His new occupation, upon which he entered at once, was far more congenial than sheep-washing or shearing, and the entirely new life he led and the new country he was living in, with its strange customs and foreign people, all helped to give a fresh stimulus to Jack’s mind, and if it had not been for the shadow cast over his life by the memory of the events which had been the immediate cause of his coming hither, his first few weeks in New York would have ranked among some of the happiest in his life. As it was, they slipped by far more quickly than he had thought possible, and at last he heard the news that the English mail had arrived, and he bent his steps to the post-office to ask if there were any letters for him. How Jack’s heart thumped as he stood watching the clerk diving into some pigeon-holes in search of his letters; he fancied the people in the office must have heard its wild beatings. Yes, there were two letters; the first Jack saw at a glance was from Mr. Leslie, the other was directed by Fairy. The paper on which the letter was written—there were no envelopes in those days—was not black-edged, and that, though he dare not lay much stress upon it, was, perhaps, a hopeful sign, but yet, as he broke the wafer, he was still in such fear and trembling lest its contents should be unfavourable, that he dared not open it until he was safe in his own lodgings, where no curious eyes could watch his behaviour as he read his fate. It was indeed well no curious eyes were able to pry into Jack’s humble room, his castle as he liked to call it, for, poor as it was, it was his own, paid for out of his earnings, for when he came to the end of the long crossed sheet he buried his face in his hands, and his great strong frame shook with his sobs. The letter, though directed by Fairy, was from Mrs. Shelley, and ran as follows:— “MY DEAREST JACK,—Thank God, I have good news for you. Charlie is quite well again, and is following the sheep to-day for the first time, or he would have written to you himself, but since he went off this morning, Mr. Leslie has been to tell me this letter must be posted to-day. “It is a month since you went away; it seems years to me, Jack, but if you are happy in your new life I shall not complain. Charlie began to get better very soon after you started; he recovered consciousness that very morning, and though he was very ill for a week or more, he was not in danger after the Sunday. How I wished I could have let you know, but there was no means of getting a letter to you before this one, and I am afraid you must have suffered terribly from suspense, fearing the worst, and not daring to hope for good news. Strange to say, Charlie remembers nothing whatever about his accident; all he knows is he wanted Fairy to dance with him, and that you were angry; all the rest is a blank; he had not the least idea of what really happened.