The time has been long to the occupants of the cottage across the way. Though little gold is left in the purse, there is ever room for hungry refugees at the table of the king’s former commissioner of imposts. The locks beneath his tie wig are whiter than they were, the furrows on his brow have deepened. Officers of the army and navy in Halifax, once guests in his home on the slope of Beacon Hill, sometimes call upon him, but the great world has passed him by. Old friends, fellow exiles, at times gather at his fireside, talk of other days, and of what Parliament may possibly do for them.
Time has left its mark upon the face of her who sits by his side. The soft, brown hair has changed to gray. Plans of other days have not come to pass. Disappointment and grief have quenched ambitious fire. Father and mother are separated from a daughter beloved. How could Ruth ever become a rebel, disloyal to her rightful sovereign? What possessed her to turn her back upon Lord Upperton, upon the opportunity to become a peeress of the realm? Oh, the misery that has come from such waywardness! What has become of her? Will they ever again see her?
Home of the Exiles.
With the flag of the new nation—the banner of crimson stripes and fadeless stars—flying at her masthead, the ship Berinthia Brandon, Major Tom Brandon owner, comes proudly sailing into Halifax harbor. The anchor dropped, he makes his way to the vine-clad cabin, listens a moment by the latticed window to hear a sweet voice singing words that thrill him.
“Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one.”
He lifts the latch. There is a cry of delight, and Mary springs to his arms.
“I said I would come, and I am here.”