come over next week to Port-Graham,--that's my little place,
though there's no port, nor anything like a port, within ten miles of
it,--and we 'll arrange everything. If I 'm an old fellow, Maitland, I
don't forget that I was once a young one,--mind that, my boy." And the
Commodore had to wipe his eyes, with the laughter at his drollery. "Yes;
here I am," cried he, again; and then turning to Maitland, shook
his hand in both his own, repeating, "On Wednesday,--Wednesday to
dinner,--not later than five, remember,"--he hastened down the stairs,
and scrambled up on the car beside his eldest daughter, who apparently
had already opened a floