The door opened suddenly, and Mattie's reverie was interrupted by her mother, whose portly figure quite filled the space, for, in truth, the lady had enlarged her hip circumference with an unpardonable amount of padding. Mrs. Chapman expected distinguished company that day, and had arrayed herself in a tantalizing amount of finery. For the first time, too, she had put her hair up in puffs, which was the fashion of the day in Bowling Green. Indeed the lady flattered herself that there was nothing in Bowling Green that could excel her in the magnificence of her upholstery.

"Expecting company to-day, very distinguished company, too," said Mrs. Chapman, advancing and bowing her head oppressively, "and how very annoying not to be dressed as one wants to be." After viewing herself in the glass for several minutes, turning first one side and then the other, viewing and reviewing her skirts, and training her puffs into more exact platoon, she turned to Mattie, and resumed, "Now tell me, my daughter, how do my skirts hang? Does my dress become me? Do puffs become me? You see my face is a little broad—puffs will, I am afraid, make it look disadvantageously broad. Tell me now, my daughter, am I presentable?" Mrs. Chapman waited with an air of self-admiration for a reply. "You have such good taste in such matters, my daughter;" she concluded.

"Why, mother," replied Mattie, smiling and viewing her mother from head to foot, "how very worldly you are getting, and so vain. Never saw you look better—and so young."

"I appreciate the compliment, my daughter," returned Mrs. Chapman, dropping a bow and a courtesy. "A woman of my complexion may be excused for refusing to get old."

"I was only joking," resumed Mattie, laughing heartily. "My dear mother takes everything so serious—"

"Come, come," interrupted Mrs. Chapman, her face coloring, "does my dress become me? Am I presentable?"

"You are elegance itself, my dear mother, and would be presentable anywhere," returned Mattie, with a merry twinkle of the eye.

"That's what I wanted to know," said Mrs. Chapman with a bow, and a slight motion backward. "And now, my daughter," she resumed quickly, "this is a good time for having a very serious talk on a very important, but very different matter. What we were talking about yesterday, you know. I hope you have made up your mind to banish Toodleburg." Mrs. Chapman drew herself up into a stately attitude, and assumed a look of uncommon severity. "You know how much your parents dote on you, my daughter, and how much depends on you to give the family a firm standing." The lady tossed her head haughtily and pretentiously. Mattie remained silent and thoughtful.

"Toodleburg's at the bottom of the sea—that's my opinion. And if he stays there it wouldn't distress me—it wouldn't," resumed Mrs. Chapman, giving way to her temper and becoming more earnest. Just then tears gushed into Mattie's eyes, and as they coursed down her cheeks told the tale of her sorrow.

"What I said was intended for good advice, my daughter, not to wound your feelings," continued Mrs. Chapman. "Even if the young man should not be at the bottom of the sea, we should never be presentable with him attached to the family—never in the world. Such a name, and such common people for parents! What would Bowling Green say, my daughter? We must all yield to the force of circumstances; and the circumstances are all against this Mr. Toodleburg tumbling himself into our family." She paused suddenly, and again viewed her ponderous figure in the glass, now adjusting one side of her skirts and then the other. "I wonder if this dress really does become me? Green and orange are in harmony with a complexion like mine," she said, turning to Mattie, and waiting for a reply. But Mattie was trying to relieve her feelings of the grief that was filling her eyes with tears.

"To return to what I was saying, my daughter, sentimental marriages, I was going to say, (well, I will say it,) are fools' marriages. Yes, they are. Your father understands that. Never would have got him—never in this world—if I had been given to sentimental love. Toodleburg's a good enough young man in his place—but he's never, never coming back, my daughter. But even if he was to come back, there's no place for him in our family. View these things, always do, through the eye of philosophy—I do." Mrs. Chapman again paused, bowed her head admonishingly, and extended her fat, waxy hands. Mattie still remained silent.

"After all the polishing you have had, my daughter, to let your mind run to such an unpolished young man. Drag a family down when a family is going up, and there's the end of that family—with society I mean." Mrs. Chapman tossed her head, and again returned to the mirror, saying as she viewed herself in it: "Drag a low bred fellow into a well bred family, I repeat, and down that family goes."

"Well, well, my dear mother shall have it all her own way," replied Mattie, cheering up and assuming an air of indifference. "Anything to relieve your anxiety, my dear mother. How nice it would be to have a husband you admire so much, and to think that I obeyed your wishes in everything. The fact is I had a very serious talk with Mr. Gusher yesterday—"

"You didn't offend him with your eccentricities, I hope?" Mrs. Chapman interrupted, enquiringly. "Mr. Gusher is such a polished gentleman, and so very sensitive."

"I don't know how sensitive he may be, mother; but I told him just exactly what I thought, as I would have told any one else. I told him how much you admired him, and what a favorite he was generally; and that if I consented to accept him for a husband, it would be solely to accommodate my dear mother—"

"How very obstinate my daughter is," interposed Mrs. Chapman. "How very distressing to have a daughter always in rebellion."

"I am sure you would not have me flatter Mr. Gusher with a falsehood, mother," resumed Mattie. "I tried to impress him with the fact that I was not good enough for so accomplished a gentleman; but he insisted that I was, adding that he cared nothing for riches or station. As for loving him, I told him plainly I didn't think I ever could, though there was no knowing what changes time might work in my feelings. I gave him my hand, nevertheless, and told him if he took me it must be with the consequences."

Mr. Napoleon Bowles announced visitors, and this put an end to the conversation. The reader must know that this was not a voluntary yielding on the part of Mattie to the wishes of her mother. She only adopted this course as part of a plan by which she hoped to gain time, during which Tite might return, and thus afford her the means of averting a dilemma into which her mother was forcing her.



CHAPTER XXX.

A TERRIBLE CALAMITY OVERTAKES THE FAMILY.

It was not to be expected that so pushing a woman as Mrs. Chapman would be turned from the object she had set her heart on by the interposition of ordinary obstacles. She had taken good care to have the engagement pretty well trumpeted over Bowling Green; and in less than three months from the time what is described in the foregoing chapter occurred, the lady had a day fixed for the wedding ceremony, which, she declared should be on such a scale of magnificence as would astonish all New York, to say nothing of West Bowling Green. And now she was distracting her wits, and the wits of her friends, over what she called the preliminaries extraordinary. Weddings, the lady said, must be illuminated according to the position of the family. And to that end an additional amount of elegant furniture was got for the house, a new carriage was ordered, and Mr. Napoleon Bowles was to appear in a new livery, with top boots. Nor was the family finery to be neglected, for at least a dozen dressmakers had been employed for a month plying their needles. In short, this great coming event in the history of the Chapman family had afforded Bowling Green enough to talk about for a month.

The lady's meek looking little husband pleaded in vain for economy; suggested in vain his almost empty pocket. "A quiet family wedding, my dear, with a few honest-hearted friends invited, will be so much better, you know;" he would say, submissively. "You know what nice quiet weddings we used to have at Dogtown, and how cheap they were."

"Don't mention Dogtown, my dear; pray don't, my darling," the lady would reply, a curl of contempt on her lips. "We live in New York, now. I wish we had never known Dogtown—only common people marry in that way in New York. Never bring Dogtown into the house again, my darling."

"Have it all your own way, my dear," Chapman would conclude, knowing there was nothing for him to do but surrender submissively.

St. Paul's Church was to be decorated with flowers, for the young people were to be married there, surrounded by gay and admiring friends, who were to make the picture bright and sunny with their smiles and congratulations. And there was to be a grand reception and a sumptuous supper at the house; and the happiness of bride and bridegroom was to be drunk in sparkling wine; and music and dancing was to animate the soul and add charms to their joy-dream.

Mrs. Chapman, I may add here, had a great weakness for distinctions. She had cards printed in gold, in blue, and in red. Such as received cards printed in gold were to consider themselves particularly honored. In short, she divided her guests into three classes—select friends, friends, and acquaintances, and sent them cards accordingly. This manner of distinguishing between guests got the lady into a deal of trouble, and gave rise to much ill-feeling between those who held cards printed in gold and those holding ordinary red ones. Beau Pinks had been honored with a card printed in gold, which he said was a proof of the high esteem he was held in by the lady. In truth, the Beau took great pride in showing this card to the best Bowling Green society, and, with a suggestive nod of the head, saying he had got his best clothes ready, and was waiting to put in an appearance. Mrs. Chapman had always regarded Pinks as a valuable capture, and if he came to the wedding, why, that would in part be gaining the advantage she desired, and in a measure pay off the old score she had against a few of these nice old Bowling Green people.

It must be said to Pinks' credit that he never declined an invitation to a wedding, and rarely missed a chance to mourn at a friend's funeral.

And while Mrs. Chapman seemed to think of nothing else, and talk of nothing else but this great coming event, Chapman had been noticed to wear a more serious look than usual, and indeed to be in a more thoughtful mood. Indeed it was evident there was something on his mind causing him deep anxiety, even distress. It was noticed, too, that he had for several days gone to business earlier than usual and returned later. And when Mrs. Chapman requested an explanation, he would reply by saying: "Matters at the counting-house require examining into, my dear." In truth, the financial affairs of the great Kidd Discovery Company had begun to exhibit those infirmities which are a sure sign of speedy wreck.

