Wrapping his travelling-cloak about him, Swan asked to be shown directly to his room, and, in his anxiety to avoid being recognized, ordered a light supper to be sent up to him.  First of all, he wanted to see Dorcas, to settle affairs with Colonel Fox, and to feel established.  Until then, he cared not to see or talk with his old acquaintances.  It would be time enough afterwards to take them by the hand,—­to employ them, perhaps.  And as it takes almost no time to think, before he was half-way up the stairs, Swan Day had got as far as the erection of a superb country-seat on the hill where the old Cobb house stood, and of employing a dozen smart young carpenters and masons of his acquaintance in the village.  The garden should have a pagoda in it; and one room in the house should be called the “China room,” and should be furnished exclusively with Chinese tables and chairs; and he would have a brilliant lantern-fete, and——­Here he reached the top-stair, and the little maid pointed to his room, curtsied, and ran away.

Swan dropped his cloak, snuffed the candle, and, sitting down before the pleasant wood-fire that had been hastily lighted, proceeded to make his own tea, by a new Invention for Travellers.

As people are not changed so quickly as they expect and intend to be by circumstances, it came to pass that Swan Day’s plans for elegant expenditure in his native town soon relapsed, perhaps under the influence of the Chinese herb, into old channels and plans for acquisition.  The habit of years was a little too strong for him to turn short round and pour out what he had been for so many years garnering in.  Rather, perhaps, keep in the tread-mill of business awhile longer, and then be the nabob in earnest.  At present, who knew what these mutterings in the political atmosphere portended?  A war with England seemed inevitable, and that at no distant period.  It might be better to retire on a limited certainty; but then there was also the manful struggle for a splendid possibility.

A neat-handed maid brought in a tray, with the light Supper he had ordered.

The sight of four kinds of pies, with cold turkey and apple-sauce, brought the Fox farm and its inhabitants more vividly to his mind than anything else he had seen.  Pumpkin of the yellowest, custard of the richest, apple of the spiciest, and mince that was one mass of appetizing dainty, filled the room with the flavor of by-gone memories.  Every sense responded to them.  The fifteen years that had hung like a curtain of mist before him suddenly lifted, and he saw the view beyond, broad, bountiful, and cheery, under the sunshine of love, hope, and plenty.  He closed his eyes, and the flavor filled his soul, as sweet music makes the lover faint with happiness.

He took out his writing-materials, and wrote,—­

“My DEAREST, SWEETEST DORCAS,—­Never for one instant has the thought of you left my heart, since”——­

“That’s a lie, to begin with!” said he, coolly, and throwing the paper into the fire,—­“try again!”