It was, in part, explained to my mind on the next morning, when one of the persons to whom I had written called, and was shown up into our parlor by request.
There was a coldness and reserve about him, combined with a too evident suspicion that it was not all as I had said.

That my father was not Mr.Ballantine, nor I his daughter--but both, in fact, impostors! And certain it is that the white-headed imbecile old man bore but little resemblance to the fine, manly, robust form, which my father presented three years before.

The visitor questioned and cross-questioned me; and failed not to hint at what seemed to him discrepancies, and even impossibilities in my story.

I felt indignant at this; at the same time my heart sank at the suddenly flashing conviction that, after all our sufferings and long weary exile from our home, we should find ourselves but strangers in the land of our birth--be even repulsed from our own homestead.
"Our visitor retired after an interview of about half an hour, giving me to understand pretty plainly that he thought both my father and myself impostors.

His departure left me faint and sick at heart.