Mr. Martin immediately answered this letter, by requesting William to come to him as soon as he could be spared from the duties of his ship. As Capt. Elliott found he should be detained in town longer than he at first expected, he thought it cruel to keep William from going to his father a day longer than was necessary; he therefore despatched him off by the mail, about a week after he had heard from Mr. Martin.

As soon as this news had reached the Manse, both Helen and her father felt the greatest anxiety; wishing, yet fearing to see one who would recall so many bitter thoughts to their minds. The having a few days to prepare themselves for this meeting was of great service to them: for, long before the time of his arrival was come, the delight of once more seeing a being so beloved had overcome in their minds all unpleasant reflections. Not so with Mrs. Elliott. When his arrival in England was first mentioned to her she made no remark, not even when it was told her that he was coming down with her son; but, as soon as she understood that he was coming alone, she informed Helen she was determined to go away before he arrived, and would take that time for paying a long promised visit to some friends at Melrose. Helen was absolutely in despair when she heard this. Her grandmother had been very far from well for some time, and was in her opinion quite unable to take such a journey; she therefore used every argument she could think of herself, being very unwilling to let her father know any thing of the matter if she could possibly help it, but all was in vain. She was therefore obliged, at last, to tell him what was her grandmother's intention. Mr. Martin was excessively distressed. He joined Helen in her entreaties, representing, in the mildest way, the great necessity we all have for forgiveness from our heavenly father, and that therefore it becomes a first-rate duty to forgive those who injure us. Poor William, now that he was sensible of his former bad conduct, was in fact an object rather of pity than of dislike; since in all probability he would never in this life be able to forgive himself. All their arguments were however vain, till Helen said, "Well, my dear grandmother, since you really are determined to act in this cruel manner, it must deprive me of the pleasure of enjoying my brother's society whilst he is here; for, in the state of your health, I consider my self bound, both by affection and the solemn promise I gave my dearest mother on her death-bed, never to separate from you while you require any assistance; and I never will, however much it may cost me. My father will receive William, and I hope will explain to him the great sacrifice I am taking in not remaining to welcome him; I have no doubt my brother will come and see me at the inn at Melrose; for I know not how I could bear to be entirely deprived of seeing an object, endeared to me, both by natural affection, and by the strong injunctions of one whom, I trust, I have never yet intentionally disobeyed."—"You are right, my dearest girl," said her father, "your grandmother must not be permitted to go alone in the present state of her health. It is a great sacrifice we must all make to part at this time; but to you, my sweet child, it is even of more importance than to any of us, as it must in a great degree prevent that intimacy and friendship taking place with your brother, which I think of essential consequence to the happiness of you both, and which you may not have another opportunity of forming for many years; but we must act (according to our best judgment) up to our duty, however much that duty may be unpleasant to us." Mrs. Elliott said she would on no account agree to this arrangement; but finding that nothing could shake Helen's resolution, she then proposed going only into Langholm, where she thought she might easily procure lodgings. "I can, I am sure," said she, "get Marion Scott to come and be with me, when you are in the Manse; and by this plan you can both see me every day. And besides, Mrs. Armstrong will then be near me, if any thing should be the matter. Will you, my dear son, agree to this plan? I cannot, indeed I cannot see William and live," added she, in great agitation: "at least I feel quite unable to bring my mind to it: I bear him no ill will; on the contrary, I shall ever be thankful to God for his reformation and prosperity, but I feel I was myself greatly to blame in my conduct towards him whilst under my charge; and to see him now would bring the recollection of my own culpability so strongly to my mind, that I am persuaded my life would fall a sacrifice to the acuteness of my feelings." Mr. Martin and Helen now thought it improper to press her further upon the subject; but they agreed that it would be much more satisfactory to them to adopt the plan of going into Langholm, than that at the present season (for it was now December) she should take so long a journey as Melrose. Helen proposed speaking to Mr. Armstrong on the subject who, as he was an unmarried man and had a good house, she did not doubt, for the few weeks her grandmother might require it, would offer to receive her at his own home.

Mr. Martin liked the idea very much, and said he would walk into Langholm and endeavour to arrange something immediately, as they had very little time, William being expected in the course of two days. Helen in the mean time got her pony and rode up to Mr. Scott's, to make her request concerning Marion. She felt that if she could succeed in this her mind would be quite at ease, as Marion was extremely handy and attentive, and what was of equal importance, a great favourite of Mrs. Elliott's; she might therefore with safety and satisfaction to herself be able to be a great deal at the Manse, without feeling any anxiety at leaving her grandmother. Mrs. Scott cheerfully agreed to her request. "I am sure, Miss Helen," said she, "any thing that Marion can ever be able to do for you or your worthy father she will have the greatest pleasure in doing; and I cannot, my dear miss, wonder much at the old lady's disliking to meet her grandson. Being a mother myself," continued she, looking at Marion with affection, "I do not think I could ever bear to see any one who, however innocently, occasioned the loss of my child. Oh, no! (shuddering at the bare thought of it). I am sure I could not." "We must and ought to forget and forgive, Mrs. Scott," answered Helen. "Poor William was but a boy when he brought so much distress upon us; but he is quite an altered character now I do assure you, and I am certain would not give any of us a minute's uneasiness."—"I am rejoiced to hear you say so; the sight of him will then be a cordial and a blessing to our dear and esteemed friend the minister; pardon my presumption in styling him so, but a friend in the truest sense of the word he is to us, and indeed to all that are in the dale." Helen now wished her good morning, she having promised to send Marion down in the evening. "I shall send John up early," said Helen, "that he may carry her parcel, and take care of her, for it gets soon dark at this time of the year."—"That will do nicely," said Mrs. Scott; "I was just thinking how unlucky it was her father was not at home to-day; he is gone down as far as Canonby this morning, and it will be late before he returns."

Mr. Martin had settled with Mr. Armstrong, that Mrs. Elliott and Marion were to be his visitors, as he would not for a moment hear of their going anywhere else; and Mrs. Elliott, when informed of the arrangements, expressed herself perfectly satisfied. "I am glad it has happened, my dear," said she to Helen, "that Mr. Armstrong can take me into his own house, for now you and your dear father will feel satisfied that I am quite comfortable. It has given me the greatest distress that I have been obliged to vex you both as I have done, but you must pardon an old woman, who has not strength now left, either of body or mind, to make the exertion that would have been necessary to have acted otherwise. Had I attempted it, I think it would have brought on you more serious evils than the little inconvenience of my changing my residence for a few weeks."

The following morning, a chaise, which Mr. Martin had ordered from Langholm, arrived to carry Mrs. Elliott and Marion to Mr. Armstrong's. Helen went along with them, and having stayed to see them safely settled, and all her grandmother's little comforts placed around her, she returned home to her dear father, well knowing that he required her society at that moment even more than the old lady.



CHAP. XII.

About six o'clock in the evening, William arrived, with a countenance, oh, how unlike that which we formerly described, when he entered Mr. Lamont's parlour to meet his dear mother and uncle! Instead of that elastic step which expresses health and happiness, instead of the sparkling eye and rosy cheek which he possessed when they last parted with him, Helen, who had flown out on the green to meet him, as much to give her father time to compose himself as to show her brother her eagerness to see him, beheld by the light which John held up a dark sun-burnt young man, standing as if he was trying to gain courage to come forward, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the ground. On hearing Helen's voice, he started forward and caught her in his arms, "My own sister! this is kind indeed. I do not deserve this reception; but you was ever kind and good from your earliest days. Where is my father? Oh!" said he, convulsively, "how can I enter that door? how can I see my much-injured parent?" "My dearest brother," said Helen, recalled in a moment to her self-possession, "for that parent's sake endeavour to be composed. Let this much-desired meeting be conducted with as little agitation as you can possibly give him. He is not able to endure violent emotion, not even suspense; let me therefore hasten you into his presence. You will find him all goodness and affection towards a so-long absent son." Thus saying, she hurried him into the study, and before he had time to know almost where he was, he found himself clasped to his father's heart. He soon disengaged himself, and falling on his knees covering his face with his hands, implored his father would pronounce his forgiveness and blessing before he would dare to look him in the face. Mr. Martin immediately, in a most emphatic way, and with much more composure than his daughter believed he could command, pronounced both; and having done so held out his hand, saying, "Now, my dear boy, for my sake as well as your own, and as you value the blessing you have just received, let no reference to past circumstances ever be made during your short visit here. We must now endeavour to be happy, and enjoy the blessing which is granted to us by a kind Providence, of once more meeting together, without embittering our present hours by reflections which can answer no good purpose, and only tend to make us wretched." So saying, he added, cheerfully, "look at your sister, William; she is much grown since you saw her, and I shall be quite disappointed if you do not admire her."—"No fear, my dearest father, that I shall fail either in admiration or love to such a sister," answered William; "I owe her too much gratitude not to be prepared to find her little short of perfection; she has been," continued he, kissing her, "my comforter and adviser for the last six years; and I am sure her correspondence with me during that time deserves to be published, to show sisters how to treat with effect a brother who required admonition coupled with tenderness." They now sat down to tea; and upon the whole spent a more cheerful evening than Helen had dared to hope.