And now the day was come when Mattie was to be married to Mr. Gusher. It was three years to-day since Tite bid her good-bye and sailed on his voyage, and it was to be her wedding-day. How strange the changed scene seemed to her.

It was one of those soft and balmy mornings in May, when nature seems to enchant us, and hold sweet communion with us through all her beauties. There was not a ripple on the water; white sails dotted the calm surface of the bay, which seemed like a silvery lake quietly sleeping in the embrace of pretty green hills, softened by the golden gleams of the rising sun. The trees were in blossom; birds were filling the air with delicious melody, but not a leaf stirred.

The Chapman family were up before the sun that morning, and the whole house was astir ere Bowling Green had fairly waked up, or the din of Broadway had broken the stillness. Chapman had spent a restless night, and seemed sad and downcast, as if some trouble he would fain conceal was weighing on his mind. He breakfasted alone that morning, and went to business an hour earlier than usual, promising to return at one o'clock. He returned, however, at twelve, and in such a state of distress as to alarm the whole house. Indeed he entered the house more like a madman than a philosopher, and so alarmed Bowles by the wildness of his manner and appearance, that he proceeded in a state of great excitement to inform his mistress. When, then, that lady entered the parlor she found her husband stretched on the sofa, with his right hand pressing his forehead, and apparently in a state of great distress. To her repeated enquiries as to what produced this great distress, he would only answer by shaking his head and giving vent to the most pitiful groans.

The lady could not fail to see that some great misfortune had overtaken her husband—something that might blast the dream of her golden future.

"I hope, my dear, it is nothing that will interfere with the wedding to-day?" she enquired, her face already beginning to give out signs of alarm.

Chapman made no reply, but got quickly up from the sofa and paced the room hurriedly, his hair tossed in to disorder, and in a state of frenzy.

After pacing up and down the room in this manner for two or three minutes, which seemed like hours to Mrs. Chapman, who had kept her eyes fixed on his every movement, he approached the lady, and with a wild stare, muttered rather than spoke: "A funeral, funeral, my dear—not a wedding to-day." Chapman pressed his hands to his head again, and wept like a child. "Boundless iniquity," he resumed, "fraud—deception—crime— disgrace—folly—extravagance—disappointment—poverty. What a sham the world is! All, all is gone! No need for a clergyman here to-day. The sheriff will be here in an hour."

"My dear, my dear, do explain yourself, so that I may understand our position;" Mrs. Chapman interposed, her whole system yielding to the force of excitement. "If the trouble is only of a transient nature, we may still give the wedding—"

"Wedding! my dear," interrupted Chapman, wiping the tears from his eyes. "There can be no wedding in this house to-day, for Gusher has turned out an impostor, and is in prison—." Before he had time to say any more, the lady threw up her arms with an exclamation, shrieked and swooned. Chapman attempted to catch her in his arms as she was falling, but she carried him to the floor under her great weight, and indeed caused him to feel alarmed for his own safety. Fortunately, Bowles entered the parlor just as his mistress fell, and seeing the danger his master was in, ran to his relief, and after extracting him from his perilous position, assisted in getting his mistress safely on the sofa, where restoratives, such as are common where ladies are given to such ills, were applied.

Chapman was indeed a man to be pitied. He had now more than his head and hands full of trouble. The care it was now necessary to bestow on his wife (for she was above all else in his mind) in a great measure relieved him of the excitement caused by his great financial misfortunes. When, then, Mattie entered the parlor and found him comparatively calm, she fancied her mother had swooned from over-exertion on her behalf. Taking a seat beside her mother, she kissed and kissed her cheek, and proceeded to bestow upon her those attentions her case demanded, and in so kind and gentle a manner as to show how deep and true was the love she bore her.

Chapman soon relieved Mattie's mind, by telling her all that had happened. As he concluded she grasped his hand firmly and imprinted a kiss on his cheek. "Heaven be thanked, father," she said, "it is a kind Providence that directs all our destinies. I am free now. You are free—free in your intentions—free in your conscience. I am happy now—happy because I shall not have to interpose my oath against yours. You shall know what I mean by that hereafter."

While this was going on up stairs Bowles, his eyes protruding, and in a state of great alarm, entered the kitchen, where Bridget, the cook, and Kitty, the chambermaid were at work, and stammered out: "Der don't be no weddin' in dis house to-day—peers to me—no how. Quid mortibus, portendibus—my missus am most dead."

"To the pots wid yeer latin, ye nager," said Bridget, seizing the tongs and holding them threatingly over his head. "To the pots wid yeer latin, ye nager. Spake so a dacent woman can understand what ye mane." To appease Bridget's wrath and save his head, Bowles condescended to use plain English in describing what had happened up stairs.

"Much good may the faint do the big, auld woman," said Bridget, with an air of indifference. "The divel takes a mighty good care of his own."

"Quid—mortibus—portendibus," repeated Bowles, as Bridget ran to the door with the tongs upraised, causing him to beat a hasty retreat.

"Bad luck to such a nager!" exclaimed Bridget, as Bowles shut the door. "Shure he thinks more about his latin and his livery an he do about his priest."

"Chapman, my dear Chapman, how crushing this all is," the lady whispered, as she began to recover her consciousness. "I feel more dead than alive—I do. Send Bowles out. Do what you can to soften the disappointment. Tell those who come it was all owing to unforeseen circumstances. Oh, my dear daughter," she put her arm around Mattie's neck, drew her to her and kissed her, "how can we look Bowling Green in the face after this? We never shall, and yet your father is a scholar and a gentleman."

Chapman's excitement began to return with his wife's recovery; indeed it soon became her turn to soothe his troubled mind.

"Gusher—the handsome young gentleman—is in prison, eh, and turns out to be—"

"My dear wife," interrupted Chapman, again giving way to his feelings, "he turns out to be Louis Pinto, an impostor. That's the whole of it—except what there may be in this paper." He drew a newspaper from his pocket, and pointing to an article headed: "A Notorious Impostor caught at Last," said: "There, my dear, read that." It gave a very long account, or rather history of the prisoner's exploits in Havana and New Orleans, his operations in New York, financially as well as socially, and indeed all the circumstances attending his career since he arrived in the city, his connection with the great Kidd Discovery Company, and not forgetting to mention that he was to have been married this day to a lovely and interesting young lady—the daughter of a highly respectable family.

"Have read enough, my dear," said Mrs. Chapman, putting the paper aside quietly. "Smelling salts, the ammonia, my daughter," she whispered to Mattie, and motioned her hand to bring them quickly. "I shall faint again, I am sure I shall."

"Don't let it worry you so much, mother," replied Mattie, as she handed her the phial. "We ought all to be thankful that we have escaped with no worse disgrace. I at least am thankful."

Mrs. Chapman shook her head, but made no reply for several minutes. Then turning to her husband, she pressed her hands to her head and resumed: "My pride is crushed, and my courage all gone, gone, gone. Bigelow Chapman, my dear, when I married you I knew you were intellectually great, and I looked forward to a brilliant future. The house is all dark now."

"Extravagance, my dear, extravagance," said Chapman, shaking his head suggestively. "It is a master that will break down the best of us." Topman and Mrs. Topman have been indulging in extravagance; Gusher has been spending all the money he could get, and all the young men in the office went to doing the same. "And you, my darling—you know you havn't lived—." Chapman was going to say, "so economical."

"But, my dear," rejoined Mrs. Chapman quickly, and evidently inclined to change the conversation: "It was not me who introduced the handsome young gentleman into the house."

"No, my dear—you only encouraged him when he was in," replied Chapman, submissively. "I didn't tell you all, my dear, Topman is a forger, and is not to be found. And, and the worst of it is—and that is what has caused all the trouble—the great Kidd Discovery Company is dead! That's where it is!"

"Dead, my dear, dead!" reiterated the astonished woman. "We call it gone up in Wall Street—"

"Couldn't you contrive some way, my dear, to lighten the disgrace?"

"Wall Street is in a state of excitement, the sheriff is in possession of everything, and beggary stares me in the face—"

This conversation was interrupted by loud ringing of the hall bell, and in another minute Bowles opened the parlor door and the sheriff and one of his deputies entered, and commenced their business. "Beg your pardon," said the sheriff, bowing politely, while his deputy deliberately took a seat and began a survey of everything within sight. "You must excuse any lack of ceremony on our part. It is a part of our duty to do these things, and we try to relieve them as much as possible of their painful features." Then taking Chapman aside, he suggested that the ladies better be got up stairs. And while this was being done the deputy entered the back parlor, and placing his hat on the pier table, began taking an inventory of all the furniture.

"You will find my deputy a gentleman," said the sheriff, addressing Chapman when the ladies had left the parlor, "and if not such a companion as you would prefer, I am compelled to leave him with you, and hope your esteem for him will improve on acquaintance. He will take a schedule of everything, and anything missing thereafter you will be held responsible for." Thus saying, the gentleman bid Chapman a polite good morning, and hurried himself out of the house.

Again the hall bell rang. This time Bowles brought in an unsealed note, grimy and discolored. Chapman immediately recognized it as from Gusher. He carried it up stairs to his dear wife, who read it aloud, for it was addressed to her, and read thus:

"Pardon, madam, pardon. Zis one circumstance, he is so very disagreeable. My compliment to ze family, an Mr. Gusher, he beg to say as he shall be compel to forego ze pleasure of is marriage zis day wiz your daughter. He is one grand rascal what make me so much trouble. So many friend come to see me to-day. But ze suberscribed condition of my accommodation shall prevent ze carry out of my obligation wiz your lovely daughter. You shall zee, madam, as I am a man—yes, madam, a gentleman of 'onar. I shall get all my enemies undar my feet. Zen I shall do myself ze 'onar to marry your lovely daughter. Allow me, madam. I shall subscribe myself your friend.

