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“Do you happen to know anybody on this street by the name of Hapford?”

“Why no, not in this town,” said the boy; but he added that there was a street of the same name in a neighboring suburb, and that there was a Hapford living on it.

“By Jove!” thought the contributor, “this is more like literature than ever;” and he hardly knew whether to be more provoked at his own stupidity in not thinking of a street of the same name in the next village, or delighted at the element of fatality which the fact introduced into the story; for Tinker, according to his own account, must have landed from the cars a few rods from the very door he was seeking, and so walked farther and farther from it every moment. He thought the case so curious, that he laid it briefly before the boy, who, however he might have been inwardly affected, was sufficiently true to the national traditions not to make the smallest conceivable outward sign of concern in it.

At home, however, the contributor related his adventures and the story of Tinker’s life, adding the fact that he had just found out where Mr. Hapford lived. “It was the only touch wanting,” said he; “the whole thing is now perfect.”

“It’s too perfect,” was answered from a sad enthusiasm. “Don’t speak of it! I can’t take it in.”

“But the question is,” said the contributor, penitently taking himself to task for forgetting the hero of these excellent misfortunes in his delight at their perfection, “how am I to sleep to-night, thinking of that poor soul’s suspense and uncertainty? Never mind,–I’ll be up early, and run over and make sure that it is Tinker’s Hapford, before he gets out here, and have a pleasant surprise for him. Would it not be a justifiable coup de theatre to fetch his daughter here, and let her answer his ring at the door when he comes in the morning?”

This plan was discouraged. “No, no; let them meet in their own way. Just take him to Hapford’s house and leave him.”

“Very well. But he’s too good a character to lose sight of. He’s got to come back here and tell us what he intends to do.”

The birds, next morning, not having had the second mate on their minds either as an unhappy man or a most fortunate episode, but having slept long and soundly, were singing in a very sprightly way in the way-side trees; and the sweetness of their notes made the contributor’s heart light as he climbed the hill and rang at Mr. Hapford’s door.

The door was opened by a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, whom he knew at a glance for the second mate’s daughter, but of whom, for form’s sake, he asked if there were a girl named Julia Tinker living there.

“My name’s Julia Tinker,” answered the maid, who had rather a disappointing face.

“Well,” said the contributor, “your father’s got back from his Hong-Kong voyage.”

“Hong-Kong voyage?” echoed the girl, with a stare of helpless inquiry, but no other visible emotion.

“Yes. He had never heard of your mother’s death. He came home yesterday morning, and was looking for you all day.”

Julia Tinker remained open-mouthed but mute; and the other was puzzled at the want of feeling shown, which he could not account for even as a national trait. “Perhaps there’s some mistake,” he said.

“There must be,” answered Julia: “my father hasn’t been to sea for a good many years. My father,” she added, with a diffidence indescribably mingled with a sense of distinction,–“my father’s in State’s Prison. What kind of looking man was this?”

The contributor mechanically described him.

Julia Tinker broke into a loud, hoarse laugh. “Yes, it’s him, sure enough.” And then, as if the joke were too good to keep: “Miss Hapford, Miss Hapford, father’s got out. Do come here!” she called into a back room.

When Mrs. Hapford appeared, Julia fell back, and, having deftly caught a fly on the door-post, occupied herself in plucking it to pieces, while she listened to the conversation of the others.