This was not an easy thing to accomplish, for the night promised to be very dark, the roads were muddy, and the weather unusually cold for that genial climate. But by offering a generous sum, for he was anxious to have the ordeal before them over as soon as possible, Mr. Huntress succeeded in getting a man to take them to their destination. It was seven o’clock when they at last reached the home of the proud Southerner, and the two men alighted before the door with grave faces, and nerves that were none too steady, in contemplation of the interview before them. “Yes, sar, Massa Mapleson’s home, sah,” the dusky-skinned servant replied to Mr. Huntress’ inquiry, and then obsequiously led the way through the magnificent hall, which divided the stately mansion through the center, to a spacious and richly furnished library at its lower end. “A. D. Huntress and Son,” Mr. Huntress wrote on a card, and handed it to the servant to be given to his master, and then they sat down to await his coming. Five minutes later—though it seemed as many hours to those impatient men—Colonel Mapleson appeared in the door-way, opposite August Huntress. He was a tall, rather spare man, with a finely shaped head proudly poised above a pair of military looking shoulders, a massive brow, surmounted by a wealth of iron-gray hair, regular, handsome, yet rather haughty features, a keen, eagle-glancing blue eye, and an energetic manner. Geoffrey recognized him instantly. It was the same man whom he had met in Congress Park at Saratoga. “Ah! Mr. Huntress,” remarked the gentleman, courteously, as his visitor arose to greet him; “glad to see you, sir—glad to see you!” Then espying Geoffrey whom, having been seated on his right and a little back of him as he entered, he had not at first seen, he started, his face lighted with pleasure, and he went toward him with outstretched hand, exclaiming, heartily: “Holloa! Everet! where on earth did you drop from? I supposed you still in New York having a gay time.” Mr. Huntress came forward at this, saying: “You have made a slight mistake, sir; this young man is my son by adoption—Mr. Geoffrey Dale Huntress.” Colonel Mapleson recoiled, an ashen pallor overspreading his face at these words, a look of fear followed by one of dismay, then of conviction springing into his eyes, which were fastened upon that familiar yet strange face. Then he staggered toward a chair, sank heavily into it, his head dropping upon his breast, while he murmured, in a tone of awe mingled with agony: “At last! at last it has come!” There was an awkward silence after that, during which the man appeared to be absorbed in painful thought. Mr. Huntress broke it at last by remarking in a grave tone: “I told you, Colonel Mapleson, that this is my son by _adoption_; we have recently learned that he is _your_ son by the more sacred tie of blood, and our errand here to-night is to learn how _much_ or—_how little_ that may mean.”