t horses unused to such late hours; the last
farewells, the roll of wheels, as one by one the happy loads departed,
and peace fell upon the household for another year.

"I declare for't, I never had sech an out an out good time sense I was
born intoe the world. Ab'ram, you are fit to drop, and so be I; now
let's set and talk it over along of Patience fore we go toe bed."

The old couple got into their chairs, and as they sat there side by
side, remembering that she had given no gift, Sylvia crept behind them,
and lending the magic of her voice to the simple air, sang the fittest
song for time and place--"John Anderson my Jo." It was too much for
grandma, the old heart overflowed, and reckless of the cherished cap
she laid her head on her "John's" shoulder, exclaiming through her
tears--

"That's the cap sheaf of the hull, and I can't bear no more to-night.
Ab'ram, lend me your hankchif, for I dunno where mine is, and my face is
all of a drip."

Before the red bandana had gently performed its work in grandpa's hand,
Sylvia beckoned her party from the room, and showing them the clear
moonlight night which followed the storm, suggested that they should
both save appearances and enjoy a novel pleasure by floating homeward
instead of sleeping. The tide against which they had pulled in coming up
would sweep them rapidly along, and make it easy to retrace in a few
hours the way they had loitered over for three days.

The pleasant excitement of the evening had not yet subsided, and all
applauded the plan as a fit finale to their voyage. The old lady
strongly objected, but the young people overruled her, and being
re-equipped in their damaged garments they bade the friendly family a
grateful adieu, left their more solid thanks under Nat's pillow, and
re-embarked upon their shining road.

All night Sylvia lay under the canopy of boughs her brother made to
shield her from the dew, listening to the soft sounds about her, the
twitter of a restless bird, the bleat of some belated lamb, the ripple
of a brook babbling like a baby in its sleep. All night she watched the
changing shores, silvery green or dark with slumberous shadow, and
followed the moon in its tranquil journey through the sky. When it set,
she drew her cloak about her, and, pillowing her head upon her arm,
exchanged the waking for a sleeping dream.

A thick mist encompassed her when she awoke. Above the sun shone dimly,
below rose and fell the billows of the sea