ome to be a burden upon him. You will not wonder,
sir, that I long to meet with this son of the little baby girl I left
behind me."

I did not wonder, and my wife and I agreed to go with him that very
evening to old Mr. Scott's house. The old gentleman received us very
cordially in his little parlor.

"You are a stranger in this town, sir," he said to Kilbright. "I did not
exactly catch your name--Kilbright?" he said, when it had been repeated
to him, "that is one of my family names, but it is long since I have
heard of anyone bearing it. My mother was a Kilbright, but she had no
brothers, and no uncles of the name. My grandfather was the last of our
branch of the Kilbrights. His name was Amos, and he was a Bixbury man.
From what part of the country do you come, sir?"

"My name is Amos, and I was born in Bixbury."

Old Mr. Scott sat up very straight in his chair. "Young man, that seems
to me impossible!" he exclaimed. "How could there be any Kilbrights in
Bixbury and I not know of it?" Then taking a pair of big silver
spectacles from his pocket he put them on and attentively surveyed his
visitor, whose countenance during this scrutiny was filled with emotion.

Presently the old gentleman took off his spectacles and, rising from his
chair, went into another room. Quickly returning, he brought with him a
small oil-painting in a narrow, old-fashioned frame. He stood it up on a
table in a position where a good light from the lamp fell upon it. It
was the portrait of a young man with a fresh, healthy face, dressed in
an old-style high-collared coat, with a wide cravat coming up under his
chin, and a bit of ruffle sticking out from his shirt-bosom. My wife and
I gazed at it with awe.

"That," said old Mr. Scott, "is the picture of my grandfather, Amos
Kilbright, taken at twenty-five. He was drowned at sea some years
afterward, but exactly how I do not know. My mother did not remember
him at all. And I must say," he continued, putting on his spectacles
again, "that there is something of a family likeness between you, sir,
and that picture. If it wasn't for the continental clothes in the
painting there would be a good deal of resemblance--yes, a very great
deal."

"It is my portrait," said Mr. Kilbright, his voice trembling as he
spoke. "It was painted by Tatlow Munson in the winter of seventeen
eighty, in payment for my surveying a large tract of land north of the
town, he having no money to otherwise compensate me. He