hem. Our Brazilian friend, Senhor Pimento, was a fine
burly old gentleman, habited in light nankeen jacket and trousers, with
a broad-brimmed hat. He was of a somewhat dark hue, and his wife, who
was a slight, active old lady, was considerably darker. Their family
consisted of a son, who was away hunting at the time, and two daughters.
I cannot call them fair, but they were attractive, lively girls, who
had lived in that remote district all their lives, and knew nothing of
the world beyond, believing Para, next to Rio, to be its largest city.
Fanny and her Portuguese friends were much pleased with Oria and Duppo,
and delighted when they found that they could speak a little English, a
language the two latter were trying to learn. The house was of
considerable size, built of palm-trees, thatched with palm-leaves; and
even the doors and windows were composed of palm-leaves, not opening on
hinges, but being hooked up or taken down like mats. There were open
galleries round on either side, and several of the rooms were open also;
and in these the hammocks of the men of the party were hung up. The
floors were also of split palm-trees, and were raised about ten feet
above the ground, so as to be at a sufficient elevation during the
higher floods which occasionally inundate the larger portion of that
region. None of the inmates of the house were idle. Senhor Pimento was
constantly out, superintending his labourers; while Donna Josefa, his
wife, was engaged in household matters. The young ladies, it must be
owned, were the least industrious of the family.

Arthur had said nothing of the packet he had received from the recluse,
yet I was sure that he would not lose a moment in opening it after the
time had arrived when he had permission to do so. Ellen came running to
me the following morning, I having gone out before breakfast to look
round the farm. I saw by her beaming countenance that she was full of
some matter of importance.

"It is as I told you, Harry!" she exclaimed. "The recluse is Arthur's
father--I knew it--I was sure of it. Arthur read to me last night some
of the letter he gave him. Poor fellow, he is in a great state of
agitation, and blames himself for having come away and left him. The
recluse--that is to say, Mr Mallet--speaks somewhat vaguely of a
fearful event which compelled him to leave England; and he says that,
though yearning to have his son by his side, he will not take him out of
the pat