"You will believe me when I say that I deeply lament his loss; not only on your account, but because I had become most partial to him for his many good qualities, and often have I regretted that his peculiar position prevented me from showing him openly that regard which, as _his father_, I really felt for him. "I know that I can say nothing that will alleviate your sufferings, and yet I fain would, for you have been so true, and anxious to please me in every point since our first acquaintance and intimacy, that there is nothing that you do not deserve at my hands. "Comfort yourself, dear Arabella, as well as you can with the reflection that it has been the will of Heaven, to whose decrees we must submit with resignation. I am deeply suffering myself; for, had he lived, I swear to you that I intended to do much more for him than ever I had promised you. He would have made a good and gallant sailor had it pleased Heaven to spare him, and you would have been proud of him; but it has been decided otherwise, and we must bow in obedience to His will. God bless you, and support you in your afflictions, and believe me still, "Yours, most sincerely and faithfully, "PERCIVAL DELMAR." "Then it is so," thought I; "here I have it under his own hand." I immediately folded up the letter, and put it into my bosom. "You and I never part, that is certain," murmured I. I had almost lost my breath from emotion, and I sat down to recover myself. After a minute or two I pulled the letter out and read it over again. "And he is my father, and he loves me, but dare not show it, and he intended to do more for me than even he had promised my mother." I folded up the letter, kissed it fervently, and replaced it in my bosom. "Now," thought I, "what shall I do? This letter will be required of me by my mother, but never shall she get it; not tears, nor threats, nor entreaties shall ever induce me to part with it. What shall I do? Nobody has seen me--nobody knows that I have been here. I will go directly and join my ship; yes, that will be my best plan." I was so occupied with my own reverie, that I did not perceive a footstep on the stairs, until the party was so far down that I could not retreat. I thought to hide myself. I knew by the list shoes that it must be my grandmother. A moment of reflection. I blew out the light on the table, and put myself in an attitude: one arm raised aloft, the other extended from my body, and with my mouth wide open and my eyes fixed, I awaited her approach. She came in--saw me--uttered a fearful shriek, and fell senseless on the floor; the candle in her hand was extinguished in the fall: I stepped over her body; and darting out into the back-yard, gained the door, and was in the street in a minute. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.