“Uncle and mother!” cried Fluella, laughingly; “how odd that is getting to sound. Suppose I call your mother aunt? Have they not now been married long enough to be both entitled to the more endearing names of father and mother? and are they not happy enough and good enough to merit the dearest names?” “Yes,” answered Elwood, “I will correct the habit, if you really wish it. Yes, yes; the once-styled crusty old bachelor, Arthur Elwood, and my mother, are indeed a happy couple. Did you ever know a happier?” “Yes, one,” replied the hesitating, blushing wife, drawing down her husband’s head, and slyly imprinting a kiss on his cheek. The conversation between the happy pair was here interrupted by the appearance of a boat putting off from the frigate, under the charge of a midshipman; who, having come on board and inquired out Elwood, now approached and presented him a letter, saying, as he departed, it was from the pirate prisoner, and would doubtless require no answer. The greatly surprised young man tore open the letter, and, in company with his wife, read, with mingled emotions of pain and indignation, the following singular but characteristic compound of malicious vaunt and shameless confession: “TO CLAUD ELWOOD:--My career is ended, at last. Well, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I have been nobody’s fool nor nobody’s tool. Early perceiving that nine out of ten were only the stupid instruments of the tenth man, the world over, I resolved to go into the system, and did, and improved on it so as to make _nineteen_ out of _twenty_ tools to _me_,--that is all. I have no great fault to find with men generally, though I always despised the whole herd; for I knew that, if they used me well, it was only because they dared not do otherwise. I don’t write this, however, to preach upon that, but to let you know another thing, to chew upon.