While the master was in conversation with Mr. Frail a young man of some nineteen years of age came up the hatchway.  He was dressed in deep mourning and called out, “Gumbo, you idiot, why don’t you fetch the baggage out of the cabin?  Well, shipmate, our journey is ended.  I thought yesterday the voyage would never be done, and now I am almost sorry it is over.”

“This is Mr. Warrington, Madam Esmond Warrington’s son of Castlewood,” said Captain Franks to Mr. Frail.  The British merchant’s hat was instantly off his head, and its owner was bowing, as if a crown prince were before him.

“Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington!  This is a delight indeed!  Let me cordially and respectfully welcome you to England; let me shake your hand as the son of my benefactress and patroness, Mrs. Esmond Warrington, whose name is known and honoured on Bristol ’Change, I warrant you, my dear Mr. George.”

“My name is not George; my name is Henry,” said the young man as he turned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Gracious powers, what do you mean, sir?  Are you not my lady’s heir? and is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq—­”

“Hold your tongue, you fool!” cried Mr. Franks.

“Don’t you see the young gentleman’s black clothes?  Mr. George is there,” pointing with his finger towards the topmast, or the sky beyond.  “He is dead a year sir, come next July.  He would go out with General Braddock, and he and a thousand more never came back again.  Every man of them was murdered as he fell.  You know the Indian way, Mr. Frail?  Horrible!  Ain’t it, sir?  He was a fine young man, the very picture of this one; only his hair was black, which is now hanging in a bloody Indian wigwam.  He was often on board on the Young Rachel, with his chest of books,—­a shy and silent young gent, not like this one, which was the merriest, wildest young fellow full of his songs and fun.  He took on dreadful at the news, but he’s got better on the voyage; and, in course, the young gentleman can’t be for ever a-crying after a brother who dies and leaves him a great fortune.  Ever since we sighted Ireland he has been quite gay and happy, only he would go off at times, when he was most merry, saying, ’I wish my dearest Georgie could enjoy this here sight along with me,’ and when you mentioned t’other’s name, you see, he couldn’t stand it.”

Again and again Harry Warrington and his brother had poured over the English map, and determined upon the course which they should take upon arriving at Home.  The sacred point in their pilgrimage was that old Castlewood in Hampshire, the home of their family, whence had come their grandparents.  From Bristol to Bath, to Salisbury, to Winchester, to Home; they had mapped the journey many and many a time.  Without stopping in Bristol, Harry Warrington was whirled away in a postchaise and at last drew up at the rustic inn on Castlewood Green.  Then with a beating heart he walked towards the house where his grandsire Colonel Esmond’s youth had been passed.