MARTIN RATTLER. 287

little wine. It will strengthen her for a time, but I
fear there is no hope. I will send in a bottle if you
wish it.”

Martin gave him the requisite sum, and in a few
minutes the wine was brought up by a boy.

The effect of the wine was wonderful. Aunt
Dorothy’s eyes sparkled as they used to do in days
of old, and she spoke with unwonted energy.

“You are kind to me, young man,” she said, look-
ing earnestly into Martin’s face, which, however, he
kept carefully in shadow. “May our Lord reward
you!”

“Would you like me to talk to you of your
nephew?” said Martin. “I have seen him abroad.”

“Seen my boy! Is he not dead?”

“No; he is alive, and in this country, too.”

Aunt Dorothy turned pale, but did not reply for a
few minutes, during which she grasped his hand con-
vulsively.

“Turn your face to the light,” she said faintly.

Martin obeyed, and bending over her whispered,
“He is here; I am Martin, my dear, dear aunt—”

No expression of surprise escaped from Aunt
Dorothy as she folded her arms round his neck and
pressed his head upon her bosom. His hot tears fell

upon her neck while she held him, but she spoke not.