On leaving the men who had assisted him, Clare turned to the left, keeping with the crowd as much as possible. All along the foot of the wall were crouched anxious wives and children, waiting with "father's dinner," in order to save him a long walk. Many of these watchers peered into his face, and some of the little ones would clap their hands and cry, "Here's daddy!" Tom walked on for a few moments, hardly able to realize he was free, when suddenly Polly, who had followed him from the dock-gate, caught him by the arm. "For heaven's sake, Polly, don't draw notice on me; walk on ahead, dear, I'll follow you; but don't look behind you, unless you would have me took." Poor Tom! The loving taunt of that speech was understood by his wife. She have him taken! Why, he knew the poor girl would die for him. Away she walked, quite in a different direction from that of her old lodgings; up one street and down another, until they were fairly out in the country, she praying all the time that her love might never be retaken, and thanking God her husband was now free. The footfall behind her was delightful music; while he, devouring her with his eyes, and longing once more to clasp her to his heart, thanked heaven in his own rough sailor style. "Am I dreaming?" he muttered. "No, there she is, the beauty--there she is--thank the good God who guards her always--I am awake--it's real--I ain't asleep." He imagined that walk the longest he had ever taken. "Will she never bring to?" he thought. At last she stopped before a neat cottage, and lifting the latch, darted in. Her husband was not long after her, and she was soon clasped in his arms. "Polly, dear heart! Wife! look at me!" he almost sobbed as he tenderly pressed her to his heart. "Bear up, my pretty one! I'm here, and all safe, and never going away again." But the poor girl was too happy to reply, and a flood of tears gave relief to her feelings, ere she was composed enough to talk about his plans of escape. When her agitation had somewhat abated, Polly produced a suit of farmer's clothes; and after Tom had shaved off his whiskers, she cut the curly locks from his head, although it very much grieved her to do so. When the process was complete, she called in her father and mother, who had come up from Kingsdown to assist their girl in her trouble. Clare had taken a seat by the fire, and his disguise was so complete, that the good old people could not, until he spoke to them, make out who he was. "That beant you, Tom, be it?" "Yes, it's me, father." "Why, you do puzzle me. I don't know you a bit. You looks like the young squire." Many were the congratulations which passed between them, and when the old fisherman handed Tom a passage ticket for himself and Polly, by which Clare found he could leave Liverpool for New York on the following Wednesday, he caught the old man in his arms and fairly hugged him.