In a few days we shall arrive in port, and then you will have an opportunity to see your two grand-fathers. How they will receive you, or whether they will receive you at all is uncertain. They are now both very old men. Your grand-father Wallace, I think, will receive and acknowledge you as his grand-son. He has never effaced from his memory the love he had for your mother, and never neglects an opportunity of inquiring if any intelligence has been received from your father’s family. But your grand-father Powers is very uncertain. I fear that he will refuse to see you, and perhaps insult you, should you appear before him. But Cora and I will do the best we can to effect a reconciliation. Uncle, said Walter, the object I had in view in visiting the old world is accomplished. I have found the friends of mine and Amy’s family. The causes that drove my parents from their native shore still exists. Parents that could exile their own child would have no conscientious scruples, and would disown and drive from their door the grand-child of their own offspring. I have met an uncle and an aunt. Let that suffice. I have no desire to meet those that think or speak unkindly of my parents. My mother is dead and cannot speak in her own defense. That now becomes my duty—a duty that I will neither court nor shrink from. But woe unto the man that slanders my dead mother. Perhaps I had better not see either of my grand-parents—at least not until they make the request. I hope that our stay in port will be short, as I am anxious to prosecute my search in America for my lost friend. The voyage is nearly completed. The distant shores of the old world are in view. The Reindeer is proudly entering the mouth of the Thames, and sixty miles more will bring us to our destination. Walter stood leaning against the taffrail, near the stern, gazing land-ward. While his eyes were taking in objects along shore, his mind was employed in a different direction. His thoughts led him back to the scenes of his childhood. The little farm on the Callicoon—the mad waters of the Beaver Dam—the screeching panther—the motherly bear—the swiftly gliding raft with its human freight—the last agonizing look of Amy. I am now three thousand miles from home, he said to himself, and for what purpose? To see my old and hard hearted grand-fathers. To be spurned and scorned by them, simply because I am of their blood. They will tell me that I have come there a beggar on their bounty—that I am a son of their disgraced children. No! By heavens they shall not have the opportunity to insult me or the memory of my dead parents. At their request, and at their request only, will I appear before them.