"PHILO GUSHER."

"Impudence to the very last," said Mrs. Chapman; "he has brought this disgrace upon us, and now insults us in this way." When Chapman returned he found the parlor doors locked, and was informed by the sheriff's deputy that he must confine himself to the kitchen and one room up stairs.



CHAPTER XXXI.

A VERY PERPLEXING SITUATION.

Wall Street was in a great flutter that day. A forgery, a defalcation that to-day would cause but a ripple on the surface, would have at that day sent the street into a tempest of excitement. A sheriff's deputy stood at the door of the office of the great Kidd Discovery Company, and a crowd of anxious and excited people, who had invested their money and now found they had lost it all, and had been made the victims of an aggravating fraud, surrounded the building. Threats and imprecations, enough to have sent a much more respectable house to the bottom of the sea, were heaped on the firm of Topman & Gusher. Nor indeed would it have been safe for any one connected with that enterprising firm to have shown his head in that assembly just at that time.

"Gentlemen will understand that this consolidated establishment is in a very unconsolidated condition. No further business will be done until its affairs are compromised;" the sheriff's deputy would announce, in a loud voice, as he endeavored to keep the crowd back. "There's only an empty safe, gentlemen, and some handsome office furniture," he would ejaculate. "You can't have them, you know."

Extravagance had indeed swallowed up all the substance and left only these insignificant things for the crowd of anxious creditors to feast their eyes on.

Rumor after rumor rang through Wall Street, each in turn increasing the amount of Topman's forgeries, and adding new names to the list of his victims. Bank ledgers were examined to see if the name of the firm appeared on them, and portly old directors put on their spectacles and congratulated themselves that the concern did not owe them a shilling. Groups of excited men stood at street corners discussing in animated tones the great event of the street. Everybody knew it must come. Nobody expected it would come so soon.

The strangest thing of all was that no one knew anything of the antecedents of either member of the firm, or what the great Kidd Discovery Company was really based upon. Enterprising gentlemen had bought and sold the stock, and made and lost money by it. That was all they knew of it. The morning papers had given them an interesting account about Gusher; now some one was needed to tell them all about Topman—where he came from, who he was, and where he was to be found. There was enough to call him rascal now. Even those who had ridden in his carriage, and enjoyed his dinners, and indeed thought him the best of fellows a few weeks before, were now ready to give him the hardest of kicks.

In truth, the firm was a mystery in Wall Street, and its largest creditors were in the greatest darkness concerning it. Some one has truly said that in a great commercial city men are known only by their enterprises and their successes; that their antecedents become lost in the magnitude and rapidity with which events revolve. This is particularly so with us. The firm of Topman & Gusher had fixed itself in Pearl Street, and gone quietly into business without friends, acquaintances, or endorsers; and in a single year had secured both credit and respectability. And it had done this on what is too frequently mistaken for energy and enterprise—show and pretension.

Upon Chapman's shoulders, however, the crushing effect of this great disaster fell heaviest. Stripped of all he had, ruined, disgraced, he stood like one amazed at the suddenness of his own fall. He had built his castles on sand, and now found them tumbling down, and crushing him under the ruin. His avaricious nature had led him, not only to wrong, but to bring distress and ruin on the unsuspecting and simple-minded Dutch settlers. The wheel of fortune was turned now. He had himself been ruined, betrayed, and disgraced by the very men he had put confidence in and made partners of his guilt. He also had set a snare and invented a plot by which he expected to strip honest old Hanz Toodleburg of his property, and now he had been caught in it himself.

His daughter, Mattie, had already disclosed to him the fact that she had overheard the conversation between him and Topman, relative to the manner of entrapping Hanz, and knew the secret of their plot. And she had appealed to him to save her the pain of bearing testimony that would conflict with his, to save an honest old man from poverty. The man of great progressive ideas now found it necessary to invent some way of escaping from what he saw would be worse than ruin and disgrace—a criminal's doom. His name had not appeared in the suit Topman & Gusher brought against Hanz Toodleburg. Oh, no. Chapman was needed as a witness to prove the signing of the papers, and all the circumstances relating to the sale of the secret of Kidd's treasure. Poverty and misfortune had now stepped in to purify and direct a smitten conscience.

He could not see his daughter further disgraced. Nor could he meet her in a court, giving testimony in conflict with his, and exposing his crime. He could only escape by coming out boldly, and doing justice to the old man he had tried so hard to wrong. It would also be to his advantage to assume this virtue, for if the case were decided against Hanz he would gain nothing. The creditors would in that case get all the property, whereas, if he confessed his partnership in, and exposed the plot, and defeated the creditors, some benefit might result from it—at some time. The son might still be alive, Chapman said to himself, and if he should form a connection with the family at some future day, (and there was no knowing what might happen,) why it was better to protect Hanz and the property now. He well knew that Mattie had fixed her affection on the young gentleman, and if he should ever return, nothing her mother could say hereafter would prevent their marriage.



CHAPTER XXXII.

HARVEST SUNDAY.

October was come again, the poetry of summer had almost departed, and it was a quiet Sunday morning in the country. The bell on the little old church by the hillside, at Nyack, was calling the plodding Dutch settlers to morning service. The hard, hollow sounds of the old bell echoed harshly over the hills, and yet there was something in its familiar sounds, and the quiet pastoral scenes it was associated with, that always moved our feelings, and prompted us to give them a pleasant resting place in our love.

Cattle were resting in the fields, and their yokes hung on the gate posts that day. A soft, Indian-summer glow hung with transparent effect over the landscape; and a gentle wind whispered lovingly over the Tappan Zee. Autumn, too, had hung the trees in her brightest colors.

It was Harvest Sunday, a sort of festive resting-day with the Dutch settlers, who had gathered about the little church in great numbers, young and old, all dressed in their simple but neat attire. Others were quietly wending their way thitherward, along the lanes and through the fields. There they gathered about the little old church, a smiling, happy, and contented people, and waited for the Dominie, for it was their custom to meet him at the church door, and after exchanging greetings, follow him like a loving flock into their seats.

The Dominie was to preach his harvest sermon, and his flock was to join him in giving thanks to God for the bounties He had bestowed upon them. He had, indeed, blessed them with an abundant harvest that year; and now they had come to thank Him and be joyful. Conspicuous in the group was the little snuffy doctor, Critchel, looking happy among the people whose ills he had administered to for half a century. On Harvest-Sunday he could kiss and caress the bright faced little children he had helped bring into the world as fondly as a young mother. There, too, was the schoolmaster, with his ruddy face and his seedy clothes, ready to do his part in making Harvest-Sunday pass pleasantly, for indeed the crop was a matter of importance with him. And there was Titus Bright, for the merry little inn-keeper would have considered such a gathering incomplete without him. Titus was not so well thought of by the Dutch settlers since he gave up his little tavern for a big one, and had taken to boarding fine folks from the city.

And now the appearance of Hanz and Angeline, advancing slowly up the road, for Hanz walked with a staff, created a pleasant diversion. Several of the young people ran to meet them, and greeted them with such expressions of welcome as must have filled their hearts with joy.

When they had nearly reached the church, Critchel proceeded to meet them with his hand extended. "Verily, good neighbor Hanz," said he, after greeting the old people with a hearty shake of the hand, "the people have had strange news to talk about for a week past." Critchel shook his head, looked serious, and taking Hanz by the arm, drew him aside. "This Chapman has fallen to the ground, they say."

"Mine friend Critchel," returned Hanz, leaning on his staff, and casting a look upward. "I tolds you tar pees un shust Got; and now you shees how dat shust Got he pees mine friend."

"Aye, verily," rejoined Critchel, "and he lets them what builds castles and lives like lords suffer their disappointments. Poor people like us, who work with their hands, stick to their lands, and pay their debts, have their castles in peace and contentment."

"Tar pees shust so much wisdom in vat you shays, mine friend Critchel. In dis world tar pees nothin' sartin. Dis Chapman, he puts his money in his pocket, and ven he gets his money in his pocket he gets rich and prout. Zen he goes to t' city so pig and prout as he can pe. Now he comes pack from t' city, mit his pig vrow, and tar pees nobody as makes one pow to his pig vrow. Above tar pees one shust Got, Critchel."

The misfortunes of the Chapman family, my reader must know, had been furnishing Nyack something to talk about for several months. But it was only with their return to town, which important event took place one morning during the last week, that the quiet of Nyack was disturbed and the gossips sent into a state of excitement. The family, indeed, returned as quietly as a family in misfortune could be expected to do, and put up at Bright's Inn, where, it was given out, they would live on the wreck of their fortune until Chapman could see his way clear for a new start in the world. But little was seen of Mrs. Chapman, of whom it was reported that she desired to live in retirement, and did not see visitors.

The lady, however, had resolved that Nyack should not turn up its nose without being kept in mind of the high social position the family had held in the city. And as a means of making the desired impression, and also of finding relief for her injured feelings, she had brought Napoleon Bowles into "retirement" with the family. And that faithful domestic accommodated his pride of a Sunday by dressing in his livery and top-boots, and walking out, to the astonishment and amusement of a crowd of curious urchins, who were sure to gather about him.

