peace of the Lord. He had
your photo and dear David's lade upon his bed, made me sit by him.
Let's be a' thegither, he said, and gave you all his blessing. O my dear
laddie, why were nae you and Davie here? He would have had a happier
passage. He spok of both of ye all night most beautiful, and how ye used
to stravaig on the Saturday afternoons, and of auld Kelvinside. Sooth
the tune to me, he said, though it was the Sabbath, and I had to sooth
him Kelvin Grove, and he looked at his fiddle, the dear man. I cannae
bear the sight of it, he'll never play it mair. O my lamb, come home to
me, I'm all by my lane now." The rest was in a religious vein and quite
conventional. I have never seen any one more put out than Nares, when I
handed him this letter; he had read but a few words, before he cast
it down; it was perhaps a minute ere he picked it up again, and the
performance was repeated the third time before he reached the end.

"It's touching, isn't it?" said I.

For all answer, Nares exploded in a brutal oath; and it was some half an
hour later that he vouchsafed an explanation. "I'll tell you what broke
me up about that letter," said he. "My old man played the fiddle, played
it all out of tune: one of the things he played was _Martyrdom,_ I
remember--it was all martyrdom to me. He was a pig of a father, and I
was a pig of a son; but it sort of came over me I would like to hear
that fiddle squeak again. Natural," he added; "I guess we're all
beasts."

"All sons are, I guess," said I. "I have the same trouble on my
conscience: we can shake hands on that." Which (oddly enough, perhaps)
we did.

Amongst the papers we found a considerable sprinkling of photographs;
for the most part either of very debonair-looking young ladies or old
women of the lodging-house persuasion. But one among them was the means
of our crowning discovery.

"They're not pretty, are they, Mr. Dodd?" said Nares, as he passed it
over.

"Who?" I asked, mechanically taking the card (it was a quarter-plate)
in hand, and smothering a yawn; for the hour was late, the day had been
laborious, and I was wearying for bed.

"Trent and Company," said he. "That's a historic picture of the gang."

I held it to the light, my curiosity at a low ebb: I had seen Captain
Trent once, and had no delight in viewing him again. It was a photograph
of the deck of the brig, taken from forward: all in apple-pie order; the
hands gathered in the waist, the officers on the