William was still extremely handsome: his complexion had suffered by exposure to the sea-air and the heat of the climate he had been in, but this circumstance, in his sister's eyes, seemed to have improved him, by giving him a more manly appearance than his years would otherwise have admitted of, as he was now barely twenty. His large sparkling eyes, which formerly used to flash at every sudden turn of temper, where now softened down to a mild, placid expression, occasionally brightened by good humour and warm feelings to those around him, particularly to his sister, whom each succeeding day rendered more dear to him; but the common expression of his face was decidedly mournful, and Helen saw plainly, that his lamented mother was never for one moment absent from his mind.

Captain Elliott arrived about ten days after William. He was inexpressibly surprised to find his mother not at the Manse. "Where is my mother," exclaimed he, as he looked round, "that she does not come to welcome her long absent son? is she ill?" asked he, turning to Helen. "No, my dear brother," answered Mr. Martin, "I will explain to you the reason of her absence when we are alone; you will see her soon." So saying, he led him into the next room to inform him where she was; for Helen had entreated that her brother might be spared the agony of knowing she had refused to see him. As she had never been mentioned, by her own particular desire, in any of their letters, further than that she continued well, he had not an idea but that she remained at Melrose, and he felt rather surprised that his father had not proposed his going over to see her; but he satisfied himself that he was waiting till his uncle arrived, and therefore asked to questions about it. When his father and uncle retired, he looked at Helen, and said, "My dear sister, what is this secret about our grandmother? How came my uncle to fancy she was here? Has she left you lately?" Helen was much distressed, but with infinite presence of mind answered, "My brother heard that my father did not choose to explain before him my uncle's questions; therefore, I am sure, he will not press me to say any thing my father did not wish known. All I can tell you is, that our good grandmother is well, and that she was here lately, but is now gone." William remained silent a few moments; then, taking his sister's hand, said, "My grandmother will not see the wretched cause of so much sorrow; she has not forgiven me; I see and understand the whole now. I am sure I do not blame her, poor dear woman; she may, perhaps, be brought to forgive me in time, but it is what I never can hope or even wish to do myself." Helen was silent; she could not deny that what her brother suspected was indeed the truth, but she would not confirm it, by which means he remained in ignorance of the near residence of Mrs. Elliott. Helen and her uncle spent usually the greatest part of the day at Langholm, whilst Mr. Martin, delighted with his son, seldom ever separated from him till their return. William had been made by his uncle to attend to his studies every moment he could be spared from his duty in the ship, and being naturally clever, and in fact fond of his book, had gained considerable information on most subjects.

The father and son now seemed exactly formed for giving pleasure and delight to each other; and it plainly appeared to Captain Elliott, that it would be difficult to say which of them would suffer most when a separation became necessary. One very stormy evening, Mr. Martin and William were sitting alone in the study, Helen and her uncle having remained to dine with Mrs. Elliott; as the wind howled in the chimney; William said, "I cannot think what takes Helen so much into Langholm; I am glad, however, that my uncle is with her, for I really do not think it is a night for her to be out in."—"I am not uneasy," answered her father; "your uncle will bring her safe, in some way or other. Helen does not mind a little wind or rain; she is not a fine lady."—"I shall return her, however," answered William, laughing, "one of her lessons to me on prudence. It is not often I can catch an opportunity of showing my superior wisdom, and I won't lose this one, I can tell her."

Just as he finished this speech, John opened the door. "Sir, if you please," said he, in the utmost agitation, "I know not what to do: in coming down the hill I called at Mr. Scott's to walk to Langholm with Marion, as Miss Helen gave her leave to go and spend the morning with her mother. It was so boisterous a night, I meant to try to persuade her to stay there, and allow me to go and tell Miss Helen she had done so; but her mother told me, when I got into the house, that Marion, seeing the storm coming, insisted on setting off, as she said her absence would vex Miss Helen very much; I therefore ran down the road, as fast as the wind and drifting snow would allow me, but she has never arrived at Langholm, Sir, nor can I hear a word of her at any of the houses, all along the dale. The very thought of what may have happened to her drives me almost distracted; what can I do, Sir? I have come to you, as perhaps you may be able to think of something that I may yet do to save her." Both William and his father started up, and began buttoning their coats to go in search of the poor little girl. William, however, remonstrated against his father's attempting to expose himself to such a storm; but Mr. Martin, more intent upon doing what he conceived to be his duty than mindful of his own health, still persevered in his preparations, till William firmly, though respectfully, said "My dearest father, it is a thing I cannot possibly consent to. John and I are strong healthy lads, that are both used to disregard either wind or weather. You may be certain that we shall both make every possible exertion for this girl's safety; but if you persevere in your intention of exposing so precious a life, where, I am sure, your strength can be but of little use, I feel it be my duty to remain where I am, and guard my father from distressing both myself and my excellent sister. Could she ever pardon me, were I to permit you to quit your house on such an errand, and on such a night? Even were it herself that was to be sought for, I would act exactly as I am now doing; therefore, unless you give me a solemn promise not to quit this room till I return, I cannot assist John in his search." Mr. Martin, seeing he was resolved, wisely took off the great coat he had been buttoning on, whilst his son was speaking. "Well, William, I believe you are right," said he, "I am not at liberty to expose a life so precious to my children. Go with John; I promise you, I will not stir from this fireside till you return. I need not entreat of you to make every exertion for poor Marion. She is little less dear to me that my own child, and it is in our service that she has got into this difficulty. I know I can trust to John to do all that is in his power, in this cause."

William and John left the house, well wrapt up in maudes, and each carrying a lantern. For nearly two hours they searched all along the holm, which they thought the most likely place to find poor Marion; for there the wind seemed to beat with such violence, as to render it impossible for a girl of her years to have strength to withstand it. The snow by this time was a foot deep, and in some places it was drifted so much as to be nearly up to their knees. Again they returned up the river, but still without the slightest success. At this time John thought he heard a dog howl, near a turn of the road about half way between Langholm and the Manse; and following the sound, William sprung forward, and with very great difficulty forced his way through some brushwood entirely covered with snow, towards an excavation in the rock which terminated the holm, and almost reached the river, only leaving room for the road to wind round it. As he approached this place the dog was distinctly heard; and John, exclaiming, "It is Trusty's voice, Marion must be here," pushed before William, who was not so well acquainted with the ground as he was. When he got quite close to the excavation, Trusty, who had heard footsteps, sprung out and barked, running back again. John followed, calling on Marion, and at length, holding up his lantern, he beheld Marion indeed, but she appeared to him to be quite dead. She lay under the rock, her head resting on a stone, and a small bundle firmly clasped in her hands. John stooped to try to raise her, but he trembled so much, and was so persuaded that they had come too late, that his strength entirely failed him; he could only cry, "Mr. William, she is gone for ever!" and sunk almost insensible by her side. William by this time had raised up her head, and felt her pulse, and perceiving that it still beat, though very languidly, was persuaded that if they could get immediate assistance she might be saved; he therefore said, "Rise, John, and let us lose no time in reaching Langholm; there is need for the greatest exertion; Marion may yet be saved, if we can only manage to carry her to Mr. Armstrong's. Do you take the lantern, and I will carry her in my arms; I am stronger than you, and not quite so nervous: so move, and remember, her life may depend upon a very few minutes' delay." John, recalled to himself by the prospect of saving her, went on as fast as the wind and the snow, drifting in his face, would allow him, and with incredible fatigue and difficulty they succeeded in reaching Mr. Armstrong's door in less than half an hour, with their apparently lifeless burthen. John knocked, and the door being opened, William waited not an instant, but pushed forward into the first room he could find, calling loudly for Mr. Armstrong. He laid Marion on a sofa that stood near the door, and then threw himself on the carpet, quite exhausted from the fatigue he had undergone. On opening his eyes, he found his sister rubbing his face and hands, with every mark of alarm in her countenance; and directly opposite to him sat his grandmother, gazing on him so earnestly that her countenance seemed absolutely convulsed with agitation. "Where, oh where have you brought me," exclaimed he, "my dear Helen! Why did you let my grandmother see me? Look, she is dying; the sight of me has killed her."

