er.

Great was the change which had come over Zeppa during his convalescence.
The wild locks and beard had been cut and trimmed; the ragged garments
had been replaced by a suit belonging to Orley, and the air of wild
despair, alternating with vacant simplicity, which characterised him in
his days of madness, had given place to the old, sedate, sweet look of
gentle gravity. It is true the grey hairs had increased in number, and
there was a look, or, rather, an effect, of suffering in the fine face
which nothing could remove; but much of the muscular vigour and the
erect gait had been regained during those months when he had been so
carefully and untiringly nursed by his son on Sugar-loaf Island.

It was not so with the ex-pirate. Poor Rosco was a broken man. The
shock to his frame from the partial burning and the subsequent
amputation of his feet had been so great that a return to anything like
vigour seemed out of the question. But there was that in the expression
of his faded face, and in the light of his sunken eye, which carried
home the conviction that the ruin of his body had been the saving of his
soul.

"I cannot tell you, Orley, how thankful I am," said Zeppa, "that this
trader happened to touch at the island. As I grew stronger my anxiety
to return home became more and more intense; and to say truth, I had
begun to fear that Captain Fitzgerald had forgotten us altogether."

"No fear of that, father. The captain is sure to keep his promise. He
will either return, as he said, or send some vessel to look after us.
What are you gazing at, Ebony?"

"De steepil, massa. Look!" cried the negro, his whole face quivering
with excitement, and the whites of his eyes unusually obtrusive as he
pointed to the ever-growing line of land on the horizon, "you see him?--
glippering like fire!"

"I do see something glittering," said Orlando, shading his eyes with his
hand; "yes, it must be the steeple of the church, father. Look, it was
not there when you left us. We'll soon see the houses now."

"Thank God!" murmured Zeppa, in a deep, tremulous voice.

"Can you see it, Rosco?" said Orley.

The pirate turned his eyes languidly in the direction pointed out.

"I see the land," he said faintly, "and I join your father in thanking
God for that--but--but it is not _home_ to me."

"Come, friend," said Zeppa, laying his hand gently on the poor man's
shoulder, "say not so. It shall be home to you yet, please God. If