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“Mr. Browne! Mr. Browne! won’t you just look this way a minute? Isn’t this fine?”

“Yes, Judy; it surely is,” he would say absently, keeping his thumb on the place in the factor’s letter, and resuming his reading as soon as possible, without having any definite idea of what Mrs. Judith had been showing him.

On the very last page he found these words:

“I have made most diligent searche for your family as you
required butt I have not discovered muche that will be to your
satisfaction. I send you, Sir, a coppie of certain things
sette down in the Parish Register of St. Clement Danes, wch I
thoughte most like to be of interest to you. Bye these you
will discover that Walter Sanford Browne was born the 27 daye
of the moneth of Febuarie 1721–wch will no doubt give you
exacte knowledge of your owne age. The father and mother of
Walter Sanford Browne bore the names Walter and Susan
respectively wch is a fact that will not be indifferent to
you I suppose. I finde that Walter Browne aforesd, who is
sette down a scrivener, was married at this same church of
St. Clements on the 22 daye of Marche in the year 1720 to
Anne Sanford of the same parish. Theire daughter Susan was
borne in Aprill 1725, as you will see by this transcripte
made by the clarke of the parish. The clarke cannot
discover any further mencion of this familie nor of the
name of Sanford in this register downe to this present
time, from wch he deems it is to be inferred that sd.
Walter Browne long since removed out of that parish, in
particular as the present wardens and sidesmen of the parish
afresd do not know any man of that name now residente
there. It is a probabilitie that yr. father has removed
to one of the plantations. I have made public advertisement
in the Gazettes for your father or any neare kinsman but
w’out any successe whatsoever.”

There followed a memorandum of pounds, shillings, and pence paid to the “clarke” of the parish of St. Clement Danes, of money paid for advertisements in the gazettes, and of expenses incurred in further searches made by a solicitor. That was all–the end of hope to Sanford Browne. He went into the sitting-room and put the factor’s letter into a little clothespress that stood beside the chimney, and then strode out into the air, giving no heed to Judith, who had gone up the stairs at the side of the passage, and come down again wearing a hideous pannier petticoat under her new frock. She guessed her husband’s disappointment, and, though she longed for a word of admiration, or at least of wondering attention, for her square-rigged petticoat, she thought best to be content with the excited prattle of her maid, a young bond-servant bought off the Nancy Jane the year before.

“Here, Jocko,” said Browne, standing in front of his house and calling to the Adamite negro lad, “you go and call Bob, and get the sloop ready. I’m going down to the ship.”

“Get sloop, massa?” said the negro, speaking English with difficulty. “Massa say sloop?”

Sanford Browne looked at the black figure inquiringly. It was not often that poor, cringing Jocko ventured to question him. “Yes, sloop,” he said with an emphasis born of his irritating disappointment.

“Much great big wind blow–blow right up river. Tack, tack, all day,” muttered the black boy timidly.

“You’re right,” said the planter, who had not observed that the strong wind would be dead ahead all the way to the anchorage. “Tell Bob to put the canoe in the water.” And then to himself: “The negro is no fool.”

“Bob, Bob, massa him want can-noo go see great big ship mighty quick.”