eved, if they were saved from the
calamity, that I had perished. The subject was full of interest to me.
Perhaps my parents had been saved, and still lived. Matt had told me
that one half of the people on board the Farringford had been picked up
by the steamer that passed the next morning.

The more I thought of this subject, the more curious and anxious I
became. I glanced at a large chest, which stood near the head of the
bed. It contained all the valuables of Matt, and he always kept it
locked. I had never known him to open it, except when he had sold a lot
of wood, and wished to put away the money. Although he never said
anything about it, I thought he did not wish me to see what the chest
contained. He kept it locked, it seemed to me, to prevent me from
opening it, for there was no other person who was likely to meddle with
it. I respected his wishes, though he never expressed them, and
refrained even from looking at him when he opened the chest. There must
be money in it; but that was of no use to me, except when the trading
steamers came along.

I was sure that it was not to keep me from meddling with the money that
my patriarchal friend locked the chest. There was something in it, I
fancied, which was connected with the mystery of my parentage. Though
it did not occur to me then, I have thought since that Matt Rockwood
did very wrong in not trying to ascertain who my father and mother
were. Even Kit Cruncher had insisted upon his doing this; but after he
had loved me and cared for me, he could not permit me to be taken from
him. I could forgive him because of his tenderness and affection for
me; but even these could not justify his conduct.

I rose from the bench on which I was seated, and walked across the room
to the chest. It was locked; but where was the key? Old Matt had always
carried it in his pocket, and I concluded that it had been buried with
him. Had it been in my possession I should have opened the chest; but I
had not the courage to break it open. I resumed my seat on the bench,
and the mystery of my parentage seemed to become awful and oppressive.
Why could I not know whether my father, or mother, or both, were alive
or dead? But all was dark to me, and I could not penetrate the veil
which hung between me and those who had given me being.

While I was thinking, I heard the whistle of a steamer, frequently
repeated, indicating that she wanted a supply of wood. I hastened to
the stable, and mount