I had one day walked down to the beach, when a wherry from Portsmouth came to an anchor, and soon after a boat reached the shore with several people in her. Among them was a one-legged man, with white hair, who looked to my eyes like an old post-captain or admiral. I went up to him, at first with some doubt in my mind, but soon saw that it was no other than my old shipmate Jerry.
He put out his hand and shook mine cordially, saying as he did so, “You are less changed than I am, Ben, but years make a difference in a man. Stay, I must not lose sight of my valise. Once upon a time I should have made nothing of carrying it myself, but I am not as strong on my pins as I used to be. Can you get someone to take it up to your house? We will keep him in sight, however; because, as you may guess, I should not like to lose it.”
I said that I would carry it myself, and, taking it out of the boat, shouldered it and walked up alongside Jerry, who stumped along with much less briskness than formerly; indeed I saw that he was greatly aged since we last met. On reaching home, after Susan had welcomed him, he caught her eye turned towards the valise.
“You are anxious to see the portraits I wrote about,” he observed, getting up and opening it. The first he took out was that of the little boy.
“That’s like him all over,” exclaimed Susan. “I should have known it even if I had not expected to see it; and it’s just the same as the one I have upstairs, though that is terribly faded.”
“Please get it, Mrs Truscott, and we will compare the two,” said Jerry. She quickly brought the little picture we had so carefully preserved; though the colours were almost gone, the lines were sufficiently clear to remove any manner of doubt in our minds that the one was a copy of the other.
“And now, what do you think of this?” producing a portrait of Miss Stafford.
“The very young lady who came to our house,” exclaimed Susan. “Owing to the sad circumstances of her death, her features are more impressed on my mind than those of anyone I ever met, and I am sure those who know Harry would say that he is wonderfully like her.”
I agreed with my wife, and Jerry said that he thought so likewise from what he recollected of him; indeed we had not a shadow of doubt on our minds that our dear Harry was the son of Henry Stafford.
“Oh, how I wish he was at home!” cried Susan; “he cannot fail to gain his rights; and then he might marry dear Miss Fanny and be so happy. Ben, I must go and tell her what we have found out about his family, and that she may be sure all will come right. It will do her all the good in the world, for she has been very sadly since her father forbid Harry to come to the house and got him sent off to sea; sometimes I have thought that the poor dear would break her heart.”