Thus I wrote when a young man. Thus I still do feel.
The first glimpse that one catches of the chalky shores of old England after a long cruise thrills every nerve in his heart with hope and joy. To experience even this it is worth while going to sea.
Probably some such thoughts as these stole through the mind of Harry Milvaine as his homeward bound vessel came in sight of land.
His passage had been a good one all the way from Zanzibar to the Cape, and from the Cape to Southampton.
If the thought of presenting himself at Beaufort Hall without first writing ever came into his head at all, it was speedily banished. Pleasant surprises are very well under certain circumstances, but they may be so painfully pleasant as to be positively dangerous, for joy can kill as well as cure.
So Harry telegraphed and wrote, and waited anxiously for the return letter.
It came in good time.
With a beating heart he tore it open.
All were well. Even his old dog Eily was mentioned by his mother—for of course the letter was from her—in terms of affection.
“She knows you are coming,” she wrote, “and whenever I mention your name rushes to the gate to look, and barks in a kind of half-joyful, half-hysterical way that is most peculiar.”