does. Keep a stiff upper lip."

"I shall do that. I have fought my way through so far, and I shall do it
to the end," I replied, confidently. "It would have been better if I had
avoided that scene with my uncle; but I could not help it."

"What odds will that make?"

"A great deal of odds. My uncle knows now that I have the address of his
London correspondent. He will tell Tom about it. My uncle may be full of
regret and sorrow; but his son will follow me like a bloodhound. But, no
matter what happens, Bob, I shall fight my way through. My poor mother
shall be released from her bondage, and be happy again."

"Right, Ernest!" exclaimed Bob, as he urged forward the horse.

We rode in silence for several miles; but I was intensely excited as I
thought of what my mother had endured for a dozen years. I recalled the
indistinct visions of the past, which still lingered in my mind; and
more vividly than ever before it came to my remembrance that, far back
in the past, I had known a motherly lady, who loved and cherished me as
a little child. The dreary waste of waters which had lingered in my
fancy became a reality to me. I had crossed the ocean, after the death
of my father; but I did not yet know whether I was born in England or
the United States.

I prayed for my mother; and she seemed more dear to me than if I had
seen her every day of my life. I prayed that God would spare her, and
restore her to me; that he would crown with success my exertions to find
her. I am sure that, in all my intense emotion, I did not cherish a
sentiment of revenge towards my uncle, or even towards his son, who had
treated me like a brute. My silent prayers warmed my heart, and blessed
me with new strength and courage.

At half past two we drove into Romer. Bob put up his horse at a stable,
and we dined together at a hotel. At quarter past four, the train going
east arrived; and, bidding Bob an affectionate farewell, after he had
promised to write me the news in Parkville on his return, Kate and I
entered the car, and were soon whirling away from the town, from friends
and from enemies.

CHAPTER XIV.

IN WHICH ERNEST WONDERS WHAT TOM THORNTON WILL DO, AND FINDS OUT.

THOUGH I had not travelled much, I felt quite at home on the train. I
was not troubled with any of that disagreeable quality called
"greenness," for I had read the newspapers every day regularly for five
years; and, through them, a person may know the world withou