If, when you read this you have any desires to know who you really are, I will leave you the following information:
Your mother, a wonderful woman, was Barbara Parker of Litchfield, Connecticut, daughter of Judge Arnold Parker of Litchfield, now deceased. I am Donald Mullen, the eldest of three brothers; Fay Mullen is the next of age and Patrick Mullen, the gunsmith of Maiden Lane, New York, is the youngest. We were born in Byron Bridge, Ireland, and we three came to this country after our parents died. You come of an honest, worthwhile people on my side, and of the best American blood on your mother’s, Donald, and I ask only that you live an honest, honorable life and have faith in your country and your God, and He will be with you to the end.
Good-bye, boy.
Lovingly,
Your Father.
I read the letter aloud but I confess that my voice broke toward the end and I choked up until reading was difficult.
For some time after I finished, we three sat in silence. The thoughts and mental pictures of that broken man parting with his baby son seventeen years before made me most unhappy.
Dad broke the silence.
“Well, now you are acquainted with the whole situation, what do you think?
”“I scarcely know what to think,” said I. “It does not appear natural for a man to abandon his own son in the manner he did. It seems heartless and cruel. I cannot understand it; yet I wish I could see my poor father. I wonder if he is still alive. Certainly with the information at hand it should not be impossible for me to trace him or some relatives of my mother. Don’t you think so?”