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Dr. Perkins was half reclining on his horse before
the door of the tavern, as the stage drew up, and conversing
with the landlord, who held his horse's bridle, as
fearful the man of physic would depart before answering
all the inquiries which had been proposed to him. The
most important were those a physician is always bound
to answer—questions relative to his patients; and Perkins
had been of late more strictly catechised than usual,
as every person who ever heard of Miss Redington appeared
interested in her fate.

The penetrating reader has doubtless surmised, the
tender hearted one must have hoped, that the story of
her death was a sheer fabrication of Skinner's to torment
his rival. She was still living, and Perkins, to the inquiries
of the landlord, stated he had some hope, though
but very faint, of her recovery.

“I left her this morning early,” continued he, “with
my wife to watch and tend her till my return, and I must
hasten to see her.”

“What a cruel hearted fellow that young Romilly is,”
said Boniface, still holding fast the bridle, “to leave such
a sweet lady, and so in love with him too! Don't you
think he'll never come back?”

“How can I tell?” said Perkins, peevishly, and striving

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to free the rein from the landlord's grasp that he might
not listen to further invectives against Sidney, whom he
could not justify, and yet to hear him condemned always
went to his heart. “I should never have thought of his
going away so, and he may return as unexpectedly. And
there—by Jupiter!—there he is now!”

“Who?—where?” cried the landlord, jumping round
as briskly as the weight of a quarter of a ton of flesh
would allow.

“Why, Sidney, Sidney Romilly! Heaven, I thank
thee!”—and the next moment he had vaulted from his
horse and was grasping the hands of his friend! Sidney
returned the pressure, but his wo-begone countenance
sufficiently testified to his heart's sorrow; yet Perkins
did not notice it while loudly exclaiming, “O, Sidney!
how welcome you are; how joyful we shall all be; and
Annie—Annie will recover!”

“Recover!” echoed the despairing Sidney, while his
whole soul seemed rushing forth in his eager accent.
“O, Skinner said she had died—she was dead!”

“No, no; she is not dead—she is alive—she will live!”
said Perkins.

The truth flashed at once upon the heart of our hero.
He wrung the hand of his friend with almost as violent
a pressure as Merrill once did his own—tears of joy
gushed to his eyes—while his expressive countenance
was lighted up with such a glow of surprise, gratitude,
and rapture, that the farmer, who had just alighted from
the stage, cried out, “Well, well, Mr. Romilly, I'm glad
to see you look alive again; I sartinly hav'nt seen you
smile before since we left Boston. But there's that
Skinner—hanging is too good for him.”

“Why, Merrill, are you here?” said Perkins, offering
his hand. “I did not notice you before. Why, where
have you been?”

“O, I've been a plaguy long jaunt, I can tell you that;
and glad I am to see New Hampshire again; as cold and
rough as 'tis, it looks warm and pleasant to me. Though
I like away there to the South, too, better than I

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expected; but here are all my friends and family, and now I've
got Mr. Sidney Romilly back here, I guess you won't
catch me away from home again in a hurry.”

This speech led to inquiries and explanations, equally
satisfactory to all parties; and then, borrowing a horse
from the landlord, Sidney departed with his friend Perkins,
after charging Merrill to call on him as often as possible,
and assuring him, that though intending to reward
him liberally for the services he had opportunely rendered,
yet he should always consider him entitled to his
warmest gratitude.

The farmer, however, disclaimed all merit in the affair,
declaring, with an emphasis as sincere as Deacon Jones
ever used, he had only done his duty, and that all the reward
he desired was the opportunity of being present at
his patron's wedding.

“And now,” said he, “I must step home and see my
wife and boys, and I guess they'll be as glad to see me
as Miss Redington will you, only may be they won't be
quite so surprised, as they never thought I was gone
clear off.”

On their way to his mother's, Sidney asked his friend
what motives, he thought, induced Skinner to torture
him with the report of Annie's death.

“O, he meant to make you suffer Purgatory before enjoying
Paradise, I suppose,” returned Perkins, laughing;
“or, perhaps, he was even more malicious, and calculated
on keeping you in Purgatory forever; as your despair
would probably lead you to take the lover's leap; and
the person guilty of felo de se is, I believe, by the universal
vote of mankind, excluded from all hope of mercy.”

“I cannot tell what I might have been tempted to do,”
said the other, “had I found Annie was actually in her
grave. Though I never doubted the report of her death;
indeed, how could I disbelieve what was so positively
affirmed! yet I still felt as if, on reaching Northwood, I
should see her alive. My mind was in that state of indefinite
horror which a frightful dream sometimes occasions,
and which, while yielding to its influence, we know

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is but a dream, and strive to awaken that the phantoms
may disappear. But I—I have awoke to hope, joy, life!”

