heart of the son to the father!

Is Reuben whimpering as the memory of this last tender episode comes to
his memory? What would Phil or the rest of the Ashfield fellows say to a
runaway boy sniffling under the edge of the wood? Not he, by George! And
he munches at his roll of gingerbread with a new zest,--confirming his
vagabond purpose, that just now wavered, with a thought of those tedious
Saturday nights and the "reasons annexed," and Aunt Eliza's sharp elbow
nudging him upon the hard pew-benches, as she gives a muffled, warning
whisper,--"Attend to the sermon, Reuben!"

And so, with glorious visions of Sindbad the Sailor in his mind, and a
cheery remembrance of Crusoe when he cut himself adrift from home and
family for his wonderful adventures, Reuben pushes gallantly on through
the woods in the direction of the river. He knows that somewhere, up or
down, a sloop will be found bound for New York. From the heights around
Ashfield, he has seen, time and again, their white sails specking some
distant field of blue. Once, too, upon a drive with the Doctor, he had
seen these marvellous vessels from a nearer point, and had looked
wistfully upon their white decks and green companion-ways.

Overhead the jays cried from the bare chestnut-trees; from time to time
the whirr of a brood of partridges startled him; the red squirrels
chattered; still he pushed on, catching a chance dinner at a wayside
farm-house, and by night had come within plain sight of the water. The
sloop Princess lay at the Glastenbury dock close by, laden with wood and
potatoes, and bound for New York the next morning. The kind-hearted
skipper, who was also the owner of the vessel, took a sudden fancy to
the sore-footed, blue-eyed boy who came aboard to bargain for a passage
to the city. The truant was not, indeed, overstocked with ready money,
but was willing to pawn what valuables he had about him, and hinted at a
rich aunt in the city who would make good what moneys were lacking. The
skipper has a shrewd suspicion how the matter stands, and, with a kindly
sympathy for the lad, consents to give him passage on condition he drops
a line into the mail to tell his friends which way he has gone; and
taking a dingy sheet of paper from the locker under his berth, he seats
Reuben with pen in hand at the cabin-table, whereupon the boy writes,--

"DEAR FATHER,--I have come away from school. I don't know as
you will like it much. I walked all the way fr