One summer evening, in the next year, Alfred Gray, entered his uncle’s garden with a letter, and was soon seated in the summer-house reading it aloud to his uncle and Martha.  Tears stood in the old man’s eyes, as some touching detail of suffering or privation was related.  And, indeed, the letter told of little beside.  It was from Martin.  Soon after his arrival in the settlement, Martin had written to Alfred, but the letter had never reached England—­not an unusual occurrence in those times.  After waiting long, and getting no reply, he was driven by harsh treatment, and the degradation attending the life he led, to attempt, with old Ralph, an escape from the settlement.  In simple language, he recorded the dreary life they led in the woods; how, after a time, old Ralph sickened and died; and how, in a desolate place, where the footsteps of man had, perhaps, never trod before, Martin Harvey had dug a grave, and buried his old companion.  After that, unable to endure the terrible solitude, he had sought his way back to his former master, and had been treated more harshly than before.  Fever and disease had wasted his frame, until he had prayed that he might die and be at rest; but God had been merciful to him, and had inclined the heart of one for whom he labored, who listened with compassion to his story, took him under his roof, and restored him to health.  And now, Martin had obtained a ticket of leave, and served his kind master for wages, which he was carefully hoarding to send to Alfred Gray, as soon as he should hear from him that those he loved were still preserved, and would come and embrace him once more in that distant land.

“They shall go at once, Alfred,” said old Mr. Gray, the moment the last sentence was read; “they shall not wait; we will provide the means—­hey, Martha?”

He did not now fear to appeal to his companion.  Martha had grown kinder of late, and she confessed she had learned of her cousin what gives most comfort to those who are drawing near their journey’s end.  “I can help them a little,” she said.

“We will all help a little,” Alfred replied.  “I shall be off at break of day to-morrow, on neighbor Collins’s pony, and shall give him no rest until he sets me down at Uffeulme.”

Accordingly, early next morning, Alfred Gray was riding briskly along through the pleasant green lanes which led toward his native village.  It was the middle of June, bright, warm, sunny weather; and the young man’s spirits was unusually gay, everything around him tending to heighten the delight which the good news he carried had inspired him with.  The pony stepped out bravely, and was only checked when Alfred came in sight of the dear old home of his childhood, and heard the well-known chimes calling the villagers to their morning service, for it was Sunday.  Then for a few moments the young man proceeded more slowly, and his countenance wore a more saddened look, as the blessed recollections of early loves and affections with which the scene was associated in his mind, claimed their power over all other thoughts.  The voice of an old friend, from an apple-orchard hard by, recalled him from his reveries.