“A roving nobody!” the old man muttered, striving to pull himself together.  “A rascally”—­but here he stopped abruptly, for a stern hand was laid on his arm.

“I am speaking at this present, sir!” said the Skipper.  “Of this man I do not ask you the character.  I tell my story, if you please, in my own way.

“The mother, by this time, is dead.  The father, unwilling to part with his daughter,—­alas! the parental heart, how must it be torn?  As yours, the tender one, last night, on missing this beloved child, Sir Scraper.  The father, I say, opposes the marriage; at length only, and after many tears, much sorrow, some anger, consents; the daughter, sister, Zenobia, goes with her husband away, promising quickly to return, to take her old father to her home in the southern islands.  Ah, the interesting tale, is it not?  Observe, Colorado, my son, how I am able to move this, your dear guardian.  The pleasant thing, to move the mind of age, so often indifferent.

“Zenobia goes away, and the son, the good son, the one faithful and devoted, who will not marry, so great his love for his parent, is left with that parent alone.  How happy can we fancy that parent, is it not?  How gay for him the days, how sweet for him the nights, lighted with love, and smoothed his pillow by loving hands,—­ah, the pleasant picture!  But how, my friend, you feel yourself not well?  Colorado, a glass of water for your guardian.”

The old man motioned the child back, his little eyes gleaming with rage and fear.

“You—­you come a-nigh me, you brat, and I’ll wring your neck!” he gasped.  “Well, Mister, have you finished your—­your story, as you call it?  Why do I want to listen to your pack of lies, I should like to know?  I wonder I’ve had patience to let you go on so long.”

“Why do you want to listen?” the Skipper repeated.  “My faith, do I know?  But the appearance of interest in your face so venerable, it touch me to the heart.  Shall I go and tell the rest of my story to him there, that other, the justice of the peace?  But no, it would break your heart to hear not the end.  That we proceed then, though not so cheerful the ending of my story.  Zenobia, in her southern home, happy, with her child at her knee, feels still in her heart the desire to see once more her father, to bring him to her, here in the warm south to end his days of age.  She writes, but no answer comes; again she writes, and again, grief in her soul, to think that anger is between her and one so dear.  At last, after a long time, a letter from her brother, the stay-at-home, the faithful one; their father is dead; is dead,—­without speaking of her; the property is to him left, the faithful son.  It is finished, it is concluded, the earth is shut down over the old man, and no more is to say.

“With what tender, what loving words this cruel news tells itself, needs not to repeat to a person so of feeling as yourself, Sir Scraper.  Zenobia, sad woman, believes what she is told; bows her head, gathers to her closer her husband and her son, and waits the good time when God shall make to her good old father the clear knowledge that she has always loved him.  Ah, yes, my faith!