According to Captain Tortle's instructions, about six o'clock on Monday morning the Stinger's warps were cast off, and she slowly left the wharf at Portsmouth, and steamed out of the harbour upon her way to Woolwich.

Early as was the hour, a number of people witnessed her departure; a few of the more persevering ones taking a waterman's boat and following in her wake across the harbour; as if imagining some unlucky sailor might fall overboard and be picked up by them, when they would have an opportunity of selling him a suit of clothes.

Those gentry were loud in their denunciation of the Admiralty's decision, considering that as the Stinger fitted out at Woolwich, and their brothers had the glorious opportunity of swindling the crew upon that occasion, it would only be common justice for her to pay off at Portsmouth; and they looked at the retreating ship, and clawed their beards with rage, their feelings, no doubt, very much resembling those of an ardent angler, who, after having played with a fine trout for some time, sees his anticipated victim quietly wag its tail, and make the best of its way into deep water.

"Now, vot ish de use of us going to de expensh ov dish poat?" grumbled an unhappy-visaged young fellow, who sported a dog's-eared-looking suit of clothes, and smelt villainously of bad tobacco. "Vot ish de use of all dish foolishness?"

"Ma friend!" exclaimed a venerable old man, who was holding on to the seat, and apparently saying his "prayers at sea in a time of danger,"—"Ma friend, dish is a put op schob of Peter's, who sent us out here vile he starts for Voolvich—ve pay and he gets de penefit—so I votes ve leave him to settle vith de vaterman."

Upon hearing this observation the watermen ceased rowing, and demanded their fare; whereupon the passengers reluctantly drew forth their purses, and, under threat of "being chucked overboard if they did not pony up at once," after much squabbling among themselves, made up the sum required by the boatmen, who then leisurely proceeded to pull towards the landing-place.

In due time the Stinger reached Woolwich, where she was immediately taken into dock. The ship being what is termed "paid off all standing," beyond returning the running rigging into store, her crew had very little to do, and by noon on the day of arrival were cleaned and ready for inspection.

Cravan wad all fuss and worry,—nothing went right,—and in his anxiety that the men should present a particularly smart appearance had mustered and drilled them into a bad temper. The sailors knew there was no necessity for his absurd orders, and did not show much alacrity in obeying him.

About one o'clock a midshipman, who had been stationed in front of the superintendent's office, rushed down to the ship and announced that the expected visitors were coming, which news was immediately reported to the commander, who went on deck and proceeded to the gangway, where he awaited the arrival of the commodore and his staff.

As the party neared the ship, the crew, who were mustered for inspection, noticed their old commander Woodward was one of the number, and had they dared would have received him with a ringing cheer; as it was, they had to content themselves with smiling at him whenever they could catch his eye.

Mr. Thompson was in attendance at the gangway, and in his delight at beholding his favourite captain executed such an extraordinary "pipe," that Woodward could not avoid smiling; thus encouraged, Jerry redoubled his efforts, and finished off with a most artistic flourish.

After the various officers had been introduced to the commodore, and the ship had been officially inspected, the mustering of the crew commenced, Clare being one of the first men to answer to his name and pass in review before the venerable official.

Tom had replaced his cap and was again mingling with the men when Captain Woodward spoke to the commodore, and Clare was recalled and thus addressed by him:—

"Thomas Clare, captain's coxswain, I am directed by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to express to you their lordships' appreciation of your gallant conduct upon the occasion when H.M.S. Stinger was threatened with destruction by fire-junks, and to hand you a gratuity of ten pounds. Your bravery has been especially brought before their notice by your late commander, Captain Woodward, and it is to his kindness you owe their recognition of your good services."

Upon hearing this speech the crew gave a hearty cheer, which was allowed to pass unnoticed by the worthy commodore.

Tom received the money, and respectfully thanked the giver; but the gathering of officers recalled his court-martial too forcibly to his memory, and although he knew he ought to feel pleased, the affair rather depressed him than otherwise.

Before the commodore left the ship Captain Woodward spoke to Mr. Thompson, but finding Jerry did not intend remaining in the service, asked him what he could do to serve him in any other way.

"Ask the commodore to give me leave to go home with Clare, sir; he wants looking after," begged the good-natured fellow.

