It was early in the month of August when Brandon visited the quarantine station at Gosse Island, Quebec. A low, wooden building stood near the landing, with a sign over the door containing only the word “OFFICE.” To this building Brandon directed his steps. On entering he saw only one clerk there.

“Are you the superintendent?” he asked, bowing courteously.

“No,” said the clerk. “He is in Quebec just now.”

“Perhaps you can give me the information that I want.”

“What is it?”

“I have been sent to inquire after some passengers that came out here last year.”

“Oh yes, I can tell all that can be told,” said the clerk, readily. “We have the registration books here, and you are at liberty to look up any names you wish. Step this way, please.” And he led the way to an inner office.

“What year did they come out in?” asked the clerk.

“Last year.”

“Last year—an awful year to look up. 1846—yes, here is the book for that year—a year which you are aware was an unparalleled one.”

“I have heard so.”

“Do you know the name of the ship?”

“The Tecumseh.”

“The Tecumseh!” exclaimed the clerk, with a startled look. “That is an awful name in our records. I am sorry you have not another name to examine, for the Tecumseh was the worst of all.”

Brandon bowed.

“The Tecumseh,” continued the clerk, turning over the leaves of the book as it lay on the desk. “The Tecumseh, from Liverpool, sailed June 2, arrived August 16. Here you see the names of those who died at sea, copied from the ship’s books, and those who died on shore. It is a frightful mortality. Would you like to look over the list?”

Brandon bowed and advanced to the desk.

“The deaths on board ship show whether they were seamen or passengers, and the passengers are marked as cabin and steerage. But after landing it was impossible to keep an account of classes.”

Brandon carefully ran his eye down the long list, and read each name. Those for which he looked did not appear. At last he came to the list of those who had died on shore. After reading a few names his eye was arrested by one—

“Brandon, Elizabeth.”

It was his mother. He read on. He soon came to another—

“Brandon, Edith.” It was his sister.

“Do you find any of the names?” asked the clerk, seeing Brandon turn his head.

“Yes,” said Brandon; “this is one,” and he pointed to the last name. “But I see a mark opposite that name. What is it? ‘B’ and ‘A.’ What is the meaning?” “Is that party a relative of yours?”

“No,” said Brandon.

“You don’t mind hearing something horrible, then?”

“No.”

The clerk drew a long breath.

“Well, Sir, those letters were written by the late superintendent. The poor man is now a lunatic. He was here last year.

“You see this is how it was: The ship-fever broke out. The number of sick was awful, and there were no preparations for them here. The disease in some respects was worse than cholera, and there was nothing but confusion. Very many died from lack of nursing. But the worst feature of the whole thing was the hurried burials.

“I was not here last year, and all who were here then have left. But I’ve heard enough to make me sick with horror. You perhaps are aware that in this ship-fever there sometimes occurs a total loss of sense, which is apt to be mistaken for death?”

The clerk paused. Brandon regarded him steadily for a moment. Then he turned, and looked earnestly at the book.

“The burials were very hastily made.”

“Well?”

“And it is now believed that some were buried in a state of trance.”

“Buried alive?”

“Buried alive!”

There was a long silence. Brandon’s eyes were fixed on the book. At last he pointed to the name of Edith Brandon.

“Then, I suppose,” he said, in a steady voice, which, however, was in a changed key, “these letters ‘B’ and ‘A’ are intended to mean something of that description?”

“Something of that sort,” replied the clerk.

Brandon drew a long breath.

“But there is no certainty about it in this particular case. I will tell you how these marks happened to be made. The clerk that was here last told me.

“One morning, according to him, the superintendent came in, looking very much excited and altered. He went to this book, where the entries of burials had been made on the preceding evening. This name was third from the last. Twelve had been buried. He penciled these letters there and left. People did not notice him: every body was sick or busy. At last in the evening of the next day, when they were to bury a new lot, they found the superintendent digging at the grave the third from the last. They tried to stop him, but he shouted and moaned alternately ‘Buried alive!’ ‘Buried alive!’ In fact they saw that he was crazy, and had to confine him at once.”

“Did they examine the grave?”

“Yes. The woman told my predecessor that she and her husband—who did the burying—had examined it, and found the body not only dead, but corrupt. So there’s no doubt of it. That party must have been dead at any rate.”

“Who was the woman?”

“An old woman that laid them out. She and her husband buried them.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does she stay here yet?”

“No. She left last year.”

“What became of the superintendent?”

