"My poor boy, my poor boy!" exclaimed Angeline, her eyes filling with tears at the mention of his name. "How, how, how I should like to see him to-night. There is where he used to sit, (here her voice yielded to her emotions,) and here is the chair we always kept for him. Perhaps we shall never see him again. He was so good and so kind to us. I hope God will be good to him, and will watch over him, and carry him safe through dangers, and bring him back to us. Oh, I know God will be good to him. We are both old now, and have nothing to live for but him." Again she gave way to her grief, and as the tears flowed buried her face in her hands. "My dear, good friend," rejoined Mrs. Chapman, rising from her chair, and placing her hand consolingly on Angeline's shoulder; "there is nothing in the world to weep for. Nothing in the world. I would be proud of a son who had courage and ambition enough to go on one of these voyages. It is proof, my good woman, that he has something in him. And if he should bring home a fortune, you know. Oh, he'd have so many friends. Don't weep, my good woman, don't weep. He'll be such a joy to you when he comes home. And I will encourage Mattie to think of nobody else." CHAPTER XII. A STRANGE GENTLEMAN. Angeline had just recovered from her grief, and was setting strawberries and cream before her visitors, when a loud knock was heard at the door, which Hanz proceeded to open; when a tall, well-dressed man, with dark, well kept hair, piercing black eyes, features of great regularity, and having the manners of a gentleman, entered and introduced himself as Mr. Luke Topman, just from New York. "I am a stranger to you all here," he said, in a deep, clear voice, "and I owe you an apology for calling at this seemingly late hour. I said I was a stranger," he repeated, "but the business I am on may make us acquaintances." The stranger stood for a moment, with his eyes fixed on Chapman. Still no recognition passed, and their manner was that of strangers who had never met before. The figures here grouped together were of the most opposite kind, and presented a picture at once striking and effective. A table stood in the centre of the little room, and on it burned a candle, casting a pale and shadowy light over and giving clearer outline to each figure. There was the old loom, with its harnesses, its reed, and its shuttles; the flax-wheel and the distaff, forming a quaint setting, but representing a past age and the primitive habits of the people who used them.