However much the pastor might assure the colonel that no one had interfered in the case, that the boy, after his mother’s death, without anyone’s intercession had come into the parsonage, and that from the boy himself, without himself knowing it, had come the suggestions about the country and the name of the grandfather,—­all explanation of the pastor did no good, the sturdy gentleman adhered to his firm opinion that the whole thing was the invented trick of a man who wished to make money, and that the disappearance of the boy at the necessary moment confirmed it.

“But how should, how could the man of whom you speak—­”

The colonel did not listen to the end of the sentence.  “You do not know this man,” he threw in, “you do not know his knavery, Sir!  I had a daughter, an only child; I had lost my wife soon after marriage; the child was all in all to me.  She was the sunshine of my house, beautiful as few, always joyous, amiable to everyone and full of talents.  She had a voice which delighted everyone; it was my joy.  I had her instructed in the house, also in music.  Then, a young teacher came and settled in the town, near which my estate lies.  People talked much about the young musician, and of his artistic skill.  He was engaged to teach on all our neighboring estates.  I did the same.  I had him come to my house every day and had no suspicion of misfortune.  After a few months, my daughter, who was hardly eighteen years old, told me that she wanted to marry that man.  I answered her that that never would happen; she should never again speak of such a thing.  She did not say another word, nor did she complain—­that was not her way.  I thought all was past and settled, but found it safer to stop the lessons, and I dismissed the instructor.  The same evening my daughter asked me, whether I could ever in my life change my opinion.  ‘Never in my life,’ I said, ’that is as sure as my military honor’.  The next morning, she had disappeared.  A letter left for me told me that she was going away with that man and would become his wife.  From that time on,—­it is now twelve years ago,—­I have never heard anything from my child, till your letter came.

“That my daughter is dead, I can well believe, but that she has left a helpless little boy, that I do not believe, for she would have sent such a boy, of whom she had a right to dispose, to me; she knows me, she would have known that I would give him my name, and the remembrance would be wiped away.  But this boy, who has disappeared again at the right time, has been substituted by the music-teacher, who no doubt lives somewhere in this neighborhood, and has done it for the purpose of receiving a sum of money from me.  And now, dear Sir, we are through.  The only thing left for me is to express my regret that, your kindness has been misused through my name; good-bye.”