You are acquainted with the worldly result of my visit to America; you know that I was not successful. Unable to obtain profitable employment in New York, I went to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and some smaller towns and cities. It was my misfortune that I could not quickly assimilate myself with the new ways and modes of American life, and my ill-luck sprang more from myself than from the land in which I wished to establish myself. I was absent from New York for nearly five months. In despair I returned to it, and my first visit was paid to the General Post Office. Your letters were sent to me from time to time in accordance with the directions I gave you when I wrote to you, and were sent to the name of Frederick Maitland. It was almost with an air of guilt that I inquired at the New York Post Office whether there were any letters for Frederick Holdfast. I had no expectation of receiving any, and I was therefore astonished when three were handed to me. They were in the handwriting of my father. I did not tell you at the time, but it is a fact that I was in a desperate condition. My clothes were shabby, my pockets were empty. My joy and agitation at the receipt of these three letters were very great. I had never ceased to love my father, and tears rushed to my eyes at the sight of his handwriting. I knew, which he did not at the time we parted, that we were both the victims of a clever, scheming, beautiful woman. Would these letters lead to a reconciliation? I tore them open. They bore one address, an hotel in New York. Then my father was in America! The last letter, however, was dated two months back. Quickly I made myself acquainted with the contents.