greville, both so much offlicted and so much in need of comfort. “Perhaps she is right; she is happier with them,” said Mrs. Greville; and the subject was dismissed. The marriage of Welby Dunbar and Lois Howard was arranged to take place on the first of the coming month. The ceremony was to be per- formed at 10 o’clock in the morning, at Grace church. The young couple were to return to a sumptuous wedding breakfast, and immediately afterwards set out for a bridal tour to Niagara and the Thousand Isles. They were then to return and take up their per- manent residence with Mrs. Greville. For so that excellent but despotic lady would Wave it. And the young people liked the plan. Lois was deeply at- tached to the mother from whom she had never been separated for a day, with the exception of the one sad, homesick year at school. And as for Welby, it would have been difficult for him to have told which he loved with the most enthusiasm—his stately and noble mother, or his lovely bride-elect. In sober truth, he adored the one and worshipped the other. The most splendid preparations ,vere made for the approaching marriage. The first milliners, dressmakers and jewelers of the city were engaged on the bride’s truosseau. Congratulations poured in upon the family. Lois and Welby sat together in the elegant little reception parlor. Upon a round table, covered with a velvet cloth, in the center of the room, were arranged the beautiful bridal presents —magnificent sets of jewels, vases, statuettes, books, a writing desk of pa- per-mache, a work-box of nialachite, a dressing-case of rosewood with silver fittings, ete., ete. Mcre presents were continually ar- riving. Lois had rsen, and was showing Wel- by a card case of virgin gold that pleased her fancy, when, suddenly, the door opened, and Mrs. Greville, pale as death, shaking as with an ague-fit, and holding in her hand an open letter, rushed into the room. “Lois! Welby! Your marriage can- not go forward!” she cried, and totter- ing toward the nearest sofa, sank into a deep swoon! CHAPTER L. We left Ettie Burns weeping over the grave of her grandfather—her only friend! But little time was given Et- tie to weep,. The hard hand of neces- sity, with its very rough pocket hand- kerchief, wiped her eyes. Old Captain Fuljoy, in the. midst of his own .bitter griefs, lost no time in discharging the trust left him by his deceased friend. : He had persorally directed the fu- neral, and from the grave he would have led Ettie to his own house. But the weeping girl begged that she might be permitted to return to her old home and remain there until the last moment, before departing for the dis- tant abode of her grandmother. The farm and farmhouse were to be rent- ed out, and the rents to be devoted to Ettie’s support, or left to accumulate for her benefit, as her, grandmother should prove to be able or willing to keep her or otherwise. The stock and furniture were to be sold at once, or as ‘and never look behind you!” said the soon as possible, to pay the funeral ex- ! penses of the Major, to give Eftie and ler attendant a respectable mourning outfit, and to defray their expenses to their future home. But, as this would probably be a work of time, the good old captain, with his aecustomed liberality, ad- vanced all the money necessary for ; these purposes, ; Thus, then, it was, on a lovely sum- ! mer morning, that Ettie Burns, Miss | T'inchett and Captain Fuljoy stoed on | the rustic porch of the old farmlvouse, watching up the creek for the distant | appearance of the “Busy Bee,” whieh was that morning expected om her re- tern trip from Creekhead, and by which Ettie and Miss Pinchett were to | take their passage to Baltimore. On | the summit of the hill in front of the house waved a little red flag,.as a sig- nal for the boat to stop and send a skiff ashore there for passengers. Poor little Ettie loved her home as a kitten does. That morning she had visited and taken leave of every room in the house, every barn, corn-house and woodshed on the farm. She had fed the poultry for the last time; she , had stroked the cows; and hugged the sheep, and patted the pigs on the head | and cried over the horses. And she had fondled her dog and cat, and com- mitted them to the tender care of Cap- tain Fuljoy, who promised to take them all with him to the isle, and love them for Ettie’s sake. And, to prove it, the old man held in his arms the tortoise-sheli cat, which he continual- y ressed, and the little lap-dog, ich lay sleeping with its head upon shoulder, Ettie’s large, dark eyes were red with weeping at leaving her beloved old heme, and yet sparkling with de- light at the thought of the strange, new world into which she was going. “Here comes the steamer! Courage, my little girl! You are about to enter upen the great world!” cried the cap- tain, as he levelled his glass far up the ereek, where, through the thin, ! golden morning mist, the white smoke ! of the steamer was seen. And soon ! the sound of her paddle wheels. was | heard, and