already green over De Courcy's unmarked mound, but Alice had
planted a little rose-tree at the head, and she and her mother

always visited the spot before taking their seats on the women's
side. The meeting-house was very full that day, as the busy season

of the summer was over, and the horses of those who lived at a
distance had no longer such need of rest.

It was a sultryforenoon, and the windows and doors of the building
were open. The humming of insects was heard in the silence, and

broken lights and shadows of the poplar-leaves were sprinkled upon
the steps and sills. Outside there were glimpses of quiet groves

and orchards, and blue fragments of sky,--no more semblance of life
in the externallandscape than there was in the silent meeting

within. Some quarter of an hour before the shaking of hands took
place, the hoofs of a horse were heard in the meeting-house yard--

the noise of a smart trot on the turf, suddenly arrested.
The boys pricked up their ears at this unusual sound, and stole

glances at each other when they imagined themselves unseen by the
awful faces in the gallery. Presently those nearest the door saw

a broader shadow fall over those flickering upon the stone. A red
face appeared for a moment, and was then drawn back out of sight.

The shadow advanced and receded, in a state of peculiar
restlessness. Sometimes the end of a riding-whip was visible,

sometimes the corner of a coarse gray coat. The boys who noticed
these apparitions were burning with impatience, but they dared not

leave their seats until Abraham Bradbury had reached his hand to
Henry Donnelly.

Then they rushed out. The mysteriouspersonage was still beside
the door, leaning against the wall. He was a short, thick-set man

of fifty, with red hair, round gray eyes, a broad pug nose, and
projecting mouth. He wore a heavy gray coat, despite the heat, and

a waistcoat with many brass buttons; also corduroy breeches and
riding boots. When they appeared, he started forward with open

mouth and eyes, and stared wildly in their faces. They gathered
around the poplar-trunks, and waited with some uneasiness to see

what would follow.
Slowly and gravely, with the half-broken ban of silence still

hanging over them, the people issued from the house. The strange
man stood, leaning forward, and seemed to devour each, in turn,

with his eager eyes. After the young men came the fathers of
families, and lastly the old men from the gallery seats. Last of

these came Henry Donnelly. In the meantime, all had seen and
wondered at the waiting figure; its attitude was too intense and

self-forgetting to be misinterpreted. The greetings and remarks
were suspended until the people had seen for whom the man waited,

and why.
Henry Donnelly had no sooner set his foot upon the door-step than,

with something between a shout and a howl, the stranger darted
forward, seized his hand, and fell upon one knee, crying: "O my

lord! my lord! Glory be to God that I've found ye at last!"
If these words burst like a bomb on the ears of the people, what

was their consternation when Henry Donnelly exclaimed, "The Divel!
Jack O'Neil, can that be you?"

"It's me, meself, my lord! When we heard the letters went wrong
last year, I said `I'll trust no such good news to their blasted

mail-posts: I'll go meself and carry it to his lordship,--if it is
t'other side o' the say. Him and my lady and all the children

went, and sure I can go too. And as I was the one that
went with you from Dunleigh Castle, I'll go back with you to that

same, for it stands awaitin', and blessed be the day that sees you
back in your ould place!"

"All clear, Jack? All mine again?"
"You may believe it, my lord! And money in the chest beside. But

where's my lady, bless her sweet face! Among yon women, belike,
and you'll help me to find her, for it's herself must have the news

next, and then the young master--"
With that word Henry Donnelly awoke to a sense of time and place.

He found himself within a ring of staring, wondering, scandalized
eyes. He met them boldly, with a proud, though rather grim smile,

took hold of O'Neil's arm and led him towards the women's end of
the house, where the sight of Susan in her scoop bonnet so moved

the servant's heart that he melted into tears. Both husband and
wife were eager to get home and hear O'Neil's news in private; so

they set out at once in their plain carriage, followed by the
latter on horseback. As for the Friends, they went home in a state

of bewilderment.
Alice Donnelly, with her brother Henry and Joel Bradbury, returned

on foot. The two former remembered O'Neil, and, although they had
not witnessed his first interview with their father, they knew

enough of the family history to surmise his errand. Joel was
silent and troubled.

"Alice, I hope it doesn't mean that we are going back, don't you?"
said Henry.

"Yes," she answered, and said no more.
They took a foot-path across the fields, and reached the farm-house

at the same time with the first party. As they opened the door
Sylvia descended the staircase dressed in a rich shimmering

brocade, with a necklace of amethysts around her throat. To their
eyes, so long accustomed to the absence of positive color, she was

completely dazzling. There was a new color on her cheeks, and her
eyes seemed larger and brighter. She made a statelycourtesy, and

held open the parlor door.
"Welcome, Lord Henry Dunleigh, of Dunleigh Castle!" she cried;

"welcome, Lady Dunleigh!"
Her father kissed her on the forehead. "Now give us back our

memories, Sylvia!" he said, exultingly.
Susan Donnelly sank into a chair, overcome by the mixed emotions of

the moment.
"Come in, my faithful Jack! Unpack thy portmanteau of news, for I

see thou art bursting to show it; let us have every thing from the
beginning. Wife, it's a little too much for thee, coming so

unexpectedly. Set out the wine, Alice!"
The decanter was placed upon the table. O'Neil filled a tumbler to

the brim, lifted it high, made two or three hoarse efforts to
speak, and then walked away to the window, where he drank in

silence. This little incident touched the family more than the
announcement of their good fortune. Henry Donnelly's feverish

exultation subsided: he sat down with a grave, thoughtful face,
while his wife wept quietly beside him. Sylvia stood waiting with

an abstracted air; Alice removed her mother's bonnet and
shawl; and Henry and Joel, seated together at the farther end of

the room, looked on in silent anticipation.
O'Neil's story was long, and frequently interrupted. He had been

Lord Dunleigh's steward in better days, as his father had been to
the old lord, and was bound to the family by the closest ties of

interest and affection. When the estates became so encumbered that
either an immediate change or a catastrophe was inevitable, he had

been taken into his master's confidence concerning the plan which
had first been proposed in jest, and afterwards adopted in earnest.

The family must leave Dunleigh Castle for a period of probably
eight or ten years, and seek some part of the world where their

expenses could be reduced to the lowest possible figure. In
Germany or Italy there would be the annoyance of a foreign race and

language, of meeting of tourists belonging to the circle in which
they had moved, a dangerous idleness for their sons, and

embarrassing restrictions for their daughters. On the other hand,
the suggestion to emigrate to America and become Quakers during

their exile offered more advantages the more they considered it.
It was original in character; it offered them economy, seclusion,

entire liberty of action inside the limits of the sect, the best
moral atmosphere for their children, and an occupation which would

not deteriorate what was best in their blood and breeding.