As for Chapman, he went about the town as if nothing had happened, renewing acquaintances, and declaring there was no honester man in the settlement than Hanz Toodleburg; that the charges against his honesty, and his connection with the Kidd Discovery Company, were all scandals, got up by bad men; and that he had been deceived by them himself.

During the few days Chapman had been in Nyack, he had made himself appear so good a friend of Hanz that the honest settlers not only began to express sympathy for him in his misfortunes, but to enquire what they could do to put him on his feet again. When, however, he told them it was not their sympathy he wanted, but their money to assist him in building a steamboat two hundred feet long, and that he had matured a plan for a railroad, so that they might ride from Nyack to New York in an hour, they became alarmed, put their heads together wisely, and declared the man mad beyond cure.

Here I must leave Chapman waiting to see his way clear. He came of that old round-head stock which, wanting its way always, ready to meddle with everything, never contented, ready to play the sycophant to gain power, selfish and arrogant in the use of it, is, nevertheless, found giving shape, action, and momentum to all our great enterprises. Out of all the trouble Chapman had caused Nyack, there had come some good that would be turned to account in the future. Misfortune had bowed, not broken his spirit. He was again prepared to invent a new religion, to build a church, to keep a boarding-house, to start a bank or run a steamboat—and all with modern improvements.

The little church bell was still ringing, and the crowd still kept increasing in numbers and cheerfulness. "The Dominie's coming! the Dominie's coming! The Dominie's coming!" was lisped by a score of lips, as the attention of the people was attracted down the road. There the old Dominie came, mounted on a clumsy-footed, big-headed, bay cob—a little bright-eyed girl, whose face was full of sweetness and love, and dressed in blue and white, riding behind him. His broad, kindly face, shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat, his flowing white hair, his quaintly cut coat, with the ample side pocket, and his long, white necktie, presented a picture so full of truth and simplicity as to be worthy of being preserved on canvas. He was, in truth, a figure belonging to an order of things that was fast passing way—at least along the banks of the Hudson.

Children clapped their hands and ran to meet him; girls greeted him with offerings of flowers; and when he had dismounted, both old and young gathered about him, lisping him a welcome and shaking him by the hand. There was nobody like Dominie Payson, and the love these people bore him, and now gave him so many expressions of, was true and heartfelt. And when he had kissed the children, and exchanged greetings and kind words with their parents, he proceeded into the church, followed by his flock. His sermon was, perhaps, one of the oddest ever listened to, for after returning thanks for the bountiful harvest, and extending on the goodness of God, and advising his flock to stick firmly to their farms and their religion, that being the only true way of getting to Heaven, he turned his guns against Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, though he never once mentioned their names. He urged his flock to keep in mind always how much better off they were, how much more happy they were than those men who came to town with the devil and a number of strange religions in their heads. Such people, he added, always had the devil for a friend; and it was the devil who assisted them to get poor people's money. And with this money they dressed their wives in silks and satins, built big houses, and lived like people who were very proud and never paid their debts, nor did a day's work on the roads. It was all well enough for these men to talk of Heaven and put on pious faces, but Heaven would take no notice of them while they gave themselves up to the temptations of the devil and built steamboats and founded railroads, to kill honest people with, and ruin the country.

"My friends," said the Dominie, resting for a moment, and then charging his guns for another fire at Chapman, "you have seen a man ready to sell his soul for money enough to build a steamboat. Now he wants to build a railroad to get you out of the world quicker." The Dominie shook his head, wiped his brow, and again paused for a few seconds. "Let them dress their wives in satins and silks, let them ruin their country with their steamboats and railroads, let them build their big houses, go to the city, get proud, waste all their money in folly and vice, and return among honest people with a sheriff at their heels, because they don't pay nobody—but don't you go and do it. My friends—there will be an account to settle with these people who swell themselves up so big, when roasting-day comes. You that have wives—look to them. Keep their hearts pure and simple. Don't let them spend your money in silks and satins. If you do, the sheriff locks up your door and puts the key in his pocket." Thus the Dominie concluded, reminding his hearers that, as it was Harvest-Sunday, they must not forget to be liberal with their sixpences when the box came round.

His hearers were greatly delighted, and declared they had not heard him preach so good a sermon for many a day. And when he came down from the pulpit they congratulated him, and sundry extra pecks of wheat were promised as a reward for the light he had favored them with.

The day wore away pleasantly, and when evening came, when the gleams of the setting sun tipped the surrounding hills with golden light, and dusky shadows were creeping up the valley, the reader, if he had looked in at Hanz Toodleburg's little house, might have seen one of those quaint but pleasant pictures which are a fit ending of such a day.

There, grouped around his table, sat the Dominie, Doctor Critchel, Bright the inn-keeper, and the schoolmaster, for Hanz had invited them to sup with him, and Angeline had prepared the best she had to set before them. There, too, was Tite's empty chair. There it stood, silent and touching, all the pleasant memories it once contained made sad now by the mystery that enshrouded his long absence. There was his plate, and his knife and fork, all so bright and clean, set as regularly as if he were home, and guarded so tenderly. The eloquence of that vacant chair, appealing so directly to the finer sensibilities of every one present, left a deep and sad impression. Supper was nearly over before any of the guests had courage to refer to it. The Dominie at length raised his spectacles and addressing Angeline, said: "Heaven gives to every house its idol. We have been blessed to-day, and made happy. It will yet please Heaven to bring back the idol of this house, and fill that empty chair. I am sure we shall all be glad when the boy gets home."

"When he does, there will be such a time at my house," interposed the inn-keeper, nodding his head approvingly. "There's the parlor for him to do his courting in. And one of the prettiest little sweethearts is waiting to give him such a welcome. God bless her—she isn't a bit like the rest of them Chapmans—she isn't."

"My school don't keep the day he comes home," rejoined the schoolmaster, helping himself to another piece of pumpkin pie.

The mention of Tite's name filled old Hanz's eyes with tears. He buried his face in his hands, and remained silent for several minutes, overcome by his feelings. As soon as he had recovered control of them, he wiped the tears from his eyes, and replied in broken sentences: "I vas sho happy ven mine Tite, mine poor poy Tite vas home. Peers as if now, mine poor poy he never comes home no more, he never prings shoy into mine house no more."

"Always look on the best side of things, neighbor Hanz," replied the Dominie.

"Yah, put I gets sho old now."

"It would not astonish me," continued the Dominie, playfully, "if the young gentleman surprised us all to-night. Stranger things have happened." These remarks excited a feeling of anxiety.

"I was on the other side of the river last night," continued the Dominie, "and the people there had a report from the city that the vessel he sailed in had been heard from." Angeline quietly left the table, for the wells of her heart were overflowing.

"Tar shall come news as t' wessel mine Tite shails in comed pack, eh?" enquired Hanz, fixing his eyes steadily on the Dominie.

"Not that she has arrived," returned the Dominie, "but that there is news of her—"

"Tar pees news," muttered Hanz, his eyes glistening with anxiety. "An nopody tells me t' news before, eh? Tar pees shum news of t'at wessel, eh? Tar don't pee no news of mine poor Tite, eh?" The old man extended his trembling hand and grasped the Dominie's arm nervously, his face became as pale as marble, and his whole system shook with excitement.

"Tar shall come news as t' wessel mine Tite shails in comes pack," he ejaculated, "an tar pees no news of mine poor poy, eh?" And he threw up his arms, rested his head on the Dominie's shoulder and wept like a child. "No, mine Tite he ton't comes home no more," he sobbed.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

RETURNED HOME.

While the scene just closed was being enacted, a glance across the river and down the road that skirts along the Hudson from Yonkers to Tarrytown, would have discovered a light country wagon, drawn by a single horse, and containing two men, advancing at a brisk pace. They had nearly reached Dobbs' Ferry as the sun disappeared in the west.

He who sat beside the driver, with his arms folded, and thoughtful, was a tall, well-formed young man, with light hair that curled into his neck, side whiskers, deep and intelligent blue eyes, a face that lighted up with a smile when he spoke, and which had been fair and handsome, but was now scorched and sun-burnt. His hands, too, were small, but hard and weather-burnt, indicating that he had been accustomed to use them at hard work. His dress was of blue petersham, looking neat and new, the short coat buttoning square across his breast; and a tall hat set oddly enough on a head evidently not accustomed to the fashion that dictated such a covering. A broad, white shirt collar, turned carelessly down, was tied with a black silk handkerchief, the long ends of which hung outside his coat.

There was something mature and thoughtful in his manner, even beyond his years. The driver, an inquisitive fellow, had several times tried to draw him into conversation, that he might find out something concerning him, for he seemed familiar with the names of places along the river, and yet kept up the disguise of a stranger. But on nothing, except the vessels passing up and down the river, did he seem inclined to be communicative. On these he would make such remarks as showed familiarity with the sea. Indeed his mind seemed absorbed in something of deep and painful interest.

They drew up at the little inn with the swinging sign near Dobbs' Ferry, for the driver said his horse was jaded, and needed feed and rest before they proceeded further, and were met by the short, corpulent landlord, who, after ordering the animal cared for, invited them into the house, saying there was a good supper ready.

