"Grandfather!" said little Gavin, leaving his stronghold between Douglas's knees, "was not that an awful storm?"
"Yes, my boy," replied the old man; "awful, indeed! and thankful ought we to be to the good Providence which has blessed us with a roof to shelter us, while many an uncovered head has been exposed to its violence. Such a night as this ought to awaken in us a spirit of gratitude for the blessings we ourselves enjoy, and of charity towards the wants of others."
"Did you hear that strange noise during the storm, grandfather!" said little Emma; "it sounded like the bleating of a lamb close by; but I was so much frightened by the lightning at the time, that I did not mention it to you, and——There it is again!"
A low, wailing, stifled kind of cry was heard, which almost immediately ceased, and the whole party started up, with looks of surprise and alarm, and gazed at each other, as if mutely inquiring from whence the strange sound could proceed. Again the cry was heard; and Mr Douglas, seizing one of the candles, rushed to the front-door, to ascertain the cause of their alarm. Great was his surprise to find, under the porch, a small wicker-basket, covered with a coarse, ragged shawl, on removing which, he started to behold the little chubby features of an infant, which stretched out its little arms, and crowed with delight at the sight of the candle. Mr Douglas's first impulse was to hurry into the parlour, where our little hero was safely deposited on a sofa, and exposed to the curious and inquiring gaze of the assembled party.
"O grandpapa!" shouted little Gavin, clapping his hands, and dancing round the baby, "I have often heard you say, 'It is an ill wind that blows nobody good;' and now see what a nice little brother the thunderstorm has blown us."
"Inhuman wretches!" exclaimed Douglas, "to expose such a sweet infant in a night like this! But they cannot be far off." And, ringing the bell violently, he went out with some of the servants in pursuit of the supposed fugitives: but vain was their search; every nook and corner of the grounds were examined, but no traces of any such could be discovered; and Douglas returned, fatigued and disappointed, to the parlour. On examining the basket in which the child had been laid, a crumpled and dirty piece of paper was discovered, on which was written, in a trembling and almost illegible hand, "Be kind to the boy—he comes of a good family. His name is Philip F. May Heaven prosper you as you behave to him!" There was likewise a signet ring, with a few Persian characters engraved upon it. The clothes in which the infant was dressed were formed of the best materials, neatly and plainly made, but bore evident tokens of neglect and dirt.
"Poor boy," muttered Gavin; "since your own unnatural father has deserted you, I will be a father to you. Here, Jane, my love," addressing his daughter, "I commit this stray lamb to your charge for the present; see that he is comfortably settled in the little crib in your room."
Years passed on; the little foundling had become a tall, handsome stripling of thirteen, as much beloved for his kind and amiable disposition, as he was admired for his handsome form and bold and manly spirit, when Gavin Douglas received a letter from his son Edward in Calcutta, informing him that by the next ship he intended to send his eldest daughter, who was now seven years old, home to his care. The ship by which this letter had been forwarded, having met with a succession of light and baffling winds, had made so long a passage, that the little stranger whose approach it announced might be now daily expected. At length the newspapers gave notice of the arrival off the Start of the ship Cornwallis; and Gavin Douglas prepared to hasten up to town to receive his grand-daughter. Philip, who was at home for his school holidays, and who was now as dear to Douglas as if he had been his own flesh and blood, entreated and obtained permission to accompany him. Owing to a long continuance of easterly winds, the Cornwallis made a tedious passage up the Channel, and our travellers were detained for some days at Gravesend, awaiting her arrival. To Philip this delay was most welcome; the bustling scenes around him seemed to arouse the latent energies of his nature. Accustomed to the quiet and peaceful monotony of a country life, he felt as if a new sphere of existence was opened to him; and everything he beheld bore, in his eyes, the stamp of novelty and excitement. His great delight was to loiter for hours at the stairs (Gravesend did not then boast of the handsome jetty which now adorns it), and to gaze at the numerous craft floating on the bosom of the majestic Thames; some lying at anchor, and others taking advantage of the tide to hasten towards their various destinations. Frank and open in his manner, eager and anxious in his thirst for information, the watermen, who were always lounging in numbers about the stairs, felt a pleasure in gratifying his curiosity, and in initiating him into all the mysteries of river seamanship; and he soon learned to distinguish the different "riggs" of the passing vessels, from the lowly "peter-boat" to the majestic ship. One morning there was a dead calm; the river was gliding past unruffled by the slightest air; the cheerful "Yo, heave oh!" of the sailors, and the loud clanking of the windlass "pauls," were heard distinctly from some of the distant colliers, shortening in cable, preparatory to making a start; while the rattling, clattering sounds of the chains were heard from others which were just "bringing up"—for it was high-water, and the upward-bound vessels were obliged to come to anchor. Philip had been at his usual post for some time, when his attention was attracted by the heavy, sluggish cloud of smoke which hung in the wake of two steamers, whose low painted chimneys were seen over the land, which they flitted past with great rapidity, while the tall, naked spars of a large ship towered far above them. At length their hulls became distinctly visible.
"Hand here the glass, Jem," said a waterman who was anxiously observing them, to his comrade; "let me have a squint at her. Ah, I'd swear to her among a thousand! That's the old Cornwallis! Jump into the boat, Jem, and let's push out into the stream."
Away flew our friend Philip to the inn, to tell his father, as he called him, the welcome news. The old gentleman hurried down to the stairs, and the Cornwallis had hardly let go her anchor in Gravesend Reach, before he and Philip were on her quarterdeck, inquiring for Catherine Douglas. Captain M'Dougall of the Cornwallis received them with the greatest politeness, and, upon Gavin Douglas informing him of the cause of his visit, he was immediately ushered into one of the round-house cabins, where a little dark-eyed girl was playing with her ayah.