A glance was sufficient to satisfy the youth his father was not in the room; although there was strong evidence he had not retired for the night.  In the middle of the floor stood an oaken table, and on this lay an open writing desk, with a candle on each side, the wicks of which had burnt so long as to throw a partial gloom over the surrounding wainscotting.  Scattered about the table and desk were a number of letters that had apparently been just looked at or read; and in the midst of these an open case of red morocco, containing a miniature.  The appearance of these letters, thus left scattered about by one who was scrupulously exact in the arrangement of his papers, added to the circumstance of the neglected and burning candles, confirmed the young officer in an impression that his father, overcome by fatigue, had retired into his bed-room, and fallen unconsciously asleep.  Imagining, therefore, he could not, without difficulty, succeed in making himself heard, and deeming the urgency of the case required it, he determined to wave the usual ceremony of knocking, and penetrate to his father’s bedroom unannounced.  The glass door being without fastening within, easily yielded to his pressure of the latch; but as he passed by the table, a strong and natural feeling of curiosity induced him to cast his eye upon the miniature.  To his infinite surprise, nay, almost terror, he discovered it was that of his mother—­the identical portrait which his sister Clara had worn in her bosom from infancy, and which he had seen clasped round her neck on the very deck of the schooner in which she sailed for Michilimackinac.  He felt there could be no mistake, for only one miniature of the sort had ever been in possession of the family, and that the one just accounted for.  Almost stupified at what he saw, and scarcely crediting the evidence of his senses, the young officer glanced his eye hurriedly along one of the open letters that lay around.  It was in the well remembered hand-writing of his mother, and commenced, “Dear, dearest Reginald.”  After this followed expressions of endearment no woman might address except to an affianced lover, or the husband of her choice; and his heart sickened while he read.  Scarcely, however, had he scanned half a dozen lines, when it occurred to him he was violating some secret of his parents; and, discontinuing the perusal with an effort, he prepared to acquit himself of his mission.

On raising his eyes from the paper he was startled by the appearance of his father, who, with a stern brow and a quivering lip, stood a few paces from the table, apparently too much overcome by his indignation to be able to utter a sentence.

Charles de Haldimar felt all the awkwardness of his position.  Some explanation of his conduct, however, was necessary; and he stammered forth the fact of the portrait having riveted his attention, from its striking resemblance to that in his sister’s possession.

“And to what do these letters bear resemblance?” demanded the governor, in a voice that trembled in its attempt to be calm, while he fixed his penetrating eye on that of his son.  “They, it appears, were equally objects of attraction with you.”