And Kenrick affectionately threw his arms round his friend and pressed him to his breast. “But what does this mean, Charles?” cried Onslow. “There’s a terrible pity in your eyes. Explain it, I beseech you.” Kenrick drew from his pocket a letter-envelope, and, taking from it four strands of hair, placed them on the white marble of the bureau before Onslow’s eyes. The Captain looked at them wonderingly; took up one after another, examined it, and laid it down. His breast began to heave, and his cheek to pale. He looked at Kenrick, then turned quickly away, as if dreading some foreshadowing of an evil not to be uttered. For five minutes he walked the room, and said nothing. Then he again went to the bureau and regarded the strands of hair. “Well,” said he, speaking tremulously and quickly, and not daring to look at Kenrick, “I recognize these locks of hair. This white hair is my father’s; this half gray is my mother’s; this beautiful flaxen is my sister Emily’s; and this brownish black is my brother’s. Why do you put these before me? A sentimental way of telling me, I suppose, that they all send their love, and beg I would turn Abolitionist!” “Yes,” sighed Kenrick. “From their graves they beg it.” With a look of unspeakable horror, his hands pressed on the top of his head as if to keep down some volcanic throe, his mouth open, his tongue lolling out, idiot-like, Onslow stood speechless staring at his friend. Kenrick led him gently to the sofa, forced him to sit down, and then, with a tenderness almost womanly in its delicacy, removed the sufferer’s hands from his head, and smoothed back his thick fine hair from his brow, and away from his ears. Onslow’s inward groanings began to grow audible. Suddenly he rose, as if resolved to master his weakness. Then, sinking down, he exclaimed, “God of heaven, can it be?” And then groans piteous but tearless succeeded. At last, as if bracing himself to an effort that tore his very heart-strings, he rose and said, “Now, Charles, tell me all.” Kenrick handed him the letter which Peek had brought. “Let me leave you while you read,” he said. Onslow did not object; and Kenrick went into the corridor, and walked there to and fro for nearly half an hour. Then he re-entered the chamber. Onslow was on his knees by the sofa; his father’s letter, smeared with his father’s life-blood, in his hand. The young man had been praying. And his eyes showed that prayer had so softened his heart that he could weep. He rose, calm, though very pale. “Where can I see this negro?” he asked. “He will be here at the hotel this evening,” replied Kenrick. “And what,—what,” said Onslow hesitatingly, “what did they do with my father?” “They hung him on the same tree with your brother.” “Yes,” said Onslow, with a calmness more terrible than a frantic grief. “Yes! Of course his gray hairs were no protection.” There was a pause; and then, “What do you mean to do?” said Kenrick. “Can you doubt?” exclaimed Onslow.