ement; but she was evidently at a
total loss to account for the meaning of the stranger's words. She sat
for an instant wildly gazing into vacancy; then, springing suddenly up,
with the letter grasped in one hand, ran to Emily's room, to read the
wonderful contents, and ask her opinion of their hidden meaning. She
stopped, however, when her hand was on the door-lock. Emily was already
ill--it would not do to distress or even disturb her; and, retreating to
her own room, Gertrude sat down to re-peruse the singular letter.

That Mr. Phillips and the letter-writer were identical she at once
perceived. It was no slight impression that his exclamation and conduct
during the time of their imminent danger on board the boat had left upon
the mind of Gertrude. During the three days that succeeded the accident
the words, "My child! my own darling!" had been continually ringing in
her ears, and haunting her imagination. Now the blissful idea would
flash upon her, that the noble, disinterested stranger, who had risked
his life in her own and Emily's cause, might indeed be her father; and
every fibre of her being had thrilled at the thought, while her head
grew dizzy and confused with the strong sensation of hope that almost
overwhelmed her brain.

Her first inquiries, on recovering consciousness, had been for the
preserver of Emily and Isabel, but he had disappeared; no trace of him
could be obtained, and Mr. Graham arriving and hurrying them from the
neighbourhood, she had been compelled to abandon the hope of seeing him
again. The same motives which induced her not to consult Emily
concerning the mysterious epistle had hitherto prevented her from
imparting the secret of Mr. Phillips' inexplicable language and manner;
but she had dwelt upon them none the less.

The first perusal of the letter served only to excite and alarm her. But
as she sat for an hour gazing upon the page, which she read and re-read
until it was blistered with the varying expression of her face denoted
the emotions that, one after another, possessed her; and which at last,
snatching a sheet of paper, she committed to writing with a feverish
rapidity that betrayed how she staggered beneath the weight of
contending hopes and gloomy fears.

"MY DEAR, DEAR FATHER,--If I may dare to believe that you are so,
and if not that, my best of friends--how shall I write to you, and
what shall I say, since all your words are a mystery? Father!
blessed