A whistle from the direction of the house startled the lovers.

“Ah, that is Cal’s call to me,” said Arthur, “and I presume that the mail is received, a letter for me in it; perhaps one for you too, my Marian.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she said, “it is so long since I heard from my dear brother Sandy, my only one now.”

“Ah,” he said as they walked on to the house, for he had risen and given her his arm, “you must tell me about him, dearest, when opportunity offers. Your only brother? Well, I shall give you several more when you give yourself to me.”

They found the family all on the porch, most of them with letters, papers, or magazines in their hands.

Elsie looked smilingly at Arthur and Marian as they came up the steps, something in their faces telling what had passed between them since they walked down to the beach together.

Arthur saw and returned her smile, and leading Marian to her, said in joyous tones, “You were right, cousin. I followed your advice, and she, dear girl, has given herself to me; or rather we have given ourselves to each other.”

His clear though not loud tones reached every ear, and in a moment all the relatives, old and young, had gathered about the happy pair with their hearty congratulations.

“I am truly glad, Miss Marian,” said Calhoun, taking her hand in a warm pressure; “glad for both you and Art, who will, I am sure, make the best of husbands, and for myself also that I am to have so sweet a new sister.”

“And we are to be sisters too, it seems,” Mary said, giving the young girl a warm embrace.

“And Hugh and I are to be left desolate and alone,” remarked Mr. Lilburn in a rueful tone. “Hugh, laddie, it is high time you were hunting up a wife.”

“I think I shall have to try, father,” returned the young man, coloring and laughing. “I contemplate robbing those who have robbed us; but a fair exchange is no robbery.”

At that both the Conlys turned surprised, inquiring looks upon him.

“Ah,” he laughed, “I perceive that I have stolen a march upon you. This, sirs,” holding up a letter, “is from your sister Ella, accepting my heart, hand, and fortune, which I offered her some days ago by letter.”

At that there was a murmur of surprise from the listeners, accompanied by looks of pleasure; then the brothers shook hands with Hugh, wishing him joy and saying they should be glad to receive him into the family.

“My! what a lot of weddings we seem to be going to have!” exclaimed Rosie. “I think I’ll wait for mine till they are not quite such common affairs.”

“Particularly as there’s nobody offering to pair off with you yet, my pretty young sister,” laughed Walter. “I think, though, that the school-room is the best place for you and me for a while yet.”

“Ah, Marian, here is a letter for you, my bonny lass; from your brother Sandy, I presume,” said Mr. Lilburn, holding it out to her.

She took it eagerly, exclaiming, “Oh, yes, that is Sandy’s writing! The dear laddie! how I have wanted to hear from him.”

“Read it, lass, and tell us if he says he will come to us, and if so how soon,” said the old gentleman.

She hastened to obey, and presently announced in joyous tones, “Oh, yes, Cousin Ronald, he is delighted with your kind offer, and will come as soon as he has finished his present engagement, which will be in about a couple of months.”

In the mean time Arthur had opened and read a letter handed him by his brother. He looked much pleased with its contents.

“Cousin Elsie,” he said, “do you think you can accommodate me here a few days longer?”

“I am quite certain of it, provided you will stay,” she answered with her own bright, sweet smile. “You need not have the slightest fear that you are not as welcome as the sunlight.”

“Thank you very much,” he said; “then I shall stay perhaps another week. This letter is from Cousin Dick Percival. He writes he has come there—to Roselands—for change of scene and air, as well as to see his relatives; can stay some weeks, and will take charge of my patients for a time, which he has in fact already begun to do.”

“How nice!” exclaimed Rosie. “Dick is a good boy to enable us to keep you a little longer, and when you go back he will, I hope, come and pay a little visit here himself.”

“Yes, I hope he will,” said her mother. “I shall write and invite him to do so.”

“Well, Cousin Art, I’m glad you are going to stay longer,” said Walter, “but I hope none of us will be expected to get sick in order to give you employment.”

“No, certainly not,” returned Arthur gravely. “You must remember it was not for work I came, but rest; so don’t trouble yourself trying to make business for me.”

“No, I will leave that business to Cousin Marian,” returned Walter, giving her a mischievous look which brought a charming blush to her cheek.

“Yes, Walter, I have given him a great deal of business in that line, I am sorry to say,” she returned; “so that he has had but little rest, and needs to stay and have some play-time.”

“So he has; but you are much better, I’m sure, for your cheeks are like as roses—not the white kind, either—and we’ll all endeavor to keep well so that he’ll have nothing to do but rest and recruit the remainder of the time he stays.”

“Well, what are the plans for the day?” asked Harold, addressing the company in general.

“Some of us want to do a little shopping, and would like to have you drive us in to the city,” replied his mother.

“I shall do so with the greatest pleasure, mamma,” he returned. “How soon do you wish to start?”

