CHAPTER XXX

THE MAJOR'S HOME-COMING

"Ande, son, we'll push straight on to the village; thy mother, lad, was always an early riser, and mayhap will have a light in the window," said the old Major, after they had eaten a light breakfast in the Angel Inn. Major Trembath and his son, Ande, had arrived three o'clock that morning at the Falmouth Breakwater. They had hurriedly left the ship and had taken the early morning stage coach for Helston, arriving there in time for an early breakfast.

"Shall we get horses?" asked the son.

"Horses, lad, what do I want with a horse? Have I not tramped scores of miles with the rifle over my shoulder, when I was a solitary hunter at the Loop. My limbs are as strong now as they were a score of years ago, and I doubt much, after these years of hunting and tramping, whether I would feel as much at home on horse-back as I would on my own feet. Then we must remember, lad, that though our name is untarnished and honourable, we are still poor, and it behooves us to be devotees of economy. Horses, no; they are not to be thought of."

Ande acquiesced, and forth in the morning twilight they started. What a happy two-mile walk that was! The Major related tales of his youth associated with the section through which they wended their way, and the son related tales as well. The incident of the duck cave and the scared Greggs was forcibly brought to mind as they passed the cave, and he told the story much to the hearty amusement of his father.

The activity of youth seemed to fill the frame of the old Major as he approached the proximity of the village. His steps seemed to lengthen and increase in rapidity. Then through the dim twilight the outlines of the village burst upon their vision, and then the Major strained his keen eyes to catch the first view of the Primrose Cottage. At length he saw it.

"It's there still," he cried joyously, and then added, "But no light. Thy mother is late in rising, lad."

They followed the roadway past the village and up the ascent to the cottage home. The hedges on either side of the little domain were sadly out of repair, and the Major noticed it.

"Things gone badly since I was in these parts, but we will soon have them on a better footing."

They opened the rickety gate softly, and then stole into the doorway. Then grasping the rapper, the Major lifted it and rapped hard several times. Then smilingly, with dancing expectant eyes, they stood back and awaited. What a joyful greeting, they thought. But there was no answer, nor even the shadow of a sound that greeted their own echoes.

"You try, Ande, lad."

Ande advanced to the door and rapped, but the same death-like silence prevailed.

"Something wrong," said the old Major. "Ah! what's that writing?" His keen eyes, sharpened by years of woodcraft, had caught the glimpse of a paper tacked to the upper portion of the door. In the happy anticipation of coming reunion they had not noticed it before. Ande tore it from its fastenings and brought it forth more closely to their vision.

"For rent,--James Lanyan," slowly read Ande.

"Some cursed doings of the Lanyans," said the old man weakly, and he sat down on the steps, for in his disappointment his strength began to fail him. Just at this moment a lad was seen passing, and Ande accosted him.

"Mrs. Trembath? Why--her's gone nigh two years ago. Sir James Lanyan got the place and sold her out."

"Where did she go, lad?" asked the Major, faintly. "No one knows that, sir."

The old man buried his face in his hands. His spirit, so cheery a short time before, seemed broken.

"Are the Vivians still here?" asked Ande, sharply, for there was an angry passion raging within him.

"Old squire died a year or so ago. The Lanyans got the Manor, and some says as how the old squire died of a broken heart, sir."

"And Mistress Alice?"

"Her's gone, too; no one knows where; the Lanyans turned 'er out."

"The black-hearted villain! Thief! Rogue!" roared Ande, his passion bursting forth beyond all bounds. The lad fled in affright at the dreadful words and the black countenance, that was in truth diabolical with rage. The old Major sought to calm him, but of little avail.

"For all that the Lanyans have done to me and mine, the dishonourable scandal on our name, the suffering and humilation it has caused us, and these last cruel and inhuman deeds, I will be terribly revenged on him and his!" Ande Trembath raised his hand to heaven and continued his invective. The hatred of a lifetime seemed to culminate in a torrent of expressions like these. Then there was silence.

