at once had been splendid with morocco and gold, sat a
man of about fifty years of age; but his hair was grey, and his face was
indented with deep lines and furrows. He was listening with impatience
to the expostulations of one who stood before him, and shifted his
position from time to time, when more than usually annoyed with the
subject. It was Admiral De Courcy, and the vicar of the parish, who was
persuading him to be merciful.

The subject of this discourse was, however, dismissed by the entrance of
a servant, who presented to the admiral, upon a large and massive
salver, a letter, brought, as he stated, by a seafaring man. The
admiral lifted up his glasses to examine the superscription. "From my
worthless vagabond of a son!" exclaimed he, and he jerked the letter
into the fire without breaking the seal.

"Surely, sir," rejoined the vicar, "it would be but justice to hear what
he has to offer in extenuation of a fault, too severely punished
already. He is your only son, sir, and why not forgive one rash act?
Recollect, sir, that he is the heir to this property, which, being
entailed, must of necessity devolve upon him."

"Curses on the bare thought," answered the admiral, with vehemence. "I
hope to starve him first."

"May the Almighty show more mercy to you, sir, when you are called to
your account, than you have shown to an imprudent and hasty child. We
are told that we are to forgive, if we hope to be forgiven. Admiral De
Courcy, it is my duty to ask you, do you expect (and if so, upon what
grounds), to be forgiven yourself?"

The admiral looked towards the window, and made no reply.

The letter, which had been thrown into the grate, was not yet consumed.
It had lit upon a mass of not yet ignited coal, and lay there blackening
in the smoke. The vicar perceived it, and, walking to the fireplace,
recovered the letter from its perilous situation.

"If you do not choose to read it yourself, admiral--if you refuse to
listen to the solicitations of an only child, have you any objection
that I should open the letter, and be acquainted with the present
condition of a young man who, as you know, was always dear to me?"

"None, none," replied the admiral, sarcastically. "You may read it, and
keep it too, if you please."

The vicar, without any answer to this remark, opened the letter, which,
as the reader may probably imagine, was the one written by Edward Peters
on the morning of his execution.

"M