My father, as my name tells, was of Dutch descent.

My mother was Irish.

Both are dead." He stopped.

The fire that had been aroused seemed to die down, and he continued to smoke with the sad absent look which was peculiar to him.
"And what about large game ?" asked Nigel, anxious to stir up his friend's enthusiasm again, but the hermit had sunk back into his usual condition of gentle dreaminess, and made no answer till the question had been repeated.
"Pardon me," he said, "I was dreaming of the days that are gone.

Ah! Nigel; you are yet too young to understand the feelings of the old--the sad memories of happy years that can never return: of voices that are hushed for ever.