"It is sundown now," said the passenger, in a tone of impatience, as he alighted from the wagon, and received the landlord's extended hand, "and we are still six miles away. You have forfeited the inducement I offered to quicken your speed; but it is no offset to my disappointment." This was addressed to the driver, who muttered something, about the heavy roads, in reply, tossed his hat into a chair on the porch, and with an independent and half-defiant air, walked into the house and took his seat at the supper table.

"'Tisn't the first time Sam's supped at my house," said the landlord, bowing and inviting the stranger to walk in. "You'll walk in, sir, won't you? There's always a good supper at this house—kept it when King George's troops were about—only four shillin', sir," the landlord continued, bowing and motioning his hand. But the stranger shook his head negatively, drew a cigar from his pocket and politely requested the landlord to give him a light. And when he had lighted his cigar, he drew a Spanish dollar from his pocket, and slipped it into the man's hand, saying it would pay for both their suppers, and he would take his when they returned. He, at the same time, begged the landlord to give himself no concern about him, but to proceed to his supper, which he knew from his appearance he would enjoy.

"Seein' how you're a gentleman," said the landlord, bowing obsequiously, "there's three shillin' more for the horse—that squares it."

"Certainly—I forgot the horse," replied the stranger, drawing a half-dollar piece from his pocket and giving it to the landlord.

"There's a shillin' comin' to you," returned the landlord, putting the money into one pocket, and feeling in the other, "Never mind the shilling," said the stranger, "we will settle that another time."

"Travellers always find a good bed at my house, and enough on the table. That's more than the fellow who keeps the house further on can say," continued the landlord, again bowing and proceeding to his supper.

The stranger now paced quickly and impatiently up and down the little veranda, pausing every few minutes and looking out in the direction of the wagon, as if it contained something he was guarding with scrupulous care. In short, the object of his solicitude was a stout, leathern valise, in the wagon, and which was so heavy that it required the strength of two ordinary men to handle it easily.

Twenty minutes passed and the driver again made his appearance, wiping his lips and buttoning up his coat unconcernedly. "Sorry to have detained you," he said, flapping his hat on. "Landlord says you've settled the shot—won't be long getting there now." In another minute they were in their seats and on the road to Tarrytown.

It was nearly eight o'clock when they reached the old ferry, and found it deserted for the night. The boatmen had ceased their regular crossings nearly an hour before, and were quietly smoking their pipes at home. The moon was up, stars shone brightly in the serene sky, and not a sail specked the unruffled surface of the Tappan Zee. Lights twinkled on the opposite shore, and the little old town of Nyack was dimly seen.

They waited a few minutes, and as no one appeared, the driver went in search of the boatmen, saying a few extra shillings would make it all right with them. And while he was gone the stranger paced nervously and with rapid steps up and down, every few seconds pausing at the pier-head and looking intently in the direction of Nyack. Was it joy he anticipated, or disappointment he feared? Something was agitating his heart and filling his eyes with tears, for he several times turned his head and wiped them away. And yet the more he watched in the direction of Nyack, the more restless and impatient he became.

The driver returned after an absence of ten minutes, accompanied by two sturdy fellows, both of whom affected to be in bad humor at being called on to ferry a traveller at that hour. With their hands thrust deep into their nether pockets, they moved reluctantly about, scanning the stranger from head to foot. "Couldn't stop this side till morning?" enquired one of them, in a grumbling tone. "I must cross to-night," replied the stranger, in a decided voice. "Cross to-night, eh? Well, it's a long pull across there now," muttered the man, blowing the ashes from his pipe and still affecting an air of indifference. Then raising his eyes and breaking a piece of tobacco between his fingers, he resumed: "Worth a matter of twelve shillin' extra—isn't it? Wouldn't mind a trifle like that—I take it."

"I must yield to your demands—of course. It is a necessity with me to get across as quick as possible," replied the stranger, and drawing from his pocket two Spanish dollars, he gave them to the boatman, saying: "We will settle the matter now. Here is your pay in advance."

The man took the money and at once became active and civil. "We must set the gentleman across, Tom," said he, addressing his comrade, and exposing the silver, "this makes it all right."

The stranger now dismissed the driver with an extra dollar, for which he considered himself lucky, for he had not kept his promise to reach the ferry by sundown.

The boatman who acted as spokesman, in attempting to lift the valise from the wagon, let it fall to the ground, such was its great weight. "There's somethin' more nor clothes in that," said the man, shaking his head and raising his hands in an attitude of alarm. Then, with an inquisitive look at the stranger, he continued: "Hadn't no connection with them are Kidd Discovery Company folks? They was swindlers, they was."

"Never heard of such a company before. Get my things aboard, and let us be away," replied the stranger, in a tone of command.

It required the strength of both boatmen to carry the valise comfortably; and when they had got it aboard and the stranger seated in the stern, for he said he could steer, they pulled away for the opposite shore. Not a word was spoken for several minutes. At length the stranger broke the silence. "How pleasant it seems," he said, "to get back on the old Tappan Zee. Everything looks so familiar—"

"You have been here before, then?" enquired the man pulling the stern oar, and who had acted as spokesman.

"Yes," returned the stranger. "My home was just out of Nyack not many years ago. I may find things changed there now. Do you know many people over there?"

"Why yes—nearly everybody—"

"Dominie Payson—is he living?"

"If he didn't die since yesterday. He was over here yesterday."

"And Doctor Critchel—you know him, I suppose? Is he alive?"

"Why, help you—he never intends to die."

"And you know, I suppose;" here the stranger hesitated, and his voice thickened; "you know, I suppose, Hanz Toodleburg—and his—. Are they living?"

"Living! That they are—and right hearty, too. They tried to get the old man mixed up in the Kidd Discovery affair—but they didn't." The boatman bent his head approvingly.

"There was a Chapman family—are they still in Nyack?"

"They're there—but its not sayin' much for Nyack. They went to New York proud, and as folks thought rich, for Chapman had his finger in schemes enough to get other people's money; but he com'd back poor as a crow, they say."

The stranger's mind seemed to have been relieved of some great anxiety by these answers, and he at once became more cheerful and talkative. He at the same time avoided saying anything that might discover who he was.

This caution excited the boatman's curiosity to such a pitch that he resolved to make a bold push to uncover the stranger.

"Wouldn't take it amiss, would you?" said he, "if a man like me was to ask what your name was? Needn't mind if there's any cause o' keepin' it a secret."

The stranger smiled, hesitated, and stammered in reply: "Hanz Toodleburg is my father."

"Well, well! Just what I expected. Didn't say nothin' you see; but I thought as how you was him," exclaimed the boatman.

"I have been over three years away from home," interrupted the stranger.

"Then you are Tite—the old man's son," resumed the boatman, "well, well!" Turning to him who pulled the bow-oar: "Stop pullin' a bit, Tom," said he, "stop pullin'."

The man now rested his oar, and rising from his seat, extended his hand to the stranger, saying: "There's a hard old honest hand that welcomes you safe back. John Flint is my name—called old Jack Flint generally." And he shook Tite's hand again and again. "A heap o' people round here reckoned how you was dead—they did. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, my boy. Its fifteen years since you and me sailed comrades on the sloop. Bin all round the world an' aint above shakin' the hand of an old fellow like me. That's what I like." Again and again the old boatman shook Tite's hand, and gave expression to such sentiments of joy as showed how true and honest was his heart.

"Yes, this is me, Jack, and I am as glad to see you as you are to see me. But I wanted to get across without being recognized."



The old boatman felt in his pocket, and drawing forth the two Spanish dollars, insisted on returning them. "Them goes back into your pocket," he said, shaking his head, "Never shall be said Jack Flint charged an old comrade a sixpence for settin' him across stream."

"Keep it, keep it, Jack. I have enough for both of us," replied Tite, motioning his hand for the boatman to return the money to his pocket.

"Well, if you insist—an' I have to accept it, you see, it'll be out of respect and to please you." And he looked at the money doubtingly, shook his head, and reluctantly returned it to his pocket.

The man now resumed his oar, and they proceeded on with increased speed. In less than half an hour from that time, they had landed at Nyack, and proceeding up the road had reached Bright's Inn, the two boatmen carrying the valise. Here they came to a halt, the men setting the valise down, while Tite seemed in doubt what to do next. Bewildered with the position he found himself in, hesitating and nervous, almost overcome by anxiety, his throbbing heart beat quicker and quicker the nearer he reached his home. But there was now a more violent struggle going on in his feelings. It was a struggle to decide between love and duty. Now he looked up the road in the direction of his home, and advanced a few steps. Again he paused and looked up enquiringly at the house. The old boatman had told him that Chapman lived there, when all the embers of that love he had so long cherished for Mattie seemed to kindle again into a living fire. And yet what changes might have taken place since he left? If, however, she still loved him, and was true to him, how could he pass the house, even at that late hour, without at least letting her know he was in Nyack?

It was indeed late, and there was still a mile before he reached the home of his parents. He could have more time in the morning to meet Mattie, to unfold his heart to her, and to give her an account of the many strange things that had happened to him since he left.

