r than at
first. "Your name is Wetherholm, is it? and what ship did you go to sea
in?" I told her. "The _Kite_! That is strange," said she. "I should
know something about that vessel. If Margaret were here, she would tell
me, but my memory is not as good as it was. You want to know where your
relatives are. Now I come to think of it, the old lady who lived in
this house before me had a daughter. They came, I have heard, like my
poor niece's family, from Shetland. Wetherholm was her name. Then I am
sorry to say, young man, that she is dead."

"Dead!" I exclaimed. "Dear Granny dead!" And my heart came all of a
sudden into my throat, and I fairly burst out crying as I should have
done when a boy. For some time I could not stop myself; but I put my
face between my hands, and bent down as I sat, trying to prevent the
tears finding their way through my fingers. I hadn't had such a cry
since I was a little boy, and then I felt very differently, I know. The
old lady did not say a word, but let me have it out.

"That will do you good, young man," said she at length. "I don't think
the worse of you for those tears, remember that."

I thanked her very much for her sympathy, and then asked her if she
could tell me anything about Aunt Bretta.

"I can't tell you myself," she answered; "but Miss Rundle, who lives
next door, knew her well; and I'll just send and ask her to step in, and
she will give you all the information you want."

The old lady summoned her little deaf and dumb girl, and signing to her,
in two minutes Miss Rundle made her appearance. I remembered Miss
Rundle, and used to think her a very old woman then, but she did not
look a day older, but rather younger than when I went away. I had no
little difficulty in persuading her who I was, and at first I thought
she seemed rather shocked at seeing a common sailor sitting down in her
friend's parlour. However, at last I convinced her that I was no other
than the long-lost Willand Wetherholm. She told me how my grandmother
had long mourned at my absence, still believing that I was alive and
would return, and always praying for my safety. At length she
sickened--to the last expecting to see me. She had died about two years
before; "and then," added my old acquaintance, "the good old lady sleeps
quietly in the churchyard hard by. I often take a look at her
tombstone. Her name is on it; you may see it there."

"That I will," said I. "It will do