The captain of the whale ship very kindly took the young voyagers to his own house until their affairs were settled up. He had dealt fairly and justly by them in all things, and both were grateful to him for the interest he had manifested in their welfare.

"What are you going to do now, Noddy?" asked Mollie, after the instruments had been sold and the proceeds paid over to them.

"I'm going to Woodville, now, to face the music," replied Noddy. "I suppose they will take me to the court-house; but I have made up my mind to submit to the penalty, whatever it may be, for setting the boat-house afire."

"Fanny has told all about it before this time, you may be certain," added Mollie, to whom he had related the story of the fire.

"I hope she has not; for I think I am the guilty one. She wouldn't have set the fire if it hadn't been[248] for me. I am going to stand right up to it, and take the consequences, even if they send me to prison; but I hope they won't do that."

"I'm sure they won't. But, Noddy, suppose Miss Fanny has not told the truth yet. Will you still deceive your kind friends? You told me you had been made over new since you left Woodville, and I know you have. You said you meant to live a good life, and not lie, or steal, or get angry, or do anything that is bad."

"Well, I mean so, Mollie. I intend to stick to it. They won't know anything about that. They won't believe anything I say."

"They must believe you. I'll go with you, Noddy!" exclaimed she, smiling at the happy thought. "I will tell them all about you."

"That will be jolly; and the sooner we go the better."

Their good friend the captain found a gentleman who was going to New York, and they accompanied him, though Noddy felt abundantly able to take care of himself and his fair charge. They arrived the next morning, and took an early train for Woodville.

Noddy conducted Mollie down the road to the lawn in front of the house. His heart bounded with emotion as he once more beheld the familiar scenes of the past. As he walked along he pointed out to his interested companion the various objects which[249] were endeared to him by former associations. He talked because he could not help it; for he was so agitated he did not know whether he was on his head or his heels. He heard a step on one of the side paths. He turned to see who it was, and Bertha Grant rushed towards him.

"Why, Noddy! It that you?" cried she, grasping him with both hands. "I am so glad to see you!"

"You'd better believe I'm glad to see you again," said he, trying to keep from crying.

The poor fellow actually broke down, he was so much affected by the meeting.

"I didn't expect to see you again for years, after the letter you wrote me."

"Been cast away, Miss Bertha, and lived two months on an island where nobody lived," blubbered Noddy.

"Who is this little girl with you? Is this Mollie, of whom you spoke in your letter?"

"Yes, Miss Bertha, that's Mollie; and she is the best girl in the world, except yourself."

"I'm very glad to see you, Mollie," said Bertha, taking her hand, and giving her a kind reception. "Now, come into the house."

Bertha, finding Noddy so completely overcome by his emotions, refrained from asking him any more questions, though she was anxious to hear the sad story of the shipwreck. Mr. Grant had not yet gone[250] to the city, and he received the returned exiles as though they had been his own children.

"I've come back, Mr. Grant, to settle up old affairs, and you can send me to the court-house or the prison now. I did wrong, and I am willing to suffer for it."

"I have told them all about it, Noddy," interrupted Miss Fanny, blushing. "I couldn't stand it after you went away."

"It was my fault," said Noddy. "I said so then, and I say so now."

"We won't say anything about that until after breakfast. We are very glad you have come back; and we don't care about thinking of anything else, at present," said Mr. Grant.

Breakfast was provided for the wanderer and his friend, and Mollie was soon made quite at home by the kind attentions of Bertha and Fanny. When the meal was ended, Noddy insisted upon "settling up old affairs," as he called it. He declared that the blame ought to rest on him, and he was willing to suffer. Mr. Grant said that he was satisfied. Fanny was to blame, and she had already been severely punished for her fault.

"You will not send poor Noddy to prison—will you?" interposed Mollie. "He is a good boy now. He saved my life, and took care of me for months. You will find that he is not the same Noddy, he used to be. He is made over new."[251]

"I'm glad to hear that," replied Mr. Grant. "But Noddy, did you really think I intended to send you to jail?"

"Yes, sir; what was the constable after me for, if not for that?"

"It's a mistake, and I told you so in Albany. Didn't I say you would be a rich man?"

"You did, sir; but I thought that was only to catch me. All of them said something of that sort. I knew I couldn't be a rich man, because my father never had a cent to leave me. That's what they told me."

"But you had an uncle."

"Never heard of him," replied Noddy, bewildered at the prospect before him.

"Your father's only brother died in California more than a year ago. He had no family; but an honest man who went with him knew where he came from; and Squire Wriggs has hunted up all the evidence, which fully proves that all your uncle's property, in the absence of other heirs, belongs to you. He left over thirty thousand dollars, and it is all yours."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Noddy, utterly confounded by this intelligence.

"This sum, judiciously invest............