“Yes, sir, that’s my name,” and as he took the letter, returned their salutations politely, but in a lesser degree. He was not yet sure that the scene was a real one. The letter, however, was not only real, but he recognized at once the handwriting of his brother Morton, who had been in India the last dozen years. Morton Judd was a successful merchant and had enjoyed for some years considerable financial and political importance in a certain portion of that country. DEAR JOSIAH: This letter will be handed you by two trustworthy gentlemen whose names it is safer not to write. They will explain all you wish to know regarding the boy they leave in your charge. Please take care of this boy at least for a time and treat him as your own son. I am writing this at short notice and in great haste. You have probably read of the revolution here that has upset everything. This boy’s life, together with the lives of many others, depends upon the secrecy with which we keep the knowledge of his whereabouts from those now in power. Will write you more fully of all this in a few days. Give my love to Sarah, and I hope you are all well. Hannah and I are in excellent health. Your affectionate brother, MORTON JUDD. P. S. You might give out that the boy is an adopted child of mine and call him Amos Judd, after father. These words threw a needed light on the situation. He shook hands with the two visitors and greeted them cordially, then, approaching the boy who was absorbed in the movements of some turkeys that were strolling about the yard, he bent over and held out his hand, saying, with a pleasant smile: “And you, sir, are very welcome. I think we can take good care of you.” But the child looked inquiringly from the hand up to its owner’s face. “Mr. Judd wishes to take your hand,” said the General, then adding, by way of explanation, “He never shook hands before. But these customs he will soon acquire.” The small hand was laid in the large one and moved up and down after the manner of the country. “Don’t they shake hands in India?” asked Mr. Judd, as if it were something of a joke. “How do you let another man know you’re glad to see him?” “Oh, yes, we shake hands sometimes. The English taught us that. But it is not usual with persons of his rank. It will be easily learned, however.” After a word or two more they took their seats in the wagon, the boy at his own request getting in front with the driver. They soon came in sight of the Judd residence, a large, white, square, New England farmhouse of the best type, standing on rising ground several hundred feet from the road, at the end of a long avenue of maples. Clustered about it were some magnificent elms. As they entered the avenue the driver, whose curiosity could be restrained no longer, turned and said to the boy: “Did you ever see Mr. Judd before?” “No.” “Then how did you know ’twas him?” “By his face.”