Captain Woodward promised to speak for him; and although, usually, warrant-officers are not allowed to leave the ship until their stores are returned and examined, so powerful was Woodward's intercession, that the next day, before the men were paid off, Mr. Thompson received the required permission, with orders to return at the expiration of four days.

Inspection being over, the commodore took his departure, Captain Woodward remaining on board the ship.

After partaking of Captain Tortle's hospitality, Woodward went on the quarter-deck, and requested Cravan to send for Clare, and several other men. Obedient to the summons, the delighted sailors at once hurried aft, and each received a present from the generous captain. When Clare presented himself, Woodward held out his hand and kindly asked him if he had heard from his wife, and whether he had got over his old complaint.

Tom looked at his friend, and replied in a most animated manner, that he was all right, and hoped to see his wife the next day.

"There's a slight token of my esteem for you, Clare," said Woodward handing him a package containing a handsome silver watch and chain. "I beg you will accept this as a proof of my appreciation of your noble act. Is there anything I can do for you besides?"

"No, th—thank you, sir,—you're too good; I don't deserve this. I thank you very much indeed. My wife will be so proud of this. It makes me feel a man agin. I can hold up my head arter this."

Cravan, who stood near, sneered at the proceeding as openly as he dared; but the malicious look was lost on Clare, who opened the parcel, and found the following engraved upon the back of the watch:

To
Thomas Clare,
Captain's Coxswain.
For Bravery.

He having at the risk of his life, single-handed, saved H.M.S. Stinger from
destruction by fire-junks in the Canton River, on the —— of —— 18—,

Presented to him as a mark of esteem,
by
Captain Paul Woodward, R.N.

Captain Woodward further informed the happy fellow, that if at any time he wanted a friend, and would let him know, he would be delighted to do anything for him.

When Clare had left the captain's presence, the latter proceeded to the gangway for the purpose of leaving the ship, when his attention was attracted by a deputation of petty-officers, headed by the "re-constructed" Jemmy Spry, who after many salaams, addressed his old commander as follows:—

"Please, Captain Woodward, sir, would ye be so kind as to pardon our boldness—but—beg your pardon, sir, but the men forward, sir—wants to see—ye sir. We makes so bold as to ax if you will be so kind as to allow—us all to see you, sir."

Having consulted with Tortle, who was so "jolly" that he would have agreed to anything. Woodward returned to the quarter-deck, and the crew "laid aft" and heard him speak. After telling the old hands how glad he was to welcome them home, and having shaken hands with every one of them, he left the Stinger, amidst the cheers of the grateful fellows, who kept up their hurrahs until he was out of sight and hearing.

When the last "hip! hip!" had died away, the first lieutenant ordered them to be "piped down," and added, in an undertone, "You yahoos, I'd like to cheer some of you with the cat."

Cravan felt annoyed that the man who had once resented an insult from him, should be thus publicly complimented upon the very spot where the outrage occurred.

The next morning the Stingers were paid off, and in a few hours were on their way to their respective homes. When Clare left the ship with his friend many of the men went to the gangway to bid him good-bye, three cheers being given for Thompson, and hearty wishes expressed on all sides for his future prosperity.

"Good-bye, Mr. Thompson; good-bye, Jerry; good-bye, old ship."

It will be seen from this that the crew were very different men from those who manned the Stinger when she first fitted out. Captain Woodward had attracted some of the best sailors in the service to the ship, and, taking them as a body, they were as fine a crew as ever trod a deck.

Having bidden farewell to their old shipmates, Thompson and Clare walked out of the dockyard, and entering a cab were conveyed to the railway station.

As they left the dock gate Clare exclaimed, "Good-bye, prison; good-bye slavery. Now for a man's life. Freedom and Polly."

"By-the-by, have you heard from her since you have been here?" demanded Thompson.

Clare replied that he had not, but thought it probable that she had directed her letter to Portsmouth, and that one would arrive for him this evening after he left.

When they got to the station Tom gazed wistfully at the telegraph wires, and observed to his friend, "Do you think it would cost more than five shillings to send her a wire message? I should so much like to let her know that I shall be home to-night."

Jerry said that he didn't know what the damage would be, but he'd soon find out, so they proceeded to the booking-office, and ascertained that they could send quite a long message for that sum.

Clare took a pen, and, after being assured by his friend that what he wrote would be transmitted word for word, proceeded to write as follows:—

"H.M.S. Stinger. Dear Polly, We paid off this morning. I will be with you, my dear, to-night. Your affectionate husband, Tom Clare."

