was an impenetrable mystery.  To us, my dear father, it is all clear as day.  Poor Mrs. Greville’s fears were certainly not without foundation, and when affairs are somewhat more quiet in Paris, I shall leave no stone unturned to prove young Greville’s perfect innocence to the public, and bring that wretch Dupont to the same justice to which his hatred would have condemned the son of his old companion.  Alfred’s agitation on hearing my explanation of the circumstance was extreme.  The errors of his father appeared to fall heavily on him, and yet he uttered no word of reproach on his memory.  The relation of his melancholy death, and the misery in which we found Mrs. Greville and poor Mary affected him so deeply, I dreaded their effect on his health; but this was nothing to his wretchedness when, by his repeated questions, he absolutely wrung from me the tale of his sister’s death, his mother’s desolation:  no words can portray the extent of his self-reproach.  It is misery to look upon him now, and feel what he might have been, had his mother been indeed permitted to exercise her rights.  There is no happiness for Alfred Greville this side of the Channel; he pines for home—­for his mother’s blessing and forgiveness, and till he receives them, health will not, cannot return.

* * * * *

In prison he remained for six long weary months, with the consciousness that, amidst the many light companions with whom he had associated, there was not one to whom he could appeal for friendship and assistance in his present situation, and the thoughts of his mother and sister returned with greater force, from the impossibility of learning anything concerning them.  The hope of escaping never left him, and, with the assistance of a comrade, he finally effected it on the 27th of July, the confusion of the city aiding him far more effectually than he believed possible.  He came down to Rouen in a coal-barge, so completely exhausted, that he declared, had not the thought of England and his mother been uppermost, he would gladly have laid down in the open streets to die.  To England he felt impelled, he scarcely knew wherefore, save that he looked to us for the information he so ardently desired.  Our family had often been among his waking visions, and this accounts for the agitation I witnessed when I first looked up.  He said he felt he knew me, but he strove to move or speak in vain; he could not utter the only question he wished to frame, and was unable to depart without being convinced if I indeed were Percy Hamilton.

“‘And now I have seen you, what have I learnt?’ he said, as he ceased a tale, more of sorrow than of crime.

“‘That your mother lives,’ I replied, ’that she has never ceased to pray for and love her son, that you can yet be to her a blessing and support.’

“Should he wish her sent for, I asked, I knew she would not demand a second summons.  He would not hear of it.