“You must come down with me for one day, Tom, to see an old aunt of mine at Bournemouth,” said Hunter to young Dill. “I never omitted going to see her the first thing whenever I landed in England, and she 'll not forgive me if I were to do so now.”

“But why should I go, sir? My presence would only trouble the comfort of a family meeting.”

“Quite the reverse. She 'll be delighted to see you. It will be such a triumph to her, amongst all her neighbors, to have had a visit from the hero of the day,—the fellow that all the print-shops are full of. Why, man, you are worth five hundred pounds to me. I 'm not sure I might not say double as much.”

“In that case, sir, I 'm perfectly at your orders.”

And down they went, and arrived late on the day after this conversation at an old-fashioned manor-house, where Miss Dorothy Hunter had passed some sixty-odd years of her life. Though to Tom she seemed to bear a great resemblance to old Miss Barrington, there was really little likeness between them, beyond an inordinate pride of birth, and an intense estimation for the claims of family. Miss Hunter's essential characteristic was a passion for celebrities; a taste somewhat difficult to cultivate in a very remote and little visited locality. The result was that she consoled herself by portraits, or private letters, or autographs of her heroes, who ranged over every imaginable career in life, and of whom, by mere dint of iteration, she had grown to believe herself the intimate friend or correspondent.

No sooner had she learned that her nephew was to be accompanied by the gallant young soldier whose name was in every newspaper than she made what she deemed the most suitable preparations for his reception. Her bedroom was hung round with portraits of naval heroes, or pictures of sea-fights. Grim old admirals, telescope in hand, or with streaming hair, shouting out orders to board the enemy, were on every side; while, in the place of honor, over the fireplace, hung a vacant frame, destined one day to contain the hero of the hour, Tom Dill himself.

Never was a poor fellow in this world less suited to adulation of this sort. He was either overwhelmed with the flattery, or oppressed by a terror of what some sensible spectator—if such there were—would think of the absurd position in which he was forced to stand. And when he found himself obliged to inscribe his name in a long column of illustrious autographs, the sight of his own scarce legible characters filled up the measure of his shame.

“He writes like the great Turenne,” said Miss Dorothy; “he always wrote from above downwards, so that no other name than his own could figure on the page.”

“I got many a thrashing for it at school, ma'am,” said Tom, apologizing, “and so I gave up writing altogether.”

“Ah, yes! the men of action soon learn to despise the pen; they prefer to make history rather than record it.”

It was not easy for Hunter to steer his bashful friend through all the shoals and quicksands of such flattery; but, on the plea of his broken health and strength, he hurried him early to his bed, and returned to the fireside, where his aunt awaited him.

“He's charming, if he were only not so diffident. Why will he not be more confiding, more at his ease with me,—like Mungo Park, or Sir Sidney Smith?”

“After a while, so he will, aunt. You 'll see what a change there will be in him at our next visit All these flatteries he meets with are too much for him; but when we come down again, you 'll see him without these distracting influences. Then bear in mind his anxieties,—he has not yet seen his family; he is eager to be at home again. I carried him off here positively in spite of himself, and on the strict pledge of only for one day.”

“One day! And do you mean that you are to go tomorrow?”

“No help for it, aunt. Tom is to be at Windsor on Saturday. But for that, he would already have been on his way to Ireland.”

“Then there's no time to be lost. What can we do for him? He'snot rich?”

“Hasn't a shilling; but would reject the very shadow of such assistance.”

“Not if a step were purchased for him; without his knowledge, I mean.”

“It would be impossible that he should not know it.”

“But surely there is some way of doing it A handsome sum to commemorate his achievement might be subscribed. I would begin it with a thousand pounds.”

“He'd not accept it. I know him thoroughly. There's only one road to him through which he would not deem a favor a burden.”

“And what of that?”

“A kindness to his sister. I wish you saw her, aunt!”

“Is she like him?”

“Like him? Yes; but very much better-looking. She's singularly handsome, and such a girl! so straightforward and so downright It is a positive luxury to meet her after all the tiresome conventionalities of the every-day young lady.”

“Shall I ask her here?”

“Oh, if you would, aunt!—if you only would!”

“That you may fall in love with her, I suppose?”

“No, aunt, that is done already.”

“I think, sir, I might have been apprised of this attachment!” said she, bridling.

“I didn't know it myself, aunt, till I was close to the Cape. I thought it a mere fancy as we dropped down Channel; grew more thoughtful over it in the Bay of Biscay; began to believe it as we discovered St. Helena; and came back to England resolved to tell you the whole truth, and ask you, at least, to see her and know her.”

“So I will, then. I 'll write and invite her here.”

“You 're the best and kindest aunt in Christendom!” said he, rushing over and kissing her.

“I'm not going to let you read it, sir,” said she, with a smile. “If she show it to you, she may. Otherwise it is a matter between ourselves.”

“Be it entirely as you wish, aunt.”

“And if all this goes hopefully on,” said she, after a pause, “is Aunt Dorothea to be utterly forgotten? No more visits here,—no happy summer evenings,—no more merry Christmases?”

“Nay, aunt, I mean to be your neighbor. That cottage you have often offered me, near the rocks, I 'll not refuse it again,—that is, if you tempt me once more.”

“It is yours, and the farm along with it. Go to bed now, and leave me to write my note, which will require-some thought and reflection.”

“I know you 'll do it well. I know none who could equal you in such a task.”

“I 'll try and acquit myself with credit,” said she, as she sat down to the writing-desk.

“And what is all this about,—a letter from Miss Dorothea to Polly,” said Tom, as they drove along the road back to town. “Surely they never met?”

“Never; but my aunt intends that they shall. She writes to ask your sister to come on a visit here.”

“But why not have told her the thing was impossible? You know us. You have seen the humble way we live,—how many a care it costs to keep up that little show of respectability that gets us sufferance in the world, and how one little attempt beyond this is quite out of our reach. Why not have told her frankly, sir, 'These people are not in our station'?”

“Just because I acknowledge no such distinction as you want to draw, my good fellow. If my aunt has asked your sister to come three hundred miles to see her, she has thought over her request with more foresight than you or I could have given it, take my word for it. When she means kindly, she plans thoughtfully. And now I will tell you what I never meant to have spoken of, that it was only last night she asked me how could she be of use to you?”

“To me!” said he, blushing, “and why to me?”

“Can you never be brought to see that you are a hero, Tom,—that all the world is talking of you just now, and people feel a pride in being even passingly mixed up with your name?”

“If they only knew how much I have to be ashamed of before I can begin to feel vain, they 'd not be so ready with their praise or their flattery.”

“I 'll talk over all that with your sister Polly,” said Hunter, gayly; for he saw the serious spirit that was gaining over the poor fellow.

“Do so, sir; and you'll soon see, if there's anything good or hopeful about me, where it comes from and who gave it.”