he money
to go with."

"No, no, Barney, I didn't take his money."

"Ah, well, I don't know nothing 'bout that. But here's the gate. On
you go first."

"No; go on first with Pan."

"And let you shoot off."

"Am I not on parole?"

"Ay, ay. Forgetted that. Now then, you swab; on with you."

As Barney led the way towards the front door, Sydney noticed that there
was a light in the dining-room, whose windows were open, the weather
being still warm and fine.

"Stop, Barney," he said, after a sudden thought, "we'll go in there
through the window."

"Nay, my lad, nay," said the boatswain; "it'll look as if I was spellin'
arter a glass o' wine."

"Never mind. I'll go first, and you bring in Pan afterwards."

"Oh, Master Syd, don't."

"Yah! you swab, be quiet!" said Barney, giving his unfortunate son
another shake. "Wait till the admiral's pronounced court-martial on
you; and then--"

He did not finish, but followed close behind Sydney, who drew a long
breath, walked boldly up to the open French window, looked in a moment
on where the two fine old veterans were sitting talking sadly together,
and then stepped in.

"What!" roared the admiral, rising from his chair, and oversetting his
glass of port.

"You here, sir!" cried Captain Belton. "Why have you come back?"

"Because I've been thinking all night, father," said Syd, quietly, "and
I've found out I was a fool."

CHAPTER NINE.

There was a dead silence in the dining-room at the Heronry for some
time, during which Syd stood with his head erect gazing at his father,
who was erect by the table as he might have stood in old times upon his
quarter-deck with some mutineer before him; the admiral dropped back
into his arm-chair, stared from one to the other as if astounded by his
nephew's declaration, while the light shone full upon Syd, who looked
pale, shabby, and dirty, but with a frank daring in his face which kept
the two old men silent.

In the background close to the window stood Barney, with all his old
training manifest in his attitude--that of a petty officer in charge of
a prisoner; for that was the character which his son occupied just then
in his eyes. His gardening was, for the time being, forgotten, and he
felt that he was in the presence of his commanding officer, not of the
master whom he served.

The painful silence was broken by Pan, to whom all this was
awe-inspiring. For the moment he forgot all about ropes'-ends, and
wor