"We'll go and see Parson Trant at the rectory, father," said Ande, and the old Major, seemingly with no resolution of his own, was assisted to his feet, and on they trudged.

The glimmering twilight had merged into dawn, yet there was a light in the parson's study window and his head, now thoroughly silvered, could be seen bending over his manuscript. The short walk seemed to revive the Major's spirits. They knocked and were admitted.

The old parson knew neither of them for a moment. Then Ande spoke.

"What! Parson Trant, and do you not remember me, Ande Trembath?"

"Why, Ande, my dear lad! This is a surprise! How you have grown! Why, lad, where have you been all these years? And this is your friend?" With his kindly, fatherly greeting, he shook hands warmly, and then turned to the other stranger.

"More than friend," said Ande.

"And do you not know me?" smilingly said the old Major, as he advanced with outstretched hands. The rector passed his hand o'er his forehead once or twice, as he scrutinised the stranger, and then,--

"What! Impossible! Yes--No--Yes, it must be he. My old friend and school-fellow, Thomas Trembath! Well, well, well, well!" and the old parson upset a pile of books in his eagerness to reach the Major. Tears of delight were in his eyes as he flung open the study door and called, "Harriet! Harriet!" His wife, a pleasant old lady, soon came in.

"Harriet, do you know these two gentlemen?" The genial old parson was smiling, and rubbing his hands in delight. "Ah, I thought you wouldn't. This is our old friend, Major Thomas Trembath, and this is his son, Ande."

"Goodness me!" exclaimed Harriet, as she cordially welcomed them, and entered into her husband's pleasure.

"And now come in and have a cup of tea. Breakfast is about ready?" said the parson aside to his wife, inquiringly, and receiving an affirmative answer, notwithstanding protests that they had already breakfasted, the Major and his son were ushered into the little breakfast room, where, over the tea table, the parson related the facts of Squire Vivian's sickness, and how both Manor and cottage had passed into the hands of the Lanyans. He mentioned the fatal letter that had caused the squire's death, and brought it forth, and mentioned both the disappearance of Mrs. Trembath and Mistress Alice Vivian. If ever Ande swore revenge in his heart it was during that narrative, in which all the brutal plans of Sir James Lanyan were revealed in a plain, unvarnished manner. Woe betide James Lanyan or his, if their paths crossed.

"I am glad he and his are not of my parish," said the old parson; "but now tell me of your experience and wandering."

The Major briefly narrated his wanderings, to which Ande added a short sketch of his own, with the exception of his good fortunes in the gold and diamond regions of Brazil.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed the old parson, and then as a sudden thought struck him. "But now you must find Mrs. Trembath, and I would suggest that you would find some news of her, no doubt, at Helston, for this is the Floraday. Ah! there are the bells of old St. Michael, now, and in a short time the town will be crowded with people from far and near to keep the old festival. You will get news of her from some one."

"That I will," said the old Major, as he arose from the table. "That I will; and if I fail there, I shall search through every town of Cornwall."

The parson insisted upon their going in his own carriage, but the very thought of news to be obtained in Helston made the old Major impatient of any delay, and he persisted in going on foot, and so with a friendly handshake, Major and son left the rectory for Helston.

"Hark'ee, son Ande, injustice shall fall yet and right shall prevail; I feel it," and the old Major strode on with renewed hopefulness.

