CHAPTER TWELVE.
"HOMEWARD BOUND." There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the "Gazette;" On James's head the grass is growing; Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Min's letters! Ah, how I expected them, awaited them, devoured them!-- from the first tender response that came in answer to mine, to the last little darling oblong-enveloped, dainty hand-written missive I received--ere I shook off the dust of the "Empire City" from my New- World-wearied feet, and left Sandy Hook behind me! It would be a vain task, should I attempt to describe to you the agony of suspense in which I watched every week for the arrival of the European mail; for, I'm sure, that Sir Samuel Cunard himself could not have evinced so deep an interest in the safety of his steamers as I did; no, not even if they had been uninsured, and the underwriters declined all offers of "risk" premiums, be they never so high and tempting! Long before the regular _Scotia_, the _Java_, or the _Russia_ could, in their several turns, possibly have achieved the ocean passage, I was on the look out for them; prophesying all manner of disasters in the event of their being delayed; and overjoyed, with a frenzied rapture, should they be signalled in advance of their anticipated time! And then, when they had glided up New York Bay and anchored in the Hudson, how rapidly would my eager impatience bear me to the dingy old Post office "down town," where I would sometimes have to wait for hours before the letters were sorted and delivered! Should there be none for me, I was in despair--imagining all the various calamities, probable and improbable, that might have happened--although I might have heard from England only a few days previously; while, should I obtain a dearly-prized note from my darling, I was in ecstasy-- only to be on the look out for the next mail a moment afterwards! I was never satisfied.
I remember an official in the Ann Street Bureau asking me one day, what made me "so almight lonesome" about the "old country;" and "guessing," when I took no notice of his question, that I had "a young woman over the water." Young woman, indeed! If looks could kill, that inquisitive and ill- mannered person was a dead man on the spot! I never heard anything so impertinent in my life! Her letters! I could almost see, as I read them, the dear, earnest, soul-lit grey eyes, gazing once more into mine; the loving little hand that penned each darling sentence.

In fancy, I could mark the changing expressions that swept across the sweet Madonna face, whose every line I knew so well, as, down-bent on the rustling paper, some sad or happy recollection filled her mind for awhile, in detailing those little events of her daily life which she related to please me.

She wrote to me easily and naturally, just as if she were talking to me--the greatest charm a letter can have.

The written words appeared to speak out to me in silvery intonations and musical rhythm:--the very violet ink seemed scented with her breath! Dear little Miss Pimpernell had endeavoured to satisfy, as far as she was able, the longing cravings of my heart for any intelligence about Min--how she was looking, if she saw her often, did she think of me, if she was happy or miserable at my absence; but, how little could her budgets compare with the letters I now got regularly, once a fortnight at least, from Min herself--the fountain-head of all my desires! She told me everything--where she went, what she did, even what she thought--in simple, artless language that made me know her better, in the thorough workings of her nature, than during those long months of our intimacy at home.
I had plenty of news, too; besides information, on sundry little points, which was only of interest to us two.
Nothing passed in Saint Canon's with which I was not made acquainted; and, I now learnt much that Miss Pimpernell had not told, or which I had been unable to make out and understand, through the difficulties I met with in the dear old lady's penmanship.
Her writing resembled more the intricate movements of a particularly sharp-legged and frisky spider, previously dipped in very pale ink, over the pages she laboured at so painstakingly for my benefit, than any ordinary calligraphy! _She_, however, believed it especially neat and intelligible; and, I would not have undeceived the dear old soul for the world! In one instance, she had mentioned--so I deciphered the intelligence-- something about Horner marrying, as I thought, Lizzie Dangler; but, I now found out from Min, that my Downing Street friend was _engaged_ only, not married; and, that the object of his choice was Seraphine Dasher, instead of the former young lady--the error being easily explainable in the fact, that all of Miss Pimpernell's capital letters, with the exception of her "B's" and "H's," bore a close family resemblance to each other; while, the remaining components of her words were composed of a single dash, and besides that, nothing.

Hence, arose the mistake of my confounding the two names, both of which commenced with a "D"-- which it was a wonder that I saw at all, it being Miss Pimpernell's weakest capital! But, I knew now who had really got the handkerchief thrown by the Sultan of Downing Street; while Lizzie Dangler was yet free to bless some more sagacious swain.