"What did you tell them?" I asked, rather fearful that she had told more than I cared to have the public know about my affairs.

"I told them the truth; that I had been ill-used by a person, and that you were taking me to my uncle in New York."

"Did you tell them who Tom Thornton was?"

"I only said he had been sent after me. The steward thought he must have supposed I was on the building when he jumped ashore. I didn't tell them anything about your troubles. I didn't know that you would wish me to do so."

"I am glad you did not. But, Kate, you needn't stay in here any longer. We have got rid of Tom Thornton, and you may go out and look at the scenery, if you wish. Have you been to dinner?"

"Yes, the steward gave me some dinner. He was very good to me, and I want to thank him ever so much for his kindness."

When we left the state-room, we were surrounded by the curious passengers, and I was obliged to tell them the adventures I had gone through with. I left Kate with a lady and gentleman who manifested an interest in her, and went down to my dinner, and when I paid for it I paid for Kate's also. When I went on deck, I found that I was a lion, and the passengers insisted upon hearing me roar. They asked questions with Yankee pertinacity, and I finally told a select party of them that I had taken Kate out of her step-mother's house by the way of the attic window, but I was careful not to call any names, for if Mrs. Loraine behaved herself, I did not care to expose her to the public.

"You are a smart young man," said an elderly gentleman, heartily. "Does your father live in this State?"

"I have no father, sir," I replied; and I had dodged a dozen similar questions before.

"No father. I suppose you live with your mother," he added, with the evident intention of drawing me out.

"No, sir. My mother is in England, where I hope soon to join her."

"Ah, in England!" he added, with increasing interest. "In what part does she reside?"

"I do not yet know."

Perhaps he thought it was very odd I should not know.

"I am going to England by the steamer next Wednesday," continued the gentleman. "If I can serve you there, it would give me great pleasure to do so."

"Thank you, sir;" and I began to feel a deep interest in the subject myself.

"You don't know in what part of England your mother resides, then?"

"I do not, but it is somewhere near London."

It was my turn to ask questions now; and I was glad to do so, in order to save myself from being "pumped." I made a great many inquiries about the steamer, the expense, bills of exchange, and other matters, and the gentleman gave me much valuable information. He left the boat at Yonkers, but told me he should be in New York on Monday. He gave me his address when in the city, and I promised to call upon him if I could.



CHAPTER XVIII.

IN WHICH ERNEST CALLS ON SEVERAL LORAINES.

IT was after four o'clock on Saturday afternoon when the steamer arrived at her wharf in New York. The lady and gentleman who had taken so much interest in Kate were anxious to do something to assist her. They were not what is called "stylish" people, and they did not put on any airs. The gentleman was a well-to-do farmer in the western part of the state, and his wife doubtless superintended the making of the butter when she was at home. They were fifty years old, with only one child, a grown-up son; and the lady, the moment she heard that Kate had been ill-treated, proposed to take her home and "do" for her.

In the course of the afternoon Kate mentioned this offer to me, and declared that she liked the lady and gentleman very much indeed. She did not yet know whether her uncle would receive her into his family. If he was unwilling to come between her and her step-mother, Kate was determined to go home with the farmer, whose name was Macombe. The worthy couple really hoped that her uncle would not take her. I found they were going to remain in New York for a week. They intended to stay at a small hotel in the lower part of the city, and I promptly adopted their suggestion to go with them.

Annoying to me, and disagreeable to Kate, as was the publicity to which we had both been exposed by the events of the day, I could not help acknowledging that we had been the gainers by it. The interest excited by my singular conduct, and the sympathy called forth by her helpless condition after we were separated, made many friends for us. I had dreaded the disagreeable necessity of going to a hotel or a boarding-house with Kate, to be stared at, questioned, and suspected, because we were so young; but now the difficulty was entirely removed. We could go to a public house in the train of Mr. Macombe and his lady, and would appear to be a part of his family.

Besides this manifest advantage, I had learned all about the steamers that went to England, and had actually made the acquaintance of a gentleman who was going to London, and who was quite willing to be my friend. If Tom Thornton would keep out of my path till the following Wednesday, I should embark in the steamer, and be on my way across the ocean to find my mother.

Half a dozen people offered to assist Kate, when the boat hauled in at her wharf, and the steward was all kindness and attention. We took a carriage, and drove to the hotel, whose name I have forgotten; but the window of my chamber looked out upon the Battery. As soon as we were comfortably installed in our several apartments, I went to the office and found a Directory. It contained the names of four men whose surname was Loraine. I looked a few years later and there was not a single one. Two of them were merchants, one was a broker, and one was a mason. Nothing was to be learned from their occupation, and as it was too late to find the owners of the names and their places of business that day, I was obliged to defer the search till Monday.

I had left my uncle's without any clothing except that which I wore; and if I was not in absolute need yet of an additional wardrobe, I knew enough of the world to believe that a quantity of baggage adds to a person's respectability, especially at the hotels. I walked up Broadway, and purchased a good-sized valise, a strong and serviceable article, which would contain all I should need in my travels. At a clothing store I bought a good every-day suit, for that I wore was a very nice one—too good for comfort in travelling. At a furnishing store I procured a supply of shirts, collars, and handkerchiefs. When I had packed all these articles in my valise, I felt quite respectable.

As I was walking back to the hotel, I saw in the window of a shop an article which was labelled "money-belt." It was a kind of pocket-book, made of wash-leather, attached to a belt to be worn round the body. I went in and bought one; and it seemed to solve the problem about the care of the large sum of money in my possession, which had been a great trouble to me. I could carry my funds in this belt without the danger of being robbed; and as soon as I reached my room, I enclosed in a piece of oiled silk the greater part of the bills which I had carried in my breast pocket, rolled up in a piece of newspaper, put them in the money-belt, and strapped it around me. It did not feel comfortable at first; but the very annoyance it caused served to remind me that my money was safe.

Mr. and Mrs. Macombe were very good, pious people, and, wherever they were, would as soon have thought of going without their food, as of staying away from divine service; and we went to church with them three times on Sunday. They would not even talk about worldly affairs on that day; and Kate and I were probably saved from answering a great many questions included under the head of forbidden topics. They seemed to be greatly pleased to know that I regularly attended the Sunday school at home. So pure, and true, and good were they, and so much interested in me, that I wanted to tell them all about my own affairs, and to ask them whether I had done wrong in taking the will and the money from my uncle's safe; but I concluded that for the present it would be safer for me to keep my own counsels. They were excellent people, but their very simplicity of character might lead them to betray and injure me.

On Monday forenoon, leaving Kate with Mrs. Macombe, while her husband was attending to his business affairs, I went in search of the four persons by the name of Loraine. I had written down the address of each, and obtained from Kate all the information she possessed in regard to her father. I decided to try one of the merchants first; and as Mrs. Loraine doubtless knew the name of her deceased husband's brother, I half expected to meet Tom Thornton blockading the door of the uncle's counting-room.

When I saw, on the opposite side of the street, the sign "Mortimer Loraine & Co.," I made sure that Tom Thornton was not in sight, and then went in. I was directed to the private office of the senior partner. He was a cold, stiff, formal man, and eyed me from head to foot with a kind of contempt which I did not appreciate.

"Your business with me, young man?" demanded he, in cast-iron tones.

According to Parkville etiquette, he ought to have asked me to sit down, and I was waiting for him to do so.

"I called to ask, sir, if you ever had a brother by the name of Austin Loraine," I replied.

"No, sir," answered he, gruffly.

"Excuse me for troubling you, then, sir," I added, bowing and retreating.

"Who was Austin Loraine?" he demanded.

"It's of no consequence, sir, if he was not your brother," I replied, still retreating.

"What is your business with him?" he added.

What my business was did not concern him, and I opened the door and retired. Mr. Mortimer Loraine rose from his stuffed chair and followed me, repeating the question he had put to me. I simply told him I wished to find the brother of Austin Loraine; and in my heart I was very grateful that he was not the person, for I should have been afraid to leave Kate in the keeping of such a cast-iron man as he was. He appeared to think he had a monopoly of the name of Loraine, and no one else ought to possess it, or to have relations with it which he was not permitted to know. Giving no further heed to him, I left his store.

My next attempt was with the broker, William, whose office was in Wall Street. He was quite civil, and assured me he had but one brother, whose name was Mortimer, and whom I had just seen on Broadway. He was just as curious to know my business with any one of his name as the first had been; but I was not willing to give him any satisfaction. The next Loraine on my list was the other merchant, whose place of business was in Chambers Street. "McKim & Loraine" was the firm. Impressed with the belief that the junior member of this firm would prove to be the person I sought, I was very careful to satisfy myself that Tom Thornton was not lying in wait for me. In the morning I had put on the new suit of clothes purchased on Saturday night. I hoped this change in my dress would enable me to pass unnoticed if he were watching for me.

As I did not see him anywhere in the vicinity,—though I knew it was possible for him to be concealed in some doorway, or observing me from some chamber window,—I entered the store of McKim & Loraine. As I went in, I saw on a corner sign the full names of the partners, the last of which was "Freeman Loraine." I was directed to the counting-room by a porter.

"Is Mr. Loraine in?" I asked of a clerk at the desk.

"He is not—gone to Baltimore," replied the man, hardly looking up from his ledger.

"When will he return?" I inquired, greatly disappointed.

"Don't know; Mr. McKim is in his office; he can tell you."

I entered a small apartment in the corner, and asked for the senior partner. An elderly gentleman, busy with heaps of letters, informed me that he was the person.

"I wish to see Mr. Loraine very much," I continued.

"He has been in Baltimore for a week; we expect he will return to-day or to-morrow—probably to-night," answered Mr. McKim, fixing his eyes upon the open letter before him.

"Have you been acquainted with Mr. Loraine long?" I ventured to ask.