Tom handed this to Jerry, who paid the sum demanded, and returned the receipt to his friend.

"Do you think jist them words will go—Dear Polly? Don't you think they will alter it?"

"Lord bless your foolish old head! why, if you wrote Chinee, them ere clerks would send it; they're awful clever. Why, they sends French and German. Of course they put dear!"

When they arrived at the London Bridge Station they transferred their baggage, and Thompson sought out the guard, who proved to be an old school-mate. To him Jerry delivered the parrot and monkey, with directions to leave them at the Sandwich station, where Maxted the carrier would take charge of and convey them to his mother; and in order that the animals might not be neglected, he affixed the following notice to their cages:—

"Live animals, with care. Give them a drink if they wants it, but don't blow them out with wittles."

The first part of their journey by the South Eastern Railway was a most pleasant one, as they made a number of acquaintances.

Sometimes Jerry would nurse a fractious baby for a weary-looking mother, or take charge of an old woman while her husband fetched in the baggage. Then a pretty face attracted his attention, and he would sit and watch it until the girl turned away her head, or he was called to order by Tom.

As they neared their journey's end, Clare became very much depressed, frequently asking the time, and fidgetting so, that Thompson had great difficulty in getting him to reply to his questions; however, at last he roused himself, and recognizing the places they were passing, became much more communicative.

"That's Sandwich!" he observed, pointing out a Dutch-looking town, round which the railroad wound, as if fearing if it ran too close to the old place that it would wake up the Rip Van Winkle-like inhabitants.

"Oh, that's Sandwich, is it? That's the original and only genuine ham, mustard, and bread-and-butter Sandwich, is it? Well, let us get out and have a glass of ale, shall we, Tom?"

"You won't find no ale nearer than the Three Coltses," observed a railway labourer, who had just entered the carriage. "There's no beer, no nothing in that place, 'cept dead and buried people. The whole town is gone to sleep, and nothing won't wake it but a 'lection."

Hearing this remark the passengers laughed, and the speaker finding Clare and his friend were sailors, generously proffered his tin bottle of beer, which was duly accepted by them.

"So you're a Kingsdown man, are you?" said Tom, having entered into conversation with the navvy. "My wife lives at Kingsdown; her name is Clare. I'm Tom Clare. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

It so happened that, although the railway navvy looked a rough sort of a man, he was really very intelligent; and having heard of Tom, saw at a glance how matters stood, and replied, "Oh, yes, I have heard of you. I'm glad to see you back. You've got a fine little boy."

"When did you see Polly—my wife—last?" excitedly demanded the sailor.

"Here's Deal!" shouted the man, who thereupon searched under the seat for his tools, and stopped all further inquiry on Tom's part.

"De-al! D'l! D'l!" bawled the porters, and the train stopped with a jerk, which nearly threw the occupants of the carriage off their feet.

In the confusion of arrival the navvy slipped away, and Clare was unable to get any more information.

Having engaged a fly, the friends proceeded to Kingsdown, Jerry evidently very much puzzled at the navvy's manner, yet unwilling to alarm Tom, who seemed to be utterly unconscious of anything but the approaching meeting with Polly.

When they arrived at the cottage it was twilight, and lights were gleaming from the front windows. Thompson paid the driver, and, taking the baggage, walked up the pathway after his friend, who had run ahead, and was loudly knocking at the door.

"Why, they don't seem to know we are here," gasped Clare.

At this instant the door was opened, and Tom saw his wife's father, who, with troubled face, exclaimed, "Glad to see you, poor fellow! Here, little Tom, come, see your daddy."

Clare walked into the room, and seeing his wife's mother, who was seated on a chair by the fire, advanced to her, and taking her hand, quietly said, "Where's my dear Polly?"

The poor creature, evidently too much overcome to speak, with trembling lips pointed to her husband, who was watching her with a pained expression of countenance.

"Wh—why—what does this mean? Where is my wife. Mother, what makes you look so? Surely she is—"

"Tom," cried the old man, "it ain't no good to deceive you now. Polly is dead. She died the sixteenth of August three year ago, and—God forgive us!—we have let you be in the dark all this time, fearin' it would be too much for you."

Hearing this, Clare staggered to a chair, and after passing his hand across his brow, exclaimed, "My—Polly—dead?"

