Beatrice had reached Williamsburg just as the theatre was
about to commence, and was compelled, without losing a moment,
to hurry away to her painful duty. We may fancy
that she felt little disposition to appear that evening: but
one of the lessons of her hard life, was an unhesitating sacrifice
of private feelings to her duty, and she repaired to the
theatre, without even tasting a morsel. Indeed, she could
not have eaten any thing—her heart was too much overcome
by the thousand conflicting emotions she had experienced
throughout the day; and she did not feel weak. Something
sustained her, and she began her part with strange calmness.
Never had she acted better, as we have seen—but those tumultuous
plaudits fell upon unheeding ears: they were now
painful to her—as that profession, which a cruel destiny
forced her to pursue, was revolting and a cruel trial. She
made her concluding bow with the same coldness which had
characterized her, when, on her entrance, she had been greeted
with thunders of applause; and then calmly returned to the
Raleigh. She wished to be alone with her grief—to shed
tears without being subjected to the wondering questions of
any person:—she wished, after delighting the crowded audience,
and sending them away thinking how rapturous her
happiness and pride must be at such intoxicating praises—
she wished to go and sob her heart into calmness, in the
stillness of her chamber.

Bidding her father good night with a kiss at the door of
her little room—from which another door led to her bed-chamber—
the young girl entered and lighted a taper. Then
she observed for the first time, on the floor, that object which

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Mr. Effingham had dropped, when he rushed from the room,
and which in the tumult of her feelings she had lost sight
completely of.

It was a little frock, such as were worn by very young
children; and so slight was it, that Mr. Effingham had
doubtless not observed that it had escaped from the bundle
which he held in his hand. Beatrice picked it up, and examined
it wonderingly, completely at a loss to understand
how such a thing had gotten into her room. Why does she
start so—why does her cheek flush, then grow pale again?
On the collar of the little frock, is written in distinct though
faded letters, “Beatrice Waters!”

Beatrice sat down, feeling too weak to stand: a sudden
faintness invaded her heart, and her temples throbbed.
“Beatrice Waters!—Beatrice Waters!” What did this
mean? Whence could the frock have come—who brought
it thither? Beatrice Waters? Had Charles then guessed
correctly, and did the letters “B. W.,” on the locket really
mean this? She felt her mind whirl—her face flush and
turn white again—some indefinable presentiment seemed to
seize upon her, and the frock fell from her hand to the floor.
For some minutes the young girl remained motionless—
then she picked the dress up again. Suddenly she felt
something in the pocket, and drew it out. It was a letter—
faded and discolored, and worn at the edges. She tore it
open and run her eyes eagerly over it—trembling—coloring—
growing pale—breathing with difficulty. Then it fell from
her hand, and pressing the other hand upon her heart, she
leaned back overcome, as though she were about to faint.

The letter was in these words—words traced in faded
yellow ink.

“A man about to die, calls on the only Englishman he
knows in this place, to do a deed of charity. Hallam, we
were friends—a long time since, in Kent, Old England, and
to you I make this appeal, which you will read when I will
be cold and stiff. You know we were rivals—Jane chose
to marry me! I used no underhand acts, but fought it fairly
and like an honest soldier—and won her. You know it, and
are too honest a man to bear me any grudge now. I married
her, and we went away to foreign countries, and I

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became a soldier of fortune—now here—now there:—it runs
in the family, for my father was covered with wounds. She
stuck to me—sharing all my trials—my suffering—as she
shared my fortunate days. She was my only hope on earth—
my blessing:—but one day God took her from me. She
died, Hallam, but she left herself behind in a little daughter—
I called her Beatrice, at the request of her mother. The
locket around the child's neck, is her mother's gift to her:
preserve it. Well: we travelled—I grew sick—I came to
Malta, here—I am dying. Already I feel the cold mounting
from my feet to my heart—my eyes are growing hazy, as
my hand staggers along—my last battle's come, comrade!
Take the child, and carry her to my brother John Waters,
who lives in London somewhere—find where he is, and tell
him, that Ralph Waters sends his baby to him to take care
of:—she is yonder playing on the floor while I am dying. I
ask you to do this, because you are an honest man, and because
you loved Jane once. I have no money—all I had is
gone for doctor's stuff and that:—he couldn't stand up
against death! Keep my military coat to remember me by—
it is all I have got. As you loved her who was my wife,
now up in heaven, take care of the child of an English soldier;
and God reward you.

The last words were written hurriedly, and were exceedingly
indistinct; as though the writer had been warned of
his approaching death by a chill hand covering his eyes;
but Beatrice ran over them like lightning, as by inspiration.

We may now understand why she leaned back faintly, dropping
the letter from her nerveless hand. Here was the
mystery illuminated suddenly by a flash, which made plain
every recess, the most gloomy depths. All was as plain as
light now! She was not Hallam's daughter!—that locket
was the gift of her dying mother—that coat in Mr. Effingham's
hand the soldier's—that little frock was the garment
she had worn, a poor little baby, while her brave father,
stretched upon his couch, was struggling with the cold hand
of death, and dedicating his last moments to her own safety
and restoration.

