remark to his
companion: 'Ay, poor old Kiah'll take it hard, such a work as he made
about him; but after all he couldn't look for better, only it's hard
like when the young uns go.'

'Do you know Kiah Parker?' asked the stranger.

'Ay, surely sir, everybody knows Kiah. Poor old chap, he'll be
breaking his heart over his young master, as he calls him, for I doubt
'twas him was drowned off the _Mermaid_ in the tussle the other day.'

'Drowned, was he? Is it certain?' asked the visitor, with sudden
interest.

'Ay, so they say, not a doubt of it. It's a pity, he was as smart a
middy as any afloat, so they say. I saw the bo's'un myself, that was
piping his eye like a baby to think of him safe ashore and the lad at
the bottom.'

The stranger did not answer. His thoughts had flown to Kiah's young
ladies, waiting and watching at home for the boy whom no favouring wind
would blow home to them. How strange it seemed, he thought, that that
young life should be cut off when so many would mourn for it, and that
he, whose life or death made no difference to any one, should have come
safely through so many strange accidents and changes and chances of
fortune! And then he suddenly remembered that letter which Kiah had
given him, and which had been in his pocket unthought of ever since.
He felt as if he hardly liked to look at it now, as if it were
presumption to read the words of one on whom so terrible a grief had
fallen. But he took it out of his pocket, and unfolded it from its
wrapping, and glanced at the beginning by the red light of the stormy
sunset which was beginning to blaze in the western sky. And as he did
so the heading caught his eye: 'Oakfield Cottage.'

He gave a great start, and half dropped the closely-written sheet. And
then he laughed at himself. There might be other Oakfield Cottages in
the world besides the one which stirred such a host of boyish memories
by the very sound of its name. He turned the letter over to look at
the signature. There it was, plain enough in the clear, legible
writing:

'Your sincere friend,
'ANGELICA WYNDHAM.'

The reader put his hand before his eyes for a moment, seeming to feel
again a pair of soft arms round his neck, a curly head pressed against
his cheek, while a trembling child's voice whispered to him not to cry
because they would wake Betty, and papa and mamma would come back.
Little Angel, the little sister whom he had never seen but that once