“Had papa no brothers?” said Agatha.
“Yes, one; but some unhappy family disagreement, however, prevented any intercourse. They were as strangers to each other.”
“What if this Mr. Oakly should prove our uncle. Had he any family, ma’ma?” asked Ruth.
“I believe—one—one daughter,” was the almost inaudible reply.
“Do not say any more,” whispered Agatha to her sister, “don’t you see how it distresses ma’ma?”
Mr. Sullivan had observed the same thing, and the subject was dropped.
In a few days the papers announced among the list of passengers sailed for Havre, the name of Mr. Alfred Oakly, lady and daughter.
Another flight of years, and behold what changes in the fortunes of Mr. Oakly. Adversity had at last seized its victim, gorging to the full its revenge for those years when its existence had been but as a phantom to the wealthy merchant; he now felt its iron clutches to be something more tangible than shadows. The sea had swallowed his vessels; flames had greedily swept over his warehouses; blight had devastated his fields; failures of firms he considered as good as the bank—nay, even the bank itself failed; and in the short space of one year, Mr. Oakly found himself stripped of all save a mere pittance, which, with the most scrupulous economy, could hardly support his family. The teachings of adversity upon the cold, selfish heart, are sometimes blessed with happy fruits. And thus it proved with Mr. Oakly.
True, the change was not instantaneous; he lost not his property to-day, to become a Christian, a philosopher to-morrow. But as a drop of water will in time wear away the hardest rock, so, little by little, were the flinty feelings of his heart softened and purified. The wicked and selfish deeds of his past life arose up before him, each with its own accusing tongue. That fortune, for which he had risked his soul, had crumbled away, but these stood out plain and distinct, only to be effaced through the mercies of One whose most sacred obligations he had violated.