“You remember writing to me, love, telling me all.  I got your letter—­I don’t know how long ago—­yesterday, I think.  Yes! in the evening.  You could not think, Maggie, I would let you go alone to America.  I won’t speak against Edward, poor fellow! but we must both allow that he was not the person to watch over you as such a treasure should be watched over.  I thought I would go with you.  I hardly know if I meant to make myself known to you all at once, for I had no wish to have much to do with your brother.  I see now that it was selfish in me.  Well! there was nothing to be done, after receiving your letter, but to set off for Liverpool straight, and join you.  And after that decision was made, my spirits rose, for the old talks about Canada and Australia came to my mind, and this seemed like a realization of them.  Besides, Maggie, I suspected—­I even suspect now—­that my father had something to do with your going with Edward?”

“Indeed, Frank!” said she, earnestly, “you are mistaken; I cannot tell you all now; but he was so good and kind at last.  He never urged me to go; though, I believe, he did tell me it would be the saving of Edward.”

“Don’t agitate yourself, love.  I trust there will be time enough, some happy day at home, to tell me all.  And till then, I will believe that my father did not in any way suggest this voyage.  But you’ll allow that, after all that has passed, it was not unnatural in me to suppose so.  I only told Middleton I was obliged to leave him by the next train.  It was not till I was fairly off, that I began to reckon up what money I had with me.  I doubt even if I was sorry to find it was so little.  I should have to put forth my energies and fight my way, as I had often wanted to do.  I remember, I thought how happy you and I would be, striving together as poor people ‘in that new world which is the old.’  Then you had told me you were going in the steerage; and that was all suitable to my desires for myself.”

“It was Erminia’s kindness that prevented our going there.  She asked your father to take us cabin places unknown to me.”

“Did she? dear Erminia! it is just like her.  I could almost laugh to remember the eagerness with which I doffed my signs of wealth, and put on those of poverty.  I sold my watch when I got into Liverpool—­yesterday, I believe—­but it seems like months ago.  And I rigged myself out at a slop-shop with suitable clothes for a steerage passenger.  Maggie! you never told me the name of the vessel you were going to sail in!”

“I did not know it till I got to Liverpool.  All Mr. Buxton said was, that some ship sailed on the 15th.”

“I concluded it must be the Anna-Maria, (poor Anna-Maria!) and I had no time to lose.  She had just heaved her anchor when I came on board.  Don’t you recollect a boat hailing her at the last moment?  There were three of us in her.”

“No!  I was below in my cabin—­trying not to think,” said she, coloring a little.