Philip and Cornelius rowed the boat back, Fanny waving her handkerchief.  We saw them land, and stand upon the wharf to watch our ship weigh anchor.  My mother would wave her handkerchief a moment, and then apply it to her eyes, and then give it another little toss, and then her eyes another touch.  I stood beside her, leaning upon the gunwale, with a lump in my throat.  Suddenly I realised we were under way.  We continued to exchange farewell motions with the three upon the wharf.  How small Fanny looked! how slender was Philip! how the water widened every instant between us and them! how long a time must pass ere we should see them again!  A kind of sudden consternation was upon my mother’s face, and in my heart, at the thought.  ’Twas a foretaste—­indeed it might prove the actuality—­of eternal separation.  Our three friends were at last hidden from our sight, and in the despondency of that moment I thought what fools men are, to travel about the world, and not cling all their days to the people, and the places, that they love.

* * * * *

We lodged at first in Surrey Street, upon our arrival in London; but when October came, and we had a preliminary taste of dirty fog, my mother vowed she couldn’t endure the damp climate and thick sky of the town; and so we moved out to Hampstead, where we furnished a small cottage, and contrived with economy to live upon the income of our invested principal, which was now swelled by money we had received from Mr. Faringfield for our home in New York.  The proceeds of the sale of our furniture there had paid our passage, and given us a start in our new abode.  Meanwhile, as an American loyalist who had suffered by the war, and as a former servant of the king; though I had no claim for a money indemnity, such as were presented on behalf of many; I was lucky enough, through Mr. De Lancey’s offices, to obtain a small clerkship in the custom-house.  And so we lived uneventfully, in hope of the day when Phil should come to us, and of that when I might go and bring back Fanny.

The letters from Philip and Fanny informed us merely of the continued health, and the revived cheerfulness, of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield; and presently of the good fortune of Mr. Cornelius in being chosen to fill two pulpits in small towns sufficiently near New York to permit his residence in Queen Street.  Mr. Faringfield and Philip were occupied in setting the former’s business upon its feet again, and something like the old routine had been resumed in the bereaved house.  I knew that all this was due to Phil’s imperceptible work.  At last there came great news:  Philip was to follow his letter to England, in the next Bristol vessel after the one that carried it.  ’Twas but a brief note in which he told us this.  “There is some news,” wrote he, “but I will save it for word of mouth.  Be prepared for a surprise that I shall bring.”

With what expectation we awaited his coming, what conjectures we made regarding the promised surprise as we talked the news over every evening in the little parlour where we dined on my return from the city, I leave my reader to imagine.  I had my secret notion that it concerned Fanny and me.