“In the first winter of our marriage news came to us of my father’s death, and we mourned him deeply, as you know. Added to grief for his loss was anxiety for the fate of the child he had promised to adopt and educate. No news came to me of my boy. I knew not even if the quarterly payments had been kept up. When we went to Baltimore, however, to buy my mourning outfit, I took the opportunity to send a bill of exchange for a hundred pounds to Mary Chester on account, and asked her to send me news of the boy, and to direct her letter to Bryantown, to which place I intended to go, and I did go at intervals, in hope to find a letter, but none ever came. “In the spring I received a terrible shock. Report came that a schooner had been wrecked on the shore, and that but one life had been saved—the life of a child who had been washed up on the sands and found there living. “This child I heard was at the house of Miss Bayard, who was taking care of him. “I went—as everybody went—from curiosity to see the little waif. “There happened to be no visitor at the house when I entered Miss Bayard’s parlor. She was talkative, as usual, and told me all about the wreck and rescue as it is known to you and to all that community. And she took me into the bedroom adjoining the parlor to look upon the sleeping boy. “There he lay upon the clean patchwork quilt, crosswise upon the bed, his flaxen head upon the snowy pillow, a gray woolen shawl spread over him. “I approached and stooped to look at his face. “Heaven of heavens! “Think—think what I must have felt on recognizing my own child! “Surprise, delight, wonder, terror—all shook me in turns as I gazed. “‘Eh, ma’am! I don’t wonder it gives you a turn! It did me, I tell you!’ the good woman whispered, as she stood beside me. “In a tumult of emotion I withdrew from the room. I was afraid the child might open his eyes and see me, and I knew as surely as I had recognized him would the little one remember me, and call me by my name as soon as he should set eyes upon me. “I was afraid to stay any longer, or to ask any more questions, lest I should in some manner betray myself. I took leave of Miss Bayard, and left the house. “The rescued child was the talk of the county for the whole season. Every one wondered and speculated as to the boy’s birth and social position, but no one could decide upon it, for there was no mark on the nightdress in which the little one had been found. “In a few days I heard that you, my beloved and honored husband—you, of all men—had taken upon yourself the cost of the child’s maintenance and education; that you had engaged to pay Miss Bayard a liberal quarterly allowance for her care of the boy, and to send him to school, as soon as he should be old enough to go. “Then, when I heard this, my better angel urged me to confide in you—to confess the truth and throw myself upon your mercy—the mercy of the truest, noblest, tenderest heart that ever beat!