"I don't think it was," replied Bob. "You took it to pay your expenses in finding your mother; and, even if it were a technical theft, I don't think any one can blame you for what you have done. The money is really your own. How much is there?" "I don't know. I haven't looked at it before." "Count it, Ernest." I did so, and was appalled to find I had taken between fourteen and fifteen hundred dollars. "All right, Ernest. You are a smart fellow, and I'll tell you what I should do if I were in your place," replied Bob, who did not appear to be alarmed at the magnitude of the sum. "What?" "I would go to England in the very next steamer, and find my mother." "Go to England!" "It is clear enough to me that your mother is there. If you expect to find her, you must go there." "I will do it, Bob," I replied, excited at the idea of crossing the ocean in search of my mother. "Certainly; do it. You have a letter directed to--what's his name?" "Robert G. Bunyard." "Go to London, find this man, deliver the letter, and tell him you want to see the poor lady." "I'll do it. Don't you suppose Tom Thornton will try to stop me?" "No matter if he does. Keep a stiff upper lip." "I shall do that. I have fought my way through so far, and I shall do it to the end," I replied, confidently. "It would have been better if I had avoided that scene with my uncle; but I could not help it." "What odds will that make?" "A great deal of odds. My uncle knows now that I have the address of his London correspondent. He will tell Tom about it. My uncle may be full of regret and sorrow; but his son will follow me like a bloodhound. But, no matter what happens, Bob, I shall fight my way through. My poor mother shall be released from her bondage, and be happy again." "Right, Ernest!" exclaimed Bob, as he urged forward the horse. We rode in silence for several miles; but I was intensely excited as I thought of what my mother had endured for a dozen years. I recalled the indistinct visions of the past, which still lingered in my mind; and more vividly than ever before it came to my remembrance that, far back in the past, I had known a motherly lady, who loved and cherished me as a little child. The dreary waste of waters which had lingered in my fancy became a reality to me. I had crossed the ocean, after the death of my father; but I did not yet know whether I was born in England or the United States. I prayed for my mother; and she seemed more dear to me than if I had seen her every day of my life. I prayed that God would spare her, and restore her to me; that he would crown with success my exertions to find her. I am sure that, in all my intense emotion, I did not cherish a sentiment of revenge towards my uncle, or even towards his son, who had treated me like a brute. My silent prayers warmed my heart, and blessed me with new strength and courage.