orphan boy, until Herbert himself, ashamed
of taxing her small means, ran away, as he had said, and went to sea.

Every year had Herbert written to his kind foster mother and his dear
brother, as he called Traverse. And at the end of every prosperous
voyage, when he had a little money, he had sent them funds; but not
always did these letters or remittances reach the widow's cottage, and
long seasons of intense anxiety would be suffered by her for the fate of
her sailor boy, as she always called Herbert. Only three times in all
these years had Herbert found time and means to come down and see them,
and that was long ago. It was many months over two years since they had
even received a letter from him. And now the poor widow and her son were
almost tempted to think that their sailor boy had quite forsaken them.

It is near the close of a late autumnal evening that I shall introduce
you, reader, into the interior of the widow's cottage.

You enter by the little wooden gate, pass up the moldering paved walk,
between the old, leafless lilac bushes, and pass through the front door
right into a large, clean but poor-looking sitting-room and kitchen.

Everything was old, though neatly and comfortably arranged about this
room. A faded home-made carpet covered the floor, a threadbare crimson
curtain hung before the window, a rickety walnut table, dark with age,
sat under the window against the wall; old walnut chairs were placed
each side of it; old plated candlesticks, with the silver all worn off,
graced the mantelpiece; a good fire--a cheap comfort in that well-wooded
country--blazed upon the hearth; on the right side of the fireplace a
few shelves contained some well-worn books, a flute, a few minerals and
other little treasures belonging to Traverse; on the left hand there was
a dresser containing the little delfware, tea service and plates and
dishes of the small family.

Before the fire, with her knitting in her hand, sat Marah Rocke,
watching the kettle as it hung singing over the blaze and the oven of
biscuits that sat baking upon the hearth.

Marah Rocke was at this time about thirty-five years of age, and of a
singularly refined and delicate aspect for one of her supposed rank; her
little form, slight and flexible as that of a young girl, was clothed in
a poor but neat black dress, relieved by a pure-white collar around her
throat; her jet-black hair was parted plainly over her "low, sweet
brow," brought down each