object of reuniting Mary and me. I had no
keepsake to speak to me of my lost darling but the flag which she had
embroidered with her own hand. The furniture still remained in the
cottage. I sat down in our customary corner, by Mary's empty chair, and
looked again at the pretty green flag, and burst out crying.

A light touch roused me. My father had so far yielded as to leave to my
mother the responsibility of bringing me back to the traveling carriage.

"We shall not find Mary here, George," she said, gently. "And we _may_
hear of her in London. Come with me."

I rose and silently gave her my hand. Something low down on the clean
white door-post caught my eye as we passed it. I stooped, and discovered
some writing in pencil. I looked closer--it was writing in Mary's hand!
The unformed childish characters traced these last words of farewell:

"Good-by, dear. Don't forget Mary."

I knelt down and kissed the writing. It comforted me--it was like a
farewell touch from Mary's hand. I followed my mother quietly to the
carriage.

Late that night we were in London.

My good mother did all that the most compassionate kindness could do
(in her position) to comfort me. She privately wrote to the solicitors
employed by her family, inclosing a description of Dermody and his
mother and daughter and directing inquiries to be made at the various
coach-offices in London. She also referred the lawyers to two of
Dermody's relatives, who lived in the city, and who might know
something of his movements after he left my father's service. When she
had done this, she had done all that lay in her power. We neither of us
possessed money enough to advertise in the newspapers.

A week afterward we sailed for the United States. Twice in that interval
I communicated with the lawyers; and twice I was informed that the
inquiries had led to nothing.

With this the first epoch in my love story comes to an end.

For ten long years afterward I never again met with my little Mary; I
never even heard whether she had lived to grow to womanhood or not. I
still kept the green flag, with the dove worked on it. For the rest,
the waters of oblivion had closed over the old golden days at Greenwater
Broad.

CHAPTER V. MY STORY.

WHEN YOU last saw me, I was a boy of thirteen. You now see me a man of
twenty-three.

The story of my life, in the interval between these two ages, is a story
that can be soon told.

Speaking of my father first, I have