Father (leans against the iron door, and his frame trembles, and his face assumes a deathly palor).—God of Heaven! And are you the son of Judge Stephen Branch, of Providence, Rhode Island?
Stephen.—I am, sir.
Father (wiping sweat from his forehead and tears from his cheeks).—Dear Stephen: Give me your hand, after our long separation. Alas! my poor brother is dead, whose life you saved in that dreadful squall, in Boston Harbor, twenty-three years ago. (All weep, and his eldest daughter sobs aloud.)
Stephen.—Where and when did your noble brother die?
Father.—In Switzerland, ten years since; and in his last days he spoke most kindly of you.
His Wife (in profuse tears).—Have you a wife, Mr. Branch?
Stephen.—Neither wife, nor child, nor parents, nor hardly a relative on earth. And I am glad they have gone down to their happy graves. And I almost wish that I was reposing by their side. The earth is no place for me, nor for those who expose the licentious officials and plundering monsters of this age, who allure spotless females into the horrors of prostitution, and drive the friendless masses into cellars and attics and crowded and pestilential habitations, and into the inclement atmosphere.
Wife.—But why rejoice over the eternal departure of nearly all your kindred?
Stephen.—Because it would have blighted their health and fondest hopes to have beheld me in a felon’s dungeon.
Wife.—But you have committed no crime?