Reader, were you ever at Jamaica? If so, you remember the
negresses, the oranges, Port Royal Tom--the yellow fever. After
being two weeks at the station, I was taken sick of the fever. In
a month I was delirious. During my paroxysms, I had a wild
distempered dream of a stern face bending anxiously over my pillow,
a rough hand smoothing my hair, and a kind voice saying:--
"Bess his 'ittle heart! Did he have the naughty fever?" This face
seemed again changed to the well-known stern features of Captain
Boltrope.
When I was convalescent, a packet edged in black was put in my
hand. It contained the news of my father's death, and a sealed
letter which he had requested to be given to me on his decease. I
opened it tremblingly. It read thus:--
"My dear Boy:--I regret to inform you that in all probability you
are not my son. Your mother, I am grieved to say, was a highly
improper person. Who your father may be, I really cannot say, but
perhaps the Honorable Henry Boltrope, Captain R. N., may be able to
inform you. Circumstances over which I have no control have
deferred this important disclosure.
"YOUR STRICKEN PARENT."
And so Captain Boltrope was my father.
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