Half a dozen times this lovely September morning the captain had strolled leisurely out of the back door and had mounted the low hillock for a better view.  Suddenly a light flashed in his face, followed by a look in his eyes that they had not known for weeks—­ not since the Swede left.  The light came when his glance fell upon Tod’s lithe figure swinging along the road; the look kindled when he saw Tod stop and wave his hand triumphantly over his head.

The letter had arrived!

With a movement as quick as that of a horse touched by a whip, he started across the sand to meet the surfman.

“Guess we got it all right this time, captain,” cried Tod.  “It’s got the Nassau postmark, anyhow.  There warn’t nothin’ else in the box but the newspapers,” and he handed the package to his chief.

The two walked to the house and entered the captain’s office.  Tod hung back, but the captain laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Come in with me, Fogarty.  Shut the door.  I’ll send these papers in to the men soon’s I open this.”

Tod obeyed mechanically.  There was a tone in the captain’s voice that was new to him.  It sounded as if he were reluctant to be left alone with the letter.

“Now hand me them spectacles.”

Tod reached over and laid the glasses in his chief’s hand.  The captain settled himself deliberately in his revolving chair, adjusted his spectacles, and slit the envelope with his thumb-nail.  Out came a sheet of foolscap closely written on both sides.  This he read to the end, turning the page as carefully as if it had been a set of official instructions, his face growing paler and paler, his mouth tight shut.  Tod stood beside him watching the lights and shadows playing across his face.  The letter was as follows: 

“Nassau, No. 4 Calle Valenzuela,

“Aug. 29, 18—.

“Father:  Your letter was not what I expected, although it is, perhaps, all I deserve.  I am not going into that part of it, now I know that Lucy and my child are alive.  What has been done in the past I can’t undo, and maybe I wouldn’t if I could, for if I am worth anything to-day it comes from what I have suffered; that’s over now, and I won’t rake it up, but I think you would have written me some word of kindness if you had known what I have gone through since I left you.  I don’t blame you for what you did—­I don’t blame anybody; all I want now is to get back home among the people who knew me when I was a boy, and try and make up for the misery I have caused you and the Cobdens.  I would have done this before, but it has only been for the last two years that I have had any money.  I have got an interest in the mine now and am considerably ahead, and I can do what I have always determined to do if I ever had the chance and means—­come home to Lucy and the child; it must be big now—­and take them back with me to Bolivia, where I have a good home and where, in a few years, I shall be able to