period when his eldest brother's death without issue placed him
in possession of a handsome fortune. The accession of wealth made
no difference in his habits of life: he was a lonely old man,
estranged from his other relatives, when my mother and I returned
to England. If I could only succeed in pleasing Mr. Germaine, I
might consider my prospects (in some degree, at least) as being
prospects assured.

This was one consideration that influenced us in leaving America.
There was another--in which I was especially interested--that
drew me back to the lonely shores of Greenwater Broad.

My only hope of recovering a trace of Mary was to make inquiries
among the cottagers in the neighborhood of my old home. The good
bailiff had been heartily liked and respected in his little
sphere. It seemed at least possible that some among his many
friends in Suffolk might have discovered traces of him, in the
year that had passed since I had left England. In my dreams of
Mary--and I dreamed of her constantly--the lake and its woody
banks formed a frequent background in the visionary picture of my
lost companion. To the lake shores I looked, with a natural
superstition, as to my way back to the one life that had its
promise of happiness for _me_--my life with Mary.

On our arrival in London, I started for Suffolk alone--at my
mother's request. At her age she naturally shrank from revisiting
the home scenes now occupied by the strangers to whom our house
had been let.

Ah, how my heart ached (young as I was) when I saw the familiar
green waters of the lake once more! It was evening. The first
object that caught my eye was the gayly painted boat, once mine,
in which Mary and I had so often sailed together. The people in
possession of our house were sailing now. The sound of their
laughter floated toward me merrily over the still water. _Their_
flag flew at the little mast-head, from which Mary's flag had
never fluttered in the pleasant breeze. I turned my eyes from the
boat; it hurt me to look at it. A few steps onward brought me to
a promontory on the shore, and revealed the brown archways of the
decoy on the opposite bank. There was the paling behind which we
had knelt to watch the snaring of the ducks; there was the hole
through which "Trim," the terrier, had shown himself to rouse the
stupid curiosity of the water-fowl; there, seen at intervals
through the trees, was the winding woodland path along which Mary
and I had traced our way to Dermody's cottage on the day when my
father's cruel hand had torn us from each other. How wisely my
good mother had shrunk from looking again at the dear old scenes!
I turned my back on the lake, to think with calmer thoughts in
the shadowy solitude of the woods.

An hour's walk along the winding banks brought me round to the
cottage which had once been Mary's home.

The door was opened by a woman who was a stranger to me. She
civilly asked me to enter the parlor. I had suffered enough
already; I made my inquiries, standing on the doorstep. They were
soon at an end. The woman was a stranger in our part of Suffolk;
neither she nor her husband had ever heard of Dermody's name.

I pursued my investigations among the peasantry, passing from
cottage to cottage. The twilight came; the moon rose; the lights
began to vanish from the lattice-windows; and still I continued
my weary pilgrimage; and still, go where I might, the answer to
my questions was the same. Nobody knew anything of Dermody.
Everybody asked if I had not brought news of him myself. It pains
me even now to recall the cruelly complete defeat of every effort
which I made on that disastrous evening. I passed the night in
one of the cottages; and I returned to London the next day,
broken by disappointment, careless what I did, or where I went
next.

Still, we were not wholly parted. I saw Mary--as Dame Dermody
said I should see her--in dreams.

Sometimes she came to me with the green flag in her hand, and
repeated her farewell words--"Don't forget Mary!" Sometimes she
led me to our well-remembered corner in the cottage parlor, and
opened the paper on which her grandmother had written our prayers
for us. We prayed together again, and sung hymns together again,
as if the old times had come back. Once she appeared to me, with
tears in her eyes, and said, "We must wait, dear: our time has
not come yet." Twice I saw her looking at me, like one disturbed
by anxious thoughts; and twice I heard her say, "Live patiently,
live innocently, George, for my sake."

We settled in London, where my education was undertaken by a
private tutor. Before we had been long in our new abode, an
unexpected change in our prospects took place. To my mother's
astonishment she received an offer of marriage (addressed to her
in a letter) from Mr. Germaine.

"I entreat you not to be startled by my proposal!" (the old
gentleman wrote). "You can hardly have forgotten that I was once
fond of you, in the days when we were both young and both poor.
No return to the feelings associated with that time is possible
now. At my age, all I ask of you is to be the companion of the
closing years of my life, and to give me something of a father's
interest in promoting the future welfare of your son. Consider
this, my dear, and tell me whether you will take the empty chair
at an old man's lonely fireside."


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