CHAPTER XXXII.

Now, kind friends, a few farewell words, and my story closes. On my ride from the depot home, I passed the old, familiar trees; yet, thought I, they have certainly grown smaller. And the brook, too--why, it was almost dried up; and the hills, how they had diminished in size! I insisted that some of them had been dug away.

There, before me, was the old homestead, the spot where my heart first learned attachment; where my mind had first opened its eyes; where a mother had tenderly nurtured me, from earliest infancy.

How sensibly the shadows of retrospection came creeping over my heart, as I first drew in sight of that endeared place! The roofs and windows looked familiar to my eye; the old trees waved their arms as of yore. I reached the door, raised the latch, and was locked in the embrace of father, mother, brothers. But the sister whom I had left there a light-hearted girl, had gone to gladden and cheer another’s home. She had pressed one darling babe to her bosom for a short space; then it had winged its way to blissful realms above, and left the mother desolate.

Now, you have accompanied me on my eventful voyage to California, around Cape Horn, on board burning ships; have sympathized with me in sorrow, joyed with me in pleasure; crossed the Isthmus with me, astride a mule; in fact, followed me through “dangers seen and unseen;” and, finally, reached with me the “old homestead.” And, if you have been repaid for the amount of time and patience expended, I am heartily glad of it; and, if you have not, I hope I shall ever remain in “blissful ignorance” of the loss. Good-by!

THE END.