During my journey back to Rockland, I did not again meet with the stranger, although I looked for him at every station, and when at last I stepped from the cars at Canandaigua, I must confess to a feeling of disappointment. I had expected Herbert to meet me, but he was not there. I was just wondering what I should do in case he failed to come, when my attention was attracted towards a tall, athletic-looking young man, who was inspecting my trunk, which stood upon the platform. Fearful lest my best clothes should be carried off before my very face, I started quickly forward, demanding what he was doing with my baggage. The stranger stood up, and fixed upon me a pair of singularly handsome, hazel eyes, which had in them an expression so penetrating that I quailed beneath them; while at the same time there swept over me a strange, undefined feeling as if somewhere in a dream, perchance, I had met that glance before. “Are you Miss Lee?” he asked, and the tones of his voice thrilled me like an echo of the past. I replied in the affirmative; and without once taking his eyes from my face, he said, “I am Henry Watson, Mr. Langley’s hired man. He sent me for you, and the wagon is at the other door.” Mechanically I followed him to the place designated, and then, as if I had been a feather, he took me in his arms and placed me in the wide chair, wrapping the buffalo-robes around me, and in various ways seeing that I was comfortable. He did not seem to me like a hireling, for his language was good, his manners gentlemanly, and ere we were half-way to Breeze Hill I was very much prepossessed in his favor, except, indeed, that he would look at me so much. He was quite talkative, asking me of my parents, of my brothers, and appearing much gratified when I told him how well Charlie was doing as clerk in a dry goods store in Worcester. “And Mr. Langley is only your cousin by marriage?” he said at last. “Have you any other male cousins?” he asked. “I had a boy cousin once,” I said, “but he is probably dead, for we have not heard from him in six long years.” Forgetful that Mr. Watson was to me an entire stranger, I very briefly told him the story of “Cousin Will,” who returned not with the vessel which bore him away, and who had deserted the ship at Calcutta. For many days they searched for him in vain, and at last left him alone in that far off land, where he had probably met an early death. “He must have been a wild boy, and I dare say you felt relieved to be rid of him,” said Mr. Watson, who had appeared deeply interested in my story. “Yes, he was wild,” I replied, “but I liked him very, very much, and cried myself sick when he went away.”