"Thirty years," replied he, glancing at me with a smile, as though the acquaintance was a pleasant thing to contemplate. "He has been my partner for twenty."

"Can you tell me, sir, whether he ever had a brother by the name of Austin Loraine," I added, emboldened by his smile.

"He had; I knew Austin very well. He died some eight or ten years ago," said Mr. McKim, now so much interested in my questions that he threw down the letter, and gave his attention wholly to me.

"I am very glad to learn this, and I am sorry Mr. Loraine is not at home."

"Can I do anything for you?" he asked.

"No, sir; thank you; I think not. Mr. Loraine's niece is in the city, and wishes to see him very much," I added.

"Why don't she go to his house? His family are at home."

"Kate is with some friends, and I think she would rather wait till her uncle returns, as he is coming so soon. I will call again to-morrow."

"Mr. Loraine lives in Madison Place;" and he gave me the number, which I wrote down on a paper, and told Mr. McKim where Kate was staying.

When I went out of the store I looked again for Tom Thornton. He must have come to the city by this time, and I was rather surprised to find he was not already on my track. I did not see him, but I afterwards found out, to my sorrow, that his eye was upon me from the moment I went into the store of McKim & Loraine. I hastened back to the hotel, and informed Kate that I had found her uncle, but he was not at home. She was so well cared for by Mrs. Macombe that she was in no haste to leave her.

After dinner we all took a walk on the Battery and up Broadway, to see the sights. When we returned, at five o'clock, we found a carriage waiting to convey Kate and me to Mr. Loraine's house in Madison Place.



CHAPTER XIX.

IN WHICH ERNEST STARTS FOR MADISON PLACE WITH KATE.

I COULD not exactly understand how Mr. Loraine, being in Baltimore, or on the way to New York, had sent a carriage for his niece. It was possible that Kate's uncle had returned sooner than he had been expected, or that Mr. McKim had seen his partner's family, and they had sent for Kate. It did not occur to me that there was anything wrong; but I desired to see Mr. Loraine, and tell him her story before his niece went to his house.

"Who sent you for Miss Loraine?" I asked of the hackman.

"How should I know who sint me?" replied the driver, an ill-favored Irishman, and a rough specimen even of New York hackmen, who are not reputed to be saints. "A gintleman gave me this paper, and told me to come here."

I took the paper, and read what was written upon it: "Call at the —— Hotel for Miss Kate Loraine, and drive her to No. — Madison Place. Bring the young man who is with her also."

"Who gave you this?" I asked.

"I don't know who he was. It was a gintleman that came over to the hack-stand by the Park."

"Was he an old man, or a young man?"

"Middling ould—not very ould, either; he wasn't what you'd call a young man," replied the driver.

"Was he fifty?"

"He might be; and then again he might not be," answered the man.

This was very definite, and it was plain to me that I could not find out from such a stupid fellow whether or not it was Mr. McKim who had sent him. I decided that Kate should not go to Madison Place that day. It would be much better for me to see her uncle first, for such a course would save her from an unpleasant scene, if he decided not to receive her. I told the hackman we should not go; and the fellow growled about his fare, but finally drove off, declaring that the people in Madison Place should pay him for his trouble.

I was annoyed by the incident, and was afraid it would prejudice Kate's uncle—if he had returned—against her, or if he had not, that his wife would be vexed. Before the hack was out of sight, I was sorry I had not permitted Kate to go. I talked the matter over with her, and with her kind friends, who thought I had been over-nice about the matter.

About seven o'clock, the same hackman came again. I was sent for, and met him in the office. He was as surly and cross as before, though his face wore something like an expression of triumph this time.

"It's a dale of throuble you're makin for your friends," said he, handing me a note.

"You shall be paid for all the trouble I give you," I replied, offended at the fellow's impudence.

I glanced at the note, and found it was directed to Kate. I carried it up to her, and after she had read it, she handed it to me.

"My uncle has returned," said she. "He seems to be real good and kind—don't he?"

I read the note, which was as follows:—

"MY DEAR NIECE: I learned from Mr. McKim, since I returned from Baltimore this afternoon, that you were in the city. I should call upon you myself, but I am quite ill, and do not feel able to do so. I desire to see you very much, and the bearer of this note will drive you to my house. I think Mr. McKim spoke of a young man with you, who called upon him. Let him come with you, if you please.

FREEMAN LORAINE."

"Your uncle is good and kind, and I am sorry I gave him the trouble to send twice," I added, when I had finished reading the note. "We will go with the hackman as soon as you are ready."

"How far is it?" asked Mrs. Macombe.

"Mr. Loraine lives in Madison Place; but I haven't the least idea where that is," I replied.

"Shall we see you again?" asked our kind friend.

"Why, yes, I hope so. I will come down and see you. But I don't know yet whether I am to stay with my uncle or not," said Kate, as she put on her shawl and bonnet. "I must see you again, and I shall tell my uncle all about you."

"I shall depend upon seeing you again, and I hope you will find a good and pleasant home," added the worthy old lady.

I escorted Kate down to the street, and handed her into the carriage. The driver closed the door when I had taken my seat, mounted his box, and drove off.

"I am quite sure, Kate, that you will remain with your uncle," said I, as the hack rattled up Broadway.

"You can't be sure," replied she, somewhat excited by the prospect that was opening before her.

"Not exactly sure; but the interest he manifests in you, and the trouble he takes to have you come to his house, convince me that he is a man worthy to be your father's brother."

"Perhaps he will scold me for running away from Mrs. Loraine," suggested she, timidly.

"I think not. He will not be willing that you should be shut up for a whole week for taking long stitches, or for treading on a flower. There may be some difficulty in the way, as your step-mother is legally your guardian; but your uncle will find a way to release you from such odious bondage. But we won't anticipate anything. If your uncle won't take care of you, I will, for I like you, Kate, and I mean to stand by you just as long as you need any help. Mrs. Macombe will be very glad to take you home with her."

"I seem to have plenty of friends now. But, however many friends I may have, Ernest Thornton, I shall always be grateful to you for what you have done for me. I shall always consider you my first and best friend on earth. But you are going off, over the ocean; and I shall not see you again."

"I shall return soon."

"When shall you go?"

"I shall not go till I am sure you are safe and well provided for. If, as I expect, your uncle takes you to his home, I shall start day after to-morrow."

"So soon?"

"Yes; I cannot needlessly waste a single day. My poor mother, for aught I know, is still in sorrow and suffering."

"How glad she will be to see you, if you find her!"

"I shall find her; I shall not give up the search until I do find her, if it takes me all the rest of my lifetime. But I expect to be successful without much trouble."

We were silent then for half an hour, I judged, in which I was thinking of the great mission that was before me; and I have no doubt Kate was anticipating the scene that awaited her at the house of her uncle. The carriage still rattled along, and it was beginning to be dark, for we had been riding nearly an hour. I thought it was about time for us to reach Madison Place. We must have gone at least six miles, and I came deliberately to the conclusion that New York was a bigger city than I had ever supposed.

"Haven't you got almost to Madison Place?" I shouted to the driver, when my patience began to be sorely tried.

"It's a good piece yet," replied the driver, in the same surly tones.

"I think we must be almost up to Albany," I said to Kate, as I glanced out at the window.

"Not quite so far as that," laughed Kate.

"This don't look like a very aristocratic part of the city," I added. "The houses are all of wood, and poor ones at that."

"You must be patient, Ernest Thornton. We must soon reach my uncle's house."

"Your uncle's, or Albany, I should say."

We were silent again. It did not seem to me possible that Madison Place could be so far off. While I was fretting about the distance, I heard a whistle like that with which one calls his dog, three times repeated. I should not have noticed it, if the carriage had not stopped in the middle of the street immediately after I heard it. The halt was but for an instant—long enough to permit a man to get on the box with the driver.

"How much farther is it to Madison Place?" I demanded again.

"Only a little piece," answered the surly driver; but he seemed to be more pliable now.

I looked out at the window again. The houses were meaner and more scattered than before, and there were no signs of a mansion fit for the residence of a wealthy merchant. I began to wonder who the man was on the box with the driver, and why he had whistled. I changed my position to the front seat, under the window, which I had opened to enable me to speak to the driver.

I began to have a suspicion that something was wrong, and I determined to investigate as far as it was possible to do so. I waited to hear if anything was said by the two men on the box. I listened eagerly and painfully, for my suspicions almost made me mad. I reviewed the circumstances under which we had left the hotel. The letter was signed by Mr. Loraine, and the driver told me he had brought it from Madison Place.

My heart rose up into my throat, as the conviction flashed upon my mind that Kate and I were the victims of some villanous scheme. The rascally driver could not have gone to Madison Place in the time that intervened between his two calls at the hotel, if Madison Place was farther off than we had yet gone. I was so nervous and restless that Kate fathomed my painful anxiety. She could not help believing by this time that something was wrong.

"O, Ernest Thornton!" exclaimed she, when it was no longer possible for her to keep still.

"Don't be alarmed, Kate," I replied; but I was fearfully alarmed myself.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know; but it is plain enough now that we have been deceived."

"Tom Thornton has done this!" gasped she.

"I suppose so; but be calm, Kate. Heaven will protect us."

"I am frightened almost to death," said she, with chattering teeth. "What shall we do?"

"I don't know yet. Keep as cool as you can, and leave it all to me. They can't go a great ways farther with this team. We must stop soon."

I was strongly impressed with the opinion that it was time something was done. Of course the wretches on the box had made their plans beforehand, and everything seemed to be working well for them. Doubtless they would have the means of securely disposing of their victims when they reached their destination. It seemed to me to be necessary, therefore, to derange their plans, if possible, and I waited for a favorable time to make a demonstration.



CHAPTER XX.