"Yes, poor soul; she giv birth to this one in sorrow and anxiety, and never rallied. Tom, go to your father."

The little child did as he was bidden, though he seemed almost afraid of the scared face; but when he felt his father's fervent kiss all his fears vanished, and the boy hugged him, and called him "dear daddy," until Thompson, who was a sympathizing spectator of the proceeding, sobbed audibly.

The old woman had covered her face with her apron, and was weeping bitterly, while, in spite of his stoicism, the tears were rapidly coursing each other down her husband's wrinkled cheeks.

"Here's—her—sun-pictur," continued the old fisherman, taking a little case, containing a portrait of Polly, from the mantel-piece. "That's like her, poor soul! she looked—werry thin—afore she died."

Tom took the portrait, and holding it towards the candle, gazed on it with a face expressive of reverence and love.

"So that's—all there is left—of my—darling, is it?" he falteringly inquired.

"Yes, poor feller, that's all. She's gone to her last home."

As the old man uttered these words Clare lifted his little boy off his knee, and having gently kissed him, observed to Thompson, in a quiet, weary manner, "that he must be going." The words were scarcely uttered before the speaker's head dropped upon his chest, and he tell heavily forward.

Thompson sprang towards his friend, and, with the assistance of the old man, raised him from the ground. The agony of the woman was most painful. She threw her arms around the inanimate form, and uttered most heartrending cries. "O Tom, dear, dear feller! I've killed you! It's me that's done this. Oh, wicked woman that I am."

"Come—Fanny—don't—take—on—so,—it's—no—fault—of—your'n," observed her husband, sobbing between each word; but the poor creature did not hear his well-meant words of comfort, she having swooned from grief.

After in vain trying to restore Clare to consciousness, Thompson ran for a doctor, and when he returned with one, they found the room filled with neighbours.

"Turn these people out," directed the physician.

In a short time the gossips retired, taking with them the grief-stricken old woman, who, in spite of their endeavours to comfort her, blamed herself as the cause of Clare's sudden death.

While Thompson was clearing the apartment the doctor proceeded to examine Clare, who had been placed upon a sofa; and when the kindly sailor had seen the last person out, he hurried to his friend's side.

"The poor man is dead," sadly observed the doctor.

"Ain't there no chance for him, sir?"

"No, none whatever. Is this the husband of Mary Clare?"

"Yes, your honour."

"Where is the child?"

Thompson searched about the room, and at length found little Tom fast asleep under a table, with his innocent face pillowed upon his dead father's jacket.

The gentle-mannered physician touched the child lightly, saying, "Poor baby, he knows nothing of his great loss;" then, having advised the old fisherman to look after his wife, and directed Thompson not to disturb the body until the inquest should be held, took his departure.

After a time the broken-hearted old woman returned, and taking the child in her arms, retired to rest. Thompson remained by the body of his friend all night, and as the clock ticked off the moments, could scarcely credit it was not all a dream.

"Poor old chap!" he murmured, passing his hand across Clare's brow. "Poor heart, so you saw her spirit arter all. Well, I can't understand it; it's beyond me, but it may have been so. If you can hear me, old shipmate and brave heart, hear me say I'll never let your little chap want as long as God gives me health and strength;" and having uttered these words, the kind-hearted sailor sat down beside the couch, and placing his hands to his face, the man who had seen death gather many friends before, wept like a woman.

There lay poor Tom, with the portrait of his loved wife tightly clutched in his hand. True to her in life, and true in death; and the wording of the telegram he had penned that morning, which now lay open upon a table near, seemed prophetic—"I will be with you, my dear, to-night." We may hope he was with her, in a world of which we can have no conception until our eyes are opened by the angel of death.

In the morning little Tom crept into the room, and with awe upon his face asked to "see his dear daddy."

Jerry, unable to refuse the child's request, uncovered the calm face, which the little one gazed upon with a sorrowful expression. Taking the poor orphan in his arms Thompson carried him from the room, and leaving the child with a neighbour, walked along the breezy downs to get rid of some of his miserable thoughts.

"What is life?" he mused. "Here to-day and then gone, and nobody knows that so insignificant a creature ever troubled the earth. What have we to live for? Another world? Yes, that must be it. We ain't created for nothing; the God who made us has power to do everything. I'll try and do better in future, and be more kinder to others, and less selfish. This death of Tom has made me think. We've all got our duty to do in this world, like we have got to do it in a man-of-war, and according as we does it so we gets our reward."

