left out "The Faun." My father laughed, but
let it go. The book was to come out under its proper title in America,
and he was indifferent as to what they called it in England.
The end of our tarrying in the Old World was now at hand. Seven years
had we lived there, and we were eager and yet loath to go. My father's
friends gathered about him, men who had hardly so much as heard his name
a little while ago, but who now loved him as a brother. For a few days
Mrs. Blodgett's hospitable face glowed upon us once more, and pale Miss
Williams, and trig little Miss Maria, and many of the old captains
whom we had known. It was the middle of June, and the sun shone even in
Liverpool. Our red-funnelled steamer lay at her moorings in the yellow
Mersey, with her steam up. It was not The Niagara, but on her bridge
stood our handsome little Captain Leitch, with his black whiskers,
smiling at us in friendly greeting. How much had passed since we had
seen him last! How much were we changed! What experiences lay behind us!
What memories would abide with us always! My father leaned on the rail
and looked across the river at the dingy, brick building, near the
wharves, where he had spent four wearisome but pregnant years. The big,
black steamer, with her little, puffing tug, slipped her moorings, and
slid slowly down the stream. After a few miles the hue of the water
became less turbid, the engines worked more rapidly and regularly.
Liverpool was now a smoky mass off our starboard quarter. It sank and
dwindled, till the smoke alone was left; the blue channel spread around
us; we were at sea, and home lay yonder, across three thousand miles
of tumbling waves. But my father still leaned on the rail, and looked
backward towards the old home that he loved and would never see again.
It was the hour for good-bye; there would come another hour for the
other home and for welcome.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Hawthorne and His Circle, by Julian Hawthorne
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