IN WHICH ERNEST STRIKES A HEAVY BLOW, AND TOM THORNTON HAS A BAD FALL.

THE chances for making a demonstration were not favorable; but the more desperate the circumstances, the greater was the need of doing something before we were committed to any place more secure than a carriage. If I had been alone I should have opened the door and jumped out; but Kate could not do this. While I was considering what I could do, I heard the driver speak. I raised myself up to the window, and listened for the reply of the other man.

Though I could not tell what was said, I recognized the voice of Tom Thornton. I had come to the conclusion, as soon as my suspicions were aroused, that it was he; for it was not likely that he would trust the execution of his scheme wholly to others. I confess that the sense of being injured was not the only emotion that disturbed me. I was filled with anger and indignation at the trick which had been put upon me. I wanted a weapon like my trusty base-ball bat, and I felt that, if I had it, I should do good service with it.

The thought of the bat suggested an idea. In going up to Chambers Street in the forenoon, I had seen a hackman oiling his wheels at the stand by the Park. When he finished, he put the iron wrench he had used under one of the seats in the carriage. I felt for one in this vehicle, and realized a savage gratification when I placed my hand upon the article. The implement was about a foot and a half in length, but not very heavy. Having decided upon the plan of the intended assault, I buttoned my sack coat, and thrust the wrench into the open space between two of the buttons.

Half paralyzed with terror, Kate asked me what I was going to do. I told her in a whisper to keep still. In a fair, stand-up fight with two men, I should be instantly vanquished, and it was necessary for me to obtain the advantage of a surprise, if possible. The rear window of the carriage was open. Though the aperture was small, it was large enough for me to crawl through, and I worked myself out upon the baggage-rack. The jar which I communicated to the vehicle by this movement attracted the attention of the men on the box.

"Be aisy for a minute more, and you'll be at Madison Place," said the driver.

"How much farther is it?" I asked, thrusting my head into the window, so that he would not suspect that I had got out of the carriage.

"Only a short piece farther," he added.

Placing one foot on a ledge at the side of the hack, and the other on the bottom of the back window, I scrambled to the top of the carriage, where I was obliged to spread out like a frog, and was in imminent danger of sliding off. Of course this feat of gymnastics could not be effected without considerable noise. It was evident to the driver that something decided had taken place, or was about to take place, and he began to rein in his horses.

Just as I reached my perch on the top of the hack, all sprawling, the vehicle was approaching one of those small public houses at the corner of a cross street, which abound in the upper part of New York and Harlem. In front of it burned a street lamp. Tom Thornton—and I could distinctly make him out now, though I did not see his face—had bent his head down to look in at the front window. He doubtless expected to find the cause of the noise and the jar within the hack; at least, thinking I was there, it was natural for him to look inside for it. I suppose he thought I was breaking out through the top of the vehicle.

With the wrench in my hand, I sprang forward; but my blood was almost frozen at the necessity of striking him a blow on the head which might kill him, and the thought that I might take his life partially paralyzed my arm. I struck, but it was a feeble stroke compared with what it should have been to effect my purpose. His hat appeared to break the force of the blow, and he sprang to his feet. Then I saw that he had a heavy cane in his hand, and I was sorry I had not struck harder.

"Drive on! Don't stop here!" said he to the driver, fearful, perhaps, that I might obtain assistance from the hotel.



With his cane in one hand, he reached forward with the other to grasp me by the collar; or this was what I supposed he intended to do. He did not see that I had a weapon, and getting up on my knees, I hit him again, this time with better effect, for he fell over backward upon the horses. The driver hauled in his team again, and seemed to be appalled at the fate of his companion.

The instant he stopped I slid off the top of the hack to one of the hind wheels, and thence to the ground. I opened the door of the carriage, and told Kate to get out with all possible haste. I assisted her to the ground, and taking her by the hand, actually dragged her after me. The gloom of the night covered us, and we fled as fast as my companion's trembling limbs would permit. I turned into a cross street, on which there were no buildings, and followed it till we came to another avenue.

I expected to be pursued; whether we were or not, I do not know, for we were not molested, and I neither saw nor heard anything which indicated a search. Whether the hackman, knowing that he was engaged in doubtful business, did not call for assistance, or whether the pursuit was delayed till it was too late to catch us, I have no information. We walked down the avenue as rapidly as possible, till I was satisfied we should not be overtaken.

"O, Ernest Thornton," gasped Kate, out of breath with fatigue and terror, after we had walked a couple of miles, "I shall sink to the ground soon!"

"I am sorry for you, Kate; but what can I do?" I replied.

"I am tired out; and I am so frightened, I can hardly walk."

"Don't be alarmed; we are safe now," I added, drawing her arm through mine. "Now lean on me."

"But you must be tired, Ernest Thornton."

"No, not a particle; let me help you as much as I can."

"This is much easier than it was before," said she; and she clung to me like a frightened child—as indeed she was.

"Don't be afraid to lean your whole weight upon me," I added. "I would carry you if I could."

I think it was her fears more than her exertions that exhausted her; and, by the time we had walked another mile, as I estimated the distance, she declared that she felt better, and more able to walk than at first. As we continued on our way, I saw a horse car on another avenue,—street railroads at that time were not so abundant as now,—and we followed a cross street till we came to the track.

"I feel ever so much better now!" exclaimed Kate, as the circumstances became more hopeful.

"There is nothing more to fear," I replied. "I wish I knew how Tom Thornton was."

"Why, what is the matter with him?" asked Kate, with astonishment; and I perceived that she had no definite idea of what had happened before the public house. The poor girl was so terrified that she had hardly known anything from the time our suspicions were first excited till we had walked two or three miles from the scene of the affray.

"Did you think, Kate, that he permitted us to leave the carriage?" I asked.

"I didn't think anything about it; I was so frightened I couldn't think."

"I hope he is not badly hurt," I added, musing.

"Badly hurt! Why, what do you mean, Ernest Thornton?" she asked, her terror renewed by my words.

"Don't be alarmed, Kate; he deserved all he got, and more too, if the blow didn't kill him."

"Why, Ernest Thornton!"

"Do you see this?" I added, holding up the wrench, which, from an instinct of self-preservation, I had kept in my hand.

"What is it?"

"An iron wrench. I struck Tom Thornton over the head with it, and he fell from the drivers box on the backs of the horses."

"O!" groaned she.

"It could not be helped, Kate."

"I hope he is not much hurt."

"I hope not; but I can't help it if he is," I replied, desperately, for I had many fears in regard to the result, and was not half so confident of the future as I tried to appear. "There is a car, Kate," I added, throwing the wrench away. "Now be calm, and try to look as though nothing had happened."

She covered her face with a thick veil, and we entered the horse car. Riding in silence for a long hour, we reached the Park, where, taking a stage, we proceeded to the hotel. It was nearly eleven o'clock when we went into the parlor, where Kate sank exhausted upon a sofa. I found that Mrs. Macombe had retired, but I called her up. The poor girl's nerves were fearfully unstrung, but the good woman ministered to her like an angel. She slept with her, and was all that a loving mother could be to her.

For my own part, I ate a hearty supper, and went to bed. It was not without the fear that the police would visit me before morning, that I lay on my couch thinking of the startling events of the evening. Yet, as I repeated my prayer that night, I felt that I had done no more than my duty—my duty to Kate, my mother, and myself. I would have given half the money in my belt to know whether Tom Thornton was dead or alive. I had not injured him from malice or for revenge, only in self-defence; and I felt that a just God would burden him, rather than me, with the consequences of the blow I had struck. I went to sleep at last, with the prayer in my heart, that Tom Thornton would recover from the injury he had received.

Kate was quite ill in the morning; but Mrs. Macombe cared for her tenderly, and assured me nothing serious would result from the terror and excitement to which she had been subjected. After breakfast I hastened to the store of McKim & Loraine. Kate's uncle had returned the preceding evening, and I waited till he came down town. In as few words as possible, I told him what Kate's situation had been at the house of her step-mother, what abuse she had suffered, and in what manner she had escaped. He was indignant, and insisted that she should immediately make his house her home.

Then I showed him the note signed with his name, which the hackman had brought for Kate. It was a forgery, and Mr. Loraine could hardly control his anger. I related to him our adventure at Harlem, and described the scene on the top of the hack.

"Served him right!" exclaimed he.

"I may have killed him," I added.

"I hope you did," replied he, bluntly. "I will go and see Kate at once."

On our arrival at the hotel, we found the hackman there who had driven us out to Harlem.



CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH ERNEST VISITS MADISON PLACE.

"I'M waiting for you," said the hack-driver, as I entered the office of the hotel with Mr. Loraine.

"What do you want of me?" I demanded, supposing the villain was charged with the execution of some further design upon me.

"I want my money," he growled.

"What money?"

"For driving you out to Harlem."

"Do you expect me to pay that?"

"As the gintleman didn't pay me, I expect you to do so," he replied, with refreshing coolness.

"Where is the gentleman now?" I asked; and, wishing to obtain some information in regard to Tom, if I could, I did not decline to pay his demand.

"I don't know where he is."

"What became of him?"

"With the help of some people I found in the bar-room, I took him into the public house. Bedad, it was a hard crack you guv him," added the hackman, in a low tone. "If you pay me the tin dollars, I won't say anything agin you."

"You carried him into the public house," I repeated. "What then?"

"Wait till I tell you. Begorra, I thought he was kilt, sure," he replied, in confidential whispers. "A bad scrape it was, and I didn't want to be in it; so I jumped on my box and druv off telling 'em I was goin' for a docther."

"Don't you know what became of him?"

"Faix, I do. Two hours afther, I sent a frind of mine, one Michael Mallahy, that lives convanient to the public house, to go and drink a glass of beer at the bar-room, and inquire for the man that was hurted. Now pay me my tin dollars, and I won't say a word."

