“In the month of July, in the year —,” he said.
“That is indeed wonderful,” I exclaimed, scarcely able to restrain my feelings. “I was a child at the time,” I said, “but I was on board a frigate, which fell in with the wreck of a dhow. The only people alive on board were an Indian nurse and a child—a little girl. The nurse died; but the child was taken care of by my mother, and is now under the protection of the family of the commander of the brig to which I belong, Captain Schank, the officer who wrote to you on the subject of Mr Herbert’s death.”
“God be praised!” exclaimed Mr Bramston. “I cannot have the shadow of a doubt that the little girl who was picked up by your frigate was my daughter.”
“By-the-by, I have a man with me who was on board the ‘Boreas’ at the time, and he can tell you even more than I can,” I remarked.
Mr Bramston was eager to see him. I sent for Kiddle. He corroborated my account, adding further particulars, which left no doubt whatever on the mind of Mr Bramston that the Little Lady—my Emily—was his daughter.
“And is she a pretty child? Can you give me an idea of her size and appearance?”
“Yes, she is, sir, indeed, very pretty; but you must remember she is no longer a child; she is a young lady,” I answered, feeling that my voice was very likely to betray my feelings.
“I long to see her,” exclaimed Mr Bramston. “But I must break the tidings gently to her mother, or the sudden joy may be too much for her.”
We were busily employed all the next day getting up jury-masts, and not till the next evening was I able to go into the cabin. I was then introduced to Mrs Bramston. I found that she was somewhat prepared for the narration I had to give her. The moment I saw her I was convinced that Emily was her daughter, for the likeness was very striking. Well, I must cut my yarn short. Having rigged jury-masts we made sail, and, the wind coming to the southward, steered a course for England. The brig kept cruising about us like a vigilant sheep-dog, ready to do battle with any who might interfere with his charge. At length England was reached, and getting leave, I accompanied my new-found friends to Whithyford. I will not describe the meeting of the mother and her child, and the elder child and her mother. One thing only made me unhappy. I dreaded lest Mr Bramston, who I found had made a large fortune in India, should object to his daughter marrying a poor lieutenant of no family. I could not bear suspense, and so Emily and I told him that we were engaged, and she added that she should break her heart if she were not allowed to marry me. Mr Bramston smiled.
“You are rather young to think of such matters now,” he said, “but when my friend here becomes a commander, if you are still in the same mind, I promise you that neither your mother nor I will object.”