Two young men keep their place on the deck, leaning against the bulwarks, unconscious of dripping rain. The taller and finer looking of the two, wrapt in a cloak, might at first sight be recognised as a clergyman, though Harold Hartley took orders but a few months ago. The younger is little more than a lad, numbering, perhaps, sixteen or seventeen summers, with broad shoulders, a form made more for activity than grace, a sunburnt face, and a rough head of hair under his wide-awake; his locks are brown in colour with a little dash of auburn red, which also tints the thick eyebrows which overhang bright intelligent eyes.
"So, Robin, we are fairly started for India!" said Harold, laying his hand on his brother's arm. "We have the meeting with our father to look forward to now; all the partings are over."
"The one bitter parting was over six months ago," observed Robin with feeling, "when we stood by her deathbed, and received her last blessing. Our strongest tie to old England is the grave of our more than mother; though," added the youth, "I never think of her as in the grave." Robin raised his eyes for a moment towards a bit of clear blue in the cloudy sky, which looked to him like a smile from above.
"You and I must not give way to sad thoughts," observed Harold Hartley.
"They are not sad thoughts now," said Robin, "I consider such memories to be like a treasure in a golden casket, to be carried about with us wherever we go; or rather—they are pictures in an album, and when we are far-away in the East, how often shall we open the clasp, and turn over the leaves! There is dear old William Lodge, where we spent such jolly days; the little arbour in the shrubbery—the cote where I kept my pigeons, the parlour where we met for our evening readings, the chair where she—" Robin paused abruptly, and pressed his lips together to keep in a sigh.
"It is a great satisfaction to me," observed Harold, "that she who adopted us, and loved us as her own sons, so fully approved of our giving ourselves to mission work in India."
"The thought of it made Mother so happy!" said Robin, with animation. "Perhaps our going makes her all the happier now, for Mother may be watching us still. I do not like to think how much trouble I gave her, little unmanageable cub that I was!"
"You never gave her a tithe of the trouble that I did," remarked Harold regretfully; "but Mother had the patience of a saint. If I ever do anything for my Master in the mission field, I owe it—under grace—to her."
The rain after a while ceased, and passengers emerged from below to have a sight of Greenwich, as Elizabeth's stately old palace was passed. Suddenly the brothers were surprised by a shrill, familiar voice behind them exclaiming, "Dear me! Can it be! Yes, Harold and Robin Hartley! Though almost grown out of knowledge!"
"Miss Petty!" cried both the brothers at once, turning round to greet an old acquaintance whom they had not seen for seven long years, yet whom they would have recognised by her peculiarities had the seven been numbered thrice.