soon after she came in; sight—a beautiful object, as she sped } onward over the broad, bright waters, shining in the morning sun between the green-wooded shores. She saw the signal, for she turned her course so as to come down on this side between Fuljoy’s Isle and Burnstop. “Now, my brave girl, come along, captain, as he transferred both cat and dog to one arm, and gave the other to Ettie to lead her down the hill. Ettie’s full, crimson lips trembled and her large, dark eyes filled with tears. “Good-by, old home! good-by, dear old home!” she cried, as she took the captain’s offered arm. They rapidly descended the hill, and came down to the water’s edge. Their luggage was already on the beach, in charge of the captain’s servant, Stepney. The steamer had stopped just eppo- site the spot where they stood, and sent out a beat that was y rapidly proaching the shore. Every stroke of the oars that brought her nearer seemed to fall heavily upon Ettie’s heart. As it grated upon the sand, on reaching the beach, Ettie threw her- self, sobbing, into the arms of the old captain. “Here! hold the dog and cat, Step- ney!” said the old sailor, transferring the pets to his man, while he drew Ettie into his embrace, kissed her and solemnly blessed her. ing his hat from his venerable, white head, and placing his hand upon hers, he said: “May the Father of the fatherless watch over you, my beloved child! May He preserve you from all the temptations, sins and perils that beset your youth, sex and orphanage! May He lead you through a righteous, use- ful and happy life to a good old age, a peaceful death and 4 blessed immortal- ity, for the Saviour’s sake! Amen!” Then he put on his hat, lifted her as though she had been an infant, and placed her in the boat. Ettie was sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘The captain then courteously assisted Miss Pinchett into the boat, seated her comfortably, shook hands with her and stepped back upon the sands. ‘he rowers took their oars, and were about to push the boat off, when Ettie looked up from the handkerchief into which she had been sobbing, and said: “My little dog and cat! TF haven't said good-by to the poor things yet!” But even when she spoke, the cap- tain was bringing them to her. “Take them, Ettie! take them with you, dear child!” he said, placing them in her lap. “But, oh, may el? Will the people on the boats and in the cars let me take my little dog and cat?” said Mttie, eagerly, smiling through her tears. “Yes, my dear! they are so small and gentle. They will not annoy any one. If any one objects, tell them that you are a poor fatherless and mother- less girl, going among strange rela- tives, and that your two little friends are all that is left of your home. My word for it, no one will wish to de- prive you of them. Have faith in the good feelings of your fellow beings, Ettie! Once more good-by, my child!” said the captain, stooping and pressing a kiss upon her forehead, and then turning hastily away and striding to the shore, to conceal the tears that rushed to his eyes. The boat put off. Ettie clasped her pets to her bosom, and sat watching the hill, the house and the captain un- til the steamer was reached. Then, in the bustle of getting on board, of course, she lost sight of them. But as soon as she reached the upper deck, she turned her face to them again. There they were: the old wooded hill—the house, with its rustic porch, peeping out from between the trees—and the good old captain stand- ing on the beach waving his handker- chief. : Through many blinding tears Ettie watched them, and waved her own. The boat started gaily down the creek, but Ettie’s face was still turned to the home and friend of her child- hood. She watched them with a loy- ing constancy, until the hill, the house and the old man, dropped behind, re- ceded far, and faded in the distance. “Oh, Father in Heayen, grant that 1 may come back to them all again!” prayed Ettie, bursting into a passion of tears and sobs. Miss Pinchett sat in silence by her side, holding the cat in her lap. And thus they passed down the beautiful creek, and reached the little seaport town of Cornport, at its mouth. Here the Busy Bee re- mained some twenty minutes, to take in the mail, some freight and a few : place! ssengers. All ied in grief, < She had often been to Cornport, so the little place had nothing new to at- tract her. But Cornport had bee ase utmost limit of her travels. She’ never been farther front home t that. To her experience, ‘that was te end of ‘the werld, the jumping Still, she was familiar with it, and there was nothing at its crowded and busy little wharf to win her for one moment from her sorrow; so she sat with her arms around her little dog and her weeping faee hidden wpom his eurly white hair. The truest sympathy is silent. and, therefore, Miss Pinchett sat besideghe young mrourner, without, just he. making any attempt to stay her t fe She thought, and justly thought. it s better that Ettie should have her out. Such gusts of tears and sobs refresh a young mourner’s heart, as ! thunder storms do the face of nature. At length the boat started and left Cornport, with its: busy little traffic far behind. 