It certainly would seem a very unceremonious proceeding to escort a little party across the great, wide sea, and then follow the fortunes of some of the group, to the utter exclusion of others; so if you please we will just take a look right away at the snug little English cottage to which Chris Hartley hurried the same April morning that he reluctantly took leave of Marie-Celeste at the steamer. The cottage itself is just such a dear little place as you find nowhere else save in England. It is straw-thatched, and thatch and walls alike are mellow with the same soft grav of time and weather. The cottage stands close to the river Thames, on the outskirts of the town of Nuneham. In front is an even hawthorn hedge, that reaches round to the back as well, and encloses a quaint little kitchen garden. Beyond the hedge lies a pasture meadow, where a flock of sheep are grazing, and encircling the meadow another hedge, less closely clipped, and so making bold to riot here and there in a snowy wealth of hawthorn blossom, A fine Alderney cow, with coat as well cared for as the gray mare's in the stable, is also enjoying the sweet grass of the meadow, and the shining milk, pans ranged beneath the kitchen window bear witness to the generous service she renders. Within the little cottage all is as prim and dainty and neat as without, for the sweet-faced old housewife gives as close heed to the household as the “gudeman” of the house to the flock and the cow and the hedgerows. And this was the home to which Chris had come--to the grandparents who had cared for his orphaned boyhood, and whom he never would have left but for the more certain prospect of well-paid work across the water. And now five years have gone by, and having grown strong and manly, meantime, through his contact with the world, Chris is back on his first home visit, and you may be sure he has not come empty-handed. For the grandfather there is a new wallet with twenty five-pound notes laid between its leather-scented covers, and for the grandmother a labor-saving gift that will never cease to be a marvel--a wonder-working churn that turns Bess's milk to butter in just twelve seconds over a minute. And best of all, Chris himself is just the same thoughtful fellow he left them, and at once settles down to a general supervision of the farm, that leaves the old man free to smoke his brier-wood pipe and read the news from morning till night, if he cares to.