“I’m wanting a ride,” said Rosie. “I haven’t had one for some time, and am actually hungry for it.”

“Well, little dear, I’ll see what can be done to relieve your hunger,” said Herbert gallantly. “Are there any others of our company suffering from the same kind of hunger?”

“Yes; I’d like to go,” said Lulu. “May I, papa?”

“Yes; if the right kind of horse can be secured, so that I can feel that you will be safe. Violet, my dear, if you are not to be one of the shopping party, will you ride with me and the others?”

“With pleasure, my dear,” she replied. “I dare say I am as hungry for a ride as my younger sister; and in your company it will be especially enjoyable.”

All then hurried to their rooms to don their riding hats and habits, while Harold and the captain went in search of the required steeds.

Arthur did not think Marian strong enough for such a ride, and Mary and Calhoun did not care to go. They would probably walk out presently, but just now were waiting to see the others off.

At Calhoun’s request, Mary sat down to the piano, Marian and Arthur drew near, and the four joined in the singing of some of their favorite hymns, Mary playing the accompaniment.

Presently Will Croly ran in, in his informal way, joined the little group, and added his voice to theirs.

Good-mornings were exchanged when they had finished their piece, then Croly said, “Now, Miss Mary, let us have ‘My days are gliding swiftly by.’ It is a great favorite with me, particularly the chorus:

Mary at once complied with the request, and they were singing the last verse when two young men, strangers to the family, came up into the porch asking for Croly.

“Ah,” said he, “I quite forgot my errand. Those are some strangers visiting at my uncle’s house, and I have promised to go in bathing with them—so called to ask my friends Harold and Herbert to go in with us.”

“I really don’t think they can to-day,” said Calhoun, and went on to explain how they had planned to spend the next few hours.

“Ah, then I must just go on with the others,” returned Croly. “Good-morning to you all,” and with the words he hurried out, joined the two strangers; the three went over to the bath houses, not very far away, and were presently seen coming out of them in bathing-suits and going down among the waves.

A few moments later those who had gone in search of horses and carriage returned bringing a full supply. Those expecting to go had crowded on the porch, all in good spirits, laughing and chatting, the younger ones especially full of mirth and gayety, when suddenly a cry of fright and distress came from the sea. “Help! help! he’s drowning! Oh, help! help! save him!”

With the first cry a deep hush had fallen on our friends upon the porch, but at the last word Captain Raymond, Mr. Dinsmore, Mr. Lilburn and his son, the two Conlys, Harold and Herbert, all dashed down the steps and away toward the spot from whence the cry came.

But a row-boat near at hand was already pulling for it, and was there before them. There seemed nothing for them to do, but they stood close by the incoming waves, waiting in breathless anxiety and suspense.

Some moments passed—then they saw an insensible, limp, dripping form drawn from the water into the boat, which immediately made for the shore with all speed.

“Oh, it is Will, dear Will!” cried Harold as he caught sight of the death-like face. “O Art, Cousin Art, do your best to save him, if there’s any life there. How glad I am you’re here with us.”

“I shall certainly do all I can,” returned Arthur in moved tones, “and do the rest of you ask the Lord to direct and bless my efforts.”

“Oh, yes, we will, we will,” responded several voices as the poor fellow was lifted from the boat and swiftly carried to the nearest house—the one occupied by our friends.

Arthur understood his business thoroughly and there were plenty of willing, helping hands. The news flew fast, and presently Croly’s aunt came, full of distress, to ask if there was any life, any hope.

“We have not given up, we will not while the least spark of hope remains,” Elsie answered; then told of the long and at last successful fight which had once saved her Harold from the grave.

“Oh, dear fellow, I hope he will be saved,” said the aunt, weeping. “You probably know, Mrs. Travilla, how anxious he has been about his parents: we have just had a telegram from his father, saying that they have landed in New York and will be here this evening. I think it will kill his mother—father too, perhaps, for he is their only child and just an idol with them both—to learn that he is lying here, to all appearance dead. I’ll have to put them off with the news that he went out on the sea before their telegram came and may be back in an hour or two.”

“Yes, I hope he will soon show signs of life,” Elsie said with emotion. “Oh, how sad, how heart-breaking for them to lose their only child in such a way—so suddenly and without a parting word!”

“They are coming home very happy,” continued the aunt; “the mother having almost entirely recovered her health, and if only they could find poor Will all right——” she ended with a burst of weeping.

“Dear Mrs. Croly, do not give up hope; we are all praying for him—that his life may be spared if the will of God be so.”

“Then I believe it will be, for God is the hearer and answerer of prayer,” returned the aunt; “and oh, I want to thank you for having poor Will brought here; for if he was with us the state of affairs could hardly be kept a moment from his parents, but now I hope it will be all right before they need to know.”

