"Something in the manner of the man alarmed me, and sinking back in my chair, under an apprehension of I knew not what, I impatiently awaited my visitor. He came in, kind and gentle as ever, and sat by my side.
"'You promised,' said I eagerly, 'to tell me of my Imogen.'
"'I have come for that purpose, my son,' and again he paused.
"'Mr. Percival,' I said, catching hold of his hand, 'Have you no compassion?'
"He put his handkerchief to his eyes. 'She is at rest!'
"I sprang from my chair, and stood before him, only half comprehending his meaning. 'Where?' I tried to articulate.
"He pointed upward. * * * * *
"I pass over the agony of that period. It was a long, long time before I could be reconciled to life. I could not endure the thought of leaving the grave of my lost Imogen, and I sent my steward to England for our children. My sympathizing friend, Mr. Percival, had directed me where to find them. The steward returned with you, my son; but from that time to the present, I have never been able to find the least trace of the little Inez. She had started for England with her nurse to meet you, who were there with our friends, and though I caused the strictest enquiries to be made, and advertised in the papers for many months, yet nothing could be learned. She was probably wrecked in a vessel reported as lost at sea about that time.
"This loss was, however, but slight compared with the one which from the hour I heard it, to the present, has pressed upon me with a mountain weight. The conduct of your mother was so spotless, that, notwithstanding the intimacy of Mortimer in the family, not a breath of calumny had ever fallen on their intercourse. The loss of her parents had been blessed to her soul, so that for a year she had been a humble Christian. She came and watched over me during my sickness in the disguise of a nun, the physician enforcing perfect silence as the only condition of her presence. She arose from her bed to look upon me once more, and then returned to the parsonage to die of a broken heart.