Michael Sunlocks.




CHAPTER IV.

THE RISE OF MICHAEL SUNLOCKS.


"Dear Greeba," the letter ran, "I am sorely ashamed of my long
silence, which is deeply ungrateful towards your father, and very
ungracious towards you. Though something better than four years have
passed away since I left the little green island, the time has seemed
to fly more swiftly than a weaver's shuttle, and I have been immersed
in many interests and beset by many anxieties. But I well know that
nothing can quite excuse me, and I would wrong the truth if I were to
say that among fresh scenes and fresh faces I have borne about me
day and night the memory of all I left behind. So I shall not pretend
to a loyalty whereof I have given you no assurance, but will just
pray of you to takeat
the Orkneys, or the Faroes. But if it sailed a fortnight before you
wrote, it ought to be here now. I will make inquiries forthwith.

"I interrupted my letter to send a boat down the fiord to look. It is
gone. I can see it now skirting the Smoky Harbor on its way to the
Smoky Point. If your father comes back with it, he shall have a
thousand, thousand welcomes. The dear good man--how well I remember
that on the day I parted from him he rallied me on my fears, and
said he would yet come here to see me! Little did he think to come
like this. And the worst of his misfortunes have followed on his
generosities! Such bighearted men should have a store like the
widow's curse to draw from, that would grow