Long before they entered the town it had put on its holiday attire. Homes were decorated, windows garlanded, doors swung wide open, and the bells of old St. Michael were booming and pealing in the festival which the abrasion of centuries could not obliterate. From the upper portion of the town came the pealing of fifes and rattling of drums and the drawling voices of old men mingled with the more melodious voices of boys and girls, singing the ancient Hal Lan Tow chant. Up in front of the Helston Grammar School stand the authorities of the borough demanding a holiday in behalf of the pupils, and when it is granted, according to custom, how the lads and young men pour out of the old dormitory, with hats tossing in the air! Vehicles, from the humble cart to the emblazoned coach of the gentleman, keep rolling into town, while every road and footpath is dotted with foot travellers. The streets begin to crowd more and more. Citizens in the finest broadcloth rubbed elbows with the humble fustian of farmers, and ladies in the finest brocades and silks pass, with kindly greetings, the figures of country maidens and women in humbler attire. Lads are blowing whistles, and others are shouting to their fellows. But now the noon hour has come, and from the head of Coinage Hall street come the rolling of drums, the signal for the commencement of the annual, festival, street dance. In front of the forming procession are the two town beadles with wands, fancifully and artistically garlanded with flowers. The wands are the emblems of their authority. They are the great men of the hour. Behind them are the drummers, the fifers, and the serpent players, with their instruments and forms so festooned with flowers and evergreen that it is almost impossible to see their features. They are in motion. The old beadles prance in a dignified way in front of the advancing procession, waving their wands and giving directions in the meantime. The music of the various instruments are pealing out in one steady strain, punctuated here and there with the sullen, "boom, boom--boom--boom" of the big drums, and the "rat a-tat-tat" and occasional roll of the kettle drums. Now they are dancing, hand in hand in the rear, to the first half of the melody. Now with a rattle of the lesser drums the second half begins. The gentleman with the second lady releases her hand and seizes the first and whirls her out of the procession in a circle and returns. The action is continued by the second gentleman and so on down the line. Then again the first refrain is taken up and the procession moves onward. They are followed by a great crowd of spectators. Now the beadles have disappeared. They have but entered one of the homes. The procession of merrymakers follow. The beadles emerge from another door and on goes the festival parade. Is that customary? Oh, yes. It is one of the customs of time immemorial, and the party owning any of the homes thus entered feels highly honoured. Through all the streets wends the dance and then it is brought to a close by a turn on the Bowling Green. Now follows a dance of the tradespeople in one of the inns of the town, while the gentry enter the renowned Angel Inn for a purpose similar.

A porter stands at the door of the hall above the Angel Inn to solicit sixpences to defray expenses. A dignified, aged man, with hair and beard neatly trimmed, passes in with the others. He is followed by another, a younger one, his exact counterpart in height and facial appearance. Both of them are well tanned by exposure, and their garments seem to be of foreign make. They are the old Major and his son, Ande Trembath.

"Bless my soul!" exclaims a rugged old fellow, stumping up with a slight limp in one limb. He stands in front of Major Trembath and stares at him; then passes a hand, rough and brown and heavy, through his grey hair, throwing it back from his brow, revealing a long, livid scar along the forehead.

"Bless my soul! You are my old comrade, Tommy Trembath, or my eyesight fails me. Is it not so?"

"I am that person," said the Major, smiling, and grasping the extended hand he shook it warmly. "And how is my Captain Tom Lanyan?"

"I am right well, and I can't say how glad I am to see my old comrade, once more, back in England. We all thought you dead. You haven't been on British soil the last eighteen years. Where have ye been wandering all this time?"

The Major related a part of his adventures briefly.

"The honour of our family is established, Captain Tom; my father was no traitor and the proof of it is in the hands of the government authorities at this time," concluded the Major.

"I always knew it; I always knew it," said Captain Tom. "I have always had my beliefs, and I'm right glad now that they have come true."

"Aye, I know it," said the Major. "You were always my stoutest friend, in the camp and out."

