“No, sir; I was too young; but I’ve heard my brother talk about it.”
“My boy,” said the old man, “was a most loving boy, very much attached to his mother. I don’t believe he would leave her and his brother and sister. You never heard him mention his parents or family—did you?”
“This Charles Bell’s mother is dead. I never heard him speak of any brother or sister.”
“How do you know his mother is dead?”
“Because, sir, he went to St. John’s two or three years ago, brought her body from there, and buried it on his place, under an elm tree—a beautiful spot. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”
The old man’s countenance fell. “It cannot be,” he said, “that my wife, with young children and small means, would leave England, and all her and my relations, and go to the colonies; and yet the time, circumstances, and personal appearance of the young man tally precisely.”
“I know it’s your son,” said Walter; “nobody can make me believe it ain’t. He looks as much like you as my two hands look alike, saving the difference in age, and his voice is like yours.”
“Do you expect to come here again, captain?”
“Yes, if we get off clear this time, and can run the gantlet. You know it is all luck and chance with us.”