HOME AGAIN

Mrs. Hamilton sat on the broad veranda of her cottage looking wistfully out to sea. She was pale and languid from the weight of many anxious days and sleepless nights. Before her lay the treacherous ocean, now calm and peaceful, rippling laughingly in the summer sunshine. The white sails of tiny pleasure craft skimmed lightly over its placid surface, and in striking contrast to her unhappy mood, nature and the world seemed to show their cheeriest faces. The laughing voices of merry youngsters, the twitter of the sparrows in the trees, the soft notes of a girl’s happy song wafted to her from a passing yacht, all grated harshly on her overwrought nerves. Day in and day out, in sunshine and storm, since Harry’s disappearance, she had sat in a sheltered corner of the veranda and waited.

Mr. Hamilton stepped out of the cottage, and drawing a chair beside her, took her hand gently in his and caressed it silently.

“There is no word yet?” she said, finally, without taking her eyes from the dancing water.

“None.”

“And you have been unable to learn anything of the steamer, the Mariella?”

“All that my agents can find out is that she is apparently a tramp, and that she cleared from Boston for southern ports with a cargo of general merchandise.”

“And she has not been reported since?”

“No.”

“There can be little hope then?”

“We must not despair yet.”

“There could have been no mistake in the name of the steamer that picked them up?”

“I hardly think so. I saw the captain of the steamer that reported them and he is positive that he could have made no mistake in reading the signal.”

“Then she should have arrived at some port long ago.”

“Yes; but these tramp steamers are sometimes very slow and it is not unusual for them to be many days overdue and turn up all right. I think, Mary, it is best that you should go home. This anxiety is killing you and the surroundings here keep you constantly overwrought. I have every point covered from which a report of the steamer might be received, and then, who knows, if Harry should land in the South, he might go West at once.”

Mrs. Hamilton shook her head and pointed out over the sea.

“No, Edward, that is the way he went and I shall wait for him here.”

A boy on a bicycle rode up to the house.

“Telegram for Mr. Hamilton,” he called, as he jumped from his wheel.

“Quick, Edward, it may be news from Harry,” said Mrs. Hamilton, rising eagerly as her husband took the yellow envelope from the boy and broke the seal hastily.

“The Mariella is bound in,” he almost shouted, as he passed the paper to his wife. She took it in her trembling hands and read:

EDWARD HAMILTON,
Cliff Cottage,
Cottage City, Mass.

Tramp steamer Mariella just reported passing in. Bound for Boston.

WILLIAM COFFIN, Nantucket.

Mrs. Hamilton sank back into her chair, an expression of eager hope lighting up her wan face.

“Do you suppose that Harry is on board, Edward? Can it be that he is coming home at last?”

“I hope so, Mary, but I cannot understand it. Where has the steamer been and why has she not been reported out?”

“Can this be a mistake?” asked the woman plaintively, holding out the telegram.

“No, I think not.”

“Then let us go to Boston at once and meet him.”

“That would be unwise. By the time we could reach there, Harry if he is aboard might be on his way here. It is best to wait, Mary, and hope for the best. In the meantime, I will wire to my agent in Boston to meet the steamer.”

With a sigh of resignation, Mrs. Hamilton resumed her weary vigil. Suddenly she started up with a new idea.

“Edward,” she said, “if she is coming in she will pass out there.”

“Yes, but too far out for you to see her, Mary.”

“Never mind; bring me the glasses. It will help to pass the weary hours of waiting.”

Mr. Hamilton brought her a pair of marine glasses, and rearranging the cushions behind her head with a tender hand, he left her eagerly scanning the horizon for some sign of a passing steamer.

When he returned from the telegraph office she called to him eagerly:

“Look, Edward, just off the point. There is a steamer.”

“Yes, probably a collier.”

“But she seems to be headed this way.”

“They go up the sound to New York.”

“But might she not be the the

“No, Mary; she would have to head out around Cape Cod to make Boston.”

“I know, I know, but perhaps she may land him here.”

“That would take her out of her course and mean the loss of time. Her captain would not do that.”

For fifteen minutes more, Mrs. Hamilton watched the steamer in silence and then she turned again to her husband, and said:

“She is not going up the sound, Edward; she is headed in here.” Mr. Hamilton took the glasses and scanned the steamer.

“She does seem to be headed this way.”

“It is the Mariella, Edward.”

Mrs. Hamilton spoke in a low tone of deep conviction. Her husband looked at her anxiously.

“You are trying to make coincidences fit your wishes, Mary,” he said. “Do not build up false hopes; the disappointment will be too much for your worn nerves.”

“I shall not be disappointed, Edward; see, she is headed straight in now.”

“It is strange,” said Mr. Hamilton, beginning himself to take an interest in the steamer, which was now certainly headed almost for the cottage.

“Quick, Edward, the glasses; I can see people on her decks.”

Mrs. Hamilton rose from her chair as she spoke and almost snatched the glasses from her husband’s hands in her eagerness. For a long time she stood like a statue with the glasses trained on the steamer, and then suddenly she took a white shawl from her shoulders and waved it wildly above her head.

“It is Harry,” she cried, sobbing with excitement, as she thrust the glasses into her husband’s hands. “See, they have seen us, too, and Harry is waving his hat.”

Her overwrought nerves could not stand the excess of joy and she sank into her husband’s arms.

Mr. Hamilton carried her into a big room that overlooked the water and placed her gently on a lounge. When she recovered consciousness and opened her eyes, she looked up into the face of her son, who bent anxiously over her.

“Harry,” she whispered, her happiness sending the warm blood back into her face again.

“Mother,” he cried, seizing her in his strong young arms.

When she was stronger they led her out to her seat on the veranda where she had kept her weary vigil, and she warmly greeted Bert and the Midget, who had just returned from the telegraph office, where they had sent word at once to their homes telling of their safe arrival in America. O’Connor who had come ashore at Harry’s earnest solicitation, stood in the background talking with Mr. Hamilton, to whom he had briefly outlined the adventures of the three boys since they had been his guests on the Mariella.

Harry took the big man by the hand and led him over to his mother.

“Mother,” he said, proudly, “I want you to know my friend, Captain Dynamite.”

“Captain Dynamite?” repeated Mrs. Hamilton, in wonder.

“Captain O’Connor, I mean; they call him Dynamite because when you touch him off there’s sure to be something doing. He saved our lives twice once from the sea, and once from the Spaniards.”

“The Spaniards my son, what are you talking about?”

“That’s a long story, mother. I will tell you that to-night.”

After much persuasion, O’Connor was induced to remain overnight on condition that all hands would dine on the Mariella. He went back to the steamer and sent a large boat ashore for his guests and no happier party could have been found that night than those who gathered around the table in the cabin of the old Mariella. Miss Juanita made Mrs. Hamilton’s heart glow with the pride of a mother as she told of Harry’s sacrifice to save her, and after dinner, as they all gathered on the after deck under the starlit sky, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton listened with breathless interest as the various actors told the story of their adventures during the voyage with Captain Dynamite.

It was long after midnight when all the farewells had been said and the boat that was to put the departing guests ashore left the side of the Mariella. As the sailors pushed off, O’Connor and Juanita stood at the rail, his big hand resting gently on hers.

“Say, Cap,” shouted the Midget, as they moved away, “count us in when you cut that wedding cake.”