ch his recovery was dated. I was sitting by Mr.
Critchet's side, while Fred was dozing away the afternoon in the shop.
The invalid opened his eyes, looked around the room in which he was
lying, and then stared at me in some astonishment, as though wondering
how it happened that he had been sleeping under the roof of a house,
instead of his tent.

"How came I here?" he asked, raising himself from a recumbent position,
and sitting up. He did not notice, at first, the many bandages which
were bound around his arms and shoulders.

"I will explain all to you in a few days," I replied; "at present, you
are too weak to listen to me."

"I am not too weak," the old man exclaimed, imperiously, as though
accustomed to have his own way all his life time; "why should I grow
weak in a single night? answer me that, if you can!"

"I don't wish to answer you now, for I fear that you cannot submit to
excitement. Keep quiet for a few days, and then you shall know all," I
answered, soothingly.

"There is some mystery connected with my being here that I must and will
solve. Where is my nephew? Where--"

He stopped suddenly, and seemed to recollect something, for, after
remaining silent for a few moments, he extended his hand, pressed my
own, and then fell back upon his pillow.

"I know all," he murmured, in a low voice; "my memory is perfect from
the time that I was attacked in my tent, to the hour when I fell
fainting upon your doorstep."

"Do not agitate yourself," I whispered; "in a few days you will be
strong enough to talk, and then all matters will be set right."

"I have no desire to proceed against my nephew," Mr. Critchet began,
"for the part he has taken in this matter. He is a bad youth, and will
some day be punished for his crime. I have attempted to make an honest
man of him, and have signally failed. I expected as much, yet I am glad
that his hand was raised against me, instead of one less capable of
forgiving. He is my sister's child, and I promised to act a father's
part towards him. I shall do so, by attempting to procure his discharge,
and supplying him with money sufficient to reach some other portion of
the country, where his crimes and character are unknown. Peace go with
him--I have no desire to see him more."

"Those are the sentiments of a Christian," I remarked.

"They are the feelings of a man and a relative," he exclaimed, hastily.

We made no reply, and he continued,--

"I had often remonstrated w