‘I know I am; but I took the name from a relation who left me his money on condition that I did so. My real name is Richard Hudson, and I was brought up to the sea and adopted by my mother’s cousin, Henry Egerton, because my father treated me so brutally. He was had up by the police for thrashing me till I fainted, and then the magistrates gave me over to the guardianship of Mr Egerton——; and, Williams, can it possibly be?’ ‘Sir, sir! don’t keep me in suspense. What was the maiden name of your mother?’ ‘Charlotte Erskine, and she was born in Essex.’ ‘At Pinfold?’ ‘That is the place. My grandfather had the “Peartree Farm” there, and she is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. Mr Egerton used often to take me to see her grave.’ ‘Oh, sir! this is very, very wonderful! Is it possible you can be my little Dickey?’ ‘It is quite true that I am the son of Robert and Charlotte Hudson, and that if I had not changed my name, we should have recognised each other before now. Do not think I have forgotten you, Williams? I cannot remember the face of my sailor friend; but I have never forgotten all his kindness to me. But surely I used to call you “Caleb” in those days, and have always thought of you by that name since.’ ‘True, enough, sir, that’s me—Caleb Williams, and I can hear your sweet little voice a-callin’ Caleb from the top of the house to the bottom now; you was never long out of my arms, Mr Egerton. Day and night you was on this bosom, as you may say, and my heart’s been as empty as a dried gourd since I lost sight of you. And so you’re my own boy—leastways, what I used to call my own—and I’ve been a nussin’ you again as I used to nurse you in the olden times. Oh, bless the Lord for all His mercies!’ cried the old seaman, as he fairly broke down, and sobbed with his face in his hands. * * * * * They talked for a long time over the past; Richard Egerton being scarcely less affected than old Williams, as, one by one, little incidents and reminiscences came to light to confirm their several identities, and make him see still more clearly how much he owed to the old man who sat beside him. ‘And now, Caleb,’ he said, when the evening shadows had deepened into dusk, ‘this will be your last voyage. I cannot let you work any more. You know that I have riches, and you must share them.’ ‘Oh, sir, you are too good!’ ‘Don’t call me “sir” again, please. Call me Richard, Caleb, or “Dickey,” or anything that pleases your fancy; but the man who acted as a father to me when I had worse than none, shall never address me as though I were his superior. What was it you prayed for me to become, Caleb, in those days when I used to sit on your knee with my little hands clasped about your neck?’ ‘A good man and a good son, my dear, dear boy,’ quavered the old seaman.