dded, 'you had better
send this lad to bed.'

'You need not,' said the boy, rising as he spoke, 'I remembered you
instantly. I will not betray you if you wish to remain unknown.'

'You may safely trust him,' said his aunt, 'he never breaks his word.'

'A good sign that,' said the seaman, 'and a bold boy I warrant, he is
well grown too for his years, and like--'

'Like who?' asked aunt and nephew in one breath.

'Like one I never wish to speak of,' was the answer, 'let be, let be, I
have much to ask you; first of my father, does he live?'

'He does, bowed down by age and now by sorrow, Walter. When you and I
were younger--years ago--when my sister, who is now an angel in heaven,
I hope, married you, I never thought the day would come when my lips
should be the ones to tell you of the desolation of your child.'

Walter recoiled, and rising from his seat grasped the back of the chair
he had been seated on with such a nervous gripe that the strong oak rail
broke in two with the pressure, and his heaving chest and quivering lip
told the fierce emotions that were struggling for utterance.--The
landlady understood his look.

'Do not fear, Walter--your child is as pure as an angel. It is the
desolation of her heart I speak of--not the pollution. It is the blight
that has fallen upon her young love--upon a woman's first and holiest
impressions--a virtuous love for a deserving object. Are you calm enough
to hear the tale?'

'I am--proceed.'

'My tale will not be a long one, but sad--sad for more than one victim
has and will fall yet to the fell passions of him, who rules this
neighborhood with a rod of iron. You remember Geoffry Hunter, of the
Toll gate farm?'

'Well; he and I were schoolmates.'

'He died some few years after you went on that voyage from which no one
ever expected to see you return--I for one. Though remembering your
daring courage and hardihood, I did not credit the tale that was brought
here that you had perished in the woods attempting to escape. I felt
confident you would one day return--as you did ten years ago, and
brought this boy with you. Geoffry Hunter left two children. You knew
them--Horace and Ellen. Poor Ellen! victim of a titled villain!' and the
good woman paused, and tears filled her eyes. It was some moments ere
she could proceed. 'Horace grew up a fine young-man. As a boy he was a
playmate of our proud master; and when Ellen returned from Canterbury,
where she had been educated b