3 Then Miss Pinehett thought it time to speak. “Look, Ettie; my Tove,” she said, “we out in the bay now! Yew have er seen the bay before.” ” ‘ttie looked up with her dilated and tearful eyes. She was too much of & scene. She looked a nd. Water! water! ev yhere—roling: eut in vast liquid, heaving fields, to the utmost verge of the herizon. “How grar said Ettie; wiping her smiling, like a sunburst af- And, fascinated by the at. sending her gaze out to the distant line of light where the water met the sky. But presently she happened to, turn her head and see the dark-blue line of the Maryland shore behind her, and her mood changed, she threw herself in Miss Pinchett’s arms, and burst into a fresh gust of tears and sobs, ex- claiming, between them: “Oh, my dear old home! Oh, my dear good friends! Oh, my dear old Maryland! Shall I ever, ever, ever ou all again? Yes, dear; you shall see them often and often again, please the Lord!” said the old lady, gently ¢ sing he “But oh! look, Miss Pinchett!* she <elaimed, pointing to the receding shores. “It is going, going, going, dropping behind the horizon! My old Maryland shore! My dear eld Mary- land shore! Oh, how long will it be before I see you again? But k will never love another place like you, old home! No splendor of fortune im oth- er lands shall ever turn my heart from you! Aud when Ettie is free, she will come back to you again and be happy!” CHAPTER LI. Eitie watched until the Iast faint line of the shore had faded quite away and there was nothing around her byt a vast circle of water, of which the busy little steamer seemed the center. Presently a bell rang. “That is the first dinner bell, my dear. We had better go down into our cabin and take off our bonnets,” said Miss Pinchett. Ettie had never in her short life been on board a steamer. All her trips about the lake had been performed in her grandfather’s little canoe, there; fore, of the interior economy of a steamboat she knew just nothing at all. It was, then, with some degree of childish curiosity that she followed Miss Pinchett down the winding stairs that led to the small compartment in the middle of the boat called the La- dies’ Cabin. Fortunately, there were no ladies except Ettie and Miss Pin- chett. They had the cabin all to them- selves. The stewardess, a short, fat, mother- ly-looking black woman. came in to show them the way to the little dining saloon. A steamboat dinner is usually disa- greeable enough to most people, but to Ettie it was a most interesting nov- elty. When it was over, accompanied by Miss Pinchett, she returned to the cab- in to see after her pets. At length Ettie, wearied by a day of unusual excitement, went below and turned in, and was soon rocked to sleep in the cradle of her berth. She slept a sound and dreamless sleep through the night, lulled by the ggutle motion of the beat. She was awak- ened at length by the stopping of this motion, She opened her eyes and saw that it was dawn, and Miss Pinchett, already dressed, was standing before her. “We are at the lapding,” said the lady: “get up and dress; the passen- gers are all ready to go on shore. We have only time to snatch a hasty breakfast, if we wish to catch the early train.” In an instant Ettie rolled out of her berth; and she got into her clothes quicker than she had ever done in her life before. They went into the saloon, made a hasty meal, and then, having gathered all their luggage together, not forget- tirg Flora and Nancy, they had it piled in and about a hack, which they e1tered and were driven to the Phila- éelphia railway station. They were fortunate in just catching the express train, and soon found themselves seated in the comfortable ladies’ car and flying along the coun- try. To Ettie, who had never seen a rail- way train before, this was like necro- mancy. And, as cities, towns and vil- lages, fields, forests and farms fled be- hind the rushing cars, she looked after them with eyes of terror. And when a train from the opposite direction came flashing past, she shrunk up in a little heap and clung to Miss Pinchett for safety. In an hour or two, also, finding that she was not.ground to powder by the rushing, thundering and crashing trains, she fell to day-dreaming, at all about her grandmother and \er. maiden aunt!—for, alas! there was a maiden aunt in the case!—and if the thought of the latter was not an ab- solute horror to Ettie, it was, at least, a very serious drawback to her antici- pations of happiness; for she knew in her own mind, without any one’s tell- ing her, that this obnoxious maiden aunt was tall and bony, with a sharp nose and a sharp voice, and that she spent her time in scoldimg servants and making pickles, and that she would be sure to want to teach her, Ettie, to do crochet work and adé up sums, both of which the child’s soul abhorred, * ~~ (fo Be Continued.)