lost to me forever, as did also my daughter, my poor daughter, who, broken-hearted at the tragedy of the ‘Cynthia,’ still mourns every day for her only child—­the joy and consolation at first of her widowhood, but afterward the cause of her despair.

“But we shall see you again alive, covered with glory.  Such happiness is too great, too wonderful.  I dare not believe it until a word from you authorizes me to do so.  But now it seems so probable, the details and dates agree so perfectly, your countenance and manners recall so vividly those of my unfortunate son-in-law.  Upon the only occasion when chance led me into your society, I felt myself mysteriously drawn toward you by a deep and sudden sympathy.  It seems impossible that there should be no reason for this.

“One word, telegraph me one word.  I do not know how to exist until I hear from you.  Will it be the response that I wait for so impatiently?  Can you bring such happiness to my poor daughter and myself as will cause us to forget our past years of tears and mourning?

     “E.  DURRIEN, Honorary Consul-general,

     “104 Rue de Varennes, Paris.”

To this letter was added one of explanation, that Erik devoured eagerly.  It was also in Mr. Durrien’s handwriting, and read as follows: 

“I was the French consul at New Orleans when my only daughter, Catherine, married a young Frenchman, Mr. George Durrien, a distant connection, and, like ourselves, of Breton origin.  Mr. George Durrien was a mining engineer.  He had come to the United States to explore the recently discovered mines of petroleum and intended to remain several years.  I received him into my family—­he being the son of a dear friend—­and when he asked for my daughter’s hand, I gave her to him with joy.  Shortly after their marriage I was appointed consul to Riga; and my son-in-law being detained by business interests in the United States, I was obliged to leave my daughter.  She became a mother, and to her son was given my Christian name, united to that of his father—­Emile Henry Georges.

“Six months afterward my son-in-law was killed by an accident in the mines.  As soon as she could settle up his affairs, my poor daughter, only twenty years of age, embarked at New York on the ‘Cynthia’ for Hamburg, to join me by the most direct route.

     “On the 7th of October, 1858, the ‘Cynthia’ was shipwrecked off the
     Faroe Islands.  The circumstances of the shipwreck were suspicious,
     and have never been explained.

“At the moment of the disaster, when the passengers were taking their places one by one in the boat, my little grandson, seven months old—­whom his mother had tied to a buoy for safety—­slipped or was pushed into the sea, and was carried away by the storm and disappeared.  His mother, crazed by this frightful spectacle, tried to throw herself into