The two old comrades of the Napoleonic wars talked on and on, while Ande wandered from them, earnestly scanning the features of those he met, but none did he recognise. The violins, sweeping into the melody of the Floraday, announced that the dance was on, but he did not engage in it. He gazed here and there, vainly endeavouring to behold a face he loved. He was becoming wearied with his search, when, across the hall, he noticed an aged, veiled lady and near her another, much younger. It was the young lady that held him spellbound for a moment. His eyes were riveted upon her countenance that was in profile. There was a shooting thrill through his whole system and his blood seemed to be mounting in great billows to his head. He caught a fuller glimpse of her features, and then his heart gave one mad leap and apparently stood still for a moment. Could he ever forget that countenance, pale and yet beautiful as on the eve, in the long ago, when she had called him her knight. With a half cry he was up and pushing through the crowd, but, before he reached the other side, he saw them both pass out of the crowded ballroom. With a few, rapid steps and bounds he passed down the stairway, almost knocking over the porter at the door.

In the street without he missed the familiar figure, then his heart beat joyfully once more, for he caught a glimpse of her entering the Bowling Green. The aged, veiled lady was not with her. He hastened down the crowded street and entered the comparatively deserted Bowling Green. He swept a rapid glance around, but she had disappeared and his heart sank once more. Then he saw a flutter of lace amidst the leaves of a retired garden seat. She was standing when he reached her, but perhaps the record of his diary is better descriptive of the scene that followed.

DIARY OF ANDREW TREMBATH, _Gent_.

_May_ 8th, 1829; _Afternoon_.

I saw my lady in the garden seat arbour, my lady Alice, the love of my childhood, the ideal of my waking hours, the vision of my wanderings, and the dream of my slumbers. She whose features were engraven on my heart by the memory of other years, and around whom clustered the fondest recollections of youth, was standing gazing at the setting sun that, as it sank in golden and roseate hues, painting the sea and sky with the glories of heaven, seemed likewise to retouch, with its refulgent beams, her curling raven locks and beauteous eyes with additional splendour. There was a faint flush on her cheeks in the midst of their pallor, like an early wild-rose nestling by a belated snowdrift. It seemed to me that she was much taller than formerly. So tall and majestic indeed was she that I was awed, notwithstanding my love that had been slumbering for years. I heard her murmur, meditatively:

"Ah, if he would only come,--my life, my hope!"

My heart smote me with despair and an icy coldness seized me; a lump arose in my throat that seemed to choke my breathing. My hopes seemed dashed to the ground, my idol shattered and a mass of chaotic ruin. I tried to withdraw, but had advanced too far, for she saw me and there was a slight additional flush on her countenance, and gentle recognition in her eyes. I advanced to the shadow of the arbour and bowed low, humbled with my previous thought, yet persistent and determined to know the truth once and for all.

"Mistress Alice Vivian,--Mistress Alice, I am Andrew Trembath, who has loved you all these years. You called me your knight once and gave me reason to hope that you were not indifferent to my feelings for you. But there was a bar, sinister and heavy, between us,--the stain of treason against our name. Now all bars have been removed; our name is honourable; no wealth is a hindrance. You have been my dream throughout my boyhood days and the star of my wanderings in more mature years, and I lay my hand and heart at your feet."

She answered not, and I feared to lift my eyes lest I should read what I half suspected from that brief, murmured exclamation I had heard, that there was another. Despair seized me at her continued silence.

"You were expecting some one?"

"Yes," she said, meditatively.

"And you love him,--him?" How bold was that question! I know not now whether I feared more her rebuke or the proof of my agonizing doubt.

"Yes," she said gently, and I thought pityingly.

I arose, staggered, and would have fallen but for the friendly support of a tree. Better to have perished with brave Dick in the floods of the Rough Water than to have my love thus wrenched from my heart and my cherished longing prove a vain delusion. I recollect the substance of my rambling, half incoherent apology for disturbing her. Oh! How empty heart, earth, life appeared then! The sun had gone down, and with it the sun of happiness for me! I turned to go.

"Ande,--Mr. Trembath."

There was something commanding in that tone that I could not resist. I paused and waited for her to continue.

