"Where was I?" continued Martin. "Yes, I know. I saw this Dandy. He was from that very part of the country whither your father was sent, and he told me that your father was taken prisoner, and would have been hung, only he pretended to have saved the life of a child belonging to one of the Yankee officers that was lost in the woods. That was the way he put it, you see. It was plain he had a great spite at your father for something, though I didn't find out what. Well, to make a long story short, he said your father was released, and that he was living somewhere in West Jersey—he told me the name of the town, but I can't remember it—and was working as a smith and making plenty of money." "Do you think it can be true?" said Philip, feeling as if he were in a dream. "I think so. I asked the man if he were sure, and he said yes, he had seen those who knew him. I meant to see him again, but unluckily he was mixed up in a drunken quarrel that very night—he had got to be a terrible drunkard—and was knocked on the head, so that he never knew anything afterward, and died in a few days. I never told the colonel, for in the army one learns not to tell all one knows. It might by chance have made your father trouble." "And you think it can be true?" said Philip again. "Oh yes; there is nothing improbable in it. Very likely he did save the child, and they let him off in consequence. He couldn't have got back to the army very well if he had wished, for we left Philadelphia about that time, and the Yankees gave us lively times crossing Jersey." "But the boat?" "Well, that might have floated off when he landed. Anyhow, there is the story." "It is strange my father should not have written!" said Philip. "He wrote before he left the army, I know, for he gave me the letter, and I put it in the way to be sent. But half the letters were lost. Afterward, he would not have many chances.—There! I must go and wait on my master at supper. Sit you quiet here, or go out to walk if you like, but come back hither. The colonel said you were to lodge here to-night." "He is very kind, but it is not necessary," said Philip. "I have money enough to stay at the inn." "No, no! You must not think of it!" said Martin, hastily. "The colonel would never forgive you, or me either." Philip resigned himself. He was not sorry to be alone a while to arrange his ideas. When he again saw Martin, he plied him with questions: "Was Jersey a large place? Were there many towns? How did one go to reach it?" All of which questions Martin answered with the utmost good-humour. "I see what is brewing in your young head, but don't be in a hurry. Think well of it." "I will," said Philip, but he had already made up his mind what to do. CHAPTER X. _CONCLUSION._ PHILIP had a prosperous journey homeward, and found Gustaf on the lookout for him a little beyond the village. "Oh, Philip, are you come? Won't you take me up, please?"