elighted he was when he discovered me, though in a
situation so little to be envied.

The story of my incarceration, of the action to be brought against my
uncle, and the reports of foul play, relative to the succession, had, in
the meantime, been widely circulated among the nobility; and I found
that, every attention was paid me, and I was repeatedly invited out as
an object of curiosity and speculation. The loss of my sister also was
a subject of much interest, and many people, from good will, made every
inquiry to discover her. I had returned one day from the solicitor's,
who had advertised for her in the newspapers without success, when I
found a letter for me on the table, in an Admiralty enclosure. I opened
it--the enclosure was one from O'Brien, who had just cast anchor at
Spithead, and who had requested that the letter should be forwarded to
me, if any one could tell my address.

"MY DEAR PETER,--Where are, and what has become of, you? I have
received no letters for these two years, and I have fretted myself to
death. I received your letter about the rascally court-martial; but,
perhaps, you have not heard that the little scoundrel is dead. Yes,
Peter; he brought your letter out in his own ship, and that was his
death-warrant. I met him at a private party. He brought up your
name--I allowed him to abuse you, and then told him he was a liar and
a scoundrel; upon which he challenged me, very much against his will;
but the affront was so public, that he couldn't help himself. Upon
which I shot him, with all the good-will in the world, and could he
have jumped up again twenty times, like Jack in the box, I would have
shot him every time. The dirty scoundrel! but there's an end of him.
Nobody pitied him, for every one hated him; and the admiral only
looked grave, and then was very much obliged to me for giving him a
vacancy for his nephew. By-the-bye, from some unknown hand, but I
presume from the officers of his ship, I received a packet of
correspondence between him and your worthy uncle, which is about as
elegant a piece of rascality as ever was carried on between two
scoundrels; but that's not all, Peter. I've got a young woman for
you, who will make your heart glad--not Mademoiselle Celeste, for I
don't know where she is--but the wet-nurse who went out to India. Her
husband was sent home as an invalid, and she was allowed her passage
home with him in my