"Do you think there is any danger that we shall be pursued?" asked Bob.

"Not the least," I replied. "I don't think any one will suspect that we have left town. I believe my uncle engaged a boatman to pursue the Splash. I saw a schooner, which I think was the Alert, standing up the lake, after we had landed. They will find the Splash in the brook where I left her. Old Jerry was going over after Tom Thornton, and very likely he will reach the cottage some time this afternoon. As it is almost a matter of life and death with him, no doubt he will follow; but he will be a day behind us. Now, Bob, I want to look over these papers, so as to determine what I am to do."

I read my father's will again. It appeared from this doc.u.ment that he belonged to the city of Philadelphia, but was temporarily residing in London. How long he lived there, or for what purpose, I had no means of knowing. His property, consisting of stocks, bonds, and other securities, amounted to over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, the income of one third of which, after paying legacies, was placed in trust for the use of my mother during her lifetime, and two thirds in trust for his son during his minority. Five thousand dollars was given to his brother, who was appointed his sole executor and trustee, with an annuity of fifteen hundred dollars, payable from the income of the trust funds, during the minority of his son Ernest; and of five hundred dollars during the life of his wife, if she survived the son's maturity.

In the event of his wife's decease, her third was to be held in trust for his son. The mother was appointed the guardian of the son; and if the son died before he was twenty-one, then the property was to go to his brother, "the said Amos."

"It is rather a mixed-up mess," said I, perplexed by the contingencies and the repet.i.tions.

"I don't think so," replied Bob, who was more of a lawyer than I was. "I understand it well enough. Your father gives your uncle five thousand dollars in the first place, and then the income of one third to your mother, and two thirds to you till you are of age. If your mother is living when you are twenty-one, your uncle pays you your two thirds; if she is not living, he is to pay you the whole; and that ends his connection with the business. He is to have fifteen hundred dollars a year for taking care of the property."

"I understand all that," I added.

"The rest of it is clear enough. If your mother dies before you are twenty-one, all the income goes to you. Whenever your mother dies, her share goes to you. If you die before your mother, your share goes to your uncle; and then your mother's share goes to him or his heirs at her death. It says at the end there that your uncle shall not be required to give bonds for the faithful performance of his duty under the will.

Don't you understand it?"

"I think I do; at least I understand enough of it. I would give all the money to know where my poor mother is. I care more for her than I do for myself."

"I think you will find her."

"O, I hope you will!" exclaimed Kate.

"I heard Tom tell my uncle that he had given him all the money he wanted," I added. "What do you suppose that means?"

"I suppose your uncle has given up the property to Tom," replied Bob.

"Tom lives in Philadelphia--don't he, Kate?"

"I think he does; indeed I am pretty sure of it," she answered.

"I can't see how they have managed the business without discovery. My father must have had some friends who knew about his affairs."

"And your mother, too," added Bob. "I don't see through it; but I suppose you will understand it one of these days."

"Bob, I don't like to carry this will round with me. I may lose it, or Tom Thornton may get it away from me. I want you to take it. Give it to your father, and ask him to keep it safe for me. And when I want a powerful friend, I shall call upon him."

"You may be sure he will do all he can for you," said Bob, heartily, as he carefully deposited the precious doc.u.ment in his pocket. "What else have you, Ernest?"

"Here is a letter directed to 'Robert G. Bunyard, London,'" I replied, producing it.

"I wouldn't open that yet. What else have you?"

"Here are half a dozen letters," I added, opening one of them.

"What does it say?--read it," said Bob, impatiently.

I read it, and it proved to be an acknowledgment of the receipt of two hundred pounds, signed by Bunyard.

Four others were of similar import, and all of them were dated in different years. The sixth began in the same manner, acknowledging a like sum of money. It was dated three years back. I read aloud, with intense emotion, a few lines that followed the business matter.

"'The poor lady is much more quiet and contented in her new home than she was at my last writing, and her physician hopes that she will soon be quite reconciled. She persists in declaring that she is entirely well, and wishes to return to America. She says nothing now about the melancholy death of her son, and we hope that good nursing and skilful treatment will eventually restore her, at least, to her ordinary degree of health.'"

"My poor mother!" I exclaimed, bursting into tears, and crushing the letter in my hand.

"How sad!" said Kate.

"I must go to her at once! I will find her, if I have to search through the earth for her!" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, bitterly, as I wiped away my tears.

"Did you think my uncle was such an infernal villain?"

"I did not, Ernest; but don't be distressed about it. The letter intimates that she is kindly treated."

"I hope she is."

"Have you any more papers, Ernest?" asked Bob, apparently as much with the intention of turning my thoughts away from the sad subject which agitated me, as of gratifying his own curiosity.

"That's all, Bob," I replied, taking from my pocket the piece of newspaper in which I had rolled up the money I had taken from the safe.

"Was it stealing for me to take this money?" I asked, as I unrolled the bills.

"I don't think it was," replied Bob. "You took it to pay your expenses in finding your mother; and, even if it were a technical theft, I don't think any one can blame you for what you have done. The money is really your own. How much is there?"

"I don't know. I haven't looked at it before."

"Count it, Ernest."

I did so, and was appalled to find I had taken between fourteen and fifteen hundred dollars.

"All right, Ernest. You are a smart fellow, and I'll tell you what I should do if I were in your place," replied Bob, who did not appear to be alarmed at the magnitude of the sum.

"What?"

"I would go to England in the very next steamer, and find my mother."

"Go to England!"

"It is clear enough to me that your mother is there. If you expect to find her, you must go there."

"I will do it, Bob," I replied, excited at the idea of crossing the ocean in search of my mother.

"Certainly; do it. You have a letter directed to--what's his name?"

"Robert G. Bunyard."

"Go to London, find this man, deliver the letter, and tell him you want to see the poor lady."

"I'll do it. Don't you suppose Tom Thornton will try to stop me?"

"No matter if he does. Keep a stiff upper lip."

"I shall do that. I have fought my way through so far, and I shall do it to the end," I replied, confidently. "It would have been better if I had avoided that scene with my uncle; but I could not help it."