I shall not dwell on this portion of my story.  There were many tranquil, pleasant hours in store for me at that period, and I prefer to turn to them.

One evening the Captain came smiling into the sitting-room with an open letter in his hand.  My mother had arrived at New York, and would be with us the next day.  For the first time in weeks—­years, it seemed to me—­something of the old cheerfulness mingled with our conversation round the evening lamp.  I was to go to Boston with the Captain to meet her and bring her home.  I need not describe that meeting.  With my mother’s hand in mine once more, all the long years we had been parted appeared like a dream.  Very dear to me was the sight of that slender, pale woman passing from room to room, and lending a patient grace and beauty to the saddened life of the old house.

Everything was changed with us now.  There were consultations with lawyers, and signing of papers, and correspondence; for my father’s affairs had been left in great confusion.  And when these were settled, the evenings were not long enough for us to hear all my mother had to tell of the scenes she had passed through in the ill-fated city.

Then there were old times to talk over, full of reminiscences of Aunt Chloe and little Black Sam.  Little Black Sam, by the by, had been taken by his master from my father’s service ten months previously, and put on a sugar-plantation near Baton Rouge.  Not relishing the change, Sam had run away, and by some mysterious agency got into Canada, from which place he had sent back several indecorous messages to his late owner.  Aunt Chloe was still in New Orleans, employed as nurse in one of the cholera hospital wards, and the Desmoulins, near neighbors of ours, had purchased the pretty stone house among the orange-trees.

How all these simple details interested me will be readily understood by any boy who has been long absent from home.

I was sorry when it became necessary to discuss questions more nearly affecting myself.  I had been removed from school temporarily, but it was decided, after much consideration, that I should not return, the decision being left, in a manner, in my own hands.

The Captain wished to carry out his son’s intention and send me to college, for which I was nearly fitted; but our means did not admit of this.  The Captain, too, could ill afford to bear the expense, for his losses by the failure of the New Orleans business had been heavy.  Yet he insisted on the plan, not seeing clearly what other disposal to make of me.

In the midst of our discussions a letter came from my Uncle Snow, a merchant in New York, generously offering me a place in his counting-house.  The case resolved itself into this:  If I went to college, I should have to be dependent on Captain Nutter for several years, and at the end of the collegiate course would have no settled profession.  If I accepted my uncle’s offer, I might hope to work my way to independence without loss of time.  It was hard to give up the long-cherished dream of being a Harvard boy; but I gave it up.