Amy—Amy, what know you of Amy? Is my secret out? Tell me boy—tell me what you know of Amy? Know you that Amy was your grand-mother’s name? Know you that I drove her mad? Know you, that in driving my children from their homes I drove their mother to her grave? Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I am crushed! Amy, the companion of my youth—the mother of my children—driven out—dead—dead—dead! And fainting, he fell to the floor. Surprise was depicted on all countenances but one. Walter now remembered that his grand-mother’s name had never been mentioned, and whether dead or alive he did not know. But from the anguish of his grand-father, he was satisfied that the secret of his grand-mother’s death was purposely kept from him. Had his grand-father added to his other crimes that of murder? Had he killed the grand-mother of his Amy? If so, he would denounce him and leave England at once. Captain Davis and the Lieutenant were speechless. Frost eyed the old man with more than ordinary interest, and Walter did not know what to say. Presently the fainting man revived. Come here, boy, and sit close by my side. Let me tell you all, and then let me die. The Amy you speak of, was my wife—your grand-mother. She favored the marriage of your father to Amelia Powers. I forbid it, and when I heard that they had defied me and set at nought my counsel, I became outraged and lost my reason. I wrote to your father, forbidding him ever again to darken my door. Fool!—brute I was, but I did it. My wife interfered, and in my rage, I so far forgot myself as to strike her, and order her to leave and follow her disgraced children. Not thinking, knowing or caring for the consequences, I went to my room, and with brandy, drowned my passion and eased my conscience. In the morning my reason returned. I saw my mistake, and at once decided to apologize to my wife and send for my children to return. I sent for my wife, but the answer came back that she could not be found. On examination it was found that her wardrobe, jewels and money were missing. On the table she had left a note: “Farewell, Walter, farewell until you forgive your children. Farewell. I can sleep more sweetly on the bottom of the Thames than I can on a pillow of down in your castle. Farewell.” My eyes were now open, and I could see the iniquity of the great wrong I had committed. Remorse choked me. Visions of wife and child haunted me. The demons, devils and damned of hell pursued me. I fled—I knew not where. The next five years was a blank. When memory returned, everything appeared strange. The doors were bolted and the windows barred. I was in a mad house. On inquiry, I learned that during my confinement, but one person had visited me. But who she was, or where she came from, none could tell. She called once after my reason was restored, and on learning of that fact, said “Thank God!” and left.