He told all that he had learned of his history through Jack and Margery Henly, and how he had so strangely come upon them while striving to follow up the faint clew that he had obtained of his father at Saratoga; of his having been found so helpless and forlorn in New York by Mr. Huntress; of the restoration of his mental faculties through his kindness and interest, and of the happy life that he had since led as a member of his household. The only incidents that he omitted were those in which Everet—his father’s other son—had been concerned, and which he would not then pain him by mentioning, though possibly they might have to be told later. Colonel Mapleson listened with rapt interest and attention throughout the whole recital, and appeared deeply moved during that portion which related to his mental infirmity. When it was all told, he seemed to fall into a painful reverie; his face was inexpressibly sad, his attitude despondent, as if memories of the past, which had thus been aroused, came crowding thick and fast upon him, filling him with sorrow and regret. Finally he aroused himself with a long-drawn sigh, and rising, went to a handsome desk which was in the room, in which he unlocked a small drawer, and taking a box from it, brought and laid it upon the table by which Geoffrey was sitting. “I had grown to feel almost as if this portion of my life had been blotted out,” he said; “at least until it was so suddenly recalled to me by meeting you at Saratoga last summer. But our mistakes rise up and confront us; our sins find us out when we least expect it. Open that box, Geoffrey, and draw what comfort you can from its contents.” Geoffrey’s face flushed at being thus addressed. He had come there with his heart full of bitterness toward the man who, he believed, had done his mother an irreparable wrong. But now he found those feelings fast changing to pity and sympathy for him. His manly confession had more than half conquered him at the outset, while his tender memories of the acknowledged wife of his youth, and the fond inflection with which his voice was filled every time he uttered his own name, told him that some of his dearest hopes had clustered around those early days when he had been a wee infant, and stirred a tenderness within his own heart for his father which he had never imagined he could feel. He untied the faded blue ribbon that bound the box which Colonel Mapleson had given him, with fingers that trembled visibly, removed the lid and found a thin, folded paper within. He opened it. It was an old telegram addressed to William Mapleson, Santa Fe, New Mexico, and contained these words: “I will come, Will. Start at ten on the eighth.” There was another paper underneath this, and his heart beat rapidly as he drew it forth. A blur came before his eyes, a nervous trembling seized him, making the paper rattle in his grasp, for something seemed to tell him, even before he looked at it, what it was.