“You are very, very welcome,” Elsie replied, and Mrs. Croly went away somewhat consoled and hopeful.

The rides and the shopping expedition had been given up and the children and younger members of the family had gone down to the beach to be out of the way of those working with Croly; but Rosie, Lulu, Grace, and Walter were in a sad, subdued, and anxious mood. Mary and Marian presently joined them, and they talked feelingly of him whom they hardly dared to hope to see in life again.

Yet all had great faith in Arthur’s skill, and the younger girls, telling of Harold’s narrow escape some years before at Nantucket, cheered and encouraged the others with the hope that Croly might even yet be saved from temporal death, and live many years to be a comfort to his parents and a blessing to the world.

“I do hope he is not gone and will live for many years serving the Master here on earth,” said Mary, “but if he is gone, we know that it is to be with Jesus and forever blest. How he loved that hymn about the shining shore! and perhaps he has reached it now,” she added with a burst of tears.

“But oh, we will hope not! hope he is still living and will be spared to the parents who love him so dearly,” said Marian. “And I believe if anybody can save him it is your cousin, Dr. Conly.”

“I’ll run back to the house to see if there is any sign of life yet,” said Walter, and rushed away.

He was back again in a few minutes, running, waving his handkerchief over his head, and showing so joyous a face that the others exclaimed half breathlessly, “Oh, is he coming to?”

“Yes, yes, Cousin Arthur says there are signs of life, and he thinks that he will be able to save him.”

The glad news was received with a simultaneous burst of joyful exclamations.

“His parents have come,” added Walter, “and are, oh! so anxious to see him, but don’t know yet that anything is wrong with him.”

And now with their minds relieved the girls were able to give attention to anything that might be going on within the range of their vision.

A boat was tied to the wharf and they saw that persons had left it and were wandering along the beach, among them an elderly man having several children in his care.

Presently this little group had seated themselves on the beach quite near our little party, and the smallest, a child of three, came toddling toward them.

“How do you do, baby girl? Do you like candy? Will you have a bite?” asked Rosie, holding out a tempting-looking morsel.

The little one stood gazing for a moment with her finger in her mouth, then she accepted the offer. “Dood!” she said smacking her lips. “Dot nudder bit for Sally?”

“Yes,” Rosie said, bestowing another piece.

But another, older girl came running. “Sally,” she said reprovingly, and seizing the little one’s hand in an effort to draw her away, “you must not tease the ladies; papa says so. Come with me.”

Sally resisted and Rosie said, “No, we are not teased. We’d like to have her stay and talk to us.”

But the father had come for his baby girl. “Please excuse her, young ladies,” he said, lifting his hat politely, “she’s pretty well spoiled. I’ve come to the seaside for a bit of rest and brought my children along, for I knew it would be quite a treat to them.”

“And see, we’ve all got on the Union colors,” said one of the little girls who had followed him, showing a rosette of red, white, and blue ribbon pinned to her dress. “Father was a soldier in the war, and we all love the old flag.”

“Oh, were you, sir?” cried Lulu delightedly. “Won’t you please tell us of your experiences there?”

The other girls joined eagerly in the request, and at length, evidently pleased that they cared to hear the story, he sat down on the beach beside them and began it.

“In the war of the rebellion I was in the Shenandoah Valley with the infantry troops; a mere lad I was, only fifteen. One day I slipped off without leave, to visit an aunt living in Washington. We were at that time in camp on Georgetown Heights. Going back that night I lost my way and did not feel safe to ask it lest I should be thought a deserter; so finally went down into an area and, wearied out with my wanderings, fell asleep. It rained heavily through the night, but I was so weary and so used to hardship that I slept on and knew nothing about that till morning, when I waked to find myself lying in a puddle of water. I rose and hurried on my way; finally got back to camp, but so rheumatic from my wetting that I was sent to the hospital—in Washington. There my gun was taken from me and a receipt for it given me; so that when at length I recovered sufficiently to go back to camp, I was without a gun.

“It was not supplied to me immediately, and in the mean time the troops with whom I belonged were ordered to guard some wagons—a very long train—and while it was moving on, Mosby came up with his cavalry, took us prisoners, rifled the wagons of such things as he could carry away and use, and took the best horses for the use of his troops, leaving behind his own broken-down ones.

“Mosby’s own troops and his prisoners were allowed to help themselves to such provisions as they could carry. I think they burnt all they could not take. When the rebs came upon us, one demanded my coat. I pulled it off and gave it to him; another took my hat, a third my shoes, so that I was not particularly well dressed when they were done with me.

“But I, as well as others, filled my haversack with provisions—hard-tack, pork, and so forth—and as they moved on each prisoner was obliged to lead one or more horses. I had but one.