Thus mused the sailor, who had probably seldom before given his future a thought. Death made him think, as it does most of us, and the kind-hearted fellow, in his desire to do better for the future, imagined he was one of the most miserable sinners in existence. It is thus with all men; when the "dark shadow" envelopes their acquaintances, they cry "mea culpa," and vow to be very good; but it requires something more than human philosophy to keep them in remembrance of their vows.

The inquest was held that day, and, in accordance with the custom in that part of the country, the jurors returned a verdict, that Clare "Died from the visitation of God."

After seeing to the arrangements for the funeral, and promising to return in time to attend it, Thompson proceeded to Woolwich; and his stores being found correct, received his pay, and left H. M. service.

Finding Captain Woodward was still in the town, Jerry called upon him, and informed him of Clare's death, which news much affected the good officer.

"Has he left any family, Thompson?"

"Yes, sir; one little boy."

"I'll get him into Greenwich School when he's old enough. Tell his relatives to remember that, Mr. Thompson."

"God bless you, sir, for your good heart. Excuse me, but little Tom won't never want. I'm going to be his father now, and, while much obliged to you for all your kindness, I think I can manage to keep him until he can earn his own living. But I won't forget your kind offer, sir."

As Thompson was taking his leave, Mrs. Woodward entered the room, and Jerry had the inexpressible satisfaction of being presented to her. She heard his touching story of Clare's death, and dropped a tear of pity to the memory of the unfortunate lovers. Jerry left the house bearing several tokens of her sympathy for the orphan boy, and, what pleased him beyond anything else, the gift of the captain's portrait, which he proudly exhibits to this day, as the picture of a noble man, that was given him by an angel.

Clare was buried in the village churchyard, by the side of his faithful wife; and when the last spadeful of earth was heaped over the grave, Thompson proceeded to a stonemason's, of whom he purchased a suitable monument, which he ordered to be erected over the pair, and to bear this inscription:—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
Mary and Thomas Clare.
True hearts. Parted in life, but now united in death.
18—.

This accomplished, Thompson returned to the fisherman's cottage, and told them his intentions towards the boy. At first the old couple would not listen to his proposal to adopt little Tom; but when he pointed out to them that it would be better for him to take the child at once, they yielded, and finally gave their consent; upon which the good-hearted fellow wrote to his mother, telling her that he should bring the boy home with him.

It was arranged that all poor Tom's pay and prize money should be placed in the Deal Bank until such time as the boy came of age, or it was wanted to start him in the world; and that, added to the money already there in his late mother's name, would form a very handsome sum by the time it would be required.

Before parting with the old folks, Jerry—without implying any reproach—asked them plainly why they did not write Tom about his wife's death? when they informed him that, fearing the blow would kill him, and that he would never see his child, they had enlisted the sympathy of a young girl who lived near, and all poor Tom's letters had been answered by her—always endeavoring to avoid positively false statements.

Thompson could not openly blame them, as they had evidently committed the error with a good intention; and after saying he was sorry they hadn't written him about it, bade them good-bye, and taking little Tom by the hand, led him away.

The child's parting with his relatives was of course a trial on both sides; but when he and Jerry were clear of the cottage, and seated in a conveyance on their way to Deal, the little fellow soon dried his tears, and by the time they arrived at their journey's end, had taken to his new protector most contentedly.

Having seen a lawyer, and settled the necessary business in connection with the property belonging to poor Clare, Thompson proceeded to an inn, and early the next morning hired a conveyance, by which he reached his native place about noon. Everybody seemed to expect him, and his progress from the entrance of the village to his mother's cottage was one continued ovation.

"Here's Jerry Thompson come back," giggled a girl, who, standing at the top of the garden steps, was shouting to her mother in the potato patch.

"Hallo, Jerry," roared a farm labourer, who had known the sailor at school, but who, save by the uniform, could not have recognized his old playfellow.

"Glad to see ye, master," cried the old men.

"Service to ye, Jerry," squeaked the old women, who were somewhat dazzled with the uniform, and didn't know whether to be polite or familiar.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!" screamed the children; and the ducks and geese flapped their wings, and scuttled about as if joining in the acclamation; and when Thompson arrived opposite Trotman's Charity, a saucy bantam, which had perched itself on the gate, tried to crow out a welcome. Ere it had fairly commenced it was swung off its legs by an apple-faced little girl, who, regardless of chanticleer, opened the gate with a vigorous swing, stood against it to keep it in its place, and with smiling, upturned face bobbed a courtsy to "Squire Jerry," she imagining that Mr. Thompson could not be less, as he came in a carriage, and everybody hurrahed.