On William's fainting, Helen was too much frightened to think any thing about her grandmother, but had continued bathing her brother's temples and rubbing his hands till he became sensible and uttered the above sentence. His words recalled her to her recollection, and looking up, she was indeed frightened to see the agitation of her countenance. "My dearest grandmother, speak to me I beseech you," said she; "William shall leave the room the moment he is able to stand; he knew not that you were here." Mrs. Elliott at last struggled to speak, and said, "Oh! I thought never again to have seen that face, as a punishment for my own faulty indulgence; but now that an unforeseen accident has thrown him before me, I have not strength to resist, and I hope I do not act very criminally in indulging myself once more by clasping my idolized unfortunate boy in my withered arms; God knows what I have suffered by refusing myself this consolation." William did not wait to hear her finish the sentence, but threw himself on his knees before her, imploring her once more to receive and forgive him all his offences.

This reconciliation seemed to remove a load from her mind; for from the time she had left the Manse she never had been seen to smile, and a restless watchfulness, instead of her usual quiet and composed manners, had led Helen sometimes to suspect she had repented of having persevered in leaving her home; but still she would not allow the slightest hint to that effect, and had never even asked a word about William.

Meantime Marion had been laid on a bed, and every means having been used to bring her out of the trance into which she had fallen, after nearly two hours' exertion she showed signs of recovery. Mr. Armstrong insisted on her being left perfectly quiet; and they now thought it would be best for John to return to the Manse and ease Mr. Martin's mind as to her safety. "I will do that with pleasure," said John, "and I must likewise try to get up to Craigie Hall, for her poor mother will be almost distracted if she hears by any accident that she was missing. I went twice and looked in at her window to see if her daughter had returned home, but I did not go into the house for fear of alarming her, so I hope as yet she knows nothing of the matter." William now rose and said he must go home to his father; "I pledged myself to return," said he, "as soon as Marion was in safety, and I must keep my word; good night, my dear madam, I hope to-morrow morning Helen may prevail with you to return to the Manse." So saying he kissed her, and then taking an affectionate leave of his sister, left the house accompanied by John, who was not perfectly satisfied at being obliged to go without seeing Marion himself; however, Mr. Armstrong promised that he should have that gratification the next morning.

They found Mr. Martin and Captain Elliott waiting impatiently for their return. The accounts William gave them of what had passed imparted the greatest satisfaction to Mr. Martin, who, after making them eat something, insisted upon their going to bed immediately. He would not allow John to go to Craigie Hall that night, but promised to send his own herd-boy up to Mrs. Scott's in the morning.

Nothing very particular, from this time, happened during William's stay in Eskdale. Mrs. Elliot was prevailed on to return to the Manse, and spent three weeks in the midst of all that was now dear to her. Marion recovered, after a few days' illness. She told them, when she was able to come to the Manse, that, on leaving her father's house that dreadful evening, she thought from the look of the skies she should be able to get to Langholm before the storm began; but it increased so rapidly, that, after she was beyond the Manse, she repented not having gone in there, yet still she had no great alarm. However, about half way down the holm, the snow fell so thick as completely to blind her, and the wind drove her backwards and forwards so violently, that at last, she did not know where she was. The last thing she recollected, was finding herself under the rock; and as it sheltered her a little, she thought it best to sit down and regain her strength before she attempted to turn round the point of the rock. As she was doing so, she felt Trusty close beside her, which, she said, comforted her in her distress. She supposed that she fell asleep while she was sitting, and fell down, for she had no recollection of lying down, where, if assistance had not arrived, in a very little time longer all aid would have been in vain.

Captain Elliott now began to say he must think of leaving Eskdale. William dreaded the very thoughts of a separation from his father; but he had carved out his own destiny, and there was now no alternative. Poor Mr. Martin seemed to fear, every time his brother opened his mouth, that he was to hear the sentence of William's banishment. It had been settled some time, that John was to accompany them, as Captain Elliot wished to have a servant from that country, and Mr. Martin immediately thought of John. "You can never," said he, "have a more careful, active lad, nor one who will conduct himself with greater propriety and honesty than my poor orphan boy will do; but you must expect a certain degree of awkwardness at first, which I really believe he will soon get the better of; and I confess," added he, "since I must part from my dear son, I shall be more comfortable in knowing that he will have another attached, though humble friend, in the ship with him, on whom I can in all difficulties rely for attention and fidelity to any one who belongs to me."

Every thing was now prepared for our travellers; and, much as Helen felt in separating from her friends, she even now wished that they were gone, on her father's account. He neither ate nor slept, and seemed in a continual state of agitation. At last, the day was finally fixed for their departure; Mr. Martin heard it in silence, but, from that moment, never suffered William out of his sight; indeed, poor William was equally unwilling to move from his side. They often sat together for hours, holding each other's hand, not daring to utter a sentence. The morning of the departure produced a most affecting scene, and it required almost all Captain Elliott's strength of mind and resolution to separate the father and son. They clung to each other again and again, as if they had a presentiment that they should meet no more. Poor John was almost as violently affected: his master, as he always called Mr. Martin, was as dear to him as a father. He stood by, witnessing this heartbreaking struggle, overpowered with his own feelings, and wretched at seeing his dear respected master undergoing such a trial. "Ah, Miss Helen," whispered he, "what would I give to get one kiss of my master's hand before I leave him! But do not intrude on him: I would not add to his distress for any satisfaction it might give me. Do not tell him I ever mentioned it." Helen thought, however, it might perhaps divert her father's attention into another channel. She therefore said, loud enough for him to hear her, "John, Sir, wishes to take leave of you, will not you let him kiss your hand?"—"My poor fellow," replied Mr. Martin, "come to me and receive my blessing. A dutiful and affectionate boy I have ever found you, since you have been under my care; and now remember, all the love and affection you have shown me I entreat maybe continued to my son; be a dutiful and obedient servant to your master; be sure and write to me on every opportunity; and now, God bless you!" So saying, before John was aware of his intention, he clasped him in his arms and kissed him. John from that moment fancied himself raised in his own estimation, far above any thing he could have looked to. He flew out of the room to conceal his feelings; and, in a few seconds, the travellers had left the Manse.



CHAP. XIII.

Soon after their arrival in London an order for sailing arrived, and they were all obliged to get on board, without having time to show John much of the wonders of the metropolis. They however had the satisfaction of receiving good accounts from the Manse. Helen wrote to this effect, that, within a few days after the parting was once fairly over, her father recovered in a great degree his spirits, and that she had great hopes of seeing him soon as cheerful as ever. Marion wrote to John, and told him that she had been with Miss Helen for some days, and that she thought they were all much better than she had expected to find them; "but," she added, "the dale now looks so melancholy, I can scarcely believe it the same place."

The Amazon was now sent into the Mediterranean, therefore it was seldom that letters could pass between our navigators and their friends in Eskdale. About a year after they had left England, Captain Elliott received a letter, on putting into Gibraltar, from Mr. Martin, informing him of the sudden death of his mother. He said she had been complaining a few days, but they were not in the least alarmed till the day before her death, when Helen thought she perceived a change in her manner of speaking, and sent for Mr. Armstrong, who immediately saw she had had a stroke of the palsy. Nothing could be done; and before the next morning, another stroke carried her off. From the time she became seriously ill, she never quitted Helen's hand; having her near her seemed her only consolation.

Every letter that Mr. Martin received was filled with John's praises, Captain Elliott affirming he was a perfect treasure to him as a servant, as well as a great acquisition to the ship's company, and that he was such a happy good-tempered fellow that he was beloved by every one on board. William wrote regularly to his father, and his letters constituted the chief enjoyment of Mr. Martin's life. John sent him an account of all he saw and heard, that he thought would in any way serve to amuse either him or Helen; and, at the same time, he never forgot to send a letter to Marion in every packet.

This kind of communication had continued about two years, when one afternoon the sailors on board the Amazon discovered a strange sail at a distance, and Captain Elliott gave orders to give chase to her directly. As she was but a slow sailer they soon gained on her, and when they came near enough, William was ordered into the boat, to go alongside and discover what she was. The wind blew rather fresh, and the clouds looked lowering. John, who was standing on deck, took alarm at the weather, and coming up to William as he was preparing to enter the boat, endeavoured to persuade him to speak to the Captain before he went. "He has not looked at the sky, I am sure," said John, "or he would never send you on such an expedition"—"Pho! pho!" answered William, "we must have no fresh-water sailors here. Go I must; so there is no alternative. My orders are explicit."—"Then, Sir, permit me to go with you," said John. "I am an expert swimmer, which you are not; and I really feel so very wretched and uncomfortable at seeing my master's son go out in such a night, that if you won't take me otherwise, I will run and get the Captain's orders to be of the party, and then you cannot refuse."—"No, John," said William, "if there really is danger, I shall not needlessly expose more lives than I can help. God bless you, my lad. See that you have a dry shirt for me, when I come back; for I think we are likely to have wet jackets. Here is my key. Mind your orders!" So saying, he jumped into the boat; and though John ran as quick as he could, to get the Captain's permission to accompany him, the boat had left the ship by the time he came back. John staid on deck, watching with a glass all the boat's movements; he saw it safe alongside the other vessel, where it was detained nearly half-an-hour, he then had just light enough to see it leave the ship on its way back.

