he was dead. Yet let me
look at you, boy!" she exclaimed, taking both my hands and fixing her
eyes on my countenance. "Yes, you are Willand--you are my own dear
boy--welcome, welcome back to life, and to one who loved you as her own
son!" And she flung her arms round my neck and burst into tears. "Oh,
Willand, had but dear mother been alive, how it would have done her
heart good to see you! She never ceased talking of you, and always felt
sure that you would come back when you could."

I will not describe the scene any farther. I pretty nearly cried too--
indeed I am not certain that I did not, but they were tears of
happiness, and not yet entirely of happiness. There was sorrow for one
I had lost--regret for my own obstinacy and thoughtlessness, and many
other emotions mingled with the satisfaction of finding myself under the
roof of one in whom I had the most perfect confidence, who I knew loved
me sincerely. I think I have said it before, but if not, I now urge
those who are blessed with real friends, to prize the lore their hearts
bestow as a jewel above price, which wealth cannot purchase, and which,
let them wander the world round, they may never find again.

After my aunt and I had sat a little time, in came the fine old
gentleman I had met. I now guessed who he must be. He very quickly
understood who I was. "You are not the first seaman I have known who
has been lost for years, and has at last turned up again when he was
least expected," said he; "but welcome, Willand, I'm very glad to see
you, and to own you for my nephew." He very soon gave evidence of the
sincerity of his words, for a kinder, better-hearted man I never met,
and I felt thankful that Aunt Bretta had married a man so well worthy of
her.

My uncle accompanied me back to the inn where I had left my chest and
bag, and we got a porter to carry them to his house; and now, for the
first time since I went to sea, I found myself settled with my relations
quietly on shore. I had been very happy with the La Mottes, but still
they were strangers. My kind aunt never seemed tired of trying to find
out what would please me. She had done something to spoil me as a boy--
it appeared as if there was a great probability of her spoiling me as a
man. We had much to talk about. I told her of my falling in with the
old lady at Plymouth, and of my visit to my grandmother's tomb. I found
that Miss Rundle had never written to her, or if she had writt