"Did your friend find out about the man that was hurt?" I inquired, putting my hand into my pocket.

"Faix, he did. The gintleman wasn't kilt at all. He came out of it with only a sore head, and left the public house all alone by himself."

"Haven't you heard of him since?"

"Not one word; and I don't know where in the world is he."

"And he didn't pay you?" I added, withdrawing my hand empty from my pocket.

"He did not thin."

"He served you just right, then," I continued.

"Aren't you going to pay me my tin dollars?" said he, looking uglier than usual.

"I am not—not I."

"Begorra, thin, I will inform the police," replied he, savagely. "You struck the gintleman on the head with the wrinch, and I'll have you in the Tombs."

"What's the trouble!" asked Mr. Loraine, who had been impatiently waiting for me in another part of the room, as he stepped up to the hackman, his attention attracted by the fellow's anger.

"That is the man that drove us out to Harlem last night," I answered.

"What's your number?" demanded Mr. Loraine of the surly brute.

The hackman looked at him. The New York merchant was no tyro, and Jehu, preferring not to deal with one who understood the characteristics of his class, suddenly bolted through the open door, and ran for his hack. Mr. Loraine pursued him; but the rascal had left his carriage on the Bowling Green side of the street, and he distanced both of us. Leaping upon his box, he drove off as fast as his horses could go.

"Didn't you notice the number of his hack?" asked Mr. Loraine, as we returned to the hotel.

"I did not, sir."

"What did he want of you?"

"He wished me to pay him ten dollars for driving Kate and me out to Harlem last night," I replied, laughing.

"It did not take you long to give him an answer to such a demand."

"I wanted to know why Tom Thornton had not paid him. It seems that the scoundrel, when he found his employer was hurt, was afraid of getting into trouble, and left him. I put my hand into my pocket, as though I intended to pay him, so as to induce him to tell me what I wanted to know."

"You'll do!" added Mr. Loraine, smiling. "But what did become of Thornton?"

"When the hackman sent a friend of his to inquire about him, Tom Thornton had come to his senses and left."

"I'm afraid you'll hear from him again. If you do, let me know. Now, where is Kate?"

I conducted him up stairs to Mrs. Macombe's parlor. Mr. Loraine proved to be all I had wished him to be—sympathizing, noble, and decided. He asked Kate a great many questions, in order to assure himself that she was not a naughty, wilful, and disobedient girl; and, in answer to them, she told her whole story, as she had told it to Bob Hale and me in the standing-room of the Splash. I made a voluntary statement of my impressions in regard to the step-mother, and the interview I had had with her.

"I never liked the woman," added Mr. Loraine; "and, till the day of my brother's death, I did not cease to regret his marriage. Why didn't you write to me, Kate?"

"She would not let me."

"Why didn't you tell Mr. Windleton about the treatment you received?"

"It wasn't so bad till after Mr. Windleton went to Europe."

"We will have it made right at once. I have done some business for Windleton during his absence; for he was a friend of mine, as well as of my brother. He will be shocked when he hears of this business. I expect him back the next steamer, due to-day or to-morrow. I shall go and see this woman as soon as he returns."

"But I don't want to go back to her, uncle Freeman," said Kate, with a suppressed shudder.

"You shall not; you shall live with me, if you are so disposed."

"O, uncle!"

Kate cried; I am sure I don't know why, for there was certainly nothing to cry about. Mrs. Macombe, I know, was sorry that Kate was going to live with her uncle, for she had already become very much attached to her, and would gladly have given her a home, and been a mother to her. When they parted, Mr. Loraine promised that his niece should visit her at no distant day. I was taking my leave of Kate, when her uncle interposed, and insisted that I should go with them to his residence. My fair fellow-traveller would not permit me to leave yet, and a carriage was called, in which we started for Madison Place.

The ride was not so long as the one we had taken on the preceding evening. Kate was warmly welcomed by Mrs. Loraine and her family; and when I saw the kindness that beamed in their eyes, and was reflected from their actions, I was confident that Kate had found a good home—that best of earthly blessings. I was sorry to part with her; indeed, I did not know how strongly I was interested in her until the hour of separation came. I bade good by to the family, and she followed me to the street door.

"I don't want you to go, Ernest Thornton," said she, calling me, as she invariably did, by my full name.

"I don't want to go, Kate; but you know what work I have on my hands," I replied.

"Cannot my uncle help you? I know he would be willing to do so," she asked.

"I don't think I need any more help. If Tom Thornton troubles me any more, I shall apply to him. But I think I have given Tom his quietus for the present. He will carry a sore head around with him for some time. But I must go now. The steamer sails to-morrow, you know."

"Shall I not see you again?" she asked, beginning to be very much moved.

"I will call upon you this evening, if I can."

"You will come, Ernest Thornton—won't you?"

"If possible, I will."

"And when you get to England, you must write to me."

"I will certainly do that. Good by, Kate."

She extended her hand to me, and I took it. Then I hastened away, fearful that she would cry again. I walked down the street thinking of her. She was not as pretty as many young ladies I had met, but she was exceedingly interesting, to say nothing of the grace of her form, which I have never seen surpassed. She is as graceful and interesting now as she was then. But I will not anticipate.

I did not expect to hear any more from Tom Thornton, and I did not fear any obstacles to my departure for England the next day. I took from my pocket the card which the gentleman whose acquaintance I had made on board the Albany steamer had given me. His name was Solomons. I afterwards learned that he was a Jew; and my estimate of the whole Jewish people was very much increased after a few days' intimacy with him. His hotel was written in pencil under his name. I readily found it, and he was in his room.

He received me very kindly; but I had to tell him everything that had occurred after my arrival in the city, before I could introduce the topic which was uppermost in my mind. He was warmly interested in the affairs of Kate, and was delighted when I told him she was then with her uncle's family as happy as she could be.

"I shall sail for England with you to-morrow, sir," I added, when Kate's history had been disposed of.

"Ah, indeed! I'm glad to hear it. Have you engaged your passage yet?" he asked, briskly.

"Not yet, sir."

"Not yet, my boy! I am afraid you'll find no berth. The other one in my state-room was not taken yesterday, but I fear we are too late for it to-day. We will go down and see to it at once."

We rode down to the steamer office in a stage, and Mr. Solomons inquired rather nervously about the other berth in his room.

"It was taken not more than half an hour ago," replied the clerk.

"That's unfortunate," added my friend, apparently as much disappointed as I was. "What else have you?"

"Nothing just now. A gentleman has taken Nos. 41 and 42," he added, pointing to the plan of the cabins, on the counter before him; "but there is some doubt whether he will go. He engaged the room yesterday, and I promised to keep it for him till all the other berths were taken. He was here a while ago, and said he would give his final answer in an hour. It is time he was here."

"In that case we will wait a while," continued Mr. Solomons. "I engaged my passage a month ago, and the ship was half full then."

"Couldn't I find some place on board?" I asked, anxiously.

"I don't know; the officers sometimes give up their rooms for a consideration. I gave the third officer five pounds for his room the last time I came over from Liverpool."

"I have concluded to take that room," said a young man, rather dashily dressed, as he rushed hastily up to the counter.

My heart sank within me, for the announcement seemed to mean that I had lost my passage. But I was determined to go on board of the steamer, and make an arrangement with any officer who was open to a treaty for the use of his state-room.

"You take both berths?" added the clerk.

"No," replied the young man, glancing at me, as I had seen him do several times before.

"Then here is your chance," said the clerk to Mr. Solomons.



CHAPTER XXII.

IN WHICH ERNEST MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF E. DUNKSWELL.

MR. SOLOMONS examined the plan again to ascertain the locality of the state-room which contained the unoccupied berth.

"It is on the other side of the ship from mine," said he. "But we can do no better."

"Perhaps this gentleman will exchange with you," suggested the clerk.

"I am quite willing to take the young gentleman into my state-room," answered the stranger.

"Of course he will take the vacant berth in that room," added Mr. Solomons, who did not seem to think that the offer of the stranger was very magnanimous, since the berth in his room could be taken by the next applicant, whether he was willing or not.

The clerk had written the receipt for the passage money paid him by the young man, and pushed it across the counter towards him. The name on the paper was E. Dunkswell. I confess that I was not particularly pleased with Mr. Dunkswell, and did not care to occupy a state-room with him. Besides being rather jauntily dressed, he wore too much jewelry to suit my taste. His speech was somewhat peculiar, and I set him down as a fast young man. He appeared to be about twenty-one years old, though possibly he was more than that.

"I have the lower berth in this room," said Mr. Solomons, addressing the stranger, and pointing to his room on the plan. "It is about the same kind of a room as your own. If you would exchange berths with me, it would oblige me very much."

"I should be very happy to accommodate you," replied the fast young man, "but for particular reasons I desire to occupy the berth I have engaged."

"My room is just as good as the one you have taken," added Mr. Solomons.

"Very true; but I like the locality of mine better than yours."

It was evident that Mr. Dunkswell had a decided opinion of his own in this matter; and my kind friend was too much of a gentleman to say anything more about the exchange. He engaged the berth; but there was still a hope that an arrangement might be made with the person who had taken the upper berth in Mr. Solomons' state-room. Just then it occurred to me, as I saw the clerk writing the receipt for me, that my money was where I could not get at it in a public place; but it was only a short distance to the hotel, and I ran over to my room, and put the greater part of my funds in my wallet. The passage money was paid, and with a lively emotion of pleasure at the prospect which the ticket opened to me, I put it into my pocket.