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Her powerful and vivid imagination painted the scene
with lifelike reality. The brave soldier dying—the poor
apartment—the trembling hand contending with the dread
angel—those dim eyes—herself a little child unconscious of
all this—and the glazing eyes fixed on her as she laughed and
prattled—and the last sigh of the stalwart breast a prayer
for her! The scene was so real that she burst into a passion
of tears, and sobbed until she was completely exhausted.
Oh, that dear father dying there alone!—his brow covered
with the sweat of the death agony, far away from friends
and home, in a foreign land! That strong frame fighting
with the destroyer—that face, which dawned on her memory
now like a dim dream, convulsed with pain and dread for
her after fate!

How could she bear to think of this and not feel her
very soul overwhelmed with an agony like that which he had
suffered? And she wept and sobbed, and shook with the
tempest of her feelings; and then slowly grew more calm.

Why had she not been restored to her friends. Was not
that old man, whose son had saved her, her uncle—Charles
her cousin? And this thought dazzled her mind, for a moment
darkened by that scene of death, plain through so
many misty years. Yes, yes! she had heard the boatman
Townes call him “Old John Waters.” Thousands in the
colony had come from England to retrieve their fortunes,
and this must be her uncle!

Overwhelmed with this new weight of thought—bewildered
by this new light streaming upon her mind, she felt
her brain for a moment totter, and pressed it with her hand.
The other hand was laid on her breast, through which shot
an acute pain; that hand fell upon the locket—her mother's
locket—and drawing it forth, she pressed it passionately to
her lips, and again burst into a flood of tears.

Her mother! her poor mother, who had loved her dear
father so much, and been his good angel until she died, away
from her home and friends, as he did! This was her
mother's, and she pressed it convulsively to her lips, and
wept herself faint and quiet. The taper died away and
flickered, but she heeded it not; for that whole scene again
was passing through her mind, and she was far away in the
bright south—that south which she had rightly dreamed she

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had been born in. Scenes now came to her which had been
long buried in oblivion—ah! so long; kind faces, rude bivouacs,
the implements of war—and orange groves! That far
dim past enveloped her with its marvellous breath, and from
it rose dear faces, tender smiles, rough, rude caresses of
great bearded faces, and the sound of trumpets. Those
trumpets echoed faintly through the air, and died away like
an enchanting harmony—like the clear voices of gondoliers
singing the wondrous lays of Tasso, under the starry skies
of Italian nights. The far muttering of cannon then rose
to her memory, and this, too, died away; and then rose
beautiful rosy headlands, orange trees, and waves of gold
rolling their molten fire to the great wide horizon in the
sunset. Then her thoughts rushed backward to her after
life—the English scenes, the theatres, the rough city life,
the loud applause, the nights of study, the days of weariness
and patient grief. Virginia rose on her last, and all she
had suffered—Mr. Effingham's persecutions, the scorn and
forgiveness of that young girl who loved him—lastly, the
love and unhappiness of Charles. That thought made her cheek
flush, she knew not why! Would not this change every thing—
would she not leave the stage—would they not take her
to their hearts, their long-lost child? Why had her father
not obeyed that dying request of her real father? Was it
because he could not find her uncle, or because self-interest
was too strong for him—foreseeing her proficiency in his art?
If the latter, was it not cruel in him? If the former, did
she not owe him deepest love for his long years of tenderness
and care?

Then these tumultuous thoughts disappeared, and that
far dreamy land rose on her mind again—and with her eyes
closed she saw it plainly—ah, how very plainly! She saw
again those scenes which had but now come back to her with
a reality more real than the outward world—a charm more
marvellous and grand than she dreamed possible. Again,
those strong bearded faces shone on her and uttered tender
words—and one was far more tender than them all! Again,
she heard those trumpets sounding like liquid gold, shattered
and sprinkled in the deep blue air; again that faint
and solemn murmur of the distant cannon rolled upon her,
and spoke to her with its grand, eloquent voice, of a great

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conflict and the clash of arms! She heard them now distinctly—
no longer dying away farther and farther into the
dim past—but real, audible as reality, and instinct with a
heavenly harmony which wrapped her heart in ecstasy and
delight.

And then again she saw that wondrous southern land, where
the blue skies drooped down upon a marvellous horizon—
where the warm seas, covered with white-sailed ships, were
ruffled by soft winds, laden with the rich perfume of orange
trees and flowers—perfumes that set her dreaming, breezes
that soothed her agitation and anxiety, like winds from heaven.
Again, the vast wide sea rolled its great liquid gold,
its billows crested with a fiery foam in the red sunset, gradually
fading:—and above the whole, grand in its softness,
beautiful for its light, rose the dear father's face—smiling
upon his child!

The taper flickered and went out—she did not heed it,
dreaming of the bright southern home and of his face. She
leaned her head upon the window-sill, and dreamed and
dreamed:—sleeping, those wondrous memories clung to her,
and when the full sunlight streamed upon the tender, gentle
face, waking her, she almost thought it was her father's kiss.