The packet wended its way down the bay, it was bound for the port of New York; the weather was bad, and grew worse; contrary winds kept it back, and it was many days longer than usual on the voyage. At last it anchored in the port of New York. Raymond went to a hotel and called for paper, pen, and ink, with which to write to his friends at Churchill Point. Having finished his letters, he took them to the Post Office, and after mailing them, ran his eye down the published list of letters, as if by hundredth hazard his name might be there. It was not. Indeed he did not expect to see it. It was an idle thing, he thought, but still he would ask the clerk if there was a letter there for him. “_What_ name, sir?” “Raymond Withers.” “Here is your letter, sir, came in this morning’s mail.” He seized the letter—just as you seized _that_ letter of yours, you know, reader. It—Raymond’s letter, and not yours—was from Sophie, and ran thus— “Come home, dear Raymond. Hagar has been nearly delirious since you have been gone, yet I believe she would expire before she would recall you herself; however, come home; I will engage to say that we will have a bright little wedding at Heath Hall, yet; indeed, so certain am I of that fact, that I have engaged extra assistance, and have commenced preparations.” The other part was in a different hand—a dear, familiar, light, airy hand, that seemed to skim, scarce touching the paper; it ran thus— “I have come to Sophie’s writing-desk, and read over her shoulder what she has just written—I, too, say—Come home, Raymond!—I place my ‘little hand’ in yours.” In ten minutes Raymond had written an answer, being an _avant courier_ of himself; in ten more he had penned a letter of resignation of his appointment; and in an hour he had removed his baggage from the packet to another bound by the bay to Baltimore _viâ_ Churchill Point. * * * * * Just a week after sailing from New York, and three weeks from the date of his leaving Churchill Point, Raymond stepped from a boat upon the beach under the promontory, and as true as you live, reader, it was pouring rain just as fast as it rained upon the day of his departure. And there stood a slight dark girl, muffled in a black cloak, and behind her, with the whites of his eyes and teeth conspicuous, stood Tarquinius Superbus, holding an umbrella over her. It seemed to Raymond that he had only dozed a minute, and dreamed the last three weeks. He was by her side in an instant, had pressed her hand and drawn it through his arm, and walking on with her was bending forward and downward, looking into her dark and sparkling face with an expression, half affection, half triumph, on his superb brow and beautiful lips; but the mirth sparkling up from Hagar’s face defied him.