It was not sufficient to be told hourly that the children were well and happy, or to see it with her own eyes. This aggravated her trouble. “Useless body that I am.” And Janet did not wait for a sight of a strange land, to begin to pine for the land she had left, and what with sea-sickness and home-sickness together, she had very little hope that she would ever see land of any kind again.
The lads and Marian enjoyed six weeks of perfect happiness. Graeme and their father at first were in constant fear of their getting into danger. It would only have provoked disobedience had all sorts of climbing been forbidden, for the temptation to try to outdo each other in their imitation of the sailors, was quite irresistible; and not a rope in the rigging, nor a corner in the ship, but they were familiar with before the first few days were over. “And, indeed, they were wonderfully preserved, the foolish lads,” their father acknowledged, and grew content about them at last.
Before me lies the journal of the voyage, faithfully kept in a big book given by Arthur for the purpose. A full and complete history of the six weeks might be written from it, but I forbear. Norman or Harry, in language obscurely nautical, notes daily the longitude or the latitude, and the knots they make an hour. There are notices of whales, seen in the distance, and of shoals of porpoises seen near at hand. There are stories given which they have heard in the forecastle, and hints of practical jokes and tricks played on one another. The history of each sailor in the ship is given, from “handsome Frank, the first Yankee, and the best-singer” the boys ever saw, to Father Abraham, the Dutchman, “with short legs and shorter temper.”
Graeme writes often, and daily bewails Janet’s continued illness, and rejoices over “wee Rosie’s” improved health and temper. With her account of the boys and their doings, she mingles emphatic wishes “that they had more sense,” but on the whole they are satisfactory. She has much to say of the books she has been reading—“a good many of Sir Walter Scott’s that papa does not object to,” lent by Allan Ruthven. There are hints of discussions with him about the books, too; and Graeme declares she “has no patience” with Allan. For his favourites in Sir Walter’s books are seldom those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; and there are allusions to battles fought with him in behalf of the good name of the Old Puritans—men whom Graeme delights to honour. But on the whole it is to be seen, that Allan is a favourite with her and with them all.
The beautiful Bay of Boston was reached at last, and with an interest that cannot be told, the little party—including the restored Janet—regarded the city to which they were drawing near. Their ideas of what they were to see first in the new world had been rather indefinite and vague. Far more familiar with the early history of New England—with such scenes as the landing of the pilgrims, and the departure of Roger Williams to a still more distant wilderness, than with the history of modern advance, it was certainly not such a city they had expected to see. But they gazed with ever increasing delight, as they drew nearer and nearer to it through the beautiful bay.
“And this is the wonderful new world, that promises so much to us all,” said Allan.
“They have left unstained what there they found.
Freedom to worship God,”
murmured Graeme, softly. “I’m sure I shall like the American people.”
But Allan was taking to heart the thought of parting from them all, more than was at all reasonable, he said to himself, and he could not answer her with a jest as he might at another time.
“You must write and tell me about your new home,” said he.