Rambling Reminiscences of Absent Friends, and a Happy Termination.  
On the evening of a cold December day—the last day of the year—many months after the occurrence of the events narrated in the last chapter, old Mrs Osten sat in her drawing-room, toasting her toes before a cheerful fire. The widow looked very happy, and, to say truth, she had good reason for being so, for her stalwart son had come home to her safe and sound, and was at that moment sitting by her side talking in a most amazing way about his Flora—referring to her as a sort of captive bird which had now no chance of escaping, saying that he meant to take her to Paris, and Switzerland, and Rome, and in summer to the English Lakes, and Killarney, and the Scotch Highlands.
 
“In fact, mother,” said Will, “after that little event comes off, which is fixed to take place next week, I mean to act the part of Wandering Will over again under entirely new and much more interesting circumstances. Ah! mother,” he continued with enthusiasm, “how little did I think, when I was travelling through the wild regions of the far west, that I was being led to the spot where I should find such a wife!”
 
“Yes, dear, you were indeed led,” said Mrs Osten, “for that wild region was the very last place in the world to which you would have thought of going to look for a good wife, had you been guided by your own wisdom.”
 
“True, mother, most true. Gold is much more plentiful in that land than wives, either good or bad. I wonder how my old comrades are getting on there now. You remember Larry, mother, and Bunco. How I wish I could have had them all here at our wedding! You would have delighted in old Captain Dall, and Captain Blathers, too, he’s not a bad fellow though rather wild, but Big Ben would have pleased you most—by the way, this is the last night of the year. I doubt not they will be remembering me to-night, and drinking my health in clear cold water from the crystal springs of the Sierra Nevada. Come, I will pledge them in the same beverage,” said Will, seizing a glass of water that stood at his elbow; “may success, in the highest sense of the word, attend them through life.”
 
“Amen,” murmured the widow, as Will drained the glass; “I hope they may get plenty of gold without catching the gold-fever, which is just another name for the love of gold, and that, you know, is the root of all evil. But go on telling me about your adventures, Will; I never tire of hearing you relate them.”
 
“Well, mother, I’ll begin again, but if you will be for ever interrupting me with questions and remarks about Flora, I shall never get to the end of them. Now, then, listen.”
 
Hereupon Will began to talk, and his mother to listen, with, we need scarcely say, intense interest.
 
Thus was the last night of that year passed in the drawing-room. Let us see how it was spent in the kitchen.
 
“Yes, Jemimar,” said Maryann, with her mouth full of buttered toast, “I always said it, and I always thought it, and I always knowed it, that Master Will would come ’ome, and marry a sweet beautiful young lady, which ’as come true, if ever a profit spoke, since the day of Jackariah—let me fill your cup, my dear, p’raps you’ll ’and me the kettle, Richards.”
 
The worthy coachman rose with alacrity to obey, and Jemima accepted the proffered cup of tea in the midst of a vain attempt to quiet the baby Richards, which happened to be unusually restive that night.
 
“To think, too,” continued Maryann with a laugh, “that I should ’ave gone an’ mistook the dear creetur at first for a cannibal!”
 
“Maryhann,” said Jemima, solemnly, “I don’t believe there’s no such things as cannibals.”
 
“No more do I, Jemimar—did you speak, Mr Richards?” inquired Maryann, with a sudden assumption of dignity.
 
The coachman, who was devotedly engaged with his fifth slice of buttered toast, protested solemnly that he had not spoken, but admitted that he had experienced a tendency to choke—owing to crumbs—just at the point when Maryann happened to allude to the cannibals. Maryann had a suspicion that the tendency to choke was owing to other causes than crumbs; but as she could not prove her point, and as the baby Richards took it into his head at that moment to burst into an unaccountable and vehement fit of laughter, she merely tossed her head, and resumed her observations.
 
“No, Jemimar, nothing will ever convince me that there are any savages so depravated as to prefer a slice of ’uman flesh to a good beefsteak, an’ it’s my belief that that himperent Irishman, Larry O’Ale, inwented it all to gammon us.”
 
“I quite agree with you, Maryhann,” said Jemima, who indeed always agreed with any proposition her friend chose to put forth; “an’ I ’old that it is contrairy to ’uman reason to imagin such beastliness, much less to do it.”
 
Here Richards had the temerity to observe that he wasn’t quite sure that such things were never done; “for,” said he, “I ’eard Mr Osten himself say as ’ow he’d seen ’em do it, an’ surely he wouldn’t go for to tell a lie.” At which remark Jemima advised him to hold his tongue, and Maryann replied, with an expression of scorn, that she wondered to ’ear ’im. Did he suppose Master Will didn’t sometimes indulge in a little ’armless jesting like other people? She would have added more, but unfortunately the crumbs got into Richards’ throat again, causing that sceptical man to grow red in the face, and give vent to sounds like mild choking.
 
“’Owever,” observed Jemima, “it don’t matter now, as Mr William and ’is bride are safe ’ome again, and if Mr O’Ale also was fond of a joke, like other people, there is no ’arm in that. Poor fellow, I ’ope ’e’s well, an’ Mr Bunco too, though he is a Red Hindian.”
 
