CHAPTER LXXIII.
| Joy never feasts so high As when his first course is of misery.—Suckling. |
Again the Jersey heights rose on the eye of Morton, and the woods and villas of Staten Island. Again the broad breast of New York harbor opened before him, sparkling in the June sun; the rugged front of the Castle, and the tapering spire of Trinity. He bethought him of his last return, and its unforgotten blackness threw its shadow across his mind. He turned, doubting and tremulous, towards the future; but here his horizon brightened as with the sunrise, shooting to the zenith its shafts of tranquil light.
Meanwhile, the telegraph had darted to Boston a notice that the approaching steamer had been signalled off the coast. Meredith took the night train to meet his friend; but, arriving, he learned that Morton was already on shore. Driving from one hotel to another, he found, at length, the latter's resting-place.
"Shall I take up your name, sir?"
"No, show me his room; I will go myself."
He knocked at the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, and a voice replied suddenly, like that of a man roused from a revery.
He entered; and at the next moment, Morton grasped his hand.
"You have found yourself again," said Meredith; "you have grown back again to your old look."
Morton's eye glistened.