me like an inspiration, and I would
steal away to my chamber or wander forlornly about the gardens. I
remember this, but little more.

As the days went by my first grief subsided, and in its place grew up
a want which I have experienced at every step in life from boyhood to
manhood. Often, even now, after all these years, when I see a lad of
twelve or fourteen walking by his father's side, and glancing merrily
up at his face, I turn and look after them, and am conscious that I have
missed companionship most sweet and sacred.

I shall not dwell on this portion of my story. There were many tranquil,
pleasant hours in store for me at that period, and I prefer to turn to
them.

One evening the Captain came smiling into the sitting-room with an open
letter in his hand. My mother had arrived at New York, and would be
with us the next day. For the first time in weeks--years, it seemed to
me--something of the old cheerfulness mingled with our conversation round
the evening lamp. I was to go to Boston with the Captain to meet her and
bring her home. I need not describe that meeting. With my mother's hand
in mine once more, all the long years we had been parted appeared like a
dream. Very dear to me was the sight of that slender, pale woman
passing from room to room, and lending a patient grace and beauty to the
saddened life of the old house.

Everything was changed with us now. There were consultations with
lawyers, and signing of papers, and correspondence; for my father's
affairs had been left in great confusion. And when these were settled,
the evenings were not long enough for us to hear all my mother had to
tell of the scenes she had passed through in the ill-fated city.

Then there were old times to talk over, full of reminiscences of Aunt
Chloe and little Black Sam. Little Black Sam, by the by, had been taken
by his master from my father's service ten months previously, and put on
a sugar-plantation near Baton Rouge. Not relishing the change, Sam had
run away, and by some mysterious agency got into Canada, from which
place he had sent back several indecorous messages to his late owner.
Aunt Chloe was still in New Orleans, employed as nurse in one of the
cholera hospital wards, and the Desmoulins, near neighbors of ours, had
purchased the pretty stone house among the orange-trees.

How all these simple details interested me will be readily understood by
any boy who has been long absent from home.

I was sorry wh