the value of the sum I had informed Mr.
Hardinge Grace had requested me to expend in purchasing a memorial. This
avidity to possess these pearls--for so it struck me--was difficult to
account for, Grace having owned divers other ornaments that were more
costly, and which she had much oftener worn. I confess, I had thought of
attempting to persuade Lucy to receive my own necklace as the memorial of
Grace, but, a little reflection satisfied me of the hopelessness of
success, and nothing had been said on the subject. Of course I acquiesced
in the wish of the dear girl to possess the pearls; but, at the same time,
I determined to make an additional purchase, more thoroughly to carry out
the wishes of my sister.

On the whole, the letter of Lucy gave me a great and soothing pleasure. I
came to a resolution to answer it, and to send that answer back by the
pilot. I had no owner to feel any solicitude in the movements of the ship;
had no longer a sister to care for myself; and to whom else could my last
words on quitting the land be so appropriately addressed, as to this
constant and true-hearted friend? That much, at least, I could presume to
call Lucy, and even to that I clung as the ship-wrecked mariner clings to
the last plank that floats.

The fourth letter, to my astonishment, bore the signature of John
Wallingford, and the date of Albany. He had got this far on his way home,
and written me a line to let me know the fact. I copy his epistle in
full, viz:--

"Dear Miles,

"Here I am, and sorry am I to see, by the papers, _there_ you are still.
Recollect, my dear boy, that sugars will melt. It is time you were off:
this is said for your own sake, and not for mine, as you well know I am
amply secured. Still, the markets may fall, and he who is first in them
can wait for a rise, while he who is last must take what offers."

"Above all, Miles, do not take it into your head to alter your will.
Things are now arranged between us precisely as they should be, and I
hate changes. I am your heir, and you are mine. Your counsel, Richard
Harrison, Esquire, is a man of great respectability, and a perfectly
safe repository of such a secret. I leave many of my papers in his
hands, and he has now been my counsel ever since I had need of one; and
treads so hard on Hamilton's heels, that the last, sometimes feels his
toes. This is as counsel, however, and not as an advocate.

"Adieu, my dear boy: we are