range, and that
the fore-top-sail was loose. I sent him to the post-office for letters, and
ordered my bill. All my trunks had gone aboard before the ship hauled off,
and,--the distances in New York then being short,--Neb was soon back, and
ready to shoulder my carpet-bag. The bill was paid, three or four letters
were taken in my hand, and I walked towards the Battery, followed by the
faithful black, who had again abandoned home, Chloe, and Clawbonny, to
follow my fortunes.

I delayed opening the letters until I reached the Battery. Despatching Neb
to the boat, with orders to wait, I took a turn among the trees,--still
reluctant to quit the native soil--while I broke the seals. Two of the
letters bore the post-marks of the office nearest Clawbonny; the third was
from Albany; and the fourth was a packet of some size from Washington,
franked by the Secretary of State, and bearing the seal of office.
Surprised at such a circumstance, I opened the last of these
communications first.

The official letter proved to be an envelope containing,--with a civil
request to myself to deliver the enclosures,--dispatches addressed to the
Consul at Hamburg, for which port my ship had been advertised some time.
Of course, I could only determine to comply; and that communication was
disposed of. One of the Clawbonny letters was in Mr. Hardinge's hand, and
I found it to contain some excellent and parental advice. He spoke of my
sister, but it was calmly, and with the humble hope that became his sacred
office. I was not sorry to find that he advised me not to visit Clawbonny
before I sailed. Lucy, he said, was well, and a gentle sadness was
gradually taking the place of the livelier grief she had endured,
immediately after the loss of her friend. "You were not aware, Miles, how
keenly she suffered," my good old guardian continued, "for she struggled
hard to seem calm in your presence; but from me my dear child had no
secrets on this subject, whatever she may see fit to have on another.
Hours has she passed, weeping on my bosom, and I much doubt if the image
of Grace has been absent from her waking thoughts a single minute, at any
one time, since we first laid your sister's head in the coffin. Of you she
does not speak often, but, when she does, it is ever in the kindest and
most solicitous manner; calling you 'Miles,' 'poor Miles,' or 'dear
Miles,' with all that _sisterly_ frankness and affection you have known in
her from childhood." The