“I think this be one of your trunks, Mr Morton,” said one of the men to him.
“Ah, there’s my man!” said Malcolmson. “Pray, sir, is your name Morton?”
“Yes, sir, it is. May I beg, in return, to know whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“My name, sir, is Malcolmson; yours is familiar to my ear, as that of the guardian of a near relative whom I have never had the pleasure of meeting. Pray, Mr Morton, are you Irish?”
“Yes; but Morton is an adopted name—that of a kind relative and benefactor. My own name is Denby, Philip Denby.”
“Gracious Powers! my brother! I am Edward Malcolmson, the son of your mother. But come with me into Miss Martin’s cabin.”
And Philip followed him, dreading that in his brother he had met his happy rival.
“Philip,” said his brother, “how shall we commemorate this happy meeting? I must give you some memento to recall it to your recollection. Here,” said he, taking Jessie’s hand in his own, “this little hand is mine. I know you will prize it; so I make over my claim to you, if you can prevail upon Jessie to consent to the change of owners.”
Need we say that that consent was granted? The lovers were united; and their example was soon followed by Edward Malcolmson and the fair object of his affections, who afterwards accompanied Morton and his bride home, to cheer their mother with the sight of the happy reunion of her family.