Relinquishing Daddy’s hand, he commanded him to go and bring him Annette and Nicholas.  “Bring them,” he says, “without the knowledge of their mothers.”  Bob withdrew, hastened to the cabins in the yard to fulfil the mission.  Poor things, thought Marston; they are mine, how can I disown them?  Ah, there’s the point to conquer-I cannot!  It is like the mad torrents of hell, stretched out before me to consume my very soul, to bid me defiance.  Misfortune is truly a great purifier, a great regenerator of our moral being; but how can I make the wrong right?-how can I live to hope for something beyond the caprice of this alluring world?  My frailties have stamped their future with shame.

Thus he mused as the children came scampering into the room.  Annette, her flaxen curls dangling about her neck, looking as tidy and bright as the skill of Clotilda could make her, runs to Marston, throws herself on his knee, fondles about his bosom, kisses his hand again and again.  She loves him,—­she knows no other father.  Nicholas, more shy, moves slowly behind a chair, his fingers in his mouth the while.  Looking through its rounds wistfully, he shakes his head enviously, moves the chair backwards and forwards, and is too bashful to approach Annette’s position.

Marston has taken Annette in his arms, he caresses her; she twirls her tiny fingers through his whiskers, as if to play with him in the toying recognition of a father.  He is deeply immersed in thought, smooths her hair, walks to the glass with her in his arms, holds her before it as if to detect his own features in the countenance of the child.  Resuming his seat, he sets her on one knee, calls Nicholas to him, takes him on the other, and fondles them with an air of kindness it had never before been their good fortune to receive at his hands.  He looked upon them again, and again caressed them, parted their hair with his fingers.  And as Annette would open her eyes and gaze in his, with an air of sweetest acknowledgment, his thoughts seemed contending with something fearful.  He was in trouble; he saw the enemy brooding over the future; he heaved a sigh, a convulsive motion followed, a tear stealing down his cheek told the tale of his reflections.

“Now, Daddy;” he speaks, directing himself to old Bob, who stands at the door surprised at Marston’s singular movements, “you are my confidant, what do you think the world-I mean the people about the district, about the city-would say if they knew these were mine?  You know, Bob,—­you must tell me straight out, do they look like me?-have they features like mine?” he inquires with rapid utterance.

“Mas’r, Bob don’ like to say all he feels,” meekly muttered the old man.

“There is the spot on which we lay the most unholy blot; and yet, it recoils upon us when we least think.  Unfortunate wretches bear them unto us; yet we dare not make them our own; we blast their lives for selfish ends, yield them to others, shield ourselves by a misnomer called right!  We sell the most interesting beings for a price,—­beings that should be nearest and dearest to our hearts.”