When the vehicle stopped, Jerry leaped out over the door, being too impatient to allow the man time to open it, and, rushing up to his old mother, hugged and kissed her as only sailors do; and after thus demonstrating his affection for her, turned to a charming-looking girl, standing respectfully behind her, who had blushed a recognition to him as he alighted, and taking her round the waist, saluted her right lovingly, and inquired if she were his Cousin Nelly.

The girl coloured, and half-timidly endeavoured to withdraw from his grasp; but finding the old lady smiled upon her, she turned smartly round and replied, "Yes, I'm Nelly, and I suppose you call this a cousin's privilege?"

Seeing the merry twinkle in her eye, Jerry repeated his attention, and then stepping forward, thus addressed his friends and relatives, who had gathered round the door to welcome him:—

"My dear ship—friends and kinsfolks, I'm mighty glad to see you. I've passed through many dangers since I left here a boy. But Jerry has always fallen upon his feet (cheers). I ain't got time to say much to you, only to tell you once more how glad I am to see you (voices—'So are we to see you, mate'). I've shipped—I mean I've got a billet as steward to as good a gentleman as ever owned a estate, and he's got the loveliest little girl you ever saw (more cheers). I am going to take my old mother out of this and make a lady of her, although she's always bin a good woman, and can't be improved upon anyhow (deafening cheers, and cries of 'Bless him!' from the women). I thanks all of you as ever has done her a good turn in my absence, and promise you, when I knows who you are, I'll do you a half-a-dozen in return" (loud uproar).

Having thus delivered himself, Jerry, forgetting he was no longer on board a man-of-war, seized his call and piped down; upon which his friends, thinking very correctly it was a sailor's way of dispersing a crowd, quietly drifted off to their homes, and before night had invented no end of stories of the sailor's adventures, of course all being told them by Jerry.

While Thompson was delivering his speech, little Tom had crept close to Ellen, who, taking him in her arms, entered the house, and seating herself upon a sofa, removed his hat, and stroking his brown hair whispered to him tenderly, "Will you be my boy?"

"Oh, shouldn't I like to?" he replied, his dark eyes sparkling with animation; then looking up into the loving face bent over him, the child, who had never known a mother's care, placed his plump hands upon her cheeks, and fervently kissed the offered lips.

"You dear little fellow. Then you shall be my boy, and I'll be a mother to you," said the warm-hearted girl, her eyes suffusing with tears; and from that moment she took little Tom to her heart, from which he was never displaced.

When they got over their excitement a little, Jerry was taken into the next house to see his aunt, Mary Golder, that indignant old lady having refused to stir over her threshold until he first visited her; and although she could plainly hear all that was said in her sister's rooms, and was burning with curiosity to see her long-lost nephew, still her pride was so great that she wouldn't demean herself to beg favours, and vowed she would wait by her fireside until he came to see her, and not "go a-running arter him, like a foolish young colt as didn't know no manners."

However, when the sailor burst into the apartment, and had given her a dozen nautical hugs, she relented, and in spite of "rheumatiz" and sundry "spazims," managed to get out of her chair and visit her sister, where, considering she was an invalid, she greatly distinguished herself by eating more than any two persons at the tea-table.

So astonished was little Tom at the capacity of the dear "old girl" for tea, that he actually laid down his bread and butter, and gasped.

A few days after the sailor's return the Major arrived at Lee Park, and Thompson was sent for, and instructed to take possession of the Holt Lane farm house, to which he at once removed his relations, including his aunt Mary Golder; Miss Cops being expressly sent in a carriage to convey the old people to their new home. The young lady was unaccompanied, AdÈle having returned to France.

Great was the excitement in the almshouses when Miss Barbara walked up the pathway, and, with the utmost self-possession, asked the silver-haired handsome old woman, "Is you Missis Jerry?"

"Yes, my pretty darling, I'm Jerry's mother," tremblingly replied the delighted Mrs. Thompson.

