"This is the vessel," said the voice, in my ear. "Embark--the wind is fair. Farewell," and I found myself once more alone and visible, for sundry passers-by stared at me in surprise, no doubt wondering how I had made my appearance there all of a sudden, not having been on the spot a moment ago. I hastened to take my place on board, and having set sail, arrived, after a good passage, at Dover. How the dear old white cliffs and the grand old castle seemed to welcome me back to my native land! How thankful I felt for my recent miraculous preservation! How joyfully I leapt ashore, and with what buoyancy I trod my native land again! It was as if I had never breathed the air of liberty till now. Once more in the land of the free, after a hearty meal, I took the stage, and travelled until I reached my native village; and here I am, gentlemen. * * * * * "Upon my word, Mr. Suds," broke in Dr. Bleedem as the barber concluded his story, "if you have many more tales of that sort you'll soon rival the members of the club. What do you say, Mr. Oldstone. Was not that story worthy of a member?" Mr. Oldstone could not go so far as to admit that any one member of the club had ever been equalled in story telling by a barber, and that, too, a Frenchified barber, but he condescended to give a complacent look of approval at the young man without directly answering the question put to him, and then addressing him said, as he pulled out his watch, "I don't know if you are aware of it, Mr. Suds, but the absorbing interest that you have forced us to take in your narrative has made us quite forget church time, and it now wants but a quarter to one o'clock." "You don't say so," cried several voices at once. "Sure enough," said another, "here are all the people coming out of church." "What!" cried our late story teller, in alarm, "have I really, through my talk, prevented your honours from exhibiting your chins at divine service, as a sample of my art? This is indeed a sin my soul must answer." "Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "time past cannot be recalled, all we can do is, to try to make up for it by going to church this afternoon." "Stop! stop! Mr. Suds, whither away so fast," he cried, as he saw the young man making towards the door with his tackle in his hand. "You have not told us what became of Pauline. You finished your story rather too abruptly; it requires a sequel. Come, let's hear it." The youth returned, after closing the door, and resting the tips of his fingers against the back of a chair, proceeded gravely thus: "Little more remains to be told, gentlemen. I heard from Pauline not long since. Her letter runs as nearly as I can recollect in these words: