Here a dozen voices interposed offering him a part or the whole of their rooms, but the good-natured captain declined them all, saying "he should do very well, and perhaps the young man would not be sick long. Did they know where he came from? Was he a stranger or a resident in California?" A stranger, they replied, adding that he came from New York about two weeks before, and had almost immediately been taken sick, and that was all they knew about him. Dinner being over, Captain Murdock went up to his room, not to see the sick man particularly, but because he wished to remove to another apartment a few articles which he would probably need. Walter, for it was he, was sleeping, while near him, in an arm-chair, dozed the old crone who had been hired to nurse him. One glance at the former convinced the captain that he was poorly cared for and must necessarily be very uncomfortable. Still he might not have interfered, had not the sick man moaned uneasily in his sleep, and turning on his side, murmured the name of _father_. Never had Captain Murdock been thus addressed,—no infant arms had ever twined themselves around his neck,—no sweet voice called him _father_,—and yet this one word thrilled him with an undefinable emotion, awakening at once within his bosom feelings of tender pity for the sick man, who seemed so young and helpless. "Poor boy," he whispered, "he is dreaming of his home away in the East, and of the loved ones who little know how much he needs their care," and advancing toward the bedside, he adjusted the tumbled pillows, smoothed the soiled spread, pushed back the tangled hair from the burning forehead, and was turning away when Walter awoke, and fixing his bright eyes upon him, said faintly, "Don’t go." Thus entreated the captain sat down beside him, while the old nurse roused up, exclaiming: "Sakes alive, captain! is that you? Ain’t you feared the fever’s catching? He’s got it mightily in his head, and keeps a goin’ on about Jessy, his brother, I guess, or some chap he know’d at home." At the mention of Jessie, Walter turned his eyes again upon the captain, and said. "Jessie’s married. Did you know it?" "Yes, I know it," answered the captain, thinking it best to humor the whim. "Whom did she marry?" "William," was the reply, "and I loved her so much." At this point the nurse arose, saying: "Bein’ you’re here, I’ll go out a bit," and she left the room. Walter looked uneasily after her, and when she was gone, said: "Lock the door, and keep her out. Don’t let her come back. She’s one of Macbeth’s witches, and makes one think of Jessie’s grandmother, who won’t let me talk of love to Jessie, until I am—well, no matter what. Do you know my father?" "No," and the captain shook his head mournfully, while Walter continued: "Are you anybody’s father?" "I don’t know," and the voice was sadder than when it spoke before. "I’m looking for my father," Walter said, "just as Telemachus looked for his. Do you know Ulysses?"