Oh! what an anxious hour was the next! The wind had been gradually rising, and by this time nearly blew a hurricane. John could conceal his uneasiness no longer; he ran down below to the Captain, who had been unwell, and was lying in his cot. "Captain Elliott," exclaimed he, "for God's sake get up, and see if any thing can be done to save Mr. William."—"Good God! John," said Captain Elliott, starting up from a sound sleep, "it blows a hurricane. How long has the boat been out? Why was I not called before?" John said that the sailors on deck, even now, did not consider there was any danger; but that the boat had been parted from the other ship above an hour, and he could not help feeling very uneasy. The night was excessively dark, and it rained in torrents.

Captain Elliott got on deck instantly; he was perfectly convinced that John had not been alarmed without good cause. Every expedient that could be thought of was tried. They hung out lights at every part of the ship, to direct the boat in its course; but alas! no boat appeared. Such a night of wretchedness did Captain Elliott and John spend, as cannot possibly be related. When day broke, it required force to prevent John from throwing himself into the sea, as if he meant to search the ocean for his dear master's son. He absolutely screamed with agony, when a boat that had been sent out in search of the one missing returned, bringing a hat, with poor William's name inside of it. There was not a shadow of hope. Captain Elliott, who till now had never quitted the deck, fainted away at this confirmation of the ruin of all his poor brother's happiness, and indeed of his own.

William had been as dear to him as a son, almost from the moment he had seen him; and for the last eight years they had scarcely ever been separated. He was carried down to his cabin insensible, whilst poor John's equal, though more violent grief, attracted the attention of the first lieutenant, who had him taken to his own cabin, and endeavoured in every way he could think of to soften the misery he could not remove.

Several weeks passed over their heads, and no opportunity offered of writing to England. Indeed both Captain Elliott and John dreaded the thoughts of putting pen to paper to give this intelligence. "It will kill his father," said the Captain; "but I shall never live to hear it, most probably." John asked him if he felt unwell; "I am not well, John," answered he; "my complaints were but trifling till this unlucky affair; my head and soul were wrapt up in that boy, and to lose him in such a way has quite ruined my constitution. Take my advice, John," added he, "return to Eskdale as soon as you have an opportunity. Now that poor William is gone, you will be a comfort to his father, should he survive the blow, which I do not believe; but in all events, you may be of serious use to my poor niece, who, God knows, will require a friend. Promise me, John, that you will be this friend, and I shall feel more comfortable in looking forward to my own death." John gave him the promise required; and there was no opportunity of resuming the subject.

The very next morning after this conversation, an engagement took place with two large French frigates. Captain Elliott and his crew performed prodigies of valour; but at last, unfortunately, Captain Elliott received a shot through the heart, which killed him on the spot. He fell into the arms of John, who stood behind him, and was carried below, in hopes that the wound was not mortal; but the surgeon only shook his head; all was over.

When the ship was taken possession of by the French, John was found sitting on the floor of the cabin, by the side of his captain's body, perfectly insensible to all that was passing around him. He took no notice of any thing, till they attempted to move the body. He then threw himself on it, and entreated they would bury them together; saying he now no object to live for. As he repeated this, a sudden flash of recollection crossed his mind. "Yes," exclaimed he, "I have still a great and important duty to perform to Miss Helen and my master!" He then suffered them to remove the captain, and became more composed from that moment.

When the ship was carried into Toulon, John and the other prisoners were ordered immediately to Thoulouse. Mr. Murray, the first lieutenant, who had been so kind to John at the time of William's death, still felt a great interest for him. He was a kind-hearted young man, and seemed to enter into all John's feelings. He endeavoured, on their long and wearisome march, to keep him near himself; and when they reached Thoulouse, he prevailed on his guard to allow John to remain with him as his servant. He was a man of considerable property, and being allowed to draw on England for remittances, had it in his power to obtain many favours and advantages denied to his poorer companions.

Meantime Mr. Martin and Helen were looking forward with the hope of seeing their sailor friends very shortly. William, in the last letter his father had from him, said he thought the ship would most probably be sent home in the course of the next autumn, and that his uncle had promised to give him leave of absence for a fortnight; "and in that time," he added, "I shall try hard to get another peep at my friends in Eskdale."

One morning, as they were at breakfast, Helen said, "Surely that is Mr. Scott, from Craigie Hall; what can have brought him here?" and rising, she opened the glass door. Mr. Scott came in and sat down. He did not seem to have any thing particular to say beyond common occurrences, yet still he remained; and Helen wondered what could be the meaning of the visit. As she rose to move something from the table, she observed him make her a sign to leave the room unobserved by her father: a cold chill came over her. "What can be the matter?" thought she, as she entered the parlour.

In a few minutes Mr. Scott quitted the study, and going out at the front door, beckoned at the parlour window for her to follow him.

"What can you have to say, Mr. Scott?" said Helen, as she approached him; and, suddenly struck with the look of woe that was in his face, would have fallen if he had not supported her. "William?" uttered she, and could say no more. Mr. Scott then said, "the family at the hall receive many of the London newspapers, and sometimes the housekeeper sends them in for me to read. The family are all gone on a visit from home for some days, consequently the paper was sent me early. I have, my dear Miss Helen, read a very unpleasant account of the Amazon: but it may not be correct; and even if it is so, Mr. William may yet be safe, for his name is not mentioned." "My uncle's is then," said Helen, greatly agitated; "Thank God! my grandmother did not live to hear this: but wait a moment, Mr. Scott, I shall be able to hear it all presently." She leant against the gate for a few seconds, and then begged Mr. Scott to read the paragraphs. He did so; and then said, "I thought, Miss Helen, it was best to tell you this dreadful news in the first place, that you might consider how our good Minister can be informed of it; for he will certainly hear it in the dale from somebody, and I think it will be better to break it to him by degrees." Helen thought so too. "But how can I tell him," said she, weeping, "both my dear uncle's death and William's imprisonment, all at once? It seems more than he can ever bear," and recollecting John, suddenly said, "poor Marion, too, will feel for John. All, all our friends at once, is too much to bear." Mr. Scott was a very sensible man. He allowed her to weep for some time and then, seeing her a little more composed, said, "You must, my dear Miss Helen, endeavour to moderate your grief, for the sake of your father. I see him coming toward the green, and if he observe us he will be alarmed." Helen replied, "I will do all I can, but I cannot possibly see him just yet; so I shall get into the house without meeting him, if possible. Leave me the paper, and good morning!"

It required all Helen's gentleness and caution to inform her poor father of this afflicting news. Notwithstanding all the precaution and care with which she broke it to him, he fainted before she could finish the narration; and though he endeavoured to regain composure, it was evident to Helen that his strength was sinking. Nothing, however, seemed to bear so hard upon him as the uncertainty of the fate of William. Nothing had been mentioned of him, and indeed nothing could be known, for there had been no communication from the ship between the time of his accident and that of their being all taken prisoners. The winter passed on: a long a dreary one it was to Helen and her father. Marion, likewise, looked ill and melancholy; she had loved John as a brother, and his loss was severely felt. Early in the spring, Mr. Martin had occasion to go to Langholm; Helen insisted on accompanying him. After finishing his business, they were passing the inn where the mail stops. Just as they got to the door of it, the landlord was standing speaking to a sailor, a good-looking man, and seeing Mr. Martin, he said, hastily, "Oh, Mr. Martin, this person is just returned from Thoulouse, in France; he has made his escape. Perhaps he may be able to give you some account of Mr. William!" Mr. Martin, on hearing this, turned to the man, and asked him what ship he had belonged to, and how he became a prisoner. "I belonged, Sir, to the Amazon, and was taken with the whole ship's company that remained after the battle."—"Tell me," said Mr. Martin, quickly, "was William Martin, Captain Elliott's nephew, at Thoulouse when you left it?" "Oh, no!" said the man, "he was drowned six weeks before the battle." Mr. Martin heard no more; he fell as if a shot had passed through his heart. The landlord carried him into the inn, and sent for Mr. Armstrong; his poor daughter, almost in as pitiable a state as he was, still endeavoured to exert herself to save her father. She undid his stock, rubbed his face and hands with vinegar, and tried every means her experience had ever found useful, at last Mr. Armstrong made his appearance. He was excessively alarmed, and begged Helen would leave the room; but she answered, firmly, "No, Mr. Armstrong, I never will quit my father whilst a spark of life remains. He is not dead yet, for I feel his pulse; therefore do not talk of my leaving him, even for an instant." In the evening Mr. Martin just opened his eyes, fixed them on Helen, and said, "My poor girl:" and drawing a long sigh, was removed from all his sufferings.



