The latter was a young man seemingly of about twenty-four or twenty-five years of age.  He had a mild but noble bearing, and his aspect denoted habitual meditation.  His eyes were remarkably piercing and expressive; in short, he was one of those men at whom we are led involuntarily to cast a glance of respect, without very well knowing why; perhaps it might be owing to the gravity of his demeanour, perhaps to the peculiar decorum of his deportment, or perhaps to the scrupulous propriety of his dress.  He raised his eyes from the book he held in his hand, and gazed tranquilly at the three figures who had so abruptly interrupted his reveries.

“May I inquire,” said he, “to what we owe this intrusion on our privacy, gentlemen?”

“We have to apologise for our rudeness,” said Fritz; “but are you not the Rev. Mr. Wolston?”

“My name is Charles Wolston, and I am a minister of the gospel, and missionary of the church.”

“Then, sir,” continued Fritz, “I am the bearer of a message from your father.”

“From my father!” exclaimed the missionary, starting up; “you come then from the Pacific Ocean?”

[Illustration]

Here the second gentleman raised his head, and looked as if he had just awakened from a dream.  He gazed at the speakers with a puzzled air.

“Do you know me, captain?” said Willis.

Littlestone, for it was he, continued to gaze in mute astonishment, as if the events of the past had been defiling through his memory; and he probably thought that the figures before him were mere phantom creations of his brain.

“Willis! can it be possible?” he exclaimed, taking at the same time the Pilot’s proffered hand.

“Yes, captain, as you see.”

“And the two young Beckers, as I live!” cried Littlestone.

“Yes,” said Jack, “and delighted to find you at last.”

Littlestone then shook them all heartily by the hand.

“It is but a poor welcome that I, a prisoner in the enemy’s country, can give you to Europe; still I am truly overjoyed to see you.  But where have you all come from?”

“From New Switzerland,” replied Jack.

“But how?”

“By sea.”

“That, of course; and I presume another ship anchored in Safety Bay?”

“No, captain.  Seeing you did not return to us, we embarked in the pinnace and came in search of you.”

“Your pinnace was but indifferently calculated to weather a gale, keeping out of view the other dangers incidental to such a voyage.”

“True, captain; but my brother and I, with Willis for a pilot and Providence for a guardian, ventured to brave these perils; and here we are, as you see.”

“And your mother consented to such a dangerous proceeding, did she?”

“It was for her, and yet against her will, that we embarked on the voyage.”

“I do not understand.”

“For her, because, when we left, she was dying.”