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It will not be necessary for us to describe the rapture
of father Von Horn and Barry, and Sally, and indeed
every one, at the return of Max Courtlandt so long lost
and now come back to them, healthy vigorous and joyful.
As for Nina she had been let into the momentous secret
some time before, as the reader may imagine. But father
Von Horn and the rest were thunderstruck. That the
wild young Max should return the elegant cavalier, the
calm and self-poised man they saw before them: that he
could have so changed as not to be recognizable by those
who had loved him and lamented him so long, was most
marvelous. But there at least he was! The mystery
was over. Dr. Thomas was the merry Maximilian Courtlandt
of old days.

The old man shed tears of joy: he had never ceased to
hold the young man's image in his memory and heart,
from that melancholy hour when bending down he had
wept upon his passionate letter, after their quarrel. He
had never ceased to lament the unhappy event which
drove the boy from his house—though he was not to
blame, his neighbors had said a thousand times.

But now all regret and sorrow were over and gone; the
Prodigal Son had returned; and joy had come to his heart
once more. Barry wept in silence.

The company at length broke up, and with a thousand
expressions of good-will to the doctor, took their leave;
with many merry compliments to the married pair also.

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The clatter of hoofs, the rattling wheels of vehicles, the
merry shouts, soon died away. Silence reigned once
more on the mountain side, and Max—now Doctor Max—
related in a few words, the outline of his adventures
after leaving Martinsburg.

He had gone to the seaboard, intent on leaving Virginia
at least; with no idea, however, of his future mode of
life, or with any scheme whatever. He had finally gone
on board a schooner at Alexandria, which he was told,
would sail for Philadelphia. The schooner in reality was
outward bound, and only touched land again at the mouth
of the Seine. He had gone to Paris—had determined to
make himself a physician—had entered at one of the
great free colleges—had lived precariously—had gained a
prize—been assisted by one of the most emiment savans
of the time—had written much for the journals of medicine—
had gone to London and written more—had finally
become dreadfully home-sick, and here he was!

This was the outline of his life and adventures, which
the young man, with rapid and picturesque utterance,
traced for his attentive and most loving auditors. They
hung upon his words—surrounded him with loving
glances full of joy and sympathy—and when he had
finished, and his last feeling words died away in the midnight,
all were on the verge of tears—tears of the purest
joy.

“Well, God bless us,” said father Von Horn, “it has
been a long weary time you have been away, my boy.
My heart was very sore at your going away from us—
my fault—all my fault—”

“Dear uncle—”

“Don't say me nay: I never should have chid you so
rudely. You were not a child, and had no cool, aged
blood in your veins. But all that is gone!”

“To think it!” said hunter John, “that this fine Doctor
I have been talking to so much of late, was nobody

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but wild Max, after all. I'm most nigh unbelieving yet—
in spite of what he says.”

Nina laughed.

“Are you as bad as ever, Max?” she said, “is every
thing as much a jest as ever with you.”

“As much as ever,” he replied, “no, one thing is not.
That is earnest.”

At which speech Mrs. Nina was observed to blush—
which was remembered afterward.

“How long it seems since you and Sally acted Romeo
and Juliet! brother,” said Barry in his soft earnest
voice. “It seems years to me.”

“When you first displayed your chivalric devotion to
this young lady here. Do you remember, mon garçon?”

“Oh, perfectly,” said Barry, laughing.

“And you, my Juliet?”

“Yes—oh, yes,” said Sally, blushing, “how could I
forget it?”

“True; let's see, what says Romeo?”

And with solemn intonation he repeated:

Sally blushed again.

“Paris on that occasion resuscitated,” said the doctor,
“but did not marry Juliet. Barry is a tolerable substitute,
however, Sally.”

“What a joker you still are, Max,” Nina said.

“Yes, yes. I shall never get to accustom myself to
the professional air—solemn and wise; but my folly
never wounds. You are not angry now, are you, Sally?”

“Oh, no.”

“Well come give me an affectionate kiss. I'm brother
Max now. After which I may say:


“Thou knowest my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire post horses; I will hence to-night.”

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To Mrs. Courtlandt's, I mean. That lady knew what
was coming, and having heard my adventures already,
very naturally accompanied homeward a party who went
by her dwelling.”

The kiss was very tremulously, but willingly and lovingly
granted to her new brother by the young girl; and
then he and father Von Horn and all took their leave—
the Doctor riding very gallantly by Nina's side, until they
reached their mountain home.

Spite of the pressing invitation to remain, the Doctor
returned homeward, lost in thought: he could not explain
to his own satisfaction why he had not taken advantage
of the invitation, but determined to pay a visit
to Nina on the next day. Consoling himself with this
resolution, he went quietly along, and soon reached Mrs.
Courtlandt's.

On the next day he paid the visit he had determined
on: and on that very day he asked Nina a most tender
question. We know not what the reply was in exact
words; but Doctor Courtlandt went home overwhelmed
with joy—that fierce, sarcastic Doctor Thomas.

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