CHAP. XIV.

Poor Helen, having no longer any motive for exertion, sank down by her father's side. Mr. Armstrong had her removed while she remained insensible; and knowing her attachment to Marion Scott, he sent off a messenger with the fatal news, and requested Mrs. Scott would allow her daughter to come down and be with Miss Martin. Mrs. Scott not only gave permission to her daughter, but came herself, and for many days watched by the bedside of Helen. When she became composed enough to think and act, she found that her dear father had been buried by the side of her mother and grandmother; Mr. Armstrong had acted for her, and settled all matters of business, that she might have no trouble on that account, further than going to the Manse for a little while, till a successor was appointed to her worthy father. Mr. Scott insisted on her permitting Marion to remain with her for some time, though Helen said she should feel happier, she thought, if she could be left alone. It is impossible to describe what the poor desolate girl felt on returning to her melancholy home. "The time is now indeed come," said she to herself, "when I must prepare to look out for another place of residence; and when that will be, God alone knows." Her grandmother, before her death, had been very uneasy on account of Helen's prospects in case of her father's death; and more than once mentioned to her, that she wished she could make up her mind to go to Edinburgh, and apprentice herself either as a dress-maker or as a milliner; as she knew her father had very little to leave her, she herself had only an annuity, which would cease with her life. Her father did not like the plan, and told her that her uncle had promised to support her till William was enabled, by promotion or prize-money, to do it himself. Now both these resources were cut off for ever; and, after mature deliberation she thought her grandmother's plan was the only rational thing she could do; she therefore, in her own mind, determined, as soon as she knew who was to be her father's successor, to adopt it.

Having come to this resolution, she communicated it to Mr. Scott, who offered to go himself into Edinburgh and endeavour to find a situation for such as she wanted. Accordingly, he went on this errand, about three months after Mr. Martin's death. On enquiry, he was recommended to a Miss Maxwell, a lady who had very meritoriously in her youth followed the same plan that Helen meant now to pursue, and had succeeded so well as to be able to support an aged father and mother, and give great assistance to the rest of a numerous family. The agreement was soon settled, and Helen was to be received as an apprentice the following October. She was to live in the house with Miss Maxwell, who even held out hopes to Mr. Scott, that if Miss Martin gave satisfaction during her four years of learning the business, she would have a good chance of being taken into partnership in the concern, as Miss Maxwell thought she might be inclined to retire much about that time, provided no unforeseen accident occurred to prevent it. Early in September, Mr. Johnson was appointed to succeed Mr. Martin. He was a young man of good connections and excellent character. He came to the Manse on his nomination, merely to look at the house, and see what preparations it might require, as he was on the point of marriage with an amiable young woman to whom he had been long attached. He behaved in the kindest manner possible to Helen, and saved her a great deal of trouble and difficulty, by proposing to take the whole of the furniture just as it stood, and at a fair valuation. Mr. Armstrong, who had managed all her business, accepted the proposal; and Helen, at his particular request, agreed to remain in the house till the time she had fixed for removing to Edinburgh. He seemed anxious to settle every thing the way that would be most pleasing to her feelings. Nelly and Sandy were to be retained in his service, and left in charge of the Manse, as he did not expect to be able to take possession himself much before Christmas. On going away he shook hands with Helen, and said he hoped she would allow him a continuance of her friendship, and assured her, that as the daughter of so respectable a father as well as from what he had seen of herself, he should ever feel the interest of a brother for her. Poor Helen's spirits gradually sunk as the time rapidly approached for her to quit her native dale, and take leave of all those amongst whom she had lived from her birth. Marion Scott had remained constantly with her from her father's death, and was now so endeared to her, that to separate from her appeared as if breaking the last earthly tie she possessed. She saw, however, it was inevitable; the whole of her property, when every thing was sold, only amounted to three hundred pounds; and even if she could have lived on this in her native dale, she thought, on reflection, it was her duty to go into a more active line of life, at least for some years. Mr. Armstrong was decidedly of the same opinion; a change of scene and of habits he thought would amuse her mind, and prevent her dwelling on events which, from the melancholy attending their recollection, and the retirement in which she would live, might have a pernicious effect on her health.

On the tenth day of October Helen left her once happy home, to engage in new scenes and occupations, so different from any thing she had ever formed an idea of, that for some days after her arrival at Miss Maxwell's, she could scarcely believe it possible she could endure such a subordinate state of existence and laborious fatigue. Miss Maxwell was kind to her on her arrival, and whenever she had a moment to spare endeavoured to cheer Helen, by telling her that she would soon get accustomed to the confinement, and that she had no doubt, with her application and perfect command of her needle, she would be able to promote her in the course of a twelvemonth to a less laborious department of the business. Helen felt the kindness, but believed, from the present state of her feelings, that she would never live that twelvemonth out. Broken-hearted and dispirited, shut up in a small uncomfortable room with half a dozen silly uneducated girls, with whom she had not a single idea in unison, she began to feel her life a burthen, and had almost resolved to give up her situation and return to Eskdale. The first Sunday morning, however, gave her better hopes. Miss Maxwell, who had a great respect for Mr. Scott, and from whom she had heard the whole of Helen's meritorious conduct while she resided in her father's house, was much interested for her; and though, from the great pressure of business in which she was constantly engaged, she could spare very little time to amuse or comfort her through the weeks, she was ready on Sunday morning, as soon as she came out of her room, to receive her in the parlour, and said, with a cheerful smile, as she entered, "Come, my dear Miss Martin, this is our own day, and I promise to myself a great deal of pleasure for the future in having a companion with whom I can converse, and who will join me in spending the Sabbath, as it is undoubtedly intended we should do, in making a day of rest and sober enjoyment. The other young people all go home to their friends, we shall therefore be at liberty to enjoy ourselves in our own way." Helen endeavoured to return a smile to this address, but her heart was heavy, and her head ached from want of sleep. Miss Maxwell, who well understood her feelings, took no notice, but filled her out a nice comfortable cup of tea, and began telling her of the churches that she meant to show her, and the merits of the different clergymen. This was a subject to interest Helen, as she was well acquainted with most of their characters, from having heard her father talk of them on his return from Edinburgh, when he had been a member of the General Assembly. She therefore very readily agreed to accompany Miss Maxwell to the morning service at St. Andrew's church, and in the evening she attended likewise at the West church, for the clergymen of both these churches had been particular friends of her father.

On her return home in the evening, she expressed herself much pleased with all she had seen and heard through the day, and thanked Miss Maxwell for giving her so great a gratification. They then sat down to tea, after which Miss Maxwell opened a closet which stood at one end of her little parlour, and displayed a small but well-selected library. As she pointed to it, she said, "I never, my dear Miss Martin, permit myself to open this my greatest treasure except on this day; for I am so fond of reading, that I could not insure my own attention to the duties of business were I to allow myself the same gratification through the week. I have had a second key made which I mean for you, as I well know, from experience, that you require, in your present irksome employment, as much relaxation as the nature of the business will admit, to reconcile you to the great change in your situation and habits; but I think I can trust that you will never abuse this kind of confidence, but confine your use of it to the few spare hours which occur to you in the course of the season; and Sunday in my house is invariably your own." She then gave Helen the key, and desired her to select what she pleased for her evening's reading. This was a great addition to Helen's comfort. She found there were many spare moments that would, without this resource, have been spent in vain regrets and recollections of the past, which only served to weaken her mind and prevent her performing her present duties.

With the prospect of this enjoyment before her, she found the hardship of sitting at work for so many hours daily appear less formidable, and her Sundays always passed so pleasantly and so much to own satisfaction, that in a letter which wrote to Mr. Scott, about a month after she had been absent in Edinburgh, she expressed herself much more reconciled to her situation than her friends in Eskdale had dared to hope.

