Tells of Happy Meetings and Serious Consultations.  
Whether Captain Stride executed his commission well or not we cannot tell, and whether the meeting of Mrs Brooke with her long-lost son came to near killing or not we will not tell. Enough to know that they met, and that the Captain—with that delicacy of feeling so noticeable in seafaring men—went outside the cottage door and smoked his pipe while the meeting was in progress. After having given sufficient time, as he said, “for the first o’ the squall to blow over,” he summarily snubbed his pipe, put it into his vest pocket, and re-entered.
 
“Now, missus, you’ll excuse me, ma’am, for cuttin’ in atween you, but this business o’ the Leathers is pressin’, an’ if we are to hold a confabulation wi’ the family about it, why—”
 
“Ah, to be sure, Captain Stride is right,” said Mrs Brooke, turning to her stalwart son, who was seated on the sofa beside her. “This is a very, very sad business about poor Shank. You had better go to them, Charlie. I will follow you in a short time.”
 
“Mr Crossley is with them at this moment. I forgot to say so, mother.”
 
“Is he? I’m very glad of that,” returned the widow. “He has been a true friend to us all. Go, Charlie. But stay. I see May coming. The dear child always comes to me when there is anything good or sorrowful to tell. But she comes from the wrong direction. Perhaps she does not yet know of Mr Crossley’s arrival.”
 
“May! Can it be?” exclaimed Charlie in an undertone of surprise as he observed, through the window, the girl who approached.
 
And well might he be surprised, for this, although the same May, was very different from the girl he left behind him. The angles of girlhood had given place to the rounded lines of young womanhood. The rich curly brown hair, which used to whirl wildly in the sea-breezes, was gathered up in a luxuriant mass behind her graceful head, and from the forehead it was drawn back in two wavy bands, in defiance of fashion, which at that time was beginning to introduce the detestable modern fringe. Perhaps we are not quite un-biassed in our judgment of the said fringe, far it is intimately associated in our mind with the savages of North America, whose dirty red faces, in years past, were wont to glower at us from beneath just such a fringe, long before it was adopted by the fair dames of England!
 
In other respects, however, May was little changed, except that the slightest curl of sadness about her eyebrows made her face more attractive than ever, as she nodded pleasantly to the Captain, who had hastened to the door to meet her.
 
“So glad to see you, Captain Stride,” she said, shaking hands with unfeminine heartiness. “Have you been to see mother? I have just been having a walk before—”
 
She stopped as if transfixed, for at that moment she caught sight of Charlie and his mother through the open door.
 
Poor May flushed to the roots of her hair; then she turned deadly pale, and would have fallen had not the gallant Captain caught her in his arms. But by a powerful effort of will she recovered herself in time to avoid a scene.
 
“The sight of you reminded me so strongly of our dear Shank!” she stammered, when Charlie, hastening forward, grasped both her hands and shook them warmly. “Besides—some of us thought you were dead.”
 
“No wonder you thought of Shank,” returned Charlie, “for he and I used to be so constantly together. But don’t be cast down, May. We’ll get Shank out of his troubles yet.”
 
“Yes, and you know he has Ritson with him,” said Mrs Brooke; “and he, although not quite as steady as we could wish, will be sure to care for such an old friend in his sickness. But you’d better go, Charlie, and see Mrs Leather. They will be sure to want you and Captain Stride. May will remain here with me. Sit down beside me, dear, I want to have a chat with you.”
 
“Perhaps, ma’am, if I make so bold,” interposed the Captain, “Mr Crossley may want to have Miss May also at the council of war.”
 
“Mr Crossley! is he with my mother?” asked the girl eagerly.
 
“Yes, Miss May, he is.”
 
“Then I must be there. Excuse me, dear Mrs Brooke.”
 
And without more ado May ran out of the house. She was followed soon after by Charlie and the Captain, and Mrs Brooke was left alone, expressing her thankfulness and joy of heart in a few silent tears over her knitting.
 
There was a wonderful similarity in many respects between Mrs Brooke and her friend Mrs Leather. They both knitted—continuously and persistently. This was a convenient if not a powerful bond, for it enabled them to sit for hours together—busy, yet free to talk. They were both invalids—a sympathetic bond of considerable strength. They held the same religious views—an indispensable bond where two people have to be much together, and are in earnest. They were both poor—a natural bond which draws people of a certain kind very close together, physically as well as spiritually—and both, up to this time at least, had long-absent and semi-lost sons. Even in the matter of daughters they might be said, in a sense, to be almost equal, for May, loving each, was a daughter to both. Lastly, in this matter of similarity, the two ladies were good—good as gold, according to Captain Stride, and he ought to have been an authority, for he frequently visited them and knew all their affairs. Fortunately for both ladies, Mrs Brooke was by far the stronger-minded—hence they never quarrelled!
 
In Mrs Leather’s parlour a solemn conclave was seated round the parlour table. They were very earnest, for the case under consideration was urgent, as well as very pitiful. Poor Mrs Leather’s face was wet with tears, and the pretty brown eyes of May were not dry. They had had a long talk over the letter from Ritson, which was brief and to the point but meagre as to details.
 
“I rather like the letter, considering who wrote it,” observed Mr Crossley, laying it down after a fourth perusal. “You see he makes no whining or discontented reference to the hardness of their luck, which young scapegraces are so fond of doing; nor does he make effusive professions of regret or repentance, which hypocrites are so prone to do. I think it bears the stamp of being genuine on the face of it. At least it appears to be straightforward.”
 
“I’m so glad you think so, Mr Crossley,” said Mrs Leather; “for Mr Ritson is such a pleasant young man—and so good-looking, too!”
 
The old gentleman and the Captain both burst into a laugh at this.
 
“I’m afraid,” said the former, “that good looks are no guarantee for good behaviour. However, I have made up my mind to send him a small sum of money—not to Shank, Mrs Leather, so you need not begin to thank me. I shall send it to Ritson.”
 
“Well, thank you all the same,” interposed the lady, taking up her knitting and resuming operations below the table, gazing placidly all the while at her friends like some consummate conjuror, “for Ralph will be sure to look after Shank.”
 
“The only thing that puzzles me is, how are we to get it sent to such an out-o’-the-way place—Traitor’s Trap! It’s a bad name, and the stupid fellow makes no mention of any known town near to it, though he gives the post-office. If I only knew its exact whereabouts I might get some one to take the money to him, for I have agents in many parts of America.”
 
After prolonged discussion of the subject, Mr Crossley returned to town to make inquiries, and the Captain went to take his favourite walk by the sea-shore, where he was wont, when paying a visit to Sealford, to drive the Leathers’ little dog half-mad with delight by throwing stones into the sea for Scraggy to go in for—which he always did, though he never fetched them out.
 
In the course of that day Charlie Brooke left his mother to take a stroll, and naturally turned in the direction of the sea. When half-way through the lane with the high banks on either side he encountered May.
 
“What a pleasant pretty girl she has become!” was his thought as she drew near.
 
“Nobler and handsomer than ever!” was hers as he appro............