IN WHICH THE CLOUDS BLOW OVER, AND BOBBY IS HIMSELF AGAIN  
Fortunately for Bobby, the wind began to blow very heavily soon after he went on board of the lumber schooner, so that the captain was too much engaged in working his vessel to ask many questions. He was short handed, and though our hero was not much of a sailor he made himself useful to the best of his ability. Though the wind was heavy, it was not fair; and it was not till the third morning after his parting with Sam Ray that the schooner arrived off Boston Light. The captain then informed him that, as the tide did not favor him, he might not get up to the city for twenty-four hours; and, if he was in a hurry, he would put him on board a pilot boat which he saw standing up the channel.
 
"Thank you, captain; you are very kind, but it would give you a great deal of trouble," said Bobby.
 
"None at all. We must wait here till the tide turns; so we have nothing better to do."
 
"I should be very glad to get up this morning."
 
"You shall, then;" and the captain ordered two men to get out the jolly boat.
 
"I will pay my passage now, if you please."
 
"That is paid."
 
"Paid?"
 
"I should say you had worked your passage. You have done very well, and I shall not charge you anything."
 
"I expected to pay my passage, captain; but if you think I have done enough to pay it, why I have nothing to say, only that I am very much obliged to you."
 
"You ought to be a sailor, young man; you were cut out for one."
 
"I like the sea, though I never saw it till a few weeks since. But I suppose my mother would not let me go to sea."
 
"I suppose not; mothers are always afraid of salt water."
 
By this time the jolly boat was alongside; and bidding the captain adieu, he jumped into it, and the men pulled him to the pilot boat, which had come up into the wind at the captain's hail. Bobby was kindly received on board, and in a couple of hours landed at the wharf in Boston.
 
With a beating heart he made his way up into Washington Street. He felt strangely; his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened upon him. He could not doubt but that the story of his alleged crime had reached the city, and perhaps gone to his friends in Riverdale. How his poor mother must have wept to think her son was a thief! No; she never could have thought that. She knew he would not steal, if no one else did. And Annie Lee—would she ever smile upon him again? Would she welcome him to her father's house so gladly as she had done in the past? He could bring nothing to establish his innocence but his previous character. Would not Mr. Bayard frown upon him? Would not even Ellen be tempted to forget the service he had rendered her?
 
Bobby had thought of all these things before—on his cold, damp bed in the forest, in the watches of the tempestuous night on board the schooner. But now, when he was almost in the presence of those he loved and respected, they had more force, and they nearly overwhelmed him.
 
"I am innocent," he repeated to himself, "and why need I fear? My good Father in heaven will not let me be wronged."
 
Yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and when he reached the store of Mr. Bayard, he passed by, dreading to face the friend who had been so kind to him. He could not bear even to be suspected of a crime by him.
 
"Now or never," said he, as he turned round.
 
"I will know my fate at once, and then make the best of it."
 
Mustering all his courage, he entered the store. Mr. Timmins was not there; so he was spared the infliction of any ill-natured remark from him.
 
"Hallo, Bobby!" exclaimed the gentlemanly salesman, whose acquaintance he had made on his first visit.
 
"Good morning, Mr. Bigelow," replied Bobby with as much boldness as he could command.
 
"I didn't know as I should ever see you again. You have been gone a long while."
 
"Longer than usual," answered Bobby, with a blush; for he considered the remark of the salesman as an allusion to his imprisonment. "Is Mr. Bayard in?"
 
"He is—in his office."
 
Bobby's feet would hardly obey the mandate of his will, and with a faltering step he entered the private room of the bookseller. Mr. Bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the morning paper, and did not observe his entrance. With his heart up in his throat, and almost choking him, he stood for several minutes upon the threshold. He almost feared to speak, dreading the severe frown with which he expected to be received. Suspense, however, was more painful than condemnation, and he brought his resolution up to the point.
 
"Mr. Bayard," said he, in faltering tones.
 
"Bobby!" exclaimed the bookseller, dropping his paper upon the floor, and jumping upon his feet as though an electric current had passed through his frame.
 
Grasping our hero's hand, he shook it with so much energy that, under any other circumstances, Bobby would have thought it hurt him. He did not think so now.
 
"My poor Bobby! I am delighted to see you!" continued Mr. Bayard.
 
Bobby burst into tears, and sobbed like a child, as he was. The unexpected kindness of this reception completely overwhelmed him.
 
"Don't cry, Bobby; I know all about it;" and the tender-hearted bookseller wiped away his tears. "It was a stroke of misfortune; but it is all right now."
 
But Bobby could not help crying, and the more Mr. Bayard attempted to console him, the more he wept.
 
"I am innocent, Mr. Bayard," he sobbed.
 
"I know you are, Bobby; and all the world knows you are."
 
"I am ruined now; I shall never dare to hold my head up again."
 
"Nonsense, Bobby; you will hold your head the higher. You have behaved like a hero."
 
"I ran away from the State Reform School, sir. I was innocent, and I would rather have died than stayed there."
 
"I know all about it, my young friend. Now dry your tears, and we will talk it all over."
 
Bobby blew and sputtered a little more; but finally he composed himself, and took a chair by Mr. Bayard's side. The bookseller then drew from his pocket a ponderous document, with a big official seal upon it, and exhibited it to our hero.
 
"Do you see this, Bobby? It is your free and unconditional pardon."
 
"Sir! Why——"
 
"It will all end well, you may depend."
 
Bobby was amazed. His pardon? But it would not restore his former good name. He felt that he was branded as a felon. It was not mercy, but justice, that he wanted.
 
"Truth is mighty, and will prevail," continued Mr. Bayard; "and this document restores your reputation."
 
"I can hardly believe that."
 
"Can't you? Hear my story then. When I read in one of the Maine papers the account of your misfortune, I felt that you had been grossly wronged. You were coupled with that Tom Spicer, who is the most consummate little villain I ever saw, and I understood your situation. Ah, Bobby, your only mistake was in having anything to do with that fellow."
 
"I left him at Brunswick because he beg............