"Is it not unseemly for old friends to part thus. Here, seat yourself with me in this arbour." I moodily did so. "I cannot say how glad I am to greet once more a friend of my childhood days. You have been a true friend to me." What a bitter mockery those words seemed to me. I was silent and she continued: "You have been a true friend and I cannot choose but to speak plainly. But tell me of your life and wanderings."

Little by little I told my story, but I could not refrain from my love for her, for one was so involved with the other that they could not be sundered. I told all with the exception of my fortune in the Brazilian mines. She seemed interested with the interest of a friend. I gazed at her after my tale was finished, and with the melancholy thought of what I had aspired to and what I had lost. She smiled, and I thought she was laughing at my presumption in laying my poor affections at her feet. It enraged me, and I arose to go.

"One moment," she said; "I have news for you; your mother is found and your father is with her, but I have other matters to mention."

This was the solitary joy that now filled me and life seemed brighter.

"I was expecting some one this evening."

"Yes," I said, the clouds again coming over my soul; "yes, I know."

"No, you do not know; I was expecting some one, and, as you rightly surmised, I love him."

"Aye," I murmured, for she seemed cruel, "and you could not love another?"

"No, no, I could not love another. You would not desire to see me unhappy and poor?"

"No," I said, doggedly, digging with my heel in the turf.

"Suppose I had the opportunity to marry," she said, mischievously, and with a merry light scintillating in her eyes, "to marry one who would give me wealth, happiness, love, and my old home, who took me on a long ride of twenty miles and told me of these things, would you say, 'No.'"

"No," I said, sadly, "marry where your heart directs you."

"But suppose he was Mr. Richard Lanyan?"

I bounded to my feet as if shot. Oh, what a demoniacal thing is hatred! Humbled and sad at the loss of her, the thought of one of that accursed race possessing her seemed like turning my blood from freezing coldness to boiling heat. My countenance must have been frightful; it terrified her. I could not speak. She trembled and drew away from me and hastily said, "But suppose I did not love him?" I was dumbfounded, and she continued, earnestly, while her eyes beamed with a new light.

"Suppose I did not love him? I was expecting him whom I loved--yes, loved from girlhood; I mourned him as dead, yet loved him more and more, and after many years I saw him at a Floraday in the Angel Inn ballroom. I saw him push through the crowd and I came here expecting him. I love him and could not love another,--and--and--and--Oh--Ande,--can't you see?"

Change darkness into sunlight and my feelings can be expressed. The full light of all seemed to burst upon my vision and dazed me; then as I saw more clearly, I recollect her stretching her arms toward me, and my leaping forward to clasp that wavering form.

Here the incident in the diary closes, and it remained for others to relate what happened afterward. They sat down again in the arbour and her head was on his shoulder.

"And you did love me, after all," said Ande, and the old, happy, boyish smile illuminated his features.

"I have always loved you from that moment at the gate of the Primrose Cottage, so many years ago. Forgive me for the doubt I put you in, but you looked so doleful at my first words that I could not resist the old mischievous spirit."

He leaned down and kissed her lips, and there was a long silence, unbroken save by the chirping birds and rustling leaves. A short time afterward thither came the veiled, elderly lady, accompanied by the Major.

"Alice, child, art here? I have found him, Major Trembath, my husband."

"Mother!" joyfully cried the young man, as he flung himself into her arms.

"How tall you are, son Ande," said his mother, after their first affectionate greeting; "yes, as tall as your father, and"--here she turned her gaze upon Alice--"you have found a sister along with myself."

"No, not sister, but my affianced wife," said Ande, proudly.

"And I can call you daughter in reality," said happy Mrs. Trembath, as she kissed her affectionately.

