it's from Iceland. Good news from your father, I trust. God bless him!"
So saying he pushed the letter into Greeba's hand and went his way jauntily, singing as before the gay song of his native country—
"Then hurrah for the girls
Of the nut-brown curls,
And hurrah for the merry faces."
The letter was from Michael Sunlocks.
Chapter XIV.
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 take me for what I truly am—a rather thankless fellow, who has sometimes found himself in danger of forgetting old friends in the making of new ones, and been very heartily ashamed of himself. Nevertheless, the sweetest thoughts of these four years have been thoughts of the old home, and the dearest hope of my heart has been to return to it some day. That day has not yet come; but it is coming, and now I seem to see it very near. So, dear Greeba, forgive me if you can, or at least bear me no grudge, and let me tell you of some of the strange things that have befallen me since we parted.
"When I came to Iceland it was not to join the Latin school of the venerable Bishop John (a worthy man and good Christian, whom it has become my happiness to call my friend), but on an errand of mercy, whereof I may yet say much but can
