"What's that?" inquired George.
"Whether you will go or not," replied Mr. Hewes.
"Of course I will," the lad answered, eagerly.
"Money will be given you, and you will receive more when you arrive in the city. Your companions in the scheme will make themselves known to you in their own way. I know not what it will be. They are clever people. Come over to-morrow early. You will start from here."
George jumped on his horse, and rode back on a run toward Stanham Mills. As he came up the lane, Aunt Clarissa was watching him from her retreat in the left wing. Her stern old face was set, but her eyes were red from weeping. She did not know what fruits the letter she had written William had already borne, and that he, now dressed in the King's red, was tossing on the bosom of the Atlantic. Neither did she have an inkling of what perils the renegade nephew was about to face in his country's service.
[to be continued.]
[A NEW YEAR.]
Here you are, little Year. Did you come in the night,
When I was asleep in my bed?
And how did you find your way in before light,
With no sun shining out overhead?
Did you pass the old Year as he rushed out of sight
With a pack that was heavy as lead?
He looked just like you, oh! so shining and slim,
When he made his bow twelve months ago;
We all said "Good-morning" politely to him—
It was manners, dear Year, as you know,
And his hand was outstretched, and his eye was not dim,
As he stood in his first morning glow.
But his fifty-two weeks were so crowded with work,
And he had such a handful of days,
That you couldn't expect, since he was not a shirk,
He'd be chipper and cheery always;
His story was mixed up with brightness and mirk,
And we'll speak of him only with praise.
As for you, little Year, you are growing so fast
As you stand in the other Year's place,
That already the shadow that falls from the past
Is weaving its veil o'er your face.
Oh! happy new Year, may your happiness last,
As you trot at the century's pace.