London; he has let the house to some rich tradesman for seven
years; he has sold the plate, and the jewels that came to me from
his mother. The land in America swallows it all up. We have no
home, George, and no choice but to go with him."

An hour afterward the post-chaise was at the door.

My father himself took me to the carriage. I broke away from him,
with a desperation which not even his resolution could resist. I
ran, I flew, along the path that led to Dermody's cottage. The
door stood open; the parlor was empty. I went into the kitchen; I
went into the upper rooms. Solitude everywhere. The bailiff had
left the place; and his mother and his daughter had gone with
him. No friend or neighbor lingered near with a message; no
letter lay waiting for me; no hint was left to tell me in what
direction they had taken their departure. After the insulting
words which his master had spoken to him, Dermody's pride was
concerned in leaving no trace of his whereabouts; my father might
consider it as a trace purposely left with the object of
reuniting Mary and me. I had no keepsake to speak to me of my
lost darling but the flag which she had embroidered with her own
hand. The furniture still remained in the cottage. I sat down in
our customary corner, by Mary's empty chair, and looked again at
the pretty green flag, and burst out crying.

A light touch roused me. My father had so far yielded as to leave
to my mother the responsibility of bringing me back to the
traveling carriage.

"We shall not find Mary here, George," she said, gently. "And we
_ may_ hear of her in London. Come with me."

I rose and silently gave her my hand. Something low down on the
clean white door-post caught my eye as we passed it. I stooped,
and discovered some writing in pencil. I looked closer--it was
writing in Mary's hand! The unformed childish characters traced
these last words of farewell:

"Good-by, dear. Don't forget Mary."

I knelt down and kissed the writing. It comforted me--it was like
a farewell touch from Mary's hand. I followed my mother quietly
to the carriage.

Late that night we were in London.

My good mother did all that the most compassionate kindness could
do (in her position) to comfort me. She privately wrote to the
solicitors employed by her family, inclosing a description of
Dermody and his mother and daughter and directing inquiries to be
made at the various coach-offices in London. She also referred
the lawyers to two of Dermody's relatives, who lived in the city,
a nd who might know something of his movements after he left my
father's service. When she had done this, she had done all that
lay in her power. We neither of us possessed money enough to
advertise in the newspapers.

A week afterward we sailed for the United States. Twice in that
interval I communicated with the lawyers; and twice I was
informed that the inquiries had led to nothing.


With this the first epoch in my love story comes to an end.

For ten long years afterward I never again met with my little
Mary; I never even heard whether she had lived to grow to
womanhood or not. I still kept the green flag, with the dove
worked on it. For the rest, the waters of oblivion had closed
over the old golden days at Greenwater Broad.

CHAPTER V.

MY STORY.

WHEN YOU last saw me, I was a boy of thirteen. You now see me a
man of twenty-three.

The story of my life, in the interval between these two ages, is
a story that can be soon told.

Speaking of my father first, I have to record that the end of his
career did indeed come as Dame Dermody had foretold it. Before we
had been a year in America, the total collapse of his land
speculation was followed by his death. The catastrophe was
complete. But for my mother's little income (settled on her at
her marriage) we should both have been left helpless at the mercy
of the world.

We made some kind friends among the hearty and hospitable people
of the United States, whom we were unaffectedly sorry to leave.
But there were reasons which inclined us to return to our own
country after my father's death; and we did return accordingly.

Besides her brother-in-law (already mentioned in the earlier
pages of my narrative), my mother had another relative--a cousin
named Germaine--on whose assistance she mainly relied for
starting me, when the time came, in a professional career. I
remember it as a family rumor, that Mr. Germaine had been an
unsuccessful suitor for my mother's hand in the days when they
were young people together. He was still a bachelor at the later


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