“’Ear ’ear!” said Richards, suddenly seizing his cup; “let us drink their ’ealth, an’ the ’ealth of all their comrades, for this is the last night of the year, an’ by all accounts they won’t likely be spendin’ it in the midst o’ such comforts an’ blessin’s as we does. Come, lasses, drink it merrily, fill yer glasses, let the teapot circle round.”
 
The tone in which this proposal was made, and the fact that it was the last night of the year, induced Maryann to respond, with gracious condescension:—
 
“Well, Richards, I’m agreeable.”
 
“Here, then,” said Richards, raising his cup on high, “I give you the ’ealth of Mr Larry O’Ale, Mr Bunco, an’ all absent friends—wishin’ ’em luck, an’ lots o’ gold.”
 
“An’ a ’appy deliverance from these ’orrible countries,” added Maryann.
 
“I agree with you, Maryhann,” said Jemima, draining her cup to the dregs in honour of the toast.
 
But how did Larry and his friends spend that last night of the year in the far-off golden land? Let Larry speak for himself, in a letter which was received by Will Osten, many months afterwards, and which we now give verbatim et literatim.
 
The letter in question was written in a remarkably cramped hand, on several very dirty sheets of blue ruled foolscap, folded with much care and crookedness, and fastened with a red wafer which bore the distinct impression of an extremely hard knuckle. It ran thus:—
 
“Grizlie bar gultch first janooary.
 
“Dear mister osten, i taik up my pen, the its litil i has to do wid sitch things, to let yoo no that this coms hopin’ your al wel as it leeves us—barrin bunko who overait hiself last nite at super but hees al rite again, yool be glad to larn that we hav diskivered lots o goold. wan day whin i wos up the straim i thowt id tri me luk in a hole, an faix didnt i turn up a nugit o puer goold as big as my hid. i tuk it down to the hous an’ didnt we spind a nite over it! its glad i was we had no likker for i do belaive weed have all got rorin drunk, as it was, sure we danced haf the nite to the myoosik of a kitle drum—an owld tin kitle it was, but we didnt mind that, niver a taist, for the nugit kep up our sperits. Wel, we wint an turned up the hole kuntry after that, an’ got heeps o goold. yool niver belaive it—there was nugits o’ all sises from a pay to a pitaity. Kaptin dal wint to sanfransisky last munth an hees paid of the det to mister zooleeno, interest an all, so yoor free, an’ theres a big sum in the bank, but i dont no ritely how much, but Kaptin dal is to rite yoo soon as to that an’ a good many other things, he’s too much exited about the nugit just now to midle wid the pen, so he’s maid me his depity, dee see, an its that saim im allways willin to be, for im at all times as kool as a kookumber, an had a first-rate eddikashun—good luk to the parish praist, anyhow—theres a good skreed to begin wid, an’ so as theres enuff in this part o’ me leter to kaip ye thinkin till dinner, ill just go out an have another dig in the straim an resoom me pen when i cum bak.
 
“Wel, mister osten, as i wor saying, ive returned havin got nothin, bad skran to it, but a few small bits like a thimble, howsumeiver, that samell pay for sharpnin the tools, i now sit down to resoom me pen, as i said before i got up, but och! if ye heerd the row the other boys is goin on wid, yed find it as diffikilt to read this as i do to spel it. but niver mind, that saim dont mater much, for, as i said before, im allways kooll.
 
“Wel—youve no notion what a work we hav wid the goold, bekais, dee see, weer pikin it up in handfulls, sumtimes wid a nugit, now an again, like yer fist, an the boys is raither exited, for ov koorse they kant al keep as kool as me—but let that pas. as I wor sayin, the row is diffinin for that blakgird Buckywangy is spinin a yarn as long as the mane yard o a sivinty-fore about wan o’ thim spalpeens in the kanible ilands as had his unkles darters waitin maid, as wor a slaiv, hashed up, wid two litle boys an a pig, into what hees got the face to call a Irish stu, an it didnt sit lit on the Kanibles stumick for the raisin they forgot the pepper—its not aisy to write wid sich blarny ringin’ in wans eers—an the boys larfin too as loud, amost as the nigers yel in the Kanible islands—be the way, that minds me o purty miss westwood as we met thair. its mistress osten sheel be by this no doubt, plaiz give her Larry’s best respeks, an its wishin her good luck i am, an the saim to yersilf.
 
“Yool be glad to heer that buncos found his wife, he wint away south for three or fore weeks, an brot her bak wid him, an she hadnt married nobody in his absence, the its urgin her purty hard they was. shees patchin a pair o me owld breeches at this minit while I write them lines, an is uncomon usful wid her needle, capn blathers says he had no notion before that wimin was so nisisary to man. but hees a dirty owld bachiler. the traper tawks o laivin us, im sory to say. hees a good harted man an a rail broth of a boy is big ben, but he dont take kindly to goold diggin, thats not to say he kant dig. hees made more nor most of us, an more be token he gave the most of it away to a poor retch of a feller as kaim hear sik an starvin on his way to sanfransisky. but big bens heart is in the roky mountins, i kan see that quite plain, i do belaiv he ha............