"Yes, you are strong. You don't take after me, but after your mother's family." "Have you any relatives in America?" "There is a cousin of your mother's in New York, Ezra Little. I believe he is well-to-do. I can't tell you what he is doing or where he lives, but you can look up his name in the New York directory." "Is he the only relative we have in America? "No, there is a cousin of my own, Philo Walton, who went out to one of the Western States. He was a good-hearted fellow, and likely to make his way, but I have heard nothing of him, and I don't know whether he is still living or not. "There seems a very small chance of your finding him, in so large a country, but you can probably find Ezra Little. Take down these names, Scott. They may be of importance to you." Scott drew out a small memorandum book, and did as directed. "I would not have started from England, had I supposed I should have become worse so rapidly," continued Mr. Walton. "I think the sea air has aggravated my disease. There seemed nothing for us at home though, and no friends on whom we could call. I built my hopes on Ezra Little. I thought for your mother's sake he would help her boy. If I could live to see him, and commend him to you in person, I could die in peace." He had hardly completed these words when he had a terrible fit of coughing, which seemed to rack his feeble frame. "Don't talk any more, father!" said Scott, in alarm. "Can't I get you something to relieve you? I will go to the steward and ask for a cup of hot tea." Without waiting for an answer he left the stateroom and sought the steward. He was gone but ten minutes, but when he returned the bedclothes were stained with blood. His father had had a hemorrhage, and was lying with closed eyes, breathing faintly. The ship doctor was summoned, and applied restoratives, but without effect. Before the morning dawned, Scott was fatherless. It was a great trial to the lonely boy to see his father's body consigned to the deep. He wished he might carry it to the land which was to be his future home, and have it buried in some quiet cemetery; but it would be a week at least before the slow-going ship would reach New York, and the sailors would have rebelled at having a corpse on board for that length of time. Scott secured the money of which his father had spoken, and a sealed packet inscribed: _For My Son._ _To be opened a year from my death._ The boy's grief was so sincere that his curiosity was not aroused by this inscription. He put the packet in his traveling bag, and tried to prepare himself for the solitary life he must now lead. There was a good deal of sympathy felt for the lonely boy on the ship, and more than one of the passengers proffered sympathy and companionship. Scott received their advances politely, but showed by his manner that he preferred to be alone.