"When you was at our house, talking to par, I heard purty much all that was said, and should a heard it all if it hadn't been for the squalling of the young uns. Now he didn't know a circumstance to what I did. Just driving a person down to a sloop don't amount to nothing, if you can't tell where she was a going."

"True enough, my young friend; but what more can you tell me?"

"Well now, if you'll promise not to laugh or poke fun at me, I'll up and tell."

"Well, I promise that."

"And you wont be mad, nor nothing?"

"I think not."

"And—and—" Here Tom grew red as a winter apple, and stammered most unmerciful.

"Well, and what? I dare say you can ask nothing which I will not promise."

"Well, you wont set yourself agin me and Rose when we've grown up, and—and—"

The stranger started, and his countenance changed.

"What can you know of my—of Rose?" he said, sharply.

"Oh, now you're getting mad!"

"No, no; but you tell me nothing."

Tom withdrew his hand and buttoned up the pocket with emphasis.

"Besides that, I aint a going to. How far is it back to Bungy? I can foot it there afore dark, and no harm done."

"But you had something to tell me."

"Yes, sir. Come all this way a purpose to tell it. Now I'm going back agin—no damage to nobody."

The captain grew pale with anxiety.

"Tell me what you desire, and speak out," he said.

"Well, I don't desire nothing of nobody. Ask our doctor if I'm that sort of chap; but you come to our house and asked questions about a lady that I know, in a sort of mealy-mouthed way, as if you didn't like to speak out and say to old neighbors, 'She's gone off and I don't know where.' Par didn't know, and consequently couldn't tell. I kinder did; but with the old folks by, and the baby squalling, what could a feller do?"

"Where—where are they?"

"Now there's the question. I want to make a bargain with you."

"Boy, boy, this is too much."

Tom Hutchins looked at him earnestly.

"I'll trust you!" he exclaimed, unbuttoning his pocket in breathless haste, and drawing forth a tiny letter, folded after the peculiar fashion that school-girls affect. "Perhaps you know that ere writing—scrumptious fine hand, aint it? Jest look on the outside—Mr. Thomas Hutchins—don't it look splendid?"

As Tom uttered these words, he unfolded the dainty little epistle, and held it forth.

The captain's hand shook as he received the paper, and a mist came over his eyes before it was read through.

"Mr. Thomas Hutchins:

"Dear Friend:—I take up my pen to inform you that I am in good health, and hope you are enjoying the same blessing. I have got a nice gentleman and lady to live with, and am learning French like any thing. There is a colored man called Jube, and a young gentleman named Paul. They know French, and help me to speak it. I have got your robins' eggs yet, and mean to keep them all my life. Please do not let any one see this letter. I promised you to write the minute we got anywhere; but it was a long time before I knew how people sent letters; besides, I didn't know how to write fine hand then. Direct your letter to Miss Rose Mason, Bays Hollow. It will reach me; for since mother went away, there isn't any Miss Mason but me."

There seemed to be some trouble about ending the letter, for two attempts at erasure with a penknife were visible; but it finally concluded with the girlish signature of

"Your loving friend,

"Rose Mason."

The captain read this letter over and over again, till the tears rose to his eyes and his chest began to heave.

"Will you give me this letter, boy?" he said, in a broken voice.

"Couldn't," said Tom. "Money hasn't got power to buy it. You'd think so if you only knew how much time it took for me to write the answer."

"And you think Rose is in this place now?"

"Think! Don't I know it. Haven't I reckoned up how much it would cost to get there fifty times! Only to think of hearing her talk French! My!"

The captain reached forth his hand, and shook that of Tom, with deep emotion.

"What can I do for you, my boy?" he said.

"Nothing; only if you go to the Hollow, don't forget to give my best respects to Miss Rose Mason, and tell her—no, you needn't say nothing about it—what's the use?"

"I will tell her that you are a brave, generous boy, and that I am eternally indebted to you," said the captain.

"That's very kind of you captin; but if you could only say man—now a generous man—I should be much obliged. You haven't no idea how much too short my winter trowsers are!"

"I will say any thing to prove how happy you have made me. The dear child—and this is her writing?" answered the captain, reading the letter a third time.

Tom watched him keenly, till the blood mounted into his fine face. Some great struggle was going on in his heart, that at last burst forth in words.

"Take it," he said; "keep the letter. I give it up; but when you see her remember that it bust my heart to do it. Good-by, captain. Some time or another I shall want something of you, but wait till I've stopped growing. There's all the world afore us. Good-by."

The captain called after him. Tom refused to look back, but marched off at a quick pace, waving his hand. The truth is, our youngster's face was bathed in tears. It really had almost broken his heart to give up the letter—the first and dearest epistle of his life.