“My family know aught of this?” repeated Mr. Huntington. “Can it be I am deceived?” and then, with the shaking hand still resting on his head, he told how he had wandered far and wide, seeking rest and finding none, for ever present to his mind was a white-haired, sightless man, weeping, o’er his pale, dead wife. In the far off California land he had dug for gold, vainly hoping by this means some time to make amends for the ruin he had wrought. At last, as the burden of remorse grew heavier to bear, he sought his home to see once more the faces of his wife and child, hoping, too, that the forgiveness he so much desired might be obtained. “I found them here,” said he—“found my wife and Adelaide working hard and secretly, lest the world should know how poor they were. I met my daughter first, and Heaven forgive me if I do her wrong, I thought she was not glad to see me. I questioned her of you, and learned that you were here, too, and very poor. You were fully determined, she said, to revenge yourself on me should I ever be found, and she urged me not to let my presence here be known, until she had tried to procure for me your forgiveness. My wife did not seem to understand your feelings, for she had never seen you, and she wished me to remain; but my daughter’s fears and my own dread of a convict’s fate prevailed, and trusting to Adelaide’s promise that she would eventually obtain your pardon for me, I left them again and became a second time a wanderer. I intended to take the cars at West Oakland, and was following the course of the river, when, pausing for a moment to rest, I saw you approaching, and hid behind the alders, one moment resolving to throw myself at your feet, and again fearing to do so, for guilt had made me cowardly and weak. The rest of that day’s incidents you know. I saved your daughter’s life, but I dared not speak, lest I should be betrayed. My wet clothes made it necessary for me to return to the house, where I told what I had done, and asked if this would not atone. My wife said yes, but Adelaide was fearful still. She would see you herself, she said, and she did see you that very day, but you refused. ‘The law must take its course,’ you said, ‘even though I saved a hundred lives.’” “Never! so help me Heaven!” Mr. Warren exclaimed. “Such words as those never passed my lips, and till this moment I knew not who it was that saved my child. Forgive me, William, but she lied, that girl Adelaide. There was treachery in her voice when she sat at my feet and asked me not to tell of your misdeeds, lest disgrace should fall on her. People thought her mother was a widow, she said, and she would rather they should not know that you ran away to escape a prison home.” “Oh, Adelaide, my child, my child, why did you thus deceive me?” the wretched father groaned, while Mr. Warren continued: “I never tried to find you, William, or sought to do you harm; but go on and tell me where you have been since that time.”