"Then you are to come with me to your barley-sugar-candy-house," returned Cops, who, catching sight of little Tom at that moment, exclaimed, "Dear boy!" and, without more ceremony, seized the astonished child and led him off to the carriage.

In a short time the party were all seated, with Jerry on the box beside the driver, and having waved a farewell to Trotman's Charity, they started for Holt Lane, amidst the sneers of the alms-house folks, and the cheers of all the other villagers.

When they arrived at the farm, Miss Cops loudly expressed her delight at the place, evidently oblivious of its not being a barley-sugar-candy building; and taking little Tom's hand, proceeded upon a tour of inspection, looking in her loveliness like a good fairy who had just bestowed the place upon some faithful friend.

After having gone through the house, she left the adults, and proceeded to show her protÉgÉ the surroundings; and when hunted out by her friend Jerry, was found busily engaged in instructing young Tom in the art of "making little pigs sing," her principle being to watch until they got close to the interstices of the sty, and then to seize their tails between her finger and thumb, which operation generally produced the much-admired musical sounds. It may be imagined that Miss Barbara required a course of soap and water before being sent home.

Major Barron, or "The Squire," as he was usually termed, found Thompson a very apt scholar, and in a few months, under his tuition during the day, and Ellen's in the evening, Jerry became quite expert at accounts.

It was very evident to all the good folks in the place that the steward was desperately in love with his cousin, yet when spoken to upon this subject he would shake his head and gravely deny it.

One night, after his aunt Golder and Ellen had retired, Jerry was seated in the chimney corner smoking his pipe, and watching the motion of his mother's knitting needles, when the old lady fixed her keen eyes upon his face, and demanded to know what ailed him.

"Ails me, mother!" he replied, with a forced laugh, "why, nothing as I know of; I'm hearty enough." Having said this, he heaved a deep sigh.

"Jerry, look at me. You're in love, I know you are. That puss Ellen has turned your head."

"Nonsense, mother."

"No, it ain't nonsense, that is, your loving a good girl like her; that ain't no nonsense, my boy. Now, all your brothers and sisters are away in Ameriky and Australy, and I shall probably never see none of my children's children if you don't get married soon. It would do my old eyes good to see your little ones."

"All right, mother," ejaculated Jerry with a depreciative wave of his long clay pipe. "All right. Ease your steam, my dear. I ain't married yet, and ain't likely to be."

"Not all the while you keeps a shillyshallying about as you does. You ain't, that's true," somewhat warmly retorted the old lady.

Upon hearing this Thompson got up, and walking to his mother's chair leant over the back, and in a somewhat troubled manner made the following confession:

"My dear old mother, pardon me if I was hasty. My heart is full, and I want you to tell me what to do."

"Go on, dearie," replied the now mollified old lady, firing away at her knitting in order to give vent to her feelings.

"Well, mother, I love Cousin Nelly as I never loved a gal afore, only once, and she, poor thing, a Chinee."

"You was allus soft-hearted as a boy," put in the not at all astonished dame.

"Well," she is dead, and I hope in a better world along with poor Polly and Tom—little Tom's mother, you know."

"Oh, I know," said the dame, working more furiously than ever at her knitting.

"When I came home I little thought, arter all the girls I've been soft over, that I should ever become so desperately fond of Cousin Nelly. But it's a case, and but for you, I'd go to sea again, as I can't marry her."

"Can't marry her? why not, in the name of goodness?"

Jerry informed his mother that he believed it was "agin the law for him to marry his cousin."

"Bless us, is that all?" coolly observed his mother.

"That all! Well, I should think that's enough. I suppose you don't want me to break the law, do you, and be had up for bigamy?"

"Bless your heart!" gasped the old lady. "Why, don't you know?"

"Yes, I knows, mother. I've always heard that it ain't lawful for to marry your cousin. If I was in China I'm blest if I wouldn't. That's the best of China, there ain't no laws like that there."

Hearing this outburst, the old dame gave a hearty ringing laugh, which sounded most unkindly to her troubled son.

"Nay, mother, don't laugh. This is a big trouble for me."

"Why, you stupid boy? It's quite lawful, besides Ellen isn't your cousin at all."

"Not my cousin?" screamed the almost frantic sailor; "not my cousin? Hurrah!" Then, darting out of the kitchen, he rushed up-stairs, loudly knocked at his aunt's bed-room door, and begged her to ask Nelly to come down, as his mother wanted to see her very badly.