But now the Bowling Green became crowded with people. The ball was over. Gentlemen and tradespeople mingled in the sight-seeing of the great event of that memorable day--the wrestling. A space had been cleared and roped off in the centre of the Bowling Green, and soon forth came the gladiators, great, tall, muscular fellows, farmers from the country, miners from the tin mines, and seamen from Penzance and the Lizard Point. The men from the Lizard were great, giant-like men over six feet in stature. The spectators watched with intense interest. Jack Trewlan, anxious once more for honours, was among them, but went down and out of the lists in the very first contest. The poorest wrestlers were disposed of first, and then came men of the first class. Among the latter was a great Lizard Point fellow,--a veritable Goliath in size. Six feet, six inches he stood in his stocking feet and weighed fully two and twenty stone. The measurement of his chest was fifty-three inches, of his waist thirty-nine, of his arms--the right biceps--nineteen inches, the left--a trifle less; his limbs were in proportion to his other measurements. A wild cheer went up from the Lizard men as he stood forth in the roped arena. He had easily vanquished all his fellows,--the great Lizard fellows were as wooden men in his powerful grasp,--and he was entitled to do battle with the champion.

There was another cheer, mainly from the tin miners and farmers, as the champion of Cornwall, Tom Glaze, the victor of nineteen pitched battles, came forth to do battle for the twentieth time for the position he held. The champion was not near so tall or heavy as his opponent, but he was stoutly and toughly built; his muscles were iron-like with constant practice, and in his many battles he had gained that dexterity, cautiousness, tack and trickiness, that was characteristic and essential to a champion.

"A tough opponent, Tom," said one of the gentlemen.

"The bigger they are the heavier they fall," said Tom, and yet there was a little doubt in his mind as he sized up the Goliath before him. A moment they stood, their white duck wrestling jackets in relief against the background, and then they closed into action. The young Lizard fellow was cautious and wary. Tom Glaze seized his favourite hold,--the celebrated Cornish hug, and back and forth they wavered, but the young Colossus seemed to have his great limbs, like pillars, firmly rooted in the ground. Glaze was as agile as a panther, twisting and trying trick after trick. Once he nearly had him on the hip and a hoarse "Huzza" and "Bravo" went up from many throats,--but it was only a partial success. The young Lizard fellow now tried to bring into play his great strength, but every grasp was eluded. Glaze had not been champion so long without learning many things.

"At un, Tom, thraw un down!" cried the men of Helston and the miners to their champion.

"At un, lad, heave un over thy 'ead!" exclaimed the Lizard and Penzance men to their partisan.

"Wait a bit," said a Lizard man, with a knowing wink to a companion, "wait a bit, till 'e uses 'is strength; our man is only playing with un, I tell'ee."

"Ah, dear, dear,--us thought Glaze 'ad un then; but 'e's up again."

"Bravo! Bravo!" shouted the men of Penzance and the Lizard, and they fairly danced with delight, as Glaze went partially down.

"No fall!" bawled the referee.

"Ah was a fall, sure enough!" shouted an excited Lizard fellow; "I seed un."

"Seed un," snorted Tommy Puckinharn, who was near at hand; "thee doesn't mean to say thee seed un with they great, fishy eyes of thine, do 'ee?"

"Ah was a fall," persisted the Lizard man.

"'Twasn't," said Tommy.

"Ah was."

"What's the use of saying ah was when ah wasn't," said Tommy, philosophically.

"'Ere, 'ere, no fighting," said a town beadle, as he came up to preserve peace.

The wrestlers after a brief rest again approached each other. Now in a crouching position they circle around each other, each waiting for an opportunity for a good hold. Suddenly they spring forward like tigers. It was a collar and elbow hold; they tugged, strained, now pushing, now pulling. Determination is on the features of each. It is apparent that the young giant is exerting his strength to the utmost. He is slowly pushing Glaze backward. Glaze gave way slowly and then with a smile and a twist and a sudden jerk--

"Huzza! Huzza! Glaze forever!" bellowed the Helston men. The young Lizard giant had gone, like a crashing oak, to the ground.

"No fall," bawled the referee. The Lizard gladiator had but fallen to his knees and was soon up again, and the contest was renewed.

