“Dear Captain Stapylton,--Don't feel any apprehensions about me. I am in better quarters than I ever fell into in my life, and my accident is not worth speaking of. I wish you had told me more of our Colonel, of whose movements I am entirely ignorant. I am sincerely grateful to your friends for thinking of me, and hope, ere I leave the neighborhood, to express to Sir Charles and Lady Cobham how sensible I am of their kind intentions towards me. “I am, most faithfully yours, “F. CONYERS.” “It is very well, and tolerably legible,” said Miss Barrington, dryly; “at least I can make out everything but the name at the end.” “I own I do not shine in penmanship; the strange characters at the foot were meant to represent 'Conyers.'” “Conyers! Conyers! How long is it since I heard that name last, and how familiar I was with it once! My nephew's dearest friend was a Conyers.” “He must have been a relative of mine in some degree; at least, we are in the habit of saying that all of the name are of one family.” Not heeding what he said, the old lady had fallen back in her meditations to a very remote “long ago,” and was thinking of a time when every letter from India bore the high-wrought interest of a romance, of which her nephew was the hero,--times of intense anxiety, indeed, but full of hope withal, and glowing with all the coloring with which love and an exalted imagination can invest the incidents of an adventurous life. “It was a great heart he had, a splendidly generous nature, far too high-souled and too exacting for common friendships, and so it was that he had few friends. I am talking of my nephew,” said she, correcting herself suddenly. “What a boon for a young man to have met him, and formed an attachment to him. I wish you could have known him. George would have been a noble example for you!” She paused for some minutes, and then suddenly, as it were remembering herself, said, “Did you tell me just now, or was I only dreaming, that you knew Ormsby Conyers?” “Ormsby Conyers is my father's name,” said he, quickly. “Captain in the 25th Dragoons?” asked she, eagerly. “He was so, some eighteen or twenty years ago.” “Oh, then, my heart did not deceive me,” cried she, taking his hand with both her own, “when I felt towards you like an old friend. After we parted last night, I asked myself, again and again, how was it that I already felt an interest in you? What subtle instinct was it that whispered this is the son of poor George's dearest friend,--this is the son of that dear Ormsby Conyers of whom every letter is full? Oh, the happiness of seeing you under this roof! And what a surprise for my poor brother, who clings only the closer, with every year, to all that reminds him of his boy!” “And you knew my father, then?” asked Conyers, proudly.