She received a letter soon after this from Marion, saying that Mrs. Smith, her friend at the hall, had been ill, and felt herself not quite able to get through her business in the family so well as she used to do, and had therefore got permission from her lady, with whom she had lived many years, to hire an assistant; that Mrs. Smith had at last prevailed with her father and mother to spare her, and it was now fixed that she was to accompany the family to London soon after Christmas. Her mother added a postscript, in which she said that poor Marion had fretted so much since Miss Helen had left the country, that both her father and she were more reconciled to her going under Mrs. Smith's care than they otherwise would have been; "and besides," added Mrs. Scott, "I really am afraid Marion will never get over John Telfer's loss, at least till something certain is heard of him. She often tells us she would feel much happier if she knew he was dead, than she does by being in such a state of uncertainty. She fancies she will be more likely to hear from him by going to London, than by remaining here in the dale." Helen was too much attached to Marion not to feel greatly interested in this new arrangement for her. "Dear girl;" said she, as she read the postscript, "I am afraid nothing but disappointment awaits you on the subject of poor John. He must have been killed with his master, or more likely, perhaps, drowned with my dear William. John, I am sure, would not willingly separate from him, and may perhaps have lost his life in trying to save that of his master's son; at all events, I have not the slightest hope of his being alive, and wish most earnestly I could make Marion as much convinced of this as I am myself." "I think," answered Miss Maxwell, "her parents are acting very prudently in sending her from home. A change of scene is the best thing for her in the present state of her mind; and perhaps, by making inquiries, she may come to hear something certain about the young man, though I am inclined to be of your way of thinking as to his death."

Nothing particular occurred during the four years of Helen's apprenticeship: she daily improved in knowledge of the business she was learning, and between her and Miss Maxwell so entire an attachment was formed, that it would have been a severe trial to either had they been obliged to separate.

When Helen's time was out, Miss Maxwell determined to take her into partnership. The business was a very good one, though, from various causes, Miss Maxwell had been able to save very little money. For twenty years she had supported her parents, who had been unfortunate in life: she had also assisted several brothers, who were now all dead; and two sisters, after having been associated with her in the business, had died of declines.

The first object she had now in view was, to secure a friend on whom she might rely for assistance and kindness in her declining years. She made no secret of her motives; and Helen, who loved her with truest affection, agreed to become that friend.

Marion had continued under Mrs. Smith for three years, living in London one half of the year, and returning to Craigie Hall in the summer. She corresponded constantly with Helen, but they had never met from the time of their first separation. Still Marion wrote of John, though she could obtain no information of him, even in London; and though Helen, almost in every letter, endeavoured to convince her that all hopes of his being alive must by this time be over. Marion, on the contrary, declared that her mind would not admit a belief of this, without more positive proof than any she had yet obtained. Her last letter said, that the lady's maid had lately been married, and that, on Mrs. Smith's recommendation, she was promoted to the vacant place.

We must new revert to poor John Telfer, who remained in captivity, and still in the service of Mr. Murray. The prisoners of war were treated with extraordinary rigour; and the officers, instead of being indulged, as is usual in such cases, with residing in a town on their parole, or word of honour not to escape, were separately confined under a military guard, in the old chateaux, or country seats of the ancient nobility, who had been expelled during the Revolution. This harsh treatment induced many of them to attempt their escape, which, of course, they would not have done if they had promised not to do so, for a promise voluntarily given to an enemy ought to be held as sacred as if given to the dearest friend. However, the success of a few eluding the vigilance of their guards, increased the severity afterwards shown to the others. No interest that could be used was of sufficient weight to procure Mr. Murray his liberty, or even information as to his family or friends. His draughts, however, for money, were always answered; and he hoped, from this circumstance, that his friends were well. John tried many ways of endeavouring to send a letter to the dale, but never received a line in return; indeed, as has been seem, not one of his numerous letters ever reached their intended destination. Years rolled on in the same unvaried kind of existence; sometimes he fancied that Mr. Martin had entirely forgotten him; sometimes the recollection of Captain Elliott's assertion, that William's death would kill his father, threw him into the most violent state of misery. What would become of Miss Helen if her father was indeed dead, was continually in his mind; and at one time had made so strong an impression on him as to convince him it was his duty to endeavour, even at the risk of his life, to make his escape.

The situation in which he and his master were confined, was in some respects not unfavourable to the prosecution of such a scheme. It was in a very old and ruined building, on the banks of one of those rivers which rise in the Pyrenean mountains and fall into the Upper Garonne. The turret allotted to the prisoners commanded a view which, under other circumstances, John would have admired as reminding him of the wild scenes in his native country. Almost close to the building was a noble cascade, formed by the river rushing over the rocks which it encountered in its course; and beyond the woods on the opposite bank arose abrupt declivities, overtopped by the lofty summits of the distant mountains. John had laid his plan, and meant to have put it into execution, when, on the very morning of the day he intended to have made the attempt, Mr. Murray complained of being very ill. This was a severe blow to John: he had been under too many obligations to Mr. Murray to think of leaving him while in want of his care; at the same time, the opportunity of escape might never again offer. He had a severe struggle; but Mr. Murray's illness increasing rapidly, determined him to delay at least his intended flight, and finally fixed him to the side of his sick couch for nearly five years. How often, during his long and painful illness, did the suffering lieutenant bless God that he had been favoured, in the midst of his distress, with such a good and faithful servant as John was to him! How often did he assure him, that if they ever reached England he would make him comfortable for life! Alas! every day lessened the chance of his living to fulfil these promises; and John, in the event of his death, durst scarcely hope now to be able to effect an escape, as the prisoners were watched with redoubled vigilance.

One morning, after John had been absent in search of some dainty, which he fancied Mr. Murray particularly wished for; on his return his master put into his hand a sealed paper, saying, "John, I feel that my situation becomes every day more critical, I have no individual, besides yourself, on whom I can rely; will you, my kind friend, take charge of this packet; it contains some papers of infinite consequence to my family. I wish you to promise me never to part from them out of your possession, till you deliver them in safety to my brother's own hand; I have given you his address: he lives in Portman Square, in London. If you ever reach England, lose no time in seeing him should he be still alive; and in the event of his death find out my sister, and give the packet to her. Will you promise me to do this? It will greatly add to the comfort of my dying moments." John gave the required promise, and took the packet immediately under his care. Mr. Murray lived a very few days after this; and John, by his death, once more felt himself left alone in the world. Mr. Murray had with kind consideration given him twenty guineas, which he desired him to conceal, as it might be of use to facilitate his escape, and in all probability he would not be permitted to retain it if it were seen after his death. The event proved that this precaution was very necessary, for Mr. Murray was no sooner dead than every article about him was seized by his inhuman jailors.

When John had seen his master laid in the grave, he immediately set about contriving means to get to England; and, in six months afterwards, he succeeded in quitting his place of confinement, in the disguise of an old, tattered French soldier.



CHAP XV.

After many hair-breadth escapes from detection, John reached Boulogne in safety, and in a small open boat crossed over to Dover, having very nearly expended the whole of his little store in bribing the fishermen to carry him out of the French dominions. Upon his landing, he found his finances would not allow him any other mode of conveyance than his feet to reach London; and though worn out and exhausted with his long march through France, he determined to pursue his walk to the metropolis without delay. He reached London in three days, and found no difficulty in obtaining a direction to Portman Square. Sir James Murray's name was still on the door, which the direction on the packet pointed out. John knocked very humbly, and in a moment it was opened by a well-dressed footman. John asked if Sir James was at home and could be seen? He answered very civilly, that Sir James was at home, but particularly engaged with company, and he did not think he could possibly see him that night. "My business," answered John, "is very particular. I am just arrived in London and have something of great consequence to deliver into his own hand. I very much wish I could see him to night, as I am a perfect stranger in this great city, and, to tell you the truth, I am afraid of keeping it in my possession longer than I can help." While he stood talking at the door, a well-dressed genteel-looking upper servant maid came up the steps, and was hastily passing them when, turning round to answer some question that her fellow-servant asked her, she fixed her eyes on John, and giving a violent scream, exclaimed "John Telfer, I am sure!" John was too much surprised to be able to answer; but the man-servant held a light up and said, "I am sure you must be mistaken, recollect yourself," and was going to lead her away. John, however, no sooner heard her voice, than all his senses returned in full power, and straining her to his breast, he said, "Marion Scott alone could recognize a poor worn-out wretch, after so many long mournful years of absence, and in such a miserable plight as I am now." The servant, when he heard John pronounce her name, was convinced that it must be the very John Telfer he had heard her lament the loss of so often, and very kindly begged him to walk into a small parlour near the door. Marion had fainted at the sound of his well remembered voice, and it was some time before she became sensible; but when she did, nothing could equal the transport and delight they both felt in once more so unexpectedly having met. She informed him, that one of the young ladies of the Hall, had married Sir James Murray, and that her mother wished Marion to live with her, as she could be trusted, and her daughter was very young. She had been in her service nearly two years; but, continued she, "I mean to leave this place soon, for I am now deprived of the pleasure of seeing my dear parents in the summer, as I used to do with my old lady; and though I am in other respects very comfortable, I cannot on any account remain here much longer. Just as she had given this little history of herself, the footman came in and said that he had informed his master that John wished to see him; and, as soon as I told him who it was, he desired me to send you up to him immediately, as he said he knew you belonged to the same ship as his brother did, and therefore he concluded you could give him some information concerning him." John followed the servant into a superb room, where he found Sir James anxiously waiting for him. The moment he entered, Sir James asked him if he knew any thing of his brother. John said, "Indeed I do Sir: I have come to you by your kind brother's desire. He made me promise to deliver this packet into your own hands. He died about nine months ago, and I have never suffered it to be out of my bosom since he gave it to me." Sir James was excessively affected. He took the packet, and telling John to wait where he was, went into the next room to examine it. In about half an hour he returned, and taking John's hand said, "My dear unfortunate brother has left it in my charge to repay his debt of gratitude to you, for your faithful services and long attendance upon him in his severe illness. You shall ever be considered by me, in the light of his comforter, and from this moment you must make this house your home. He has left you in his will five hundred pounds, which shall be paid you whenever you please to draw upon me for it; but in the meantime, I must see to get you properly nursed and recovered from the fatigue you must have undergone in your long march. The papers you have brought me are indeed, of very great importance, and come at a particular fortunate moment, as they in all probability, will save me from a very vexatious lawsuit, with which I have been threatened." So saying, he rang the bell, and desired the servant to take John into the housekeeper's room, and to see that every possible attention was paid him. John, after having had some refreshments, began to wonder that he did not see Marion again. He asked where she was, and the housekeeper told him she would be there presently, and desired one of the other maids to call her. When she appeared, it was evident she had been in tears. She spoke however cheerfully to John; and the housekeeper rising said, "I am sure you must have much to say to each other, after so long an absence, so we shall leave you together till supper time, which I think Marion must be earlier to night than usual, as your friend must require rest after all his fatigues." With these words she left the room.