There was a bright light in two of the upper windows, but below the house was nearly dark, and Bright was in his bar-room, settling up the business of the day. Suddenly the light in the windows became brighter, then the shadow of a female figure was seen crossing and recrossing the room every few seconds. Tite watched and watched that flitting shadow, for he read in it the object of his heart's love, read in it the joy that was in store for him, perhaps—perhaps the sorrow. The figure was Mattie's, and it was her shadow that was causing him all this heart-aching. Now the figure took the place of the shadow, and stood looking out at the window, as if contemplating the moon and the stars, for nearly a minute. Yes, there was Mattie, watching and wondering what had become of the man who was at that moment contemplating her movements. Then the figure and the shadow disappeared, but it was only to increase Tite's impatience to see her.

The three men now proceeded to the door and the bell was rung. A moving of chairs and unlocking of doors indicated that the house had not gone to bed. The door was soon opened by Titus Bright, in his shirt sleeves and slippers, and holding a candle in his hand. "What's up, Flint?" he enquired, for he saw only the boatmen; "what brings you over at this time of night?"

"There was a shillin' to be made, you see, Bright, and a passenger what wanted settin' over, you see," said the ferryman, his face beaming with good nature. "Know you'd like to see him, you know, Bright, and to make him as comfortable as you could for a night or so. Tom and me pulled him across." Tite now advanced towards the inn-keeper, who gazed at him with an air of astonishment, and held the candle above his head to avoid the shadow.

"Come in, come in," said Bright. "We will make the gentleman as comfortable as we can."

"You have forgotten me, I see," said Tite, smiling and extending his hand.

"God bless me!" exclaimed Bright, grasping his hand in a paroxysm of delight; "if here isn't Tite Toodleburg cum home. Come in, come in. Welcome home." After shaking him warmly by the hand and leading him into the parlor, the inn-keeper ran and brought his wife, who welcomed the young man with the tenderness of a mother. The good woman would have had a fire made and supper prepared, and indeed entertained him for the rest of the night, expressing her joy over his return, had he not told her how great was his anxiety to see his parents.

"I know who it is the young man wants to see," said Bright, touching him on the elbow and nodding his head suggestively. "And there'll be a flutter up stairs when it's told her you're cum home."

The boatmen had remained in the hall. Bright now invited them into his bar and filled mugs of ale for them, and joined them in drinking the health of the young man who had been round the world. He then dismissed them, saying he would take care of the young gentleman's baggage; and stepping up stairs, tapped gently at Chapman's door. "We were all retiring for the night," said Mrs. Chapman, opening the door slightly, and looking alarmed, for Bright was in a flutter of excitement, and it was nearly a minute before he could tell what he wanted. At length he stammered out: "There, there, there—there's a strange gentleman down stairs, mam—and he would like to see Miss Mattie, I am sure he would."

"Mr. Bright," replied Mrs. Chapman, tossing her head and compressing her lips, "he can't be much of a gentleman to come at this hour of night. My daughter has no acquaintance who would presume to take such a liberty. Etiquette forbids it."

Mattie now made her appearance, with a book half open in her left hand, and looking anxious and agitated. Then resting her right hand on her mother's shoulder, "Mr. Bright," she enquired, in a hesitating voice, "what does the gentleman look like?"

"A nice gentleman enough, Miss—"

"Is it any one you know?"

"Why, Miss," resumed Bright, with an air of reluctance, "wouldn't intrude at this house, but I know you'd like to see the gentleman; and wouldn't be particular about the time."

Mattie fixed her eyes on Bright with a steady gaze, her agitation increased, her face changed color rapidly, her heart seemed to beat anew with some sudden transport of joy. "Oh, mother! oh, mother!" she exclaimed, tossing the book on the floor, "I know who Mr. Bright means. It's him! I know it's him! He has come back!" She rushed past her mother, vaulted as it were down the stairs and into the parlor. The young man stood motionless. He was so changed in dress and appearance that she suddenly hesitated, and for a moment drew back, as if in doubt.

"It is me, Mattie," said Tite, smiling and advancing with his hand extended. The thought suddenly flashed through his mind that she might have expected some one else. He was mistaken, for she met his advance like one whose heart was filled with joy. In short, the words had hardly fallen from his lips when they were in each other's arms, and giving such proofs of their affection as only hearts bound together by the truest and purest of love can give.

"I knew you would come back to me—yes, I knew you would. There was an angel guarding you while absent," she whispered, looking up as he kissed her and kissed her. And as her eyes met his her face brightened with a smile so full of sweetness and gentleness.

"I knew what would happen," said Bright, opening the door apace and looking in. "Knew there would be just such a scene." Just at that moment Mrs. Chapman brushed past the exuberant inn-keeper, and stood like a massive statue, looking at the scene before her with an air of surprise and astonishment, for Mattie was still clasped in the young man's arms.

"My daughter! my daughter!" she exclaimed, raising her fat hands, "enough to make a mother faint to see a well-brought-up daughter so familiar? It shocks me, my daughter. I am sure I am glad to see the young man home. But familiarity of that kind's not becoming. Your father never would have married me if I had allowed familiarity of that kind."

"You must blame me; it was all my fault," said Tite, handing Mattie to a chair, and advancing toward Mrs. Chapman.

"You have been away a long time, haven't you," said the lady, receiving his hand in a cold and formal manner. "You are very much changed—the effect of the sea-air on the complexion, I suppose? We shall be very glad to see you at any time, Mr. Toodleburg. It was so late we didn't expect visitors, and were not prepared for them. You said you had not seen your aged parents?"

"Not yet," replied Tite, "but I shall proceed there soon."

"It was very kind of you," resumed the lady, "to pay us this compliment. How very anxious they must be to see you."

"And I am equally anxious to see them," he replied; "but I could not pass without seeing you—just for a few minutes." Then turning to Mattie, he exchanged kisses with her, kissed her good-night, to the great distress of her mother, who was compelled to look on. He also promised to call early in the morning, spend most of the day, and give an account of his voyage.

A minute more and he was seated in a wagon beside Bright, and proceeding over the road toward Hanz's little house.

When he was gone, and the Chapmans had retired to their room, "Ma," said Mattie, her face coloring with feeling, "it was very unkind, even cruel of you to treat the young gentleman so coldly."

"Done to balance the familiarity, my daughter—the familiarity! Needed something to balance that," interrupted the lady, bowing her head formally. "Young man looks respectable enough. He may have come home and not a sixpence in his pocket—who knows? In these matters, my daughter, it's always best to know where the line is drawn before building your house."

"He might have come home penniless; it would not have made a bit of difference to me, mother, I would love him just as much," replied Mattie. "But I can forgive you, ma, for I know you did not mean what you said." And she kissed her mother, and retired for the night, the happiest woman in all Nyack.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

HE BRINGS JOY INTO THE HOUSE.

All was silent and dark in the little house where Hanz Toodleburg lived, when the wagon containing Tite and the inn-keeper drew up at the gate. A dull, dreamy stillness seemed to hang over the place, and the little, old house was in the full enjoyment of a deep sleep. The two men alighted, and Tite stood for a few minutes viewing the scene around him. How strange and yet how familiar everything seemed. He was at the opposite side of the world only a few months ago, and time had sped on so swiftly that it seemed as if he had gone to bed at night on one side of the globe, and waked up in the morning at the other. Then he was on an island almost unknown to the rest of the world, surrounded by scenes so wild, so strange and romantic, that the reader would not believe them real.

Here now was the old lattice gate, the vine-covered arbor leading through the garden to the cracked and blistered-faced front door, the stack of hop-vines in the garden-corner, and the rickety veranda where, when a boy, he used to sit beside his father of a summer evening, for it was here Hanz welcomed his friends and smoked his pipe. It was here, too, that Angeline, the spirit of whose sweet face had been with him in his wanderings, used to sit at her flax-wheel, spinning thread that was famous in Fly Market.

Could this be a sweet dream, a beautiful delusion, a spirit-spell that moves the soul with pictures of love and enchantment, and from which some stern reality would soon awake him and dispel the charm? No, it was reality, appealing more forcibly to all that was true and kindly in his nature, and filling his eyes with tears.

The inn-keeper noticed the effect it was having on his feelings, and made an effort to divert his attention. "Looks kind o' natural after bein' round the world doesn't it, Tite?" he enquired.

"Yes—seems like home again," was the quiet reply.

"Zounds!" exclaimed the inn-keeper, suddenly; "but there's somethin' heavy in it." In attempting to lift the valise from the wagon it had fallen to the ground under its great weight. The inn-keeper shook his head and rubbed his hands. "Had a lucky voyage, I reckon," he concluded.

"More than eighty pounds of solid gold in that," returned Tite, coolly. The mention of so much gold astonished and delighted the inn-keeper.

"There'll be such a time when the town hears that!" said he. "There'll be enough o' them that'll call you their friend."

"Left three times as much more in the city," resumed Tite. "And there's enough on an island in the Pacific to buy a town as big as Nyack. And I know where it is."

"Eighty pounds of solid gold!" said the inn-keeper, looking enquiringly at Tite, then stooping down and testing the weight of the valise with his hands. "It's so. I always did know you'd come home a rich man."

They now carried the valise into the veranda, knocked at the door, and listened for footsteps within. The big old dog had been growling and barking fiercely for several minutes. Now he recognized the friendly voice of the inn-keeper, and barked them a welcome. He then ran to the little room where Hanz was sleeping, and only ceased barking when he got up.

Soft footsteps were heard inside, a dim light shone through the little window opening into the veranda, and a voice inside enquired: "Who comes t' mine house sho late?"

