"Well, what do you think; we were in latitude--no matter, you don't care about that--we had just come out of a great gale, which made the sea pitch-dark about us; when the first beam of the sun opened the clouds, we found ourselves along side a ship with the old stars and stripes flying like a bird at the mast-head. There was a sight, my hearties. We hailed her, she hailed us, we threw her papers, she threw us, and we parted forever." "Is that all?" "Not half. One of these was a list of passengers; I run my eye up, and I run my eye down, and there, shining out like a star amongst them all, I find, whose d'ye think--Elbridge Peabody--as large as life." Miriam Haven staggered against the door-post, the widow fell upon her knees, "Thank God, my boy is heard from." Little Sam Peabody darted from the Captain's knee and rushed upon the balcony, crying at the top of his lungs, "Grandfather, brother Elbridge is heard from." "I don't believe it," said William Peabody; the poor old blind sorrel had disappeared from sight into a piece of woods near the orchard, and the merchant had quite recovered his usual way of speaking. "Never will believe it. You hav'nt heard of that youngster,--never will. Always knew he would run away some day--never come back again." The Captain's story was rapidly explained by the different members of the family, who had followed little Sam, to repeat it to old Sylvester, each in her own way. Miriam and Hannah Peabody, who at sound of the commotion had come forth from an inner chamber, whither she had been retired by herself, joined the company of lookers on. "What all amount to," he continued, in his peculiar clipped style of speech. "Expect to see him again, do you. Mighty fine chance--where going to?" The Captain could'nt tell. "One of the Captain's fine stories--no--no--if that boy ever comes back again, I'll--" There was a deep silence to hear what the hard old merchant proposed. "I'll hand over to him the management of his late father's property, he was always hankering after, and thought he could make so much more of than his hard-fisted old uncle." This was a comfortable proposition, and little Sam Peabody, as though it were a great pear or red pippin that was spoken of, running to his mother, said, "Mother, I'd take it." "I do," said the widow, "and call you all to witness."