In a few moments the girl, who had not retired to rest, but having noticed he was unhappy in her presence, had wisely left him to himself as much as possible, entered the room, upon which Jerry respectfully kissed her, and when she was seated, giving the log upon the hearth a kick, which made it blaze right merrily, begged his mother would go ahead with her yarn, when she spoke as follows:—

"Many years ago when I were a gal, in service up at the Hall, I had a friend named Mary Reynolds. She was a dear good girl, and were only out at service so as not to be a burden to her parents. Well, to make a long story short, she married a gentleman, and lived in good style for some years, until one day he lost all his property. They were then living in Canterbury, and I went to see her, poor thing, and I promised her if anything occurred to her, I'd take care of her little girl, Ellen here. You had then gone your first voyage in the "Royal Shepherdess," and when you came back Nelly was nine years old. Now she's twenty," said the old lady, fondly caressing the girl. "So you see there's no blood relationship betwixt you, although that wouldn't be an obstacle. But I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Good-night. God bless you both, my children."

"I'll say good-night, too, cou—Jerry," timidly added the girl.

Hearing this, her lover advanced, and leading her to a chair, begged she would stay, as he wished very particularly to speak to her.

When the last creak of the stairs announced that the old lady had reached her room, Thompson took a seat close to the agitated girl, and having gently placed his left arm round her waist, told her he loved her, and frankly asked her to be his wife.

For some moments Nelly hung her head, too much overcome with the revelation of the mother and the happiness of her position; but, being somewhat encouraged by the tender kiss which her lover imprinted upon her cheek, she at length turned her face towards him, and softly replied, "Yes."

He made no demonstration when he kissed her then, being too much in love to shout and dance as he had formerly done. They chatted over their prospects quietly, and before they separated it was determined that upon the eighteenth of February they would become man and wife.

The banns were duly put up, and upon the day appointed the gentle Nelly vowed to love and honour the now happy Thompson; while he, on his part, promised to cherish and protect her as long as Heaven permitted.

There was no idea of "co-partnership" between these lovers—they considered themselves bound in the bonds of holy matrimony, and believed the union so contracted was approved of by their Creator.

They were married in the parish church, the Squire giving away the bride, who, with her lovely complexion, looked like a peach-blossom. Four bridesmaids assisted at the ceremony, the principal one being the charming Cops; and as little Tom watched the party from the gallery, he wondered if the angels were more beautiful than that young lady and his adopted mother.

The villagers turned out in their best attire to witness the interesting ceremony, and the wedding breakfast was given in the big barn, and every one invited to be present.

A doubly proud woman was Mrs. Thompson that day; and when the Squire made a speech, and drank the health of the happy pair, the dear old lady cried for joy.

Many speeches followed, in one of which, a jolly old farmer, who was the only relation of the bride present, observed, that having such a flower as Nelly committed to his care, he hoped the late sailor would never prove a traitor to his trust; hearing which Jerry arose, and, in a brief speech, thanked his newly-found uncle for his good wishes, then amid loud acclamation re-seated himself by the side of his happy wife.

When the dinner was over the barn was cleared for dancing. The merry folks kept up the festivities until the morning dawned, and to this day the villagers speak of the splendid feast they had when Muster Thompson was married.

The sailor never forgot his friends in Hong-Kong, and, according to promise, wrote to Mrs. Mackay, saying, "I have married the best girl in the world, and if there is any victim in the case, it is not your happy friend, Jerry Thompson."

Nelly added a postscript.

* * * * * *

Some years have elapsed since the foregoing, and Mr. Thompson is now the esteemed agent of the Squire, and farms a large estate upon his own account. He still retains his admiration for Miss Barbara, who has grown up into a beautiful woman; her word to him is law, and he makes it so to all under him.

Little Tom is at college, and promises to become a great scholar; he has ever cherished the most ardent affection for his adopted parents, who in return treat him as if he were their eldest son.

Several children have blessed the union of the pair, and if in a journey through Kent you pass Oakfield Farm, where Mr. Thompson now resides, you will probably see a blue-eyed Nelly and some black-eyed boys playing upon the lawn.

Jerry sometimes talks about his adventures when he was a blue jacket, but never reverts to the sad fate of the poor Chinese girl. He is happy in the society of his wife and friends; and though she is not forgotten, he has no desire to dwell upon the memory of "A-tae."

THE END.