“I will tell you. In the letter written by the Duchesse de Coulancourt, directed to the officer, Lieutenant Cooke, you remember, who was in command of the boat that penetrated into Toulon, with Lord Hood’s proposals to the Royalists, the Duchess signed herself—I remember it so well—de Coulancourt, _née_ de Bracy; that is, her maiden name was de Bracy.” “By the powers of war! that is singular and extraordinary,” said Patrick O’Loughlin; “are you sure of that?” “Quite sure. Lieutenant Cooke read the letter to me, and I was particularly struck with the name at the time; therefore it is not at all improbable but that the Duchess of Coulancourt is perhaps a sister, or at least a relation, of Sir Oscar de Bracy, for that is far from a common name.” “By Jove, it’s very likely,” said Captain O’Loughlin, with vivacity. “Then that dear little girl may be his niece. But that is not all that makes you so thoughtful and serious, William?” “Well, not exactly. Now do not think me an enthusiast, but try and answer me a few questions. Can you remember the year in which you saved the life of Sir Oscar de Bracy’s child?” “Can I remember it? faith, I can, my lad. I was then nine years old; I am now going on twenty-four: it was thus rather more than fourteen—perhaps fifteen—years ago. This is ’93; that will, as near as I can go to it, make the year of the accident 1778 or ’79.” “In the year 1779,” said our hero, his cheek flushing as he spoke, “I was picked up, as I told you, at sea in a long boat. No doubt the Surveillante frigate ran over the vessel my parents, or those who had the care of me, were in, and thus in a strange way I was the only one saved. You will think me crazy, Patrick, but the coincidence is at least singular. You said Lady de Bracy and her child perished in a melancholy way about a year or so after you saved the child; do you know in what way?” William Thornton felt his arm grasped by the warm-hearted O’Loughlin with a nervous hold. “By Heavens, William!” he exclaimed, somewhat agitated, “you raise strange ideas in my own mind, which may account for the marvellous feeling of attachment I from the first felt for you. If your conjectures, for I understand what you mean, turn out correct—(and now I recollect, when I inquired of Mr. Bodletop, the lawyer, how Lady de Bracy lost her life, he said she was drowned, she, and her child, and every soul, in a heavy gale, on board the Spitfire gun brig, on her passage from Bear Haven to Southampton)—God bless me!” continued the Captain, “it’s quite possible that the Spitfire was run down by the Surveillante—the dates correspond—and that you, the boy I have so strangely loved with a brother’s affection, may be the child I saved years gone by.”