CHAPTER XIII.
A CONTEMPLATED VOYAGE.
Frederick Massingbird sat perched on the gate of a ploughed field, softly whistling.

His brain was busy, and he was holding counsel with himself, under the gray February skies.

Three weeks had gone by since the tidings arrived of the death of his brother, and Frederick was deliberating whether he should, or should not, go out.

His own letter from Luke Roy had been in substance the same as that which Luke had written to his father.

It was neither more explanatory, nor less so.
Luke Roy was not a first-hand at epistolary correspondence.