expeditions in Virginia. I had an
opportunity of seeing Colonel Carlyon but for a moment, when he again
expressed his gratitude for what he was pleased to call the very great
services I had done him. Curious it may seem, but I had rather he had
said less on the subject, and taken it for granted that nothing could
give me greater satisfaction than assisting the father of one to whom I
was so deeply attached. There was, I thought, too much stiffness and
formality in his mode of expressing himself. I, of course, speak of
what my feelings were at the time, and after I had left him my spirits
once more sank to their former level. Those were busy times, and I had
not much opportunity of being troubled with my own thoughts.

Once more, on the 4th of June, we put to sea, to convoy thirty sail of
transports back to New York; chased a rebel privateer on our way, but
she escaped us. When there, we refitted the ship, and sailed again for
Virginia on the 24th of June. On the 26th spoke the Solebay and
Warwick, with a convoy from Europe, and after parting from them on the
same day, sighted another sail, which did her utmost to escape from us.
We accordingly made sail after her, and at the end of four hours, on
coming up and signalising her, she proved to be no other than the
Cartwright packet from Falmouth to New York. The moment I discovered
this my heart began to beat with anxiety to hear from those I loved so
well. It was long since I had had any news from home. Letters might, I
knew, have been written, but being so constantly on the move as I had
been, there were great probabilities of their having missed me. The
packet hove-to. She had letters on board for the Charon. The bag was
delivered. I had one. There was a black seal to it. The handwriting
was that of my sister.

There was bad news, I knew. For some moments I dared not open it. One
of our family circle was gone. When I returned his or her place would
be empty. I tore open the letter. One we could all of us least spare,
one we had every reason to love and revere, was taken from us. My
father was no more. A choking sensation filled my throat--tears, long
strangers, then started to my eyes. Often had I pictured to myself the
delight I should feel, should I carry home Madeline as my bride, in
presenting her to him. I knew how he would admire her, how proud he
would be of her, how he would have delighted to call her his little
rebel American daughter-