Mr. Solomons then went with me to a banker's, for I had taken his advice, and resolved to procure a letter of credit on a London banker. My friend was very much surprised, and I think he was a little suspicious, when I told him I had over a thousand dollars in my pocket. The banker gave me a letter of credit for two hundred pounds, and I deposited a thousand dollars with him, as security. On my return I was to settle with him for whatever sums I had drawn, and he was to pay me back the balance, with four per cent. interest. Mr. Solomons was particular to have it understood by the banker in London that the money would be drawn by a young man sixteen years of age, and I left my signature to be forwarded to him.

My business was all done, and I parted with Mr. Solomons, to meet him again the next day on board the steamer. In the evening, I went up to Madison Place, and staid till nine o'clock.

"Who do you suppose has been here this afternoon?" asked Kate of me, as I was taking my leave.

"Not Tom Thornton?" I replied, inquiringly.

"No; the gentleman we saw on the steamboat—your friend; he was with you to-day."

"Mr. Solomons?"

"Yes; he told me what a lot of money you had, and wanted to know if you had come honestly by it."

"Well, what did you tell him?" I asked, anxiously.

"I told him the money was rightfully your own. He told me he supposed it was all right, though over a thousand dollars was a large sum for a mere boy to have, and manage himself."

I had almost concluded before to tell Mr. Solomons the whole truth in regard to myself; and the trouble he had taken to satisfy himself of my honesty, decided me to do so at the first convenient opportunity. I did not bid Kate a final good-by when I left the house, for Mr. Loraine promised to take her over to Jersey City, where the steamer lay, to "see me off." On my way to the hotel, I visited the post-office, as I had done every day since my arrival in the city. This time I found a letter from Bob Hale, and I hastened to my room at the hotel to read it.

It was a long letter, full of warm and generous feeling towards me—it was just like Bob. He informed me that my uncle was apparently as well as usual; he had gone to the cottage, and inquired of old Betsey. There had been a great deal of talk about my going off; but no one knew anything about the real circumstances. Mrs. Loraine had taken pains to "hush up" the facts in regard to Kate.

"When my father came home," wrote Bob, "I told him your story, as you wished me to do. He shook his head, and said it was a foolish story, and he feared you were a bad boy, after all. But when I showed him your father's will, and he had read it, he caved in like an avalanche. He told me he thought, from your uncle's singular life, that something ailed him, and your story explained it perfectly. He was sorry you had not come to him, instead of going away. I told him you wanted to find your mother, and cared more for her than you did for the money. He praised you then, and hoped you would find her. He put the will in his safe, and you may be sure it will be forthcoming when you want it."

Bob related all the news about the fellows in Parkville, and wished me to answer his letter immediately. I did so that night, giving him all the incidents of my trip to New York, and the events which occurred after my arrival, with my plans for the future. When I went to bed I could not sleep, I was so excited by the fact that I was going to England the next day. I trembled when I thought of my mother, and of what might happen to prevent my finding her. I heard the clock on Trinity Church strike three before I went to sleep.

It was eight o'clock when I awoke, and I was to be on board the steamer at ten. I ate my breakfast, paid my bill, and left the hotel with my valise in my hand. A stage up Greenwich Street carried me nearly to the ferry, and I reached the steamer half an hour before the appointed time. I found the state-room which I was to share with "E. Dunkswell," where I left my valise, the evidence of my respectability, and then went on deck. Mr. Loraine and Kate soon appeared, and I spent the time with them until those not going in the ship were required to leave. Kate cried then; I took her hand and kissed her—I could not help it. We parted as brother and sister would part, and I watched her on the wharf until she could no longer be seen. The ponderous wheels of the great ship revolved, and we moved slowly down the harbor.

I was excited by the scene and its surroundings, by the thought that I was leaving the land where I had lived from my childhood, and more than all by the reflection that I was going to seek and find my mother. Everything was new and strange to me. I wandered through every part of the ship open to a passenger. I gazed at the shores, and I studied the faces of my fellow-voyagers. Off Sandy Hook the pilot was discharged, and the prow of the noble steamer pointed out to the middle of the great ocean that rolled between me and my mother. The excitement on board began to subside; the passengers went below to arrange their state-rooms for the voyage.

When I first went on board I entered the dining saloon, where I found a few passengers selecting their seats at the tables. Mr. Solomons had told me in travelling to do as others did; so I took a couple of cards, wrote my friend's name on one and my own on the other, and pinned them to the table-cloth, as near the head of the captain's table as I could find two vacant places. This secured us pleasant seats for the voyage, and Mr. Solomons was pleased with my thoughtfulness, as he called it. Before we reached Sandy Hook, he proposed to his room-mate to exchange berths with me; but when Mr. Dunkswell was pointed out to him as the person whose state-room he was to share, he politely but regretfully declined to do so, leaving his reasons to be inferred, for he did not give them.

When the gong sounded for lunch, at twelve o'clock, I found to my surprise that Mr. Dunkswell had taken the seat next to mine. I was rather prejudiced against him; partly because he refused to exchange berths with my friend, and partly because Mr. Solomons' room-mate did not like him well enough to exchange with me. He was very polite to me, and seemed to be strongly inclined to cultivate an intimacy with me. I could not do less than be civil to him. He invited me to drink wine with him at lunch, and to smoke his cigars afterwards, neither of which I could do.

At four we dined, and Mr. Dunkswell renewed his efforts to be intimate with me; and the more he persevered, the more he didn't accomplish anything. I did not like him, and I could not like him. At dinner he drank more wine than his head could bear, and this did not make him any more agreeable to me. After dinner, Mr. Solomons and myself took seats upon the hurricane deck. He mentioned that he had called to see Kate the preceding evening, and this afforded me an opportunity to tell my story, to which my friend listened with the deepest interest.

He assured me that I had done right; that it was my duty to find my mother; that the fact of my uncle's misapplying my father's fortune justified me in taking the money and the papers from the safe. He commended me for my spirit, and for my devotion to my mother. If I had not felt sure of his approbation beforehand, I suppose I should not have had the courage to tell him my history. At half past seven we went down to tea; and this time Mr. Dunkswell did not make his appearance.

After a promenade on deck till nine o'clock, I found myself tired enough to retire, and more inclined to sleep than I had been before since I left Parkville. I went to my state-room, and found the door locked on the inside. I knocked, but Mr. Dunkswell, politely but in rather muddled tones, requested me to wait a moment. I did wait a moment, and was admitted. My room-mate was tipsy, but not enough so to make him anything more than silly. He was lying in his berth, with his clothes off Having occasion to open my valise, I found the contents in a very confused state, and not as I had left them. I was somewhat startled, and hastened to examine further. I had put my letter of credit, and about two hundred dollars in bank bills, in my money belt. The letters I had taken from my uncle's safe I had deposited in my valise. They could be of no value to any one on board but myself, and I thought they would be safe in the state-room.

They were not safe; to my astonishment and dismay, they were not to be found. I had placed them under my best suit, and they were certainly gone. The confusion in my valise indicated that they had been stolen.



CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH ERNEST FINDS THAT E. DUNKSWELL IS A DISAGREEABLE ROOM-MATE.

I WAS vexed, and almost disheartened, by the loss of the letter addressed to Bunyard. My plan to find my mother rested mainly on the possession of it. I had placed the letters in the valise after I came on board, and they must have been taken out after the steamer discharged her pilot. There was not much room for a mystery, for I immediately jumped to the conclusion that E. Dunkswell was the person who had robbed me.

E. Dunkswell was at that moment in his berth, at least half drunk, and a bottle labelled "Old Bourbon" stood on his wash-stand. The odor in the state-room was quite equal to that of a third-class bar-room. Why had E. Dunkswell taken those letters? In what manner did they concern him? This was an interesting, and rather exciting question to me, and it suggested other pertinent inquiries. He had not taken his passage till after I applied for mine. He had practically insisted that I should occupy the same state-room with him. Why did he refuse to exchange berths with Mr. Solomons? Why did he labor so hard to become intimate with me?

The answer to all these questions was plain enough to me after a little consideration. He was an agent of Tom Thornton. He had been sent to worm himself into my friendship, and take from me the will, which Tom probably supposed I carried in my pocket, and the other papers which would enable me to find my mother. Force and violence had failed, and Tom had resorted to cunning and stratagem.

E. Dunkswell had drank too much wine at dinner, and too much whiskey after dinner. Perhaps the frequent libations he had taken increased his zeal, but they diminished his discretion in a corresponding ratio. He had begun his work too soon, and had done it in a very bungling manner. If whiskey was a curse to him, it was a blessing to me, for in his sober senses he would not have exposed himself and his plans by robbing my valise so early on the voyage.

My blood was up; and while I sat on the sofa debating whether or not I should take E. Dunkswell by the throat, and "have it out" with him, he got out of his berth, and took another pull at the bottle. It was plain that he had no intention of keeping sober, and I concluded to wait and let the whiskey help me do my work.

"How is it, old boy?" said he.

"First rate," I replied.

"How zhe head?"

"Sou'-sou'-west, half-west."

"I mus' zgo on deck an zee to it."

He put on his hat, straightened himself up, and walked out of the room as well as he could. I locked the door after him. If his key would fit my valise, it followed that my key would fit his trunk. I tried the experiment, and the logic failed. It was evident that he had other keys, or that he was a regular operator, and carried implements for the purpose of picking locks. I was not sure that the papers he had stolen from me were in his trunk; but I was determined to have them before morning, if I had to split the trunk open.

I unlocked the door, and presently E. Dunkswell staggered into the room. The first thing he did was to drink from the bottle again.

"Thornton—hic!" said he. "You're a good fellow. Take some whisk—good whisk zever you drank—hic—or any other man. Take zome whisk."

"No, I thank you; I never drink it."

"You dzon't zrink whisk! Then you are a to-tzeetler."

"I am," I replied, inclined to encourage him in talking, hopeful that he would say something which would be of use to me.