The meeting of Sidney with his family was a scene
very touching and affectionate. They had been suffering
for him the most intense anxiety and keen mortifications,
and yet love and pride had forbidden them to complain
of his conduct or seek sympathy for their sorrows. And
they had smothered their feelings, or only indulged them
in secret. But Sidney came—every suspicious circumstance
was explained—every fortunate occurrence related—
and he was still the same noble, generous, exalted
being; their hope, and pride, and boast; and their tears,
so long restrained in grief, now burst forth in floods to
express their joy.

Annie he was not permitted to visit till the following
day; the Doctor and his wife in the meantime having
apprised her of everything she could desire to exculpate
her lover, and finally informed her of his arrival.

Their first meeting was too affecting for description,
especially in the last chapter of a work that was designed
to leave none save agreeable or useful impressions on the
mind. But the visit, though tender and tearful, was a
cordial to poor Annie's heart, and she appeared through
the whole day so evidently better, that even her uncle
took courage, and in his evening orisons, returned his
solemn thanks for the unexpected and undeserved mercy
vouchsafed them in her amendment.

It was, indeed, curious to see the management of the
Deacon, and how easily he transferred his favor and his
conscience from the falling to the rising fortune. Our
hero's merits were no longer equivocal. One hundred
thousand dollars established the worth of his character
beyond suspicion; and though the Deacon lamented the
total depravity of human nature, yet he acknowledged
Skinner's crime could plead no extenuation on that score,
and he raly hoped he would receive exemplary punishment.
And an event soon occurred which entirely reconciled
him to the loss of the merchant's society.

The store of Skinner being closed, the villagers

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experienced much inconvenience in procuring those articles
he used to furnish; and Sidney thought the opportunity
a favorable one for his brother Silas to commence the
same business. Silas was a very ready accountant, and
by exertion, and the aid of Luther Merrill, might soon
succeed in understanding its details sufficiently for a
country trader. He offered to advance his brother four
thousand dollars, on condition he would pay the interest
yearly to his mother, during her life, in such articles as
she required; and at her decease the principal to be
divided among all the remaining members of the family;
Silas to have two shares, and the other individuals one
each.

This offer was too liberal to be rejected; but the difficulty
was in obtaining a room suitable for their purpose.
Skinner's store was not then to be procured, and they
wished to go into business immediately, before any one
should anticipate their design. Finally, Deacon Jones
offered his Conference Room, till a more convenient one
could be erected; and they proceeded forthwith to make
such alterations as were deemed necessary to fit it for the
accommodation of their intended business.

The Deacon remarked, that though “folks might talk
about it, he had fully answered his conscience in providing
so long for the meetings of his brethren, and now it
belonged to the others to fulfil their duty.”

The store was completed, goods purchased, and a large
sign, bearing the inscription of “Silas Romilly & Co.,”
in flaming letters of gold-leaf, displayed over the street
door, opening into the Conference Room, within less than
a month after Sidney returned. So well did Silas manage
to please his customers, that not a desire was ever
uttered for the return of his predecessor. But many
wished the term of Skinner's confinement to hard labor
in the state prison could be doubled, like that of Jacob's
servitude, and then, instead of seven years—the time for
which he was sentenced—he would be kept safe fourteen.

The “Co.” on the sign was generally supposed, in the

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neighborhood, to include the Deacon; yet whenever such
a hint was suggested to him, he always would shake his
head, look grave, and say he had enough of this world's
goods already, and should let the young folks manage
the business; it was all done to please Mr. Sidney, who
had been so kind and generous to his family, they felt
bound to do pretty much as he wished.”

Sidney did, indeed, appear to his friends like their
guardian angel. None were forgotten by him. He
made ample provision for James to pursue his studies;
and hired a steady man to manage the farm, with the
assistance of Sam and Oliver, who were, if they did well,
to share it between them. Sophia and Lucy were to be
placed, for two years, at a celebrated school for young
ladies, in Hartford, Connecticut; and after their education
was completed, the two younger girls were to enjoy
similar advantages. Harvey was to accompany his brother
to the South; and the widowed mother had, indeed,
everything bestowed on her she could wish for.

