It was my turn then to be silent,—­for I was trying to take in the idea that there was to be no Mary Ellen in the house.  She had occupied our thoughts so long, had been so prominent an actor in our daily life,—­how we should miss her!

“Oh, no,” I said, calmly,—­for I had thought away all my surprise,—­“we shall all miss you very much.”

And there we parted.

She left us the next morning, for a visit to her old home.

The latter part of the day I went into Emily’s room.  She had been growing worse for some time, and had been removed to the westerly room to be rid of the bleak winds.  David was sitting on a low stool by her bedside, his head resting upon the bed, looking up in her face.  She smiled as I entered.

“David is so tall,” said she, “that I can’t see his face away up there, and so he brings it down for me to look at.”

She held in her hand the ruby bracelet.

“David says,” she continued, “that he is going to the gold-country, to get money to pay off the mortgages,—­and that, when he begins to get gold, he shall get a heap, and will bring me home a whole necklace of rubies, and make a beautiful home for me:  when he goes,” she repeated, with an unbelieving smile.

I smiled, too, and passed on, feeling that I had already intruded too much upon the privacy of hearts, and would leave the brother and sister in peace.

A few nights after this, I came home late from the Square, and found the household in great commotion.  David went out fishing, long before daybreak, and had not yet returned.  Other boats had come in, but nothing had they seen of him, either on the Ledge or off in the Bay.  This was the more mysterious, as the weather had been unusually mild, with but little wind.

After talking over the matter with them, I suggested that he might have gone farther than usual, and, on account of the light winds, had not been able to get back.  The night was calm, with plenty of moonlight.  There could be no possible danger to one so accustomed to the water as David.

This appeared very reasonable; and, at a late hour, all retired to bed.

The next morning I looked from my window at daybreak.  Miss Joey was standing on the hill, gazing off upon the water.  In a few minutes the old folks came out.  They crept up the hill, and stood looking off with Miss Joey.  I joined them.  There was a fine strong breeze, and fair for boats bound in.  Not one, however, was in sight.  Away off in the Bay was a homeward-bound schooner, with colors flying.  A fisherman, probably, returning from the Banks.  The morning air was chilly.  We silently descended the hill.

During the day we heard that a vessel from Boston had spoken, half-way on her passage, a small sloop-boat, with one man in it.  Boston was sixty miles distant, and it was something very unusual for a small boat to make the passage.  Friends in the city were written to, but no information was obtained, and day after day passed without relieving our suspense.