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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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