It's a place for foundlings, sir,"
I answered.

"But--excuse me--Miss Plinlimmon--Agatha? Arabella? I forget for
the moment her Christian name--"

"Amelia, sir."

"To be sure; Amelia. Well, she could not be a foundling, nor--as I
remember her--did she in the least resemble one."

"Oh no, sir: she is the matron there."

"I see. And where is this hospital?"

"At Plymouth Dock."

"Hey?"

"At Plymouth Dock. A Mr. Scougall keeps it--a sort of clergyman."

"This is most strange. My friend Arthur's son, young Archibald
Plinlimmon, is quartered with his regiment there, and often pays us a
visit, poor lad."

"Indeed, sir?"

"His circumstances are not prosperous. Family troubles--money
losses, you understand: and then his father made an imprudent
marriage. Not that anything can be said against the Leicesters--
there are few better families. But the lady, I imagine, did not take
kindly to poverty: never learnt to cut her coat according to the
cloth. Her uncle might have helped her--Sir Charles, that is--the
head of the family--a childless man with plenty of money. For some
reason, however, he had opposed her match with Arthur. A sad story!
And now, when their lad is grown and the time come for him to be a
soldier, he must start in the ranks. But why in the world, if she
lives at Plymouth Dock, has Archibald never mentioned his aunt to
us?"

This was more than I could tell him. And you may be sure that the
name Leicester made me want to ask questions, not to answer them.
But just now Isabel came across the lawn, bearing a tray with a
plateful of biscuits, a decanter of claret, and a glass.

"My dear," asked her father, "has our friend Archibald ever spoken to
you of an aunt of his--a Miss Plinlimmon--residing at Plymouth Dock?"

"No, papa." She turned on me, again with that fear and appeal in her
eyes, as if in some way I was persecuting her; and the decanter shook
and tinkled on the rim of the glass as she poured out the claret.

The old man lifted the wine and held it between his sightless eyes
and the sunshine.

"A sad story," he mused: "but, after all, the lad is young and the
world young for him! Rejoice in your youth, Mr. Revel, and honour
your Creator in the days of it. For me, I enjoyed it by God's grace,
and it has not forsaken me: no, not when darkness overtook and shut
me out of the profession I loved. I cannot see the colour of this
wine, nor the face of this my daughter, nor my