Once on the way to Europe, there was hope, even though that way was by America.  He parted from his former master, now his friend, with a feeling of regret; but the fresh breezes, the consciousness he stood on deck free as the wind, free as the ocean that bore him onward to his native land, removed from his mind all lingering dread, and filled his soul with joy; but the human heart is not now in a state to feel for any length of time unchecked happiness.  Four-and-twenty years had elapsed since Mordaunt had been imagined dead; six-and-twenty since he had departed from his native land, and had last beheld his friends he so dearly loved.  He might return, and be by all considered an intruder, perhaps not recognised, his tale not believed; he might see his family scattered, all of them with new ties, new joys, and with no place for the long-absent exile.  The thought was anguish, but Mordaunt had weakly indulged it too long to enable him at first to conquer it, even when Edward’s tale of the fond remembrance in which his uncle was held by all who had loved him, unconsciously penetrated his soul with a sense of the injustice he had done his friends, and brought consolation with it.

These facts, which we have so briefly thrown together, formed most interesting subjects to Edward many times during his voyage to New York.  Edward hung as in fascination on the stranger’s history, innate nobleness was stamped in every word.  More than once the thought struck him that he was more than what he appeared to be, but Edward knew he had a slight tendency towards romance in his composition, and fearful of lowering himself in the estimation of his newfound friend by the avowal of such fanciful sentiments, he kept them to himself.

At length the wished-for port to both the Englishmen (New York) was gained, and their passage secured in the first packet sailing for England.  Edward’s heart beat high with anticipated pleasure; he longed to introduce his new friend to his family, and his bright anticipations shed a kindred glow over the mind of Mordaunt, who had now become so devotedly attached to the youth, that he could scarcely bear him out of his sight; and had he wanted fresh incentive to affection, the deep affliction of the young sailor on receiving the intelligence of his cousin Herbert’s death, would have been sufficient.  Edward had one day sought the post-office, declaring, however, that it was quite impossible such increased joy could be in store for him, as a letter from home.  There were two instead of one:  one from his aunt and uncle, the other from his sister; the black seal painfully startled him.  Mourning for poor Mary is over long ere this, he thought, and scarcely had he strength to break the seal, and when he had read the fatal news, he sat for some time as if overwhelmed with the sudden and unexpected blow.