The Alderman took a paper, which his companion put gravely into his hand, and his eyes ran eagerly over its contents.  It was a letter to himself from the mother of Eudora, written after the birth of the latter, and with the endearing affection of a woman.  The love between the young merchant and the fair daughter of his secret correspondent had been less criminal on his part than most similar connexions.  Nothing but the peculiarity of their situation, and the real embarrassment of introducing to the world one whose existence was unknown to his friends, and their mutual awe of the unfortunate but still proud parent, had prevented a legal marriage.  The simple forms of the colony were easily satisfied, and there was even some reason to raise a question whether they had not been sufficiently consulted to render the offspring legitimate.  As Myndert Van Beverout, therefore, read the epistle of her whom he had once so truly loved, and whose loss had, in more senses than one, been to him an irreparable misfortune, since his character might have yielded to her gentle and healthful influence, his limbs trembled, and his whole frame betrayed the violence of extreme agitation.  The language of the dying woman was kind and free from reproach, but it was solemn and admonitory.  She communicated the birth of their child; but she left it to the disposition of her own father, while she apprized the author of its being of its existence; and, in the event of its ever being consigned to his care, she earnestly recommended it to his love.  The close was a leave-taking, in which the lingering affections of this life were placed in mournful contrast to the hopes of the future.

“Why has this so long been hidden from me?” demanded the agitated merchant—­“Why, oh reckless and fearless man! have I been permitted to expose the frailties of nature to my own child?”

The smile of the free-trader was bitter, and proud.

“Mr. Van Beverout, we are no dealers of the short voyage.  Our trade is the concern of life;—­our world, the Water-Witch.  As we have so little of the interests of the land, our philosophy is above its weaknesses.  The birth of Eudora was concealed from you, at the will of her grandfather.  It might have been resentment;—­it might have been pride.—­Had it been affection, the girl has that to justify the fraud.”

“And Eudora, herself?—­Does she—­or has she long known the truth?”

“But lately.  Since the death of our common friend, the girl has been solely dependent on me for counsel and protection.  It is now a year since she first learned she was not my sister.  Until then, like you, she supposed us equally derived from one who was the parent of neither.  Necessity has compelled me, of late, to keep her much in the brigantine.”

“The retribution is righteous!” groaned the Alderman, “I am punished for my pusillanimity, in the degradation of my own child!”

The step of the free-trader, as he advanced nearer to his companion, was full of dignity; and his keen eye glowed with the resentment of an offended man.