“O Mr. Clayton!” said the mother, rising to her feet and laying her hand on his arm, “Where’s my lad?”
Mr. Clayton coughed loudly, which was a preconcerted signal, and in a moment Black Morris walked in, and was clasped to his mother’s heart in a long embrace. Strange to say, that weakly and despondent woman seemed to be endowed with an access of strength and vigour. Her re-awakened hopes had accepted the apparently impossible; there were no tears, no hysterics; she ran her thin fingers through the dark locks of her recovered boy, as she said, with a happy smile, “Rejoice with me, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.” Mary received her brother’s embrace with tearful joy. Piggy Morris stood with open mouth in wondering silence. Here was a sudden end to his notions of revenge; the father in him, however, won the day, and, holding out his hand, he said, “Jack, my lad, thy feyther bids thee welcome back. I’m glad to see thee safe and sound.”
“Yes,” said Black Morris, in faltering and broken tones, “I thank God for a saved life and a saved soul. I have a strange story to tell, and it will relieve my heart and do me good to tell it.” Black Morris and his eager auditors gathered round the cheerful fire, which was all the more cheerful for the angry and nipping wind that blew in noisy gusts outside, and there and then he told them the thrilling story of his miraculous escape.
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
The Story of the Dead-Alive.
“Mark, mark, Ulysses! how the gods preserve
The men they love, even in their own despite!