“’Deed, so I oughtn’; but, fac’ is, we’s bof been penned up yere in dis islan’ long ob dis aggrawatin’ young marster tell we’s bof gettin’ Ole Sam inter us. Leastways, I know I is,” Wilet confessed. But the end of their trial drew near. One fine morning, near the last of November, as Hanson stood on the brow of the crest, in front of the Mansion House, with his spyglass in his hand, he sighted his pretty yacht making directly for the island. As soon as he had satisfactorily identified her as his own craft he hastened into the house, quickly gathered his outlying “traps” together, and stuffed them into his valise, rang for ’Rusalem, and ordered him to take it down to the hall, with his umbrella, rug, pistol box, cigar case, and other effects. His trunk had been packed for several days, but it must wait for stronger muscles than Hanson’s own or old ’Rusalem’s, or both united, to move its weight down the stairs. “Gwine away, young marse?” inquired the old man in a tone that he tried his best to make regretful, as he stood, laden like a hall hat-tree, with many goods and chattels. “Yes. Didn’t you see that sail coming down the bay? That’s my yacht. She is coming for me. I am going off by her to-day.” “’Deed, I’s moughty sorry to year yo’ say dat, young marse.” “You old hypocrite!” laughed Hanson, who was in the best of humor at the near approach of his deliverance from captivity on the isle. “You know very well that you are glad to get rid of me.” “’Deed, de bressed Lor’ knows I is mons’rous sorry to part long ob yo’, my young marse—I is fo’ sho—I means fo’ true I is,” ’Rusalem declared, not untruthfully, for his affectionate heart began to yearn over the young fellow, who had only given him great offense on one occasion—“W’en he were bit obercomed ’long ob too much wine,” as he put it. So he was sorry for the moment, and would not then confess to himself what a relief the departure of Hanson would be to himself and his “ole woman, Wilet.” He took his load of small baggage below, piled it in the hall, and then went to tell the news to Wilet, whom he found standing at the kitchen table, making rolls to put in the oven for breakfast. “Yo’ see dat dere wessel off yonner to de norf, p’intin’ dis yere way?” “Yes—wot ail me not to see it? I been watchin’ ob it eber since I been stan’in’ at de table yere, ’fo’ de windy, makin’ my yoles. Wot ’bout it?” “Heap ’bout it. Dat dere wessel ’longs to de young marster, an’ it comin’ yere to fetch him ’way. He gwine ’way to-day. He packin’ yup now. Wot yo’ fink ob dat?” “Is dat so?” gravely inquired Wilet. “Yas! Aine yo’ glad?” “Y—a—s—course—I is,” hesitatingly replied the woman. “Dere! I knowed it! Yo’ aine g’ad! Yo’ aine no mo’ g’ad nor I am, on’y yo’ doane wan’ to ’fess it,” chuckled ’Rusalem. “Well, po’ fellow, yo’ see; but anyways it’s better fo’ ’im to go. He were a moughty deal ob trouble an’ ’sponsibility,” Wilet said.