trial.
If we like each other, you can come out to Lexington in the spring
and have him regularly bound."

"That will be as well, I suppose," the mother replied. Then, after a
pause, she said--

"How long will it be, Mr. Sharp, before I can see Henry?"

"I don't know, ma'am. How long before you think you can come out to
Lexington?"

"Indeed, sir, I don't know that I shall be able to get out there
this winter. Couldn't you send him in sometimes?"

"Perhaps I will, about New Year's, and let him spend a few days with
you."

"It is a good while to New Year's day, sir. He has never been from
home in his life."

"Oh no, ma'am. It's only a few weeks off. And I don't believe he'll
be homesick for a day."

"But _I_ shall, Mr. Sharp."

"You?"

"Yes, sir. It is hard to let my child go, and not see him again
before New Year's day."

"But you must act the woman's part, Mrs. Gaston. We cannot get
through life without some sacrifice of feeling. My mother had to let
me go before I was even as old as your boy."

As Mr. Sharp said this, he arose, adding as he did so--

"Come, my little man. I see you are all ready."

Holding back her feelings with a strong effort, Mrs. Gaston took
hold of Henry's small, thin hand, bent over him, and kissed his fair
young cheek, murmuring in an under tone--

"God be with you, and keep you, my boy!"

Then, speaking aloud, she said--

"Be a good and obedient child, and Mr. Sharp will be kind to you,
and let you come home to see me at New Year's."

"Oh, yes. He shall come home then," said the man half indifferently,
as he moved toward the door.

Henry paused only to kiss his sister, and then followed after, with
his little bundle in his hand. As he was about descending the steps,
he turned a last look upon his mother. She saw that his eyes were
filled with tears. A moment more, and he was gone.

Little Emma had stood looking wonderingly on while this scene was
passing. Turning to her mother with a serious face, as the door
closed upon Henry, she said--

"Brother gone, mamma?

"Yes, dear! Brother is gone," sobbed the mother, taking the last
child that remained to her, and hugging it passionately to her
bosom. It was a long time before she could resume her work, and then
so deep was her feeling of desolation, that she could not keep back
from her eyelids the blinding tear-drops.

CHAPTER VI.

PERKINS' NARRATIVE.

THE efforts made by Perkins to find the residence of