But _the incident_ of the day had set him to work, in the silence of his chamber and the depth of night, to call forth all those sleeping reminiscences--examine them one by one--connect them together--make them up as well as he could into a continuous history--and from the aggregate deduce a variety of truths intimately regarding himself. All this was not done through any disrespect for his mother or his father--any change of fueling in reference to them. No:--he loved them the more tenderly--the more fervently, now that he knew they were _his parents_, and not _mere relations_. But if he fell into the train of thought in which we now find him engaged, it was that he could no more help yielding to that current of reflections than a child could avoid being carried whirlingly along the rapids of the Canadian stream which had engulphed it. And now let us see into what connected form the meditations and recollections of Charles Hatfield had settled themselves? Seating himself at the table, on which he leant his elbows, and supporting his head on his hands, in which he buried his face, he pondered in the ensuing manner:-- “My earliest remembrances carry me back to a period when I must have been about five years old; and then I was accustomed to call a good woman whose name was Watts, my _mother_. But she died--I forget precisely under what circumstances; and then, when I was nearly six, I was taken care of by a gentleman named Rainford. Yes--and he had a beautiful wife named Tamar;--and this Tamar was the sister of the Countess of Ellingham. Mr. Rainford and Tamar were very kind to me, I remember well; but I was not with them long. And now there is so much confusion in my thoughts--so much bewilderment in my reminiscences touching that particular period in my life, that I scarcely know how to render my ideas continuously accurate. I fully recollect, however, that he whom I grew accustomed to call by the endearing name of ‘_father_’ although I knew that he was not my father--I mean this Mr. Rainford,--I recollect, I say, that he was absent for some weeks, and that I pined after him. Then Tamar would reassure me with promises of his return--but I remember that she used to weep very much--oh! very much! One day she put on black clothes--and she was going to dress me in mourning also; but she cried bitterly, and threw the dark garments away. Next I recollect being taken to the house of Mr. de Medina, where I saw Esther for the first time--that Esther who is now Countess of Ellingham. The happiness I experienced that day dwells in my mind; for I recollect as well as if it were but yesterday, that all Tamar’s sorrow had suddenly disappeared, and that she gave me the most earnest promises that I should soon see Mr. Rainford again.[2] And I did behold him again soon--but it was at some town in France, whither I was taken by Mr. de Medina and his two daughters.[3] Then we all travelled in