Part 9 (2/2)

The little round port-hole of the berth was open, and she stopped ever and anon in the midst of her operations to look out and listen to the variety of shouts and songs that came from the boats, vessels, and barges in the bay. Suddenly she stopped, turned her head the least bit to one side, and listened intently.

”My dear,” said Mr Westwood to his wife, standing on the deck and leaning over the bulwarks, exactly above the open port near to which Flora stood, ”_can_ that be Mr Osten in yonder boat?”

Flora's bosom heaved, and her colour vanished.

”I think it is--stay--no--it looks like--yes, it _is_ he,” said Mrs Westwood.

Flora's face and neck became scarlet.

Presently the plash of oars were heard near the vessel, and next moment a boat approached, but not from such a quarter as to be visible from the port-hole.

”Mind your starboard oar,” said a deep voice, which caused Flora's heart to beat against her chest, as if that dear little receptacle of good thoughts and warm feelings were too small to contain it, and it wanted to get out.

”Good morning, Mr Osten,” cried Mr Westwood, looking down.

”Good morning, sir,--good morning, Mrs Westwood,” answered Will, looking up.

”It is very kind of you to take the trouble to come off to bid us good-bye,” said Mr Westwood.

Flora trembled a little, and leaned upon the side of the berth.

”I have not come to say good-bye,” said Will (Flora's eyes opened wide with astonishment), ”I am going--fend off, men, fend off, mind what you are about--I am going,” he said, looking up with a smile, ”to sail with you to England.”

A peculiar gleam shot from Flora's eyes; the blood mantled again on her brow, and, sinking into a chair, she pressed her hands to her face and buried her head in her father's pillow!

CHAPTER SEVEN.

RAMBLING REMINISCENCES OF ABSENT FRIENDS, AND A HAPPY TERMINATION.

On the evening of a cold December day--the last day of the year--many months after the occurrence of the events narrated in the last chapter, old Mrs Osten sat in her drawing-room, toasting her toes before a cheerful fire. The widow looked very happy, and, to say truth, she had good reason for being so, for her stalwart son had come home to her safe and sound, and was at that moment sitting by her side talking in a most amazing way about his Flora--referring to her as a sort of captive bird which had now no chance of escaping, saying that he meant to take her to Paris, and Switzerland, and Rome, and in summer to the English Lakes, and Killarney, and the Scotch Highlands.

”In fact, mother,” said Will, ”after that little event comes off, which is fixed to take place next week, I mean to act the part of Wandering Will over again under entirely new and much more interesting circ.u.mstances. Ah! mother,” he continued with enthusiasm, ”how little did I think, when I was travelling through the wild regions of the far west, that I was being led to the spot where I should find _such_ a wife!”

”Yes, dear, you were indeed _led_,” said Mrs Osten, ”for that wild region was the very last place in the world to which you would have thought of going to look for a good wife, had you been guided by your own wisdom.”

”True, mother, most true. Gold is much more plentiful in that land than wives, either good or bad. I wonder how my old comrades are getting on there now. You remember Larry, mother, and Bunco. How I wish I could have had them all here at our wedding! You would have delighted in old Captain Dall, and Captain Blathers, too, he's not a bad fellow though rather wild, but Big Ben would have pleased you most--by the way, this is the last night of the year. I doubt not they will be remembering me to-night, and drinking my health in clear cold water from the crystal springs of the Sierra Nevada. Come, I will pledge them in the same beverage,” said Will, seizing a gla.s.s of water that stood at his elbow; ”may success, in the highest sense of the word, attend them through life.”

”Amen,” murmured the widow, as Will drained the gla.s.s; ”I hope they may get plenty of gold without catching the gold-fever, which is just another name for the love of gold, and that, you know, is the root of all evil. But go on telling me about your adventures, Will; I never tire of hearing you relate them.”

”Well, mother, I'll begin again, but if you _will_ be for ever interrupting me with questions and remarks about Flora, I shall never get to the end of them. Now, then, listen.”

Hereupon Will began to talk, and his mother to listen, with, we need scarcely say, intense interest.

Thus was the last night of that year pa.s.sed in the drawing-room. Let us see how it was spent in the kitchen.

”Yes, Jemimar,” said Maryann, with her mouth full of b.u.t.tered toast, ”I always said it, and I always thought it, and I always knowed it, that Master Will would come 'ome, and marry a sweet beautiful young lady, which 'as come true, if ever a profit spoke, since the day of Jackariah--let me fill your cup, my dear, p'raps you'll 'and me the kettle, Richards.”

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