"I'm not a to-tzeetler. My name's Dzunkswell. You're a to-tzeetler, and I mus zrink for boze of us;" and, suiting the action to the word, he imbibed again. "If I'm zrunk to-night, 'll be your fault, Thornton—'cause I've got to zrink for boze of us."

But he was no longer in condition even to drink for both of us. He had already taken more than he could carry, and he had just sense enough left to roll into his berth, all in a heap. I straightened him out a little, and in a few moments I heard him snoring in his drunken slumbers. The time for action had come, and I was determined to search him and his effects till I found the precious letters. I first examined his pockets, but without finding the papers. The key of his trunk, however, I did find. It was exceedingly disagreeable business to me; and if only my own rights, instead of the life, liberty, and happiness of my mother, had been at stake, I should have taken a less direct and more uncertain method of enforcing them.

The trunk, which he had placed under his berth, I pulled out into the floor. With trembling hand and eager heart I opened it. The package of letters had been thrust down between the clothing and one end, evidently in great haste, for I had probably disturbed him when I came to the door. After assuring myself I had all that belonged to me, I closed the trunk,—for I had no desire to explore it any further,—and restored it to its place under the berth. The drunken agent of Tom Thornton still snored unconscious of my proceedings.

I took the precaution to place the Bunyard letter in my money-belt; the others, being of minor importance, I put in my valise again. I looked at the miserable being who lay groaning and uneasy in the stupor of intoxication. The state-room was not fit for the occupancy of a decent person. The fumes of the whiskey were sickening to me, and I could no longer stay there. Taking my valise in my hand, I left it, resolved not to be the room-mate of such a filthy swine.

I deposited my valise in a corner in the passageway, and went into the saloon. Mr. Solomons was there, and expressed his surprise at seeing me. I freely told him what had transpired in the state-room.

"And you recovered your papers—did you?" said he.

"I did; I was satisfied the fellow had been sent by Tom Thornton, to prevent me from finding my mother."

"No doubt of it, my lad. You must keep away from him now."

"That I shall certainly do, for I would rather sleep in a hog-pen than in such a place as that state-room."

"You shall not sleep there," replied my friend, decidedly; "come with me."

I followed him below, and he conducted me to his own room, and told me to occupy his berth.

"But what will you do?" I asked.

"I will take your berth, and the fellow shall not turn the room into a pigsty."

I objected to this arrangement, and offered to sleep on a sofa in the saloon; but Mr. Solomons persisted, assuring me he should take good care of himself, and would not submit to any annoyance from his room-mate. As soon as this point was settled, I retired, and slept soundly till the breakfast gong roused me from my tired slumbers. When I went to the saloon, E. Dunkswell was in his place at the table; but Mr. Solomons had taken the place which I occupied the day before, so as to bring himself between the obnoxious individual and myself.

E. Dunkswell did not appear to have a ravenous appetite. He looked sheepish and disconcerted; and I could not tell whether it was on account of his spree, because he had discovered the loss of the papers, or because he found in the morning that he had a new room-mate. My friend was cheerful and happy, and so was I. We talked and laughed as though E. Dunkswell had been tipsy, or out of existence. We took no notice of him, either by word or look.

It was a beautiful day, and we adjourned to the hurricane deck to enjoy the cool air and the prospect of the ever-throbbing ocean. Tom Thornton's agent soon followed us. He walked up and down the uneasy deck; and occasionally glanced at me. I thought he had something to say to me; but he evidently did not like my close intimacy with Mr. Solomons. During the day, I occasionally saw him, and he always appeared to be watching me; but I carefully avoided him. On the following day, however, I went forward to the bow alone.

"Passengers not allowed forward of that mark," said a sailor, pointing to a chalk line drawn across the deck. "You are fined, sir."

"What for?" I asked.

"For crossing the line."

"Why don't you put up a notice, so that passengers need not cross it?" I demanded.

"Because they wouldn't go over the line if we did, sir."

"How much is the fine?"

"Anything you please, sir."

It was a practical joke, one of Jack's tricks, and I paid the fine, amid the laughter of half a dozen passengers, who had already been made victims. As I retreated, I encountered E. Dunkswell. He looked sour and savage.

"I want to see you," said he, gruffly.

"I don't want to see you," I replied, continuing on my walk aft.

"You have insulted me," he persisted, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"Insulted you!" I replied, pausing; for I was curious to know in what manner I had insulted so vile a creature as he was.

"You have insulted me!" he repeated.

"You said that before. How?"

"You exchanged berths with that old chap you run with."

"I don't know that it concerns you if I did."

"It was the same as saying that I am not fit company for you," said he, shaking his head.

"If it was, it was also saying that you were fit company for Mr. Solomons," I replied; and I regarded this as a clincher in the line of argument.

"It was not my pleasure to room with him."

"It is not my pleasure to room with you," I added.

"I consider your conduct as an insult to me, and I hold you responsible for it."

"All right," I replied, cheerfully. "Hold away."

"If the old fellow don't go back to his room, there'll be a row."

"The old fellow will do as he pleases about that," I added; "but whether he does or not, I shall not return to your room. I would sleep on the main truck first."

"Do you mean to insult me again?"

"Insult you again!" I exclaimed, indignantly, for my blood was up at the idea of a fellow like him putting on such airs. "No decent man could stay in the room with you, as you were the first night."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You were as drunk as an owl, and made the room smell like a low groggery."

"I confess that I took a little too much that night," said he, suddenly changing his front, and apparently relieved to find that this was the objection to him. "I shall not do it again."

"I shall keep away from you, any how," I added.

"Will you?" he continued, angry again. "That night I lost some valuable articles from my trunk. No one but my room-mate could have taken them. I intend to complain to the captain."

"Indeed! I had a similar experience. I had some valuable letters taken from my valise; and they could have been taken only by my room-mate; but I found them again, and I am satisfied. When you complain to the captain, one story will be good till another is told."

Not wishing to talk with him any longer, I walked aft. He followed me, uttering threats and imprecations, which I did not heed. E. Dunkswell was a disappointed man. He had undertaken a mission which he was not competent to perform. He had failed by his own folly. If he had kept sober he might have retained my papers. He evidently felt his own weakness, and realized that whiskey had caused him to make a mess of it.

His hostility was excited against me, and during the rest of the voyage he watched me with an evil eye, and appeared to be waiting for an opportunity to do something. For my own part, I felt that there was a heavy discount on E. Dunkswell.



CHAPTER XXIV.

IN WHICH ERNEST LANDS AT CROOKHAVEN, AND PROCEEDS TO LONDON.

WE had a remarkably pleasant and quick passage, and on the eighth day from New York, while we were at dinner, I heard the captain say to a lady who sat near him, that we should be off Queenstown the next morning, at six or seven o'clock. I was sorry that we were to approach the land by night, for I wanted to see it.

"You can see it if you choose to sit up all night," laughed Mr. Solomons.

"It will be rather too dark to see anything," I added.

"Not at all; it is about the full of the moon, and it will be as light as day. You can turn in early, and sleep four or five hours. We shall be off Crookhaven, where they throw over the despatch bag, about five or six hours before we stop off Queenstown; that will make it about two in the morning. If you will retire at eight, it will give you six hours' sleep; and you can turn in again and finish your nap after you have seen enough of the shore."

"I think I will do so, sir. What is the despatch bag you speak of?" I asked.

"The despatches are put into a barrel and thrown overboard off Crookhaven, where a steamer picks them up. They are taken ashore and telegraphed to London. The despatches are simply the newspapers, from which the news agent transmits the important items."

After dinner, when I went on deck, I found the carpenter preparing a flour barrel for the despatches. A quantity of sand was put in the bottom to make it stand up straight in the water. A pole was set up in the barrel, like the mast of a vessel, to the top of which a blue-light was attached, to be ignited when it was thrown overboard, in order to enable the despatch steamer to find it readily. In the daytime a red rag is sometimes attached to it, I was told by the carpenter. The papers were placed in a water-tight can, and imbedded in the sand in the barrel.

At sea almost anything creates an excitement, and the preparing the despatch barrel was witnessed by many persons, among whom I noticed Dunkswell. I had observed that he listened very attentively to all that passed between Mr. Solomons and myself at the dinner table. I did not regard this as very strange, for all on board were deeply interested in everything which related to the progress of the steamer.

At eight o'clock I turned in, and went to sleep very soon. I had before made a trade with one of the stewards to call me at two o'clock, and at this hour he waked me. The night was beautiful; the moon shone brightly on the silver waters, and the sea was quite smooth. I did not see a single passenger on the hurricane deck. I made out the outline of some high hills on the shore, and the glimmer of a couple of distant lights. Three men were standing ready to throw over the despatch barrel as soon as the small steamer should appear.

I was a boy then, and had a boy's curiosity to see how everything was done. The hurricane deck was surrounded by an open railing, on the top of which I placed myself, where I could see over the stern of the ship. I was so accustomed to the water, and to high places, that I had no fear of anything. I put my legs over, and sat facing astern.

"Don't sit there, young man; you'll certainly fall overboard," said the officer of the deck, who had come aft to see that the barrel was ready to go over.

"No danger of that," I replied, easily.

"Better get down, and come on board," added a quarter-master.

"I'm an old sailor," I answered, laughing at the caution.

"Steamer on the port bow!" cried some one forward.

"Ready with the barrel!" called the officer.

"All ready, sir!" replied the quarter-master, whose attention was thus turned away from me.

The barrel was lifted over the rail, near where I sat, and held there till the order should be given to let it go. The quarter-master had a match in his hand to light the fireworks. Over on my right I could now see the little steamer, rising and falling on the long swells of the placid, moonlit ocean.

"Light up, Murray!" called the officer, when the despatch boat was but a short distance from the steamer.

The blue-light hissed and flared up when the match was applied, shedding its livid glare upon the weather-stained faces of the seamen.

"Over with it!" shouted the officer.