"Open the door, friend Toodleburg," replied the inn-keeper. "Shouldn't have disturbed you at this hour; but there's a gentleman here would like to see you—an' I'm sure you'd like to see him."

The old man opened the door at the sound of Bright's voice, and stood gazing at the visitors with an air of bewilderment. "You prings me goot news, eh, Bright?" he enquired. "Yes, I am shure you prings me shome news ash ish goot."

"Father, father," said Tite, advancing with his right hand extended, "you don't know me?"

"Ton't know mine own Tite? Mine poor poy Tite!" exclaimed the old man in a paroxysm of joy. "Yes I does." And he raised his hands, and threw his arms around Tite's neck, and wept for joy. "Ton't know mine own Tite," he repeated, raising his head and looking up in Tite's face, "yes I does. Yes, I shay mine Tite will cum home; an' he cums home—and mine poor old heart he pees sho glat. Yes, he pees you, mine Tite. You prings shoy into mine house. Mine poor Tite—he com'd home t' mine house. Tar pees no more shorrow now in mine house." The old man was overcome with joy. The idol of the house was home again, and true happiness reigned under that little roof.

"You ton't go away no more, mine Tite," he continued, patting him on the shoulder and pressing his hand.

Angeline heard Tite's voice and came rushing into the room frantic with joy. "Thank God! thank God!" she exclaimed. "He has brought our boy safe back to us." And she embraced him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him again and again.

"And I am so glad to get back to you, mother," he replied, returning her affection, and pressing her to his breast fondly. "It is so good to be in my old home, where I can receive your blessings, and be good to you."

And Angeline looked up in his face with such a sweet smile, as she patted him on the shoulder, and their tears mingled in the sweetest of joy as she invoked God's blessing on his head. Truly, God had heard their prayer, had blessed them, and had again made their little home bright with joy.

"I wish Chapman could look in here now," said Bright, "there'd be a lesson for him on what happiness is worth." And he shook Tite by the hand, told him to remember that his house was always open to him, and left for the night.

Even the old dog seemed anxious to join in welcoming the young gentleman back, for he would look up affectionately in his face, draw his body close to his feet, and lay his huge paw on his knee.

And now a fire was lighted, and Angeline prepared supper for Tite, for he had eaten nothing since morning. The chair that had stood empty so long was filled now, and the happiness that reigned under that little roof was such as gold could not purchase.



CHAPTER XXXV.

HOW HE GOT AWAY FROM THE ISLAND.

When supper was over, Tite proceeded to give his parents an account of the voyage, and the manner of escaping from the island with the treasure. The reader has already heard that portion which carries the story up to the death of old Dunman, the pirate. It will be only necessary then to give that part of it which relates to what took place afterward.

"Poor old Dunman," said Tite, "he was so kind to us all, and tried so much to relieve our sufferings and make us feel contented that we all liked him, and felt his death was a severe loss to us. There was something so terrible in the story of his life that we used to talk about it at night, and fancy all sorts of strange spirits haunting the place where his money was buried. It was this that made us all impatient to get away from the dreary place. Three or four days after we had buried him, we removed the stones he said the gold was buried under, and there found, as he had told us, bags and boxes of gold and silver, in bars and coin of various kinds, heavy silver and gold ornaments that had been plundered from churches and convents, with pearls and diamonds and other precious stones, enough to fill two iron chests two feet square and two feet deep. There was the thought that it was the price of so much crime. And what good after all was this gold and silver to do us, if we were to die on the island, like old Dunman? We divided it among us, just as we would something of little value, not caring which got the biggest portion. Then, after keeping out what we thought we might want, each buried his part in separate spots, and marked the places with piles of big stones.

"I always had a presentment that some vessel would come along, and afford us the means of getting away; but after several months of disappointment my companions began to despair, and saying they might as well die one way as another, fitted up the boat, and with sails made of prepared seal skins, and such scanty provisions as they could obtain, set sail in search of an island described by old Dunman to be two leagues distant, inhabited, and a place where whalers had been known to touch. Each took two bags of gold with him, promising that if they were successful they would return and rescue me.

"I felt, and told them they were undertaking what was sure death, and bid them good-bye, never expecting to see them again. Week after week and month after month passed, and nothing was heard of them. I was alone, and nothing but the animals old Dunman had domesticated to keep me company. As a means of attracting the attention of any vessel that might be passing, I built a hut on a high hill near the coast, and used to go there at night and build a fire as a signal. There wasn't a sail came near. I had never feared death before; but to have to die on this unknown island, with everything so strange and mysterious around me, and never be heard of again by my parents and friends, excited all sorts of curious fears in me. And the more I thought of it the more I wanted to get away.

"Well, it was five months since my companions set sail. Poor Ryder, poor Doane; these were their names. They were both young men from Cape Cod; and as brave and true-hearted as ever lived. I got up one morning to renew my signal-fire, and was wondering what had become of the poor fellows, and saying to myself how foolish they were to anticipate death. It was just in the grey of daylight. Happening to cast my eye down the coast, I espied the dim figure of a sail advancing quietly up the coast. I shouted for joy at the sight, not thinking or caring whether it might bring friends or foes. The wind was light, but fair, and the little craft, which turned out to be a taunt-rigged schooner of about a hundred and twenty tons, came gliding along like some white-winged thing of life, for she had a square sail and fore and main gaff-topsails set.

"Just before reaching the cove she furled her square sail and took in the gaff-topsails—a proof that she was making port. I hastened down to the coast, for it was broad daylight now, and watched her every movement. She stood into the cove, rounded to, hauled down her jibs, and dropped her anchor. The men in charge of that vessel handled her as if they were familiar with the place. An hour passed, and no attempt was made to land. Men appeared on deck, moving about in the quiet discharge of their duty, but no attention was directed to the shore. Then a man stood on the quarter with his glass raised, and scanned the shore from point to point. Then there was an aggravating pause, and the rest of the men seemed to disappear below. Then an increased number appeared on deck, and began clearing the lashings from the stern boat. That was a joyful moment, for it was a proof of their intention to land. Then the boat was lowered away and pulled alongside, when two oarsmen got in, and were followed by two men who sat in the stern sheets, and who turned out to be my old companions, Doane and Ryder. Deliverance had come at last.

"After being at sea three days and nights in the boat, they were picked up by a New Bedford whaleship, and landed at Honolulu, where they chartered the schooner Lapwing and returned for me. Thinking it necessary to keep our discovery a secret, lest it might excite the cupidity of the crew, who were all natives, we had to proceed cautiously, and disguise our movements as much as we could. It was decided to leave at least half of the treasure until we could find a more secure means of removing it, as well as one less liable to excite suspicion at the points we would be compelled to land at on our way home.

"We got what we agreed to take away quietly on board during the night, having filled Dunman's big old chest with shells and buried it among them. Then each swore on oath that he would be true to the other, and that he wouldn't make an effort to remove what remained except by mutual agreement, and for the benefit of all equally. We disguised all our movements so well that not even the captain of the schooner, who was an old Spanish coaster, accustomed to suspicious transactions, mistrusted what we were doing.

"When we got all ready, we bid adieu to No Man's Island, and set sail for Honolulu, feeling as if we had been set free from a prison. We were on the way home now, and that was enough to lighten our hearts. We were three weeks getting to Honolulu; and had to remain there two months. We wanted an American ship homeward bound, to take passage on. But as none came, we shipped on board the British whaleship Rose, of Halifax, Nova Scotia, with a full cargo homeward bound. We got there after a long and stormy voyage, working our way as sailors before the mast. We were looked on as poor, shipwrecked whalemen; and no one on board thought we had an extra dollar in our pockets. At Halifax we found a vessel ready to sail for New York, and took passage on her, and here I am now, home again, and glad to get home." It was long after midnight when Tite concluded his story; and having received once more the caresses of his parents, he retired to the little room he had occupied when a boy, to sleep and dream of joys that were in store for him.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

AN INTERESTING CEREMONY.

The little sleepy town of Nyack had hardly waked up on the following morning, when the news of Tite's arrival was rung in it's ears. Marvelous stories, too, were told concerning the amount of money he had brought home, and the different countries he had visited. The inn-keeper declared at the breakfast table, intending that Mrs. Chapman should hear it, that he could say of his own knowledge, that the young gentleman had brought gold enough home to build a castle, have a coach of his own, and live like a gentleman in the city all the rest of his life.

"Has he really brought home so much money?" enquired Mrs. Chapman, raising her eyes and looking at Bright with an air of astonishment. "The young gentleman never mentioned it last night. Well, after all, there's nothing like young gentlemen of his class seeking their fortunes away from home. To say the least, it will give the young gentleman a fixed position in society."

"Yes, my dear," rejoined Chapman, "I always had a good opinion of the young gentleman. I always knew he would distinguish himself if he had a chance—"

"Good opinions are always plenty enough," interrupted the schoolmaster, who was a boarder at Bright's that week, "when a man has money and don't need good opinions."

Chapman made no reply. Indeed he was not prepared for such a thrust from so poor a fellow as the schoolmaster. He understood, however, what was meant by it, for he had gone into court only a few weeks before and given such testimony as showed himself a knave and a hypocrite, though it saved Hanz Toodleburg from ruin.

