“Think of it,” said Jane earnestly,—“think well of it.”
“I have thought of it long and well, my dear. There are some of these chaps that call me relation that I shall not keep my hands off, if I stay amongst them,—and I fain would. But for the present I will say no more; but,” added he, rising and bringing a book from his desk, “here is a book by one Morris Birkbeck,—read it, both of you, and then let me know your minds.”
The sisters read. On the following Lady-day, James Cheshire had turned over his farm advantageously to another, and he, his wife, Nancy, and the old servant, Mary Spendlove, all embarked at Liverpool, and transferred themselves to the United States, and then to the State of Illinois. Five-and-twenty years have rolled over since that day. We could tell a long and curious story of the fortunes of James Cheshire and his family: from the days when, half-repenting of his emigration and his purchase, he found himself in a rough country, amid rough and spiteful squatters, and lay for months with a brace of pistols under his pillow, and a great sword by his bedside for fear of robbery and murder. But enough, that at this moment, James Cheshire, in a fine cultivated country, sees his ample estate cultivated by his sons, while as Colonel and magistrate he dispenses the law and receives the respectful homage of the neighborhood. Nancy Dunster, now styled Mrs. Dunster, the Mother in Israel—the promoter of schools and the councillor of old and young—still lives. Years have improved rather than deteriorated her short and stout exterior. The long exercise of wise thoughts and the play of benevolent feelings, have given even a sacred beauty to her homely features. The dwarf has disappeared, and there remains instead, a grave but venerable matron,—honored like a queen.
IX.
The Ghost of the late Mr. James Barber.
A YARN ASHORE.
“ ‘LUCK!’ nonsense. There is no such thing. Life is not a game of chance any more than chess is. If you lose, you have no one but yourself to blame.”
This was said by a young lieutenant in the Royal Navy, to a middle-aged midshipman, his elder brother.
“Do you mean to say that luck had nothing to do with Fine Gentleman Bobbin passing for lieutenant, and my being turned back?” was the rejoinder.
“Bobbin, though a dandy, is a good seaman, and—and——.” The speaker looked another way, and hesitated.
“I am not, you would add—if you had courage. But I say I am, and a better seaman than Bobbin.”