It soused into the water, and I leaned forward to observe the splash.

"Stand by the fore-braces!" called the officer; and the seamen rushed forward to execute the order.

At that moment I heard a step behind me on the deck; but I was too much absorbed in watching the blue-light on the barrel to heed anything else. The next instant I found myself spinning through the air, and then plunging deep down into the bosom of the tranquil sea. I was in my element now, though it was rather too much element; but I struck out, as soon as I rose to the surface, for the blue-light. I shouted for help; but the great steamer seemed to be hard of hearing, and went on her way as though nothing had happened. I swam as I had never swum before, and reached the barrel just as the despatch boat stopped her wheels to pick it up.

"Steamer ahoy!" I shouted

"Who's there?" called a voice from her deck.

"Man overboard!" I replied, puffing from the violence of my exertions.

"Where away?"

"On the barrel."

"I see him!" said one of the hands, as the bow of the boat ran up to the barrel.

A rope was thrown to me, and I was assisted on board.

"What's the matter? Did you fall overboard from the steamer?" asked a well-dressed, gentlemanly man, on the deck of the boat.

"Yes, sir; I suppose I did; I don't know exactly how it happened," I replied, spitting the salt water out of my mouth.

"You are fortunate to fall over just as the despatch boat was approaching you."

"Probably I shouldn't have fallen overboard if I had not been watching the barrel so intently."

"What shall we do for you?" asked the gentleman, kindly. "Come into the cabin, and get your wet clothes off."

The crew of the steamer were busy getting in the barrel, and my new friend, who was full of sympathy, conducted me to the cabin, where I divested myself of a portion of my clothing. By this time the despatches had been secured, and the captain came below. He gave me a flannel shirt and a pair of trowsers, and sent me to his state-room to put them on. I was very much alarmed about the safety of the contents of my money-belt; but, on removing it, I found that the oiled silk, in which the bank notes and the papers had been enclosed to prevent the perspiration of my body from injuring them, had protected them in a great measure. A few drops of water had penetrated through the folds of the silk, but no harm was done to the documents or the money.

I wrung out the belt and put it on again, after I had wiped myself dry. Clothing myself in the flannel shirt and pants, both of which were "a mile too big for me," I returned to the cabin. The captain then carried all my clothes to the furnace-room to be dried, just as the boat stopped at Crookhaven to land the despatches.

"I suppose you would like to follow the steamer, young man," said the gentleman who had been so kind to me.

"Very much, indeed!" I replied, eagerly; for I feared that the accident would render my mission to England fruitless.

"You are extremely fortunate again," added he. "This steamer is to proceed to Kinsale with me immediately."

Mr. Carmichael, the gentleman who addressed me, proved to be an agent of the telegraph company, who had come down to this station to look after its affairs. His business was finished, and he was in a hurry to reach London; but it was twenty miles, by a rough and tiresome road, to any public conveyance, and the steamer had been placed at his disposal. He told me he should have gone the day before, but the boat was required to be on the watch for the despatches.

"I hope to reach Kinsale in time for the nine o'clock train to Cork," said he. "If we do, you will not be much behind the steamer. Had you any friends on board?"

"Yes, sir, one gentleman," I replied.

"Of course he will be troubled about you. Perhaps you would like to telegraph to him."

I was pleased with this suggestion, for I felt that I had one good friend on board of the ship who would worry about me in the morning, when my absence was discovered. Knowing that Mr. Solomons intended to stay at the Washington Hotel in Liverpool, if he had to wait for a train, and at Morley's in London while in the metropolis, I wrote a brief despatch, to be forwarded to each, which Mr. Carmichael sent to the office. The steamer then proceeded on her trip to Kinsale, at three o'clock.

I was very grateful to Mr. Carmichael and the captain for their kindness to me, and I did not fail to express my obligations in the strongest terms. A berth in the cabin was assigned to me, and as the run to Kinsale would occupy between five and six hours, I turned in to finish my nap. I was too much excited to sleep, and I could not help thinking of what had happened to me. I had never done such a thing as to fall overboard without some help. Though I was not positive, I had a very strong impression that I had felt something on my back, while watching the blue-light on the barrel. Whether it had been the swaying of the signal halyards against me, or the push of a human hand, I was not certain; but I could not help believing that E. Dunkswell had helped me to my involuntary bath. I don't know now, but I still believe it.

I had no doubt he had been instructed by Tom Thornton to see Bunyard before I did. Whether the villain intended to drown me, or only to delay my arrival in London, I have no means of knowing. Doubtless he intended to land at Queenstown, and get to London eight or ten hours before the passengers who proceeded to Liverpool in the steamer. I went to sleep at last, satisfied that I was again the victim of a conspiracy. But when I was awakened at half past eight, in Kinsale harbor, I was also satisfied that the way of the wicked shall not prosper.

My clothes, thoroughly dried, were brought to me, and I dressed myself in season to land for the train for Cork, where we arrived as soon as the mails and those of the passengers who landed there. I breakfasted with Mr. Carmichael at the Royal Victoria, and at twenty minutes of eleven we took the train for Dublin, where we arrived at half past three. Though I made diligent search among the passengers, I could not find E. Dunkswell, and I concluded that he had gone to Liverpool in the steamer. In the evening I took the train for Kingstown, where I embarked in the steamer for Holyhead, at which place I again took a train, and at seven o'clock on Saturday morning was at Morley's, in London, at least eight hours before my fellow-voyagers could arrive.

After I had breakfasted, I took the Bunyard letter from my money-belt, and hastened to find Old Jewry.



CHAPTER XXV.

IN WHICH ERNEST VISITS STONY STRATFORD, AND E. DUNKSWELL COMES TO GRIEF.

THOUGH I was in a strange land, and in the midst of the wonders of the Old World, I had but little curiosity to see the grand sights which London can present. I had been whirled through Ireland, Wales, and England to the great metropolis, part of the time by daylight; and though I had kept my eyes wide open, I realized that my mission was higher and grander than studying landscapes, and wandering through the vaulted arches of old cathedrals.

When Mr. Carmichael told me, early in the morning, that I was in England, the thought that I was in the same country with my mother thrilled me with delight, which, however, was not unmingled with apprehension lest I should seek and not find; lest disease and death had robbed me of her I sought. At the station in Euston Square I had parted with the telegraph agent, with many thanks for his kindness. I took his address, hoping that at some future time I might be able to reciprocate the attention he had bestowed upon me. I may as well say here that Mr. Carmichael afterwards came to the United States, and that I helped him to a situation which paid him ten times the salary he had ever before received, when he was as grateful to me as I had been to him.

Morley's Hotel is in Trafalgar Square, at one end of the Strand. I had looked up Old Jewry in the Post-office Directory. The hall porter of the hotel had given me general directions, and I walked out into the Strand, and took an omnibus with the word "Bank" painted on it. On the top of the London omnibus there is a double seat along the middle, on which the passengers sit facing the buildings on each side of the street. I occupied one of these places. The Bank of England was my objective point, for Old Jewry was near it. I passed St. Paul's, whose towering height and blackened walls I recognized, and entered Cheapside—a name which sounded quite familiar to me. I descended from my perch when the omnibus stopped, and after several inquiries found the place I sought.

Old Jewry was nothing but a narrow lane, and I had no difficulty in finding the number of Mr. Bunyard's office. I followed his name, repeated on the walls, up three flights of stairs; and by the time I had reached the third floor, I came to the conclusion that my uncle's agent was a person of no great consequence. He was fortunately in his room, a little apartment ten feet square, with no furniture but a desk and two chairs. Mr. Bunyard was a man of fifty or more. He stopped writing when I entered, and looked at me.

"Mr. Bunyard?" I asked, as politely as I could, while my heart leaped with emotion.

"The same," replied he.

I handed him the letter, which he opened at once. He took from it a bill of exchange, which seemed to light up his face with satisfaction.

"I am very happy to hear from my friend Mr. Thornton. I hope he is quite well. He does not mention the bearer of this letter," continued the agent, bestowing an inquiring look upon me.

"He was not aware, when he wrote the letter, that I should be the bearer of it," I replied, evasively. "My name is Thornton."

"I am happy to meet you, Mr. Thornton," he added.

"How is Mrs. Thornton now?" I inquired, boldly, though my heart almost sank within me, when I put the question.

He looked at me—appeared to hesitate; but a glance at the letter and the bill of exchange I had brought apparently reassured him. Doubtless he concluded, as I supposed he would, that it was all right, since I came directly from his employer, and was the bearer of a payment to him.

"Mrs. Thornton is quite as well as usual," he replied.

"I wish to see her," I continued, squarely.

"Did your father desire you to see her?" he asked, doubtfully.

"Of course he did," I answered, which was quite true, though my conscience charged me with deceiving him. "I wish to make an arrangement with her."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir."

"It would be proper that any arrangement with her should be made through me," he added, cautiously.

"Of course, the actual business will be done through you," I replied, magnanimously.

"Certainly it should be, for I have served Mr. Thornton very faithfully for many years in this matter, and at a very reasonable compensation."

"I know that he appreciates your devotion, and is willing to do the right thing by you," I continued at a venture; and I thought there was no harm in committing my uncle to a liberal policy.

"I have been paid only one hundred pound a year for my services, and that only for a brief period. Really I must insist, before you see the poor lady, that you should explain your business with her."

"My time is short," I replied, rather brusquely. "I wish to know for what sum, cash down, you will terminate your relations with the lady."

"That will require some consideration," replied he, apparently pleased with the idea.

"Of course your client in this matter is entirely in your power. He cannot shake you off, and whatever arrangement is made with the lady shall be done through you. Now, if you will give me her address, I will go and see her, and in the mean time you can make up your estimate of the sum that ought to be paid to you," I said, with the most business-like air I could assume.