They were no sooner left alone, than John, taking Marion's hand, said "tell me, my dear friend, how are my master and Miss Helen?" Marion, in a faultering voice, related the melancholy detail of poor Mr. Martin's death. She was going on to tell him about Miss Helen, when surprised that he had made no remark on what she had told him she looked up, and to her great alarm, she saw him leaning against the wall, pale and ghastly, his eyes fixed, and evidently gasping for breath. She spoke to him, and at last, after making a violent effort, he pronounced his master's name. The truth was, that though Captain Elliott had suggested the probability of Mr. Martin's death, John, in the bottom of his own heart, would not allow himself to believe that he never should see his dear master again; and, even unknown to himself, the hope of being able to comfort and attend upon him in his old age, had been the chief support and motives for exertion through so many years of trial and suffering. To be in a moment fatally convinced, that all such hopes were at an end quite overcame him, and for some time he wept like a child, and could not be comforted, even by Marion. At last he became more composed, and begged Marion to tell him some tidings of dear Miss Helen. Marion repeated what we have before mentioned, and then added, that Miss Helen had joined in the partnership with Miss Maxwell, and for some time they went on very well; but that, about two years past, Miss Maxwell had fallen into bad health, which had gradually increased so much as to confine Miss Helen almost constantly to her bedside; the consequence of which she said, had been that their business had decreased very much. Miss Maxwell was just dead, and had left Miss Helen all that she died possessed of; but, from what she had written her, the property was very small. "However, she writes me," added Marion, "that she has serious thoughts of getting out of business, as soon as she can wind up her affairs, and living in retirement, upon what little property she may find herself possessed of; but I am much afraid that her health is the cause of this determination, for I think there is a degree of despondency in the style of her last letter, which I never observed in any other, notwithstanding the various afflictions she has gone through."

In a few days, John had quite recovered from all his fatigues, and appeared, in Marion's eyes, the best looking man she had ever seen. One evening, when they were conversing about Miss Helen, and talking over various plans that could be followed, to assist in recovering her health, "Marion," said John, "there is a plan I have thought of, and which would certainly be the very best thing I could do, to be of use to her; it is to get married, and go down and settle in Eskdale. Mr. Murray's legacy gives me the means of taking a farm, and I have no doubt that with the knowledge I possess of the management of sheep and cattle, I shall be perfectly able to support a wife, and have a comfortable home for Miss Helen. What do you think of my plan? Will you be my sweet little wife, and help me to show my gratitude to my dear master's daughter?" Marion's heart was full, she could not speak, but her eyes did not say no; and John was delighted to find he had at last hit upon so admirable an expedient. He instantly wrote to Mr. and Mrs. Scott, soliciting their consent to the marriage, and begging of Mr. Scott to look out for a small farm, such as he thought would suit him; and added, that he wished much to marry and bring down his wife as soon as possible, that they might get a home ready for Miss Helen, before they let her know of his arrival in England: for Marion thought she was not in a state of health to be kept in suspense. If she knew he was arrived, she might wish to see him sooner than it was possible for them to get their affairs settled, so as to marry, and he did not like to separate any more from Marion, but meant to bring her down himself to Eskdale as his wife.

Great was the surprise and joy this letter occasioned to the worthy couple in Craigie Hall; and it would scarcely have gained complete credit, had it not been accompanied by one from Marion herself, confirming all its intelligence. Mr. Scott answered it by return of post, giving his unqualified consent to the match, which he thought the sooner it took place the better, and added, "Have no concern about your farm, I know of one that will exactly suit, and shall take care to have it in proper order, both for yourselves and our dear young lady, whom, I trust, you will be able to prevail with to return amongst us again; and then I think I may once more see Eskdale look cheerful before I die, which I am sure it has never done since you left it." Marion and John were accordingly married, and took leave of Sir James and Lady Murray, loaded with every mark of kindness and good wishes.

Mr. Scott had desired that they might come directly to Craigie Hall, and said he would take them to their own house in the evening. Accordingly they managed to drive up the dale, in the morning, both with a wish to please Mr. Scott, and to gratify themselves by a view of all the well-known scenes, among which their infant years had been spent. John, even in the midst of happiness, wept bitterly, when he came within sight of that house, which had been a home to him in his orphan state; and which from the kind treatment and instruction he had received within its walls must ever be dear to him. Marion, though possessing an equal warm heart, was just at that moment too much ingrossed with the delight of seeing her parents, and of presenting to them, as her husband, that very John they had so often tried to persuade her was no more, to enter exactly into his feelings. She sat looking out of the carriage, from side to side, watching every turn and bush she formerly knew, to see if they looked as they did when she left them; and at last, when they were approaching Mr. Elliott's cottage, she could keep silence no longer. "Look, dear John," cried she, "what a beautiful place this is made! Surely there must be new comers there now. Mr. Elliott would never have built these two pretty bow windows; and only see what lovely flowers are placed in them! It looks like a perfect paradise."—"It really does," answered John, with a sigh, thinking at the moment of poor Helen's wishes, on that memorable walk, which he first took with his dear master. I should have preferred living at that house, thought he, if I could have afforded it; but he did not express this, as he was determined to be contented with whatever house Mr. Scott had chosen for him.

All was happiness on their arrival at Mr. Scott's; an excellent dinner was prepared for them, which they were too happy to do much justice to. Soon after dinner, Mr. Scott proposed going with them to their own house; and said he hoped they had not forgotten how to walk, as he should expect a visit from them every day, and their house was a little distance from Craigie Hall. They laughed, and continued chatting with him and Mrs. Scott all down the river, till they came to the very cottage they had admired so much in the morning. "Pray, Sir," asked John, "who lives here now? Mr. Elliott I think must have left it, for he was not very famous for keeping his house in such excellent order."—"He is dead," answered Mr. Scott, "and it has been lately sold to a gentleman that has come from foreign parts. The family are not yet come down to it, but I believe are shortly expected. Would you like to look at the inside of the house? it is very well worth seeing; for, according to my taste, it is as pretty a neat box as you will meet with any where." Marion said she should like to see it of all things; they therefore turned up the little path that led to the door. Mr. Scott knocked, and it was opened by Peggy Oliphant, dressed in her best Sunday's gown; she curtesied and looked eagerly at John, who shook hands with her on entering.

They went over every room, and all the different adjoining offices, Mr. Scott seeming to take particular pleasure in pointing out all its superior qualities. John thought he never had seen so complete a thing and almost wished he had not examined it, for fear of finding his own much inferior. At length when every thing had been admired, Mr. Scott taking John's hand, said, "Now, my dear son, Marion, long ago, let me into a secret about this cottage, and when your joyful letter arrived, a thought came into my head, that I would surprise you. Mr. Elliott had been dead some time, and I knew his heirs wanted to dispose of the farm; I therefore made them an offer, which was accepted. I have fitted it up according to what I think will be pleasing, both to you, my dear children, and even to your intended guest. I have only to add, it is my wedding gift to my daughter, who I hope, will never again quit her native dale, at least during her mother's life and mine." John and Marion were so overcome with their own happiness and Mr. Scott's kindness, that they could only answer him with their tears; Marion threw herself into his arms, calling him the best and kindest of fathers. "Oh," at last said John, "had I known what a fortune Marion was, I scarcely think I could have had courage to ask her to be my wife." "I am very glad you knew nothing about it then," said Mr. Scott, "for we should have been all in the wrong without you, Marion would never have had any other man; you know she has been in love with you ever since you jumped over Bob's ears; and to own the truth, I approve her taste from the bottom of my heart; and I would rather see her your wife than any other man's in Eskdale."

