Old ’Sias took charge of the note and started to deliver it. But the old man was feeble and slow at the oars, so that he took nearly the whole day to do his errand, and the family had finished supper, cleared up the kitchen and gathered around the blazing wood fire, occupied with their evening work—the women and girls knitting and sewing, the men and boys mending harness and carving out wooden bolts—when ’Sias walked in, bringing a letter, which he handed to Em. “Did you see the lady?” she eagerly inquired as she opened the note. “No, honey, I didn’t see nobody but a mons’ous handsome, bright ’latto ’oman. Handsome as a queen, honey—de Queen o’ Sheba in all her glory—which she tell me, honey, as her name was Mellow Ponies. ’Deed, if I had cotch my eye on _her_ ’fore I ebber seed Sereny——But ’tain’t no use talking ’bout dat now. On’y if the ’Vine Marster _was_ to ’flict me wid de loss ob Sereny——But all dat’s wanity and wexation of de sperrits,” concluded the old man with a sigh. Meanwhile Em. read her note, which she presently passed to her mother, saying: “She wants me to come on Thursday, mother, and this is Tuesday evening, you know.” “Well, my girl, that will give you a day to get ready, and I will help you,” answered Susan. Then quickly turning to the old gatekeeper, said: “’Sias, stop! I want to send a message by you. Tell your wife Sereny that if she will come and sit up with our sick woman to-night she shall be paid well for it.” “Berry well, ma’am, sartin. And dat will be a great deliverance for me of one night, anyhow!” exclaimed the old man as he retreated. The following day was spent by the mother and all her daughters in looking over, doing up and packing Em.’s simple wardrobe, ready for use in her new home. That night, being the last one previous to her departure, Em. sat up with Ann Whitlock until near day, when she was relieved by Monica. It was a glorious autumn day, near the last of October, when Em. took leave of her mother and sisters to set out for her new home. “Now you know, dear mother, the lady said in her note that she hoped you would come and spend a day with us just as often as you could, the oftener the better,” said the girl, lovingly lingering over her leavetaking. “Yes, Em.,” replied Susan. “Also she said that whenever I should feel the least homesick, I should come to you for a few days.” “Yes, Em.” “And whenever you might feel like wanting me at home you were to send for me and I should come.” “Yes, Em.” “Then you won’t feel lonesome for me, mother dear?” “No, you goose! There, don’t worry about me! You didn’t make half so much fuss about leaving home when you went to The Breezes, though that was the very first time you ever left us! There! God bless you, my good child, good-by. I shall come to hear the blind preacher of the island Sunday, and then I shall see you and your sweet lady, too,” said Susan, pressing her daughter to her heart in a final embrace.