“When the troops halted for the night the prisoners—among others—were ordered to take the horses to the river and water them. I had been all the time since my capture trying to contrive a way to escape. Now I saw a way, told a fellow-captive my plan, and asked him to render his aid by taking charge of my horse in addition to several already in his keeping. He consented. I slipped from the horse’s back and, unobserved, got behind a large stone, allowed myself to sink in the water there till nearly covered—only able to breathe—and so remained till the troops of rebs and prisoners had left the spot.

“Then creeping cautiously out, I hurried on my way, going down the river bank, knowing the Union troops were camped somewhere lower down the stream.

“I trudged on all night, crept into the bushes and hid as day dawned—lying there all day tortured with heat and thirst as well as hunger—travelled on again the following night. Faint, weary, and worn with fatigue, hunger, and thirst, about nine o’clock seeing a light at a little distance I went toward it, feeling that I must venture for relief from my intolerable sufferings from hunger and thirst.

“As I drew near the light a dog began to bark from its vicinity and rushed out in my direction. At that I stood still and the dog came no nearer.

“But presently I heard the voice of a negro man asking: ‘Who dar?’ Knowing the negroes were always friends to the Union soldiers, I then came forward and told of my escape from the rebs and my desire to reach the Union camp, my ignorance of the right road, hunger, thirst, and weariness.

“The negro told me I was in a dangerous place—rebel troops being all about—and he and Dinah—his wife—had not much provision, but to come in and Dinah would give me something to eat, then I could go on my way, he showing me where to ford the river, the Federal troops being two or three miles farther down on the other side.

“I went with him into the cabin; an old negress greeted me kindly, and having heard my story undertook to get me some supper.

“She made a corn pone, took a pan with a division across the middle, put the pone in one side, some bacon in the other, and setting it on the coals, cooked them together, the fat from the bacon running through to the pone. It made as delicious a supper as I ever ate. She gave me a piece to carry along when I set out upon my journey again, as I did presently, travelling still farther down stream, till I reached a ford.

“Near there I lay down and slept soundly, not waking till the sun was two hours high.

“I was alarmed to find it so late, but I forded the river safely, and finally reached the Union camp.

“No one there knew me. I had not even a uniform to show what I was, so lest I might prove to be a spy I was ordered under arrest and confined till some of my own regiment who knew me came in and corroborated my story, or at least recognized me as one of themselves.”

“That was a very interesting story, and we are much obliged to you for it, sir,” said Lulu, as the narrator paused as if he had finished. “But can’t you give us another?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling in an absent-minded way. “I was just thinking of another and rather amusing occurrence that took place while I was a soldier, though it hadn’t much to do with the war.

“My parents were living in Baltimore then, and I was still in the Shenandoah Valley. At one time, blackberries being very plenty in the woods where I was encamped, I gathered great quantities, filled a box, putting green leaves under and over the berries, nailed it up and sent it by express to my parents. I wrote to them about it, but the box started ahead of the letter and arrived first.

“In the mean time my mother and grandmother had been talking of paying a visit to my older sister, who had married, was living in Philadelphia, and anxious and urgent to have them come on to see her and her first-born—a baby boy toddling about.

“They were most desirous to do so, as he was the first grandchild of the one, the first great-grandchild of the other. But before they had made ready to start upon the journey a letter was received from the child’s mother saying that he had been taken dangerously ill. The two grandmothers were greatly troubled and more anxious than ever to see the baby. The older one was in her bedroom, not feeling well; her daughter was with her. A vehicle was heard to drive up to the front door. Glancing from the window the younger grandmother saw it was the express wagon and a box was being lifted out, evidently for them. Thinking—its mother having said they should see it dead or alive—it contained the corpse of her baby grandchild, she hurried down, had it carried into the parlor and set upon a table. She then threw a white sheet over it and awaited in trembling and grief the home-coming of her husband—my father.

“When he came in she told of the box and its supposed contents, and he, also full of grief, set to work to open it. The lid was at length torn off, and great was the surprise and relief of both to come upon the fresh green leaves and berries beneath them.

“But the door-bell rang again, and there stood Hannah with her babe in her arms alive and well.

“Joyful was the welcome given to both; they were taken into the parlor, Hannah shown the box, which was still standing, and told the story.

“After a while the baby was allowed to trot about at his own sweet will, while the older people were taken up with each other (a cradle had been brought down to the parlor to lay the baby corpse in before the box was opened, and there it stood covered with a spread or something white), so when the little chap was left unnoticed, he got at the box of berries, carried some to the cradle and threw them in on the dainty white spread.”

The little girls had been listening to their father’s story with as much interest as if they had never heard it before, though doubtless it was quite familiar to them.

“Wasn’t it funny?” asked one of them with a merry laugh, as he finished.

But just then a boy came running, calling out, “Pap, you’re wanted now. Please come right away, mother says,” and with a pleasant “Good-by, ladies,” the father rose, took Sally in his arms and went, the rest of the children following.