There was now but one cloud which threw a shade over the felicity of George Nicholson, and that was, that he had never heard from his parents, and that his father would not acknowledge his letters; yet he suspected not the cause. Almost six years had passed since he became the husband of Louise, yet his heart yearned after the place of his birth, and in the dreams of the night his spirit revisited it. He longed once more to hear his mother's voice, to grasp his father's hand, to receive a sister's welcome. But, more than these, he was now rich, and he wished to remove them from penury, to crown their declining years with ease and with plenty; nor could a son entertain a more honourable ambition, or one more meriting the blessing of Heaven.
Taking Louise with him, they sailed from Antwerp, and in a few days arrived in London; from thence they proceeded towards the Borders, and the place of his birth. They had reached Alnwick, where they intended to remain for a few hours, and they went out to visit the castle. They had entered the square in front of the proud palace of the Percys, and in the midst of the square they observed a one-handed flute-player, with a young wife and three ragged children by his side, and the poor woman was soliciting alms for her husband's music.
The heart of Louise was touched; she had drawn out her purse, and the wife of the flute-player, with her children in her hand, modestly, and without speaking, curtsied before her.
George shook—he started—he raised his hands.
"Catherine!—my sister!—my own sister!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand of the supplicant.
"Oh, George!—my brother!" cried Catherine, and wept.
The flute-player looked around. The instrument fell from his hand.
"What!—William!—and without an arm, too!" added George, extending his hand to the musician.
Louise took the hand of her new-found sister, and smiled, and wept, and bent down, and kissed the cheeks of her children.
"My father—my mother, Catherine?" inquired George, in a tone that told how he trembled to ask the question.