“F. CONYERS.”
“It is very well, and tolerably legible,” said Miss Barrington, dryly; “at least I can make out everything but the name at the end.”
“I own I do not shine in penmanship; the strange characters at the foot were meant to represent 'Conyers.'”
“Conyers! Conyers! How long is it since I heard that name last, and how familiar I was with it once! My nephew's dearest friend was a Conyers.”
“He must have been a relative of mine in some degree; at least, we are in the habit of saying that all of the name are of one family.”
Not heeding what he said, the old lady had fallen back in her meditations to a very remote “long ago,” and was thinking of a time when every letter from India bore the high-wrought interest of a romance, of which her nephew was the hero,—times of intense anxiety, indeed, but full of hope withal, and glowing with all the coloring with which love and an exalted imagination can invest the incidents of an adventurous life.
“It was a great heart he had, a splendidly generous nature, far too high-souled and too exacting for common friendships, and so it was that he had few friends. I am talking of my nephew,” said she, correcting herself suddenly. “What a boon for a young man to have met him, and formed an attachment to him. I wish you could have known him. George would have been a noble example for you!” She paused for some minutes, and then suddenly, as it were remembering herself, said, “Did you tell me just now, or was I only dreaming, that you knew Ormsby Conyers?”
“Ormsby Conyers is my father's name,” said he, quickly.
“Captain in the 25th Dragoons?” asked she, eagerly.
“He was so, some eighteen or twenty years ago.”