“What a cruel boy, to leave his family and—­and—­run into such dreadful danger!” Merry expostulated.

“What a devoted boy, to risk his life and liberty for our poor Jack!” Mrs. Sprague said, bending forward to stroke the tow-head.  The carriage passed down the same road that Jack had gone the day before, whistling sarcasms at his keeper.  At Harrison’s Landing there was a delay of several hours, and the impatient party wandered on the shores of the majestic James—­glittering, like a sylvan lake, in its rich border of woodland.  The sun was too hot to permit of the excursion Dick suggested, and late in the afternoon the wheezy ferry carried them down the lake-like stream.  On every hand there were signs of peace—­not a fort, not a breastwork gave token that this was in a few months to be the shambles of mighty armies, the anchorage of that new wonder, the iron battle-ship; the scene of McClellan’s miraculous victory at Malvern, of Grant’s slaughtering grapplings with rebellion at bay, of Butler’s comic joustings, and the last desperate onslaughts of Hancock’s legions.  The air, tempered by the faint flavor of salt in the water, filled the travelers with an intoxicating vigor, lent strength to their jaded forces, which, while tense with expectation, could not wholly resist the delicious aroma, the lovely outlines of primeval forest, the melody of strange birds, startled along the shore by the wheezy puffing of the ferry.  There were cries of admiring delight as the carriage ran from the long wooden pier into the dim arcade of sycamore and pine, through which the road wound, all the way to Rosedale.  Then they emerged into a gentle, rolling, upland, where cultivated fields spread far into the horizon, and in the distance a dense grove, which proved to be the park about the house.  The coming of the carriage was a signal to a swarm of small black urchins to scramble, grinning and delighted, to the wide lawn.  There was no need to sound the great knocker; no need to explain, when Rosalind, hurrying to the door, saw Olympia emerging from the vehicle.  They had not seen each other in four years, but they were in each other’s arms—­laughing, sobbing—­exclaiming: 

“How did you know?  When did you come?”

“Jack, Jack!  Where is he?  How is he?”

“Jack’s able to eat,” Rosa cried, darting down to embrace Mrs. Sprague, and starting with a little cry of wonder as Aunt Merry exclaimed, timidly: 

“We’re all here.  You’ve captured the best part of Acredale, though you haven’t got Washington yet.”

“Why, how delightful!  We shall think it is Acredale,” Rosa cried, welcoming the blushing lady.  “And—­I should say, if he were not so much like—­like ‘we uns,’ that this was my old friend, the naughty Richard,” she said, welcoming the blushing youth cordially. (Dick avowed afterward, in confidence to Jack, that she would have kissed him if he hadn’t held back, remembering his unkempt condition.) Mamma and Olympia