ome. All my brothers were scattered about, some in England, others in
different parts of the world seeking their fortunes. I was in a great
hurry to talk to Jane about Madeline. I knew that she would sympathise
with me. I had not written home a word about her, for I knew that it
would never do to say that I had fallen in love with the daughter of a
rebel, as my feelings and motives and reasons would not fail to be
misunderstood. I thought that I would first interest Jane, and then
that we could win over my mother to listen to what we had to say, and
then that my father would easily be brought round. Of course I knew
that two important events must occur before anything I could say or do
would be of any use. The abominable war between England and the United
States must cease, and I must become possessed of a competence to
support a wife as I felt Madeline ought to be supported.

I had not been long in the house before the news of my arrival had
spread among our friends and neighbours. Many came in to see the
long-absent sailor, as the ladies called me, and some to inquire about
their relatives, my old shipmates and comrades. Of too many, unhappily,
I could give but a bad account. Some had died of fever, others had been
killed fighting with the enemy, and many, knocked up by hard work and
disease, would, I thought, never return, or, if they found their way
home, it would be but to die. I tried, however, to make the best of all
the accounts I had to give, but I strained my conscience not a little a
times to do so. This was a moral cowardice, I own. I could not stand
the tears and sorrowful faces of friends when I would have wished to
have had smiles and laughter. Still there can be no doubt that the
truth should be spoken on all occasions, and I should, at every cost,
have had it out at once. After all, the worst was to have to tell poor
Tom that his mother was dead. For the life of me I could not do it, so
I got Jane to go and break the sad news to him. I knew that the good
girl would do it as gently as it could be done. She screwed up her
courage, and went into the kitchen and sat down, and began to tell him
how she was always talking of him, and hoping that he was a good lad,
and then how ill she had been. At last Tom got up--

"Oh, Miss Jane!" said he, almost choking, "I know by your looks what you
are going to tell me. Bless you for your kindness. The old lady has
gone to heaven; that's it, I know.