ase
your honor, I'm ashamed of myself." So the apology began and ended.
"This mustn't happen again, Mazey," the admiral used to answer. "It
shan't happen again, your honor." "Very good. Come here, and drink your
glass of wine. God bless the Queen, Mazey." The veteran tossed off his
port, and the dialogue ended as usual.

So the days passed, with no incidents more important than these to
relieve their monotony, until the end of the fourth week was at hand.

On the last day, an event happened; on the last day, the long deferred
promise of the future unexpectedly began to dawn. While Magdalen was
spreading the cloth in the dining-room, as usual, Mrs. Drake looked
in, and instructed her on this occasion, for the first time, to lay
the table for two persons. The admiral had received a letter from his
nephew. Early that evening Mr. George Bartram was expected to return to
St. Crux.

CHAPTER III.

AFTER placing the second cover, Magdalen awaited the ringing of the
dinner-bell, with an interest and impatience which she found it no easy
task to conceal. The return of Mr. Bartram would, in all probability,
produce a change in the life of the house; and from change of any kind,
no matter how trifling, something might be hoped. The nephew might be
accessible to influences which had failed to reach the uncle. In any
case, the two would talk of their affairs over their dinner; and
through that talk--proceeding day after day in her presence--the way
to discovery, now absolutely invisible, might, sooner or later, show
itself.

At last the bell rang, the door opened, and the two gentlemen entered
the room together.

Magdalen was struck, as her sister had been struck, by George Bartram's
resemblance to her father--judging by the portrait at Combe-Raven, which
presented the likeness of Andrew Vanstone in his younger days. The
light hair and florid complexion, the bright blue eyes and hardy upright
figure, familiar to her in the picture, were all recalled to her memory,
as the nephew followed the uncle across the room and took his place
at table. She was not prepared for this sudden revival of the lost
associations of home. Her attention wandered as she tried to conceal its
effect on her; and she made a blunder in waiting at table, for the first
time since she had entered the house.

A quaint reprimand from the admiral, half in jest, half in earnest,
gave her time to recover herself. She ventured another look at George
Bartra