The dazzled eyes of the lawyer almost closed--he fell into the old
leather chair, and sobbing, "my son! my son Arthur!" would have
fainted.
He was revived promptly, and the wondering auditors gathered around
him, listening, while he spoke--the shaggy head, leaning on the
shoulder of Verty, who knelt at his feet, and looked up in his eyes
with joy and wonder.
Yes! there could be no earthly doubt that the strange words uttered by
the boy, were so many broken and yet brilliant memories shining from
the dim past: that this was his son--the original of the portrait. The
now harsh and sombre lawyer, when a young and happy man, had married
a French lady, and lived on the border; and his little son had, after
the French fashion, received, for middle name, his mother's name,
Anne--and this had become his pet designation. His likeness had been
painted by a wandering artist, and soon after, a band of Delawares had
attacked the homestead and carried him away to the wilderness, and
there had remained little doubt, in his father's mind, that the
child had been treated as the Indians were accustomed to treat such
captives--mercilessly slain.
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