Two day after they were settled in their favourite cottage, John left Marion to get every thing in order, and proceeded to Edinburgh, with a firm determination of not quitting that city, without conducting back to her native dale the last surviving remnant of his dear master's family.

On his arrival in Edinburgh, he wrote a few lines to Helen, saying that one of the crew of the unfortunate Amazon had been so lucky as to find his way back to his native country, after many years of captivity; and expressing a desire to be permitted to see her, if it were not too painful to her feelings. Helen had just come to the final resolution of retiring from business her health had been greatly injured by the close attention and fatigue she had undergone during Miss Maxwell's illness; and she now found herself unable to sustain the kind of life she was forced to lead, in order to make it an object worth her while to pursue.

On the receipt of John's note she was greatly agitated; at last, summoning all her resolution, she said, "I will see this person, if it be only for Marion Scott's sake; he may, perhaps, be able to set her mind at rest about poor John;" so saying, she answered his note, desiring to see him immediately. John trusted she would not recognize him, for he was greatly altered, had grown considerably taller and stouter, and his complexion, from being fair, was now almost as dark as an Indian's. "She cannot possibly know me," thought he, "Nobody, but Marion, could ever know me, I am quite sure;" and in this hope, he walked boldly into the little parlour, in Prince's Street, where sat Helen ready to receive him. On his entrance, he almost betrayed himself by his surprise; for in her, he almost thought he saw his own dear master himself, Helen's features resembled, in so strong a degree, those of her father; but she was now thin and pale, and evidently out of health.

John looked at her a few minutes without speaking, but at last made some apology for his intrusion. He said he had promised Captain Elliott to deliver her a small miniature of her mother. He then approached her, and kneeling presented her picture. Helen was surprised, but she put out her hand to receive it; on her arm she wore as a bracelet, a miniature of her father; John saw it, and for a moment prudence was forgotten; he snatched her hand, and kissed the resemblance of his master. Helen, astonished, fixed her eyes upon him, and the next moment, exclaiming, "Oh! it is John himself!" leant upon his shoulder and wept bitterly. John succeeded in soothing her into composure, and spent the evening in relating all the particulars of the loss of her poor brother and uncle, which till now were unknown to her; he then proceeded to prefer his request that she would return with him to Eskdale. "I consider myself, dear Miss Helen, as pledged to your uncle (independently of all I owe to my own master, and that is far more than I ever can express), never to leave you nor separate from you so long as you have no other protector; I have a comfortable home to offer you, and a wife who will strive with me to see which of us can pay you most attention; oh, do not deprive us of the delight of having you under our roof." "You are married, then," said Helen mournfully, thinking of poor Marion's constant attachment, "pray who is your wife? a foreigner, I suppose."—"And could my master's daughter know so little of John Telfer? Could she think he would ever do such a foolish thing as to bring a foreigner into Eskdale, or ask Miss Helen to live with a stranger? No lady, it is your friend, Marion Scott that was, now my own Marion Telfer, that invites you through me to come to her, and let us all once more be happy; you will not surely refuse us, Miss Helen, you cannot be so cruel." Helen felt she could not be so cruel, either to herself or to the honest affectionate couple, who now offered her a home. "I will come to you, John," said she, "the moment I have finished the arrangement of my affairs: in a few weeks I shall be at liberty; I am not much richer than when I quitted Eskdale, yet I have enough to prevent my being a burden to you and uncomfortable to myself: I have only one agreement to make with you: you must both, from the moment I enter your house, consider me in the light of a sister, nothing more, or I cannot remain with you."—"It shall be in that and every thing else," said John, "exactly as you please; our only wish is to see you comfortable."

John insisted on remaining in Edinburgh while Helen was detained, and she found him of the greatest service in assisting her to arrange her business; she had her precious library carefully packed up and sent on before her to Eskdale, and at the end of three weeks was ready to attend John to his peaceful home.

With what a variety of different feelings did Helen once more enter her native dale! She wept violently all the way, till she had passed the Manse, when, recollecting that she was actually unkindly to the good and proved friend who sat beside her, she endeavoured to compose herself and to appear cheerful on meeting his wife, the long attached and faithful Marion. "How Mr. Elliott's cottage is improved!" said Helen, but she had scarcely uttered the sentence, when on the green before the house Marion appeared running towards the gate to let them in. "And do you indeed, my kind friends, live here?" said she, almost overpowered. Marion flew into her arms, exclaiming, "I was sure he would bring you; you would never refuse to come to us; now we shall be happy again;" so saying, she led Helen into a neat little room, with a bow-window at one end, and a book-case, well filled with books, at the other; the furniture perfectly neat and comfortable, but nothing fine nor out of its place; and what amazed and pleased Helen more than can be described, over the chimney-piece hung, in a small size, the portraits of her father and mother. John had, when in Edinburgh, borrowed from her the miniatures of her parents, and carrying them to Mr. Raeburn, the celebrated artist, prevailed on him to take copies of them, and afterwards forwarded them to Eskdale. "This is kind, indeed," said she, and taking John's hand, while she laid her head on Marion's bosom, "now I do feel I am again at home."

In a few months, John and Marion's care of their dear guest was amply rewarded by seeing her health completely re-established; her spirits had resumed their former cheerfulness, and the dale did indeed look more like itself, as Marion expressed it, than it had ever done since poor William's elopement.

Meantime Mr. Johnstone, the clergyman, paid them daily visits; he had become a widower, and was left with one child, a little girl; but how to bring her up was a great source of anxiety to him. On becoming acquainted with Helen, he thought it would be very desirable that she should undertake the charge of his little girl's education; with this view, he made a point of seeing her constantly, that he might be able to judge of her abilities; on a more intimate knowledge of her good qualities, he began to wish he could give his child such a mother, and in a very short time made her proposals of marriage. Helen both loved and respected him; she frankly told him so, and, in little more than a year after her return to Eskdale, she became Mrs. Johnstone, and was conducted to the home of her childhood, by her happy and affectionate husband, amidst the rejoicings of the inhabitants throughout the whole dale.

John and Marion continue now to live in the cottage in the greatest comfort and happiness; they have three children, the eldest, named William Martin, is the idol of Helen, and from choice she would scarcely ever let him leave the Manse; but the recollection of her poor brother's fate prevents her from indulging her favourite wish. "No," said she to his father, "I will not trust myself with the care of that dear infant; he will be much safer under your and Marion's eye; and remember, my dear friend, to train him from his earliest days in the habits of obedience, and then in your old age he will be your comfort and support. Oh! what misery did one act of disobedience produce in this cheerful happy dale, as well as to my dear unfortunate brother himself! May we, in rearing our children, never forget the mournful, but instructive lesson!"

* * * * *

And now, my dear young readers, let the author of this little tale address you as a friend and a mother. What think you of the Eskdale Herd-boy? You have become acquainted with him, from the time that he was a poor distressed little orphan, fatherless, motherless, without means of support, with nothing but the first rudiments of instruction, not enough to enable him to read the Holy Scriptures, and to learn his duty to his neighbour, or his duty to his God. He had only those little seeds of virtue, from which, if they are steadily and constantly cultivated, good actions spring up in after life; I mean affection, gratitude, industry, and obedience. God Almighty raised up to him a friend in the worthy Minister of the parish; but that friend could do little or nothing for him in the way of money; he could only teach him to read and direct him in reading what was suited to his capacity; he could recommend him to a master, to be employed in such work as was fit for his age and station in life; what would all this have availed, if he had been indolent and inattentive, if he had been sulky, ill-tempered, ungrateful, or disobedient? The wretched little creature would then have been entirely lost; perhaps have fallen into temptation, crime, and infamy in this world, and endless misery hereafter. Instead of this, you see him going on gently and quietly, but steadily and firmly, in the path of his duty; rendering himself beloved and respected by all who knew him, gradually raising himself in life by good behaviour in every station that he filled; and at last made happy in his native dale, by discharging the debt of gratitude to his benefactor's daughter, obtaining the respect and esteem of all his friends and neighbours, and enjoying the pure affection of one whom he had loved in childhood, as the sweet-voiced and kind hearted little Marion.

THE END