lost.  I now longed to see my father, peace was declared, the Independence of America admitted, and as I had fought under an assumed name, I anticipated no danger.  I was received as one from the grave.  I never mentioned my marriage, even to my father, but accounted for my absence and my silence, by saying that, ashamed to come home after being dismissed, I had gone in a merchant vessel to India, and had there been taken prisoner by the Lootees, a species of banditti, while on an excursion inland.  My tale was easily believed; to please my father, I married again.  The sister of good Mrs. Ally, my second wife, was a good and kind woman, and after the birth of my daughter Mary, I again hoped for happiness.  Vain hope.  The malice of the De Montford family was again let loose upon me.  Your grandfather was dead.  I knew nothing of the events that had occurred during my absence, and supposed that his first wife had died in Italy, and her son also.  But the countess had found among her husband’s papers, so I suppose, at least, for on this point I am uninformed, something which threw light upon the past, and, supposing that I knew of the existence of your father resolved on removing me.  I was fond of shooting, and one day shot a hare in a distant part of the manor.  I had been watched, by her orders, and a charge of poaching was instituted against me.  Her son was absent then, upon his murderous errand, as I afterwards knew.  I was tried on a charge of poaching; the game laws were severe; the justice was her creature, and despite the entreaties of my father, and the tears of my wife, I was condemned to transportation for seven years.’

A bitter sneer was curling on the young man’s lip; the mariner’s face had resumed its stern expression.  ’The details of my escape from Botany Bay are unimportant.  Suffice it, that I once more reached America, and devoted my energies to tracing the fate of my child.  In Savannah I was fortunate enough to meet with the attendant of your grandmother.  She had accompanied a family of refugees from European disturbances, and from her I learned not only what I have told you already—­but that my daughter had been married, and that her husband was no other than the son of her old mistress and your father!’

The young man threw his hands towards heaven and fell on his knees.

’O Thou, whose ways are inscrutable, blessed be thy name, for out of darkness thou hast brought light, and turned the misdeeds of the guilty upon themselves, and made the promptings of nature yearn in the heart of the orphan boy towards the father of my mother.’

He fell upon the old man’s neck and sobbed.  Such emotions are no disgrace to manhood.  The mariner strained him to his heart, and it was some time ere the emotion of both had subsided sufficiently to enable the one to ask or the other to give further explanation.  At length the mariner resumed.  ’From this woman, who had recognised your father by a peculiar mark on his hand, I learned that she