“He was taken home, but grew no better. At last he had to be sent to an asylum. Some examination was made by the authorities, but nothing ever came of it. The papers made no mention of the affair, and it was hushed up.”

Brandon read on. At last he came to another name. It was simply this: “Brandon.” There was a slight movement on the clerk’s part as Brandon came to this name. “There is no Christian name here,” said Brandon. “I suppose they did not know it.”

“Well,” said the clerk, “there’s something peculiar about that. The former clerk never mentioned it to any body but me. That man didn’t die at all.”

“What do you mean?” said Brandon, who could scarcely speak for the tremendous struggle between hope and despair that was going on within him.

“It’s a false entry.”

“How?”

“The superintendent wrote that. See, the handwriting is different from the others. One is that of the clerk who made all these entries; the other is the superintendent’s.”

Brandon looked and saw that this was the case.

“What was the cause of that?”

“The clerk told me that after making these next fifteen entries of buried parties—buried the evening after these last twelve—he went away to see about something. When he came back the next morning this name was written in the superintendent’s hand. He did not know what to think of it, so he concluded to ask the superintendent; but in the course of the day he heard that he was mad and in confinement, as I have told you.”

“Then you mean that this is not an entry of a death at all.”

“Yes. The fact is, the superintendent for some reason got it into his head that this Brandon”—and he pointed to Edith’s name—“had been buried alive. He brooded over the name, and among other things wrote it down here at the end of the list for the day. That’s the way in which my predecessor accounted for it.”

“It is a very natural one,” said Brandon.

“Quite so.” The clerk let it stand. You see, if he had erased it, he might have been overhauled, and there would have been a committee. He was afraid of that; so he thought it better to say nothing about it. He wouldn’t have told me, only he said that a party came here once for a list of all the dead of the Tecumseh, and he copied all out, including this doubtful one. He thought that he had done wrong, and therefore told me, so that if any particular inquiries were ever made I might know what to say.”

“Are there many mistakes in these records?”

{Illustration: “A STRANGE FEELING PASSED OVER BRANDON. HE STEPPED FORWARD."}

“I dare say there are a good many in the list for 1846. There was so much confusion that names got changed, and people died whose names could only be conjectured by knowing who had recovered. As some of those that recovered or had not been sick slipped away secretly, of course there was inaccuracy.”

Brandon had nothing more to ask. He thanked the clerk and departed.

There was a faint hope, then, that Frank might yet be alive. On his way to Quebec he decided what to do. As soon as he arrived he inserted an advertisement in the chief papers to the following effect:

NOTICE:

Information of any one of the names of “BRANDON,” who came out in the ship Tecumseh in 1846 from Liverpool to Quebec, is earnestly desired by friends of the family. A liberal reward will be given to any one who can give the above information. Apply to:

Henry Peters, 22 Place d’Armes.

Brandon waited in Quebec six weeks without any results. He then went to Montreal and inserted the same notice in the papers there, and in other towns in Canada, giving his Montreal address. After waiting five or six weeks in Montreal he went to Toronto, and advertised again, giving his new address. He waited here for some time, till at length the month of November began to draw to a close. Not yet despondent, he began to form a plan for advertising in every city of the United States.

Meanwhile he had received many communications, all of which, however, were made with the vague hope of getting a reward. None were at all reliable. At length he thought that it was useless to wait any longer in Canada, and concluded to go to New York as a centre of action.

He arrived in New York at the end of December, and immediately began to insert his notices in all parts of the country, giving his address at the Astor House.

One day, as he came in from the street, he was informed that there was some one in his room who wished to see him. He went up calmly, thinking that it was some new person with intelligence.

On entering the room he saw a man standing by the window, in his shirt-sleeves, dressed in coarse clothes. The man was very tall, broad-shouldered, with large, Roman features, and heavy beard and mustache. His face was marked by profound dejection; he looked like one whose whole life had been one long misfortune. Louis Brandon had never seen any face which bore so deep an impress of suffering.

The stranger turned as he came in and looked at him with his sad eyes earnestly.

“Sir,” said he, in a voice which thrilled through Brandon, “are you Henry Peters?”

A strange feeling passed over Brandon. He stepped forward.

“Frank!” he cried, in a broken voice.

“Merciful Heavens!” cried the other. “Have you too come up from the dead? Louis!”

In this meeting between the two brothers, after so many eventful years of separation, each had much to tell. Each had a story so marvelous that the other might have doubted it, had not the marvels of his own experience been equally great. Frank’s story, however, is the only one that the reader will care to hear, and that must be reserved for another chapter.