Nor while providing thus amply for his own relatives
did Sidney forget his faithful Merrill. He canceled the
note the latter was owing him, and bestowed on him a
sum of money sufficient to clear every debt he had incurred,
and the farmer declared he was “independent,
and wouldn't swap with a king.” And, moreover, Sidney
left funds in the hands of Dr. Perkins, to furnish all
the little Merrills with an ample supply of books; and
should any one of the number exhibit sufficient genius
to make it probable a liberal education would be for his
advantage and happiness, he pledged his assistance to
enable him to attain it; at any rate, he should consider
the fortunes of one of the boys as depending on him for
advancement.

Miss Redington, too, when she had sufficiently recovered,
ordered a variety of presents for Mrs. Merrill and
the children, till this worthy family, from being universally
pitied, as they were but one year before, now
became as universally envied. The favor of the lovers
was really a matter of mighty consequence to all who

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wished an opportunity of attending the wedding, for
which preparations were making on a magnificent scale.
Mrs. Romilly said she was willing the invitation should
be extended to every person in the town, except Mrs.
Watson. To be sure there were some others who had
credited and reported the stories about Sidney and joined
in the censure against him, but they were deceived;
whereas, Mrs. Watson had combined with the villain
Skinner to tell Annie a frightful fortune, and propagate
the slanders which he forged.

The sibyl urged in her own defense, that she did not
know the design of the merchant; that she told him she
was going to visit Mrs. Jones, and should probably tell
Miss Redington's fortune, and then he offered, if she
would tell that young lady her lover was not intending
to return, and was probably engaged to another woman,
he would give her the nicest shawl which could be purchased
in Boston, and a pound of his best Gunpowder
tea! That she did tell her so, and after the thing seemed
actually to come to pass she was so frightened she did
not dare reveal the secret. However, her plea was not
admitted as a justification of her offense, and she received
no call to the marriage-feast; which mortified her so sensibly
she was heard to declare, to the deep regret of all
the young ladies of the village, that she never would interpret
another dream, or tell another fortune, if she lived
as long as Methuselah.

New-year's day was appointed for the wedding, and a
happy and proud day it was for the Romillys. The celebration
was got up in far the most splendid style ever
witnessed in Northwood, or its vicinity; and long furnished
topics of discourse for all who had the privilege
of attending it. The noble countenance and rich attire
of the bridegroom, and the sweet face and elegant ornaments
of the lovely bride, were themes that could never
be uninteresting to those who beheld this amiable pair,
when standing before the holy priest, they plighted hands
and hearts in a union as dear as their affections, and
indissoluble as their lives.

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Mr. Merrill, whose agency in accelerating this happy
denouement, gave him an undoubted right of exultation,
could not conceal his triumph. He whispered his next
neighbor, that “the bride was sartinly a very beautiful
creature, but then she was none too good for Mr. Sidney
Romilly, for sartin he didn't believe there was his equal
in the United States.”

And what does not often happen to eulogists of living
merit, his praises of his patron were listened to, not only
without a single shrug of incredulity, but his sentiments
warmly responded.

George Cranfield again officiated as bridesman, with
Miss Lucy Romilly for a partner; and to some inquiries,
why her sister, who was the eldest, was not associated
with him, it was whispered that Lucy was his favorite.
And here I will just mention the surmises that floated
among the young ladies of the village, after the Miss
Romillys had departed to their boarding-school.

“That Miss Lucy was educating for the wife of the
young clergyman; but that Miss Sophia would never
find a beau to her mind unless that grand Englishman
should return, which, as her brother kept up a constant
correspondence with him, it was pretty likely he had
engaged to do, as soon as she was sufficiently accomplished
to appear like a grand lady.”

Soon after the solemnization of the nuptials, Sidney
having made every arrangement which he thought could
conduce to the comfort and happiness of his mother and
her children, and followed by their affectionate blessings,
and the good wishes and kind adieus of all his Yankee
friends and acquaintance, departed with his bride for
their home in South Carolina.

A constant correspondence was mutually promised,
and the young couple engaged to make a visit to New
Hampshire every two years; and thus, with such flattering
expectations for the future usefulness and rational
felicity of her son, Mrs. Romilly was reconciled to the
separation that duty and convenience seemed alike to
impose, and she consigned little Harvey to the care of

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his brother without one bitter sigh, though tender tears
she sought not to restrain. And she even tacitly consented
to Sidney's proposal, that when, with his wife, he
made his contemplated visit to New Hampshire, one or
both of his sisters, whose education would then be completed,
should accompany his return.

The good people of Northwood then thought, what
the kind readers of this story are, probably, now thinking,
that Sidney Romilly had attained all he could wish
to make him happy. Still there was one heavy anxiety
resting on his mind. A solemn responsibility, he could
not evade rose before him. How this might be met and
fulfilled, in the right manner, was the question? The
way he solved it will be hinted in the next and last
chapter.