"Man alive! Did 'ee see un? 'E went down like a kibbel in a shaft," said one tin miner to another. The one addressed answered not, but kept shouting to Glaze:

"The Carnish ankle kick, boy! Kick un in the ankle, and poke un over!"

"Another case of Corineus and the giant Gog-ma-gog,"[8] said Captain Tom Lanyan to his friend, the Major.

[8] Wrestling match of Corineus, the Trojan, and Gog-ma-gog on Plymouth Hoe--"Polyolbion," Michael Drayton, 1563-1631.

"Aye, possibly," said the Major.

On went the wrestling match, with the advantage at one moment to Glaze, at another to the young opponent. Glaze seemed the better in agility and wrestling tricks, but his skill in these things were offset by the giant's strength and wariness. The crowd from a wildly shouting mass became silent, and were alertly watching every movement of the straining figures. They were at last becoming aware of what Glaze knew for quite a time. The champion had met his match. He knew it, for with all of his skill he was unable to overcome his opponent. But what was still more manifest was that the young Lizard giant, with all of his strength, could not conquer the old, wrestling hero.

The time was up at last, and there were stout huzzas for both as they shook hands. The decision went to Glaze, not on falls, but on points, as he showed the greater skill.

Then Glaze held up his hand for silence and began to speak.

"I want to congratulate my opponent on his stout defence, and say 'e's the hardest man I ever met in a wrastling match."

There was a roar of cheers, and then when silence came, he continued:

"Men, you knaw the decision is just as to points. My opponent could not thraw me, as 'ee have seen, and I couldn't thraw 'im. Now, I'm getting old for the ring, and am about going to quit wrastling. This is my last battle. I 'ave only waited until I could find the man I couldn't thraw, and now I've found un, I give to him the championship and all the honours of the position. What do 'ee say? Is it right?"

There was silence for a moment, and then, after the import of Glaze's generous offer became more fully understood, there was a resounding cheer that went up again and again. The people knew that, next to Glaze, there was none more capable or worthy of defending the championship of Cornwall than the young Lizard giant.

"Do ye know, lad, who the young Lizard chap was?" asked the Major of Ande,--but Ande was gone. Both wrestlers had been taken up on the shoulders of the crowd and carried, with various shoutings, to the Angel Inn. Ande followed, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd. When he entered the Inn, he shouted, "Where's the champion?"

"He's up in his room, changing his clothes," said the landlord.

Ande pushed his way up the stairs and opened the door of the room indicated.

"Dick, Dick, Dick, old fellow!"

"Ande,--why bless----"

The two friends were locked in each others arms. Then came a time of explanation. Dick had passed through the Rough Waters of the Lycamahonings safely. He who had breasted the breakers of the Lizard could easily take care of himself in the rapids. He was wounded, to be sure, and the struggle through the rapids had exhausted him, but he was picked up in the river and for some time was in the care of the good settlers of Kittanning; then he had returned.

"You must come back with me to see my father and mother and my intended wife," said Ande. Ande insisted, and Dick yielded. They passed out through the inn and down to the Bowling Green. There were Major Trembath, Mrs. Trembath and Mistress Alice Vivian, to each of whom Dick was successively introduced.

"What's wrong, Dick?" asked Ande. Dick was staring with all his eyes at the Major, and then he burst forth in answer:

"Why, bless me, Ande, if the Major and old Hunter Tom are not the same, they are brothers."

"The same, Dick, lad," said the Major, smilingly, and Dick again grasped his hand and shook it warmly.

"I never expected to see you and Ande again, and I can't say how glad I am that things have turned out as they have," said Dick.

He explained how he had returned to his people, who had long mourned him as dead, and how overjoyed they were to see him. He was now a prosperous, independent farmer of the Lizard, and was also preparing to enter the shipbuilding trade. "Thanks be," said he, in an undertone to Ande, "to the mines of Sierro Do Frio."