"I will do it," replied he, after some hesitation; and he wrote the address on a piece of paper.

How eagerly I took it! I felt then that the battle had been fought and won. On the paper was written: "Mrs. Thornton, Stony Stratford, Bucks. Inquire for Mrs. Challis." My business with Mr. Bunyard was done, and I hastened away, though he insisted upon my remaining longer. I think he was sorry he had given me the address before I left the room.

Being near the banker's, I drew fifty pounds, which was paid without question.

I went back to Morley's, and ascertained that Stony Stratford was on the road to Rugby, and that I must leave the train at Wolverton station. I called a Hansom cab, and reached Euston Square depot just in time for the train. I will not attempt to describe the emotions which agitated me as I sped over the country. I was on the point of meeting my mother, and though the rich panorama of an English landscape was passing before me, I could think of nothing else. In two hours I reached the Wolverton station, and there learned that it was four and a half miles to Stony Stratford. I engaged a team to take me over. My driver inquired till he found the house of Mrs. Challis. It was a small and mean dwelling, and I began to feel indignant that my mother was compelled to live in such a place. My knock, under the influence of this feeling, was a very decided one.

"Is Mrs. Thornton at home?" I inquired—my utterance almost choked by agitation—of the woman who came to the door.

"She is, but she don't see any one," replied the woman, sourly, as she abruptly closed the door in my face.

I rapped again, and my knuckles not proving sufficient, I used my boot.

"You can't see Mrs. Thornton!" snarled the woman, angrily, as she opened the door a little crack.

"I can and will!" I replied. "Mr. Bunyard sent me."

"O, did he?" she added, opening the door.

"Here's the paper he gave me."

She looked at it, and invited me to enter. My limbs trembled under me as I walked into the room.

"Mrs. Thornton is out in the garden, but I will call her," said Mrs. Challis—or I supposed it was she.

"Never mind calling her. I will see her in the garden," I added, going out of the back door, which was open, without waiting for the woman's permission.

Walking in the back part of the garden I discovered a lady, thin and pale, dressed in coarse but neat garments. It was my mother. I could hardly control myself. My eyes filled with tears as I looked at her.

"Mrs. Thornton?" I asked, tremblingly.

"I am Mrs. Thornton," replied she, gazing curiously at me.

"I suppose you know Amos Thornton?" I continued, not daring to tell her who I was.

"To my sorrow I do," she replied, shaking her head.

"I have heard that you had a son."

"He is gone—why do you ask?"

"Gone?"

"He is dead," said she, sadly.

"Are you sure?"

"For a long time I would not believe it."

"I think it is a mistake."

Her chest heaved with emotion, and the tears flowed down her pale cheek. She gazed at me a moment, and then threw her arms around my neck.

"You are my son—I know you are!" sobbed she.

"My mother!" was all I could say; and we wept for many minutes in silence, closely folded in each other's arms.

When I raised my head, Mrs. Challis was standing by us. She had a troubled look, as though she feared something had gone wrong.

"What does all this mean?" she asked; but neither of us took any notice of her.

"I have hoped all the time that you were not dead," said my mother, smiling through her tears.

"I must return to London immediately, and you must go with me, mother," I continued.

"To London!" exclaimed Mrs. Challis. "Indeed she must not go to London!"

"Indeed she must!" I added, as decidedly as though I meant to break through a stone wall, if need be. "Get ready as quick as you can, mother, for there is not more than time enough for us to reach the station."

"I say she cannot go!" interposed Mrs. Challis.

"And I say she can and shall! Get your clothes, mother."

"There is three pound five due for her board," added the landlady.

"Give me the bill, and I will pay it."

My mother seemed to be bewildered, but I led her to the house, and urged her to prepare for her journey. Mrs. Challis, after I had paid her bill, continued to object to the departure of her boarder. I told her if she wished to keep out of trouble, the less she said, the better it would be for her. My poor mother had been so long a prisoner, that she was confused by the sudden change in her prospects. I went into her room, and assisted her in packing her meagre wardrobe. She had put on a well-worn black silk dress, and an antiquated bonnet lay on the table. I told her to take only such clothing as she would need immediately, for I saw that most of her wearing apparel was not worth the transportation. Having thrust these articles into a carpet-bag, I hurried her out of the house to the carriage which was waiting for me at the door.

We reached the station in time for the London train. My mother was excited, and I did not permit her to speak of the past. I kept up a lively conversation, and did not allow her to think of her wrongs and her sorrows. On our arrival, we went to Morley's, where I obtained a room for her. Mr. Solomons had just arrived. He had received the telegraphic despatch in Liverpool. I hastily told him my story, and what I had done since my arrival in London.

"My dear boy!" exclaimed he, "you have done wonders. I was sure you were lost overboard. No one had seen you, or heard anything of you; only the officers and sailors had warned you not to sit on the rail."

"Where is Dunkswell?" I asked.

"He came to London in the same train I did."

At my request Mr. Solomons accompanied me to the office of Bunyard. When we entered, Dunkswell was there. Both of them had found out that "somebody" was smart.

"Young man, you have deceived me!" said Bunyard, savagely.

"The wicked deceiveth himself," I replied, in words better than my own. "I have called to say that you need give yourself no further trouble in regard to Mrs. Thornton. I wish to tell you now that she is in London, and that she is my mother."

"I must be paid—"

"Paid!" I interposed. "I'll pay you! We are not far from Newgate, and if my mother is willing, I will help you to lodgings there. As for you, E. Dunkswell, you can go back to Tom Thornton, and tell him you have burnt your fingers. You helped me overboard."

"I!" exclaimed he, with quivering lip.

"Did he?" asked Mr. Solomons.

"I believe he did; perhaps I can prove it."

E. Dunkswell sank into a chair, pale as a ghost. Bunyard looked cheap, and said no more about being paid, and I retired from the presence of my defeated foes. Mr. Solomons insisted that they should be punished, especially Dunkswell, but I told him I could not prove that he had pushed me overboard; and I could not stay in London long enough to follow up the criminal. I engaged passage in the Saturday steamer for my mother and myself before returning to the hotel.

We remained four days in London, during which time I kept my mother's mind fully occupied in replenishing her wardrobe.



CHAPTER XXVI.

IN WHICH ERNEST RETURNS TO PARKVILLE WITH HIS MOTHER, AND THE STORY ENDS ON THE SHORES OF LAKE ADIENO.

IF E. Dunkswell had not helped me overboard, as I think he did, he might have reached London before I did, and thus defeated me, at least for a time. Twice had he confused and confounded his own schemes. Bunyard, deceived by the letter I had brought from my uncle, gave me the address of my mother. If not before, he learned his blunder when Dunkswell arrived. I could fancy the confusion with which they confronted each other when the facts came out. But it was "all up" with them. They had been "whipped out," and I was satisfied. I did not wish to prosecute them, because it would delay me, and because it would expose our family affairs, and subject my mother to more excitement than she could bear.

She was weak and nervous, and I did not encourage her to talk much of the past. I went with her to Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, and other places with which she was familiar. On Friday afternoon we bade adieu to Mr. Solomons, and went to Liverpool. My mother was now entirely changed in appearance. She had laid aside her worn-out black silk and her unfashionable bonnet. She looked like a lady, and she was one. I was proud of her. The future was now full of hope and joy to me, and I was the happiest young man in the world.

On Saturday we sailed for home. My mother seemed then to feel that she was out of the reach of the enemy who had persecuted her for so many years. She overcame her nervousness, and her strength increased every day. I had purchased a rocking-chair in Liverpool for her use on the hurricane deck, and every pleasant day we sat together there. On these days my mother told me what she had suffered. I had not permitted her to do so before, anxious as I was to learn the facts. I will state them briefly, as I derived them from these conversations.

My mother was born in Paris of English parents, but both of them died before she was eighteen. She was well educated, and being left without any means of support, she became a governess in an American family residing in the city. Here my father made her acquaintance, and married her. They lived in Philadelphia three years, and I was born there. When I was two years old, my mother's only relative, a bachelor uncle, died in London, leaving a considerable estate. She was notified that a portion of the property would go to her by will. My father's health was poor, and he had decided to take up his residence for a few years in the south of France, and my mother's affairs induced him to hasten his departure.

Leaving his property in the hands of his brother Amos, he sailed for Europe, accompanied by his wife and son. On his arrival in London he found the affairs of my mother's uncle in great confusion. Another will had been produced, in which my mother's name was not mentioned. My father believed there was fraud, or that the second will had been made under illegal pressure, and he contested it. The proceedings detained him in London a year; at the end of which time, having lost the case, his health was entirely broken down by fatigue and excitement. Conscious that he should not live to return to his native land, he sent for his brother Amos, to assist him in settling his worldly affairs. The will was made, and he died.

His death was a terrible blow to my mother, and being of a very sensitive nature, it affected her reason. She became insane, and Amos sent her to a private asylum, within a month after my father's funeral. Until this time, probably, the brother had no intention of defrauding her and her son. Amos had all the property of my father in his own hands. The temptation was great, and finding that my mother's health did not improve, he decided to return to America, with his son Thomas, who accompanied him, taking me with him in charge of a nurse. The care of my mother was left to Mr. Bunyard, who was to pay her bills. My mother was the inmate of the asylum for two years, though she was cured in less than one.

She was discharged, and Mr. Bunyard conveyed her to a small village in Hampshire, assuring her that Amos would come for her soon; but year after year she hoped to see her son, till she was told that he was dead. Her residence was changed every two or three years, for what reason she did not know; but every time it was for the worse, until her food, clothing, and accommodations were not better than those of the poorest class. I readily perceived that it was to enable Mr. Bunyard to make more money out of his victim, by paying less for her board. My uncle sent him two hundred pounds a year, but he did not spend fifty upon her.