Mattie noticed the impression made on her mother by what Bright had said, but preserved a dignified silence. She felt that she had gained the price due to her constancy, had risen above the vanities and temptations designed to distract and mislead her, and by following the dictates of her own clear judgment would soon secure both happiness and fortune.

Breakfast was scarcely over at Hanz Toodleburg's before the neighbors, one after another, began to drop in to shake Tite by the hand, and welcome him home, and say "God bless you." Many of them brought little presents, to show how true and heart-felt was the friendship they bore him. And when he went down into the village he found himself surrounded by friends, all anxious to shake his hand, and to welcome him back, and to hear something concerning his voyage. In short, he was an object of curiosity as well as respect, for at that day there was a mysterious interest attached to a young man who had been a voyage round the world, it being associated with spirit and daring of a remarkable kind.

But it was not these friends Tite stole away and went down into the village to see. It was Mattie, at the mention of whose name a blush always colored his cheek. The two lovers had arranged for a morning walk, and were soon seen coming from the house together, smiling and happy. Mrs. Chapman had condescended to see them to the door, and her ponderous figure quite filled the space. "Don't forget, my daughter," she said, as they were leaving, "don't forget to bring the young gentleman back to dine with us. We can't promise him anything very nice; but he is welcome, you know, and must try and accommodate himself to our changed circumstances."

There is to me nothing more beautiful to contemplate than the picture of two young lovers brought happily together after years of trial and disappointment, themselves representing what there is good and pure in the human heart. It is then we seem to see the heart liberate itself from guile, and truth and right rejoice in their triumph over wrong. There was just such a picture presented by Mattie Chapman, the true-hearted American girl, and the active, earnest, persevering, and modest, American boy, just at this moment.

The day was bright and breezy, and there, high up on that hill overlooking the Tappan Zee, under that clump of trees, with their embracing branches forming a bower, in the very spot where they had liberated their hearts and pledged their love, and bid each other a sad adieu on the morning Tite sailed on his voyage, the young lovers were seated again. Hour after hour passed, and still they sat there, for Tite was recounting his adventures; telling Mattie the story of his strange voyage, and listening in return to her recital of what had taken place during his absence. Indeed, so earnestly were they engaged relating what had happened since they had been separated that they quite forgot dinner; and on returning to the house, found Mrs. Chapman in a state of great anxiety. It was not that they had been absent so long; but the young gentleman would find things cold and unsatisfactory. The truth was, Mrs. Chapman had dressed herself with a view to a little display, and was a little disappointed at not having the opportunity to make it before a full table. Mr. Bowles, too, had been ordered to appear bright and nice, in his new livery and top-boots, to wait on the family at dinner, and show, by his attentions to the young gentleman, that he was a well-brought-up servant. In fine, the lady so embarrassed the young gentleman with her attentions, that he was glad when dinner was over. I ought not to forget to mention that Chapman, though he was less demonstrative, took several occasions to assure the young gentleman of the high respect he had always held him in—especially on account of his father and mother.

Tite went home when dinner was over; but returned again in the evening, for there was an attraction there he could not resist. And it was then that Mrs. Chapman joined their hands, invoked a blessing on their heads and called them her children.

"I always did like the young gentleman—I am sure I always did," she added, with an air of condescension. "My daughter knows I always did. It was not on the young gentleman's account that I entertained a little misgiving (just a little) in reconciling the family connection." Pausing suddenly, the lady turned to Mattie in a somewhat confused manner: "My daughter, my daughter," she returned, "you must overlook a number of little things. You will—won't you? Now, don't say I am vain. But it was such a queer—yes, such a vulgar and very common name to carry into society."

"There's just one favor I have to ask, my daughter. I am sure the young gentleman won't object to it—I am sure he won't." Again Mrs. Chapman paused, and seemed a little confused.

"Certainly, ma, certainly," replied Mattie, with a pleasant smile, "anything to please my dear mother."

"Well, then," resumed Mrs. Chapman, mildly: "There'll be no harm in changing the name a little—just a little, for the sake of the effect it will have on society. The young gentleman, I am sure he will (he has got the means to do it, you see) set up a nice establishment in the city, and (looking forward a little, you know) you will have a set of society of your own. Things change so, you see. You wouldn't mind changing the name so that it will read Von Toodleburg? T.B. Von Toodleburg would be so much nicer."

I may mention here that such was the name the family took and flourished under at a subsequent period, as will appear in the second series of this work.

"Fix things, name and all, to your liking, my dear mother," replied Mattie, laughing heartily. "I don't believe Tite cares anything about it."

"Never was ashamed of my name," replied Tite, with an air of indifference, "never was. But it doesn't matter much what a man's name is. They used to call me all sorts of names at sea."

"Another little harmless request," resumed Mrs. Chapman, with a condescending bow. "You see there is Bowles. Bowles is such an excellent servant, and so very respectable. He has such a presentable appearance when in his livery. I have great respect for Bowles—he understands me so well. You won't have any objection to his having a fixed position in the family, will you?"

Mattie blushed, and drawing her mother aside, whispered in her ear: "We can settle such matters, my dear mother, when others of more importance are disposed of."

"But you know, my daughter," she returned, with an air of great seriousness, "he has done so much to make these common country people understand what our position was in the city."

* * * * *

Two weeks were passed in making preparations for the wedding. And now the day was come, and that ceremony that was to unite two loving hearts for weal or woe, which was to seal their fortunes in one bond, was to be performed in the little old church, quietly and unostentatiously, by Dominie Payson, for it had been settled after some reluctance on the part of Mrs. Chapman, that the job could be done by that worthy divine, and the world think none the less of the young people.

Nyack, my reader must know, was in the best of humor that day, and when it was four o'clock, appeared in a smiling face, and dressed in it's best clothes. Chapman, I may also mention, forgot his misfortunes, and for once appeared neat and tidy, and in a happy mood. Indeed he had kissed and congratulated his daughter several times during the day. He had also unburdened his heart by telling her how happy he felt that the family had escaped disgrace in the city. He had, indeed, something to be thankful for, since Gusher had been taken back to New Orleans, tried, convicted of his crimes, and sent for two years at hard labor in the penitentiary.

Mrs. Chapman, remembering that such events did not occur every day, resolved not to be outdone by any of them. She was sure a little display would not be wasted; and had spent four hours "getting herself elegant." She had more than half a suspicion that there would be some New York people present, and it would not do to be outshone by them in magnificence of toilet. Nor must I forget Bowles, who appeared shortly after breakfast in his new livery, with a tall hat half covered with a band and buckle, white gloves, and bright new boots and breeches. Bowles was a figure of immense importance, and contemplated himself with an air of amusing gravity, as he moved up and down in front of the house, much to the amusement of the visitors at Bright's Inn. A bunch of flowers had been provided for his button hole; and he was to drive the happy couple to and from church, an honor he seemed to appreciate fully.

There was an interesting scene, too, at Hanz Toodleburg's little house. Instead of making bridal presents of costly jewelry and works of art, as is now done, the worthy settlers sent the groom's father presents of a very different character. Hanz had found enough to do during the morning in receiving these presents and thanking the donors. There was a pig from farmer Tromp, a barrel of apples from neighbor Steuben, a big cheese from farmer Van Beuskirk, a ham from the widow Welcker, a pan of new-made sausages from farmer Deitman, and a bushel of dried apples from Dominie Payson. In fine, one sent a cow, another a sack of wheat, another a barrel of cider; and in that way they had well neigh stocked Hanz's larder for the winter.

It was now nearly time for the ceremony. Neatly, but plainly dressed people were seen treading their way toward the little church, while around its door a number of bright-faced children, all dressed so neatly in white, and with their hands full of flowers, stood ready to greet the bride and bridegroom. In short, the worthy settlers had come from all directions to witness the ceremony. There were rustics, in their simple attire, sauntering through the old church yard, or leaning listlessly over the paling. And there in the old belfry sat Jonas, the ringer, with his bald head and his weeping eyes, ready to ring out a merry peal as soon as the bride and bridegroom came in sight.

A laughing, happy throng of people filled the little church as soon as the door was opened. Then Dominie Payson took his place at the altar; and Hanz and Angeline, representing age beautified by simplicity, walked slowly up the aisle, and took their place on one side, followed by Critchel, the inn-keeper and the schoolmaster, who stood just behind them. A few minutes later and Mrs. Chapman, arrayed in all the majesty of her best wardrobe entered, accompanied by her meek little husband, and took their places on the opposite side, presenting such a contrast of characters. The picture only wanted the central figures now.

A few minutes more, and there was a sudden, anxious movement on the part of those inside. All eyes were turned towards the door. The bridal party had arrived. Old Jonas was ringing his bell. The children at the door were tossing flowers at their feet; and their voices were heard singing a sweet and touching song. Then the bridal party advanced up the aisle, the bride dressed in simple white, and with flowers in her golden hair, and looking so sweetly. And as they took their place before the altar, there was something so full of love and gentleness, of truth and purity, in that sweet face as Mattie looked up and calmly surveyed the scene, that it seemed as if earth had nothing to compare with it.

And as the simple, but impressive ceremony proceeded, and the young lovers once more pledged their love, and made that solemn vow never to separate until death comes, and knelt in prayer to sanctify it; and as the Dominie blessed them, and pronounced a benediction, and as the soft rays of the setting sun played over and lighted up that beautiful face, it seemed as if some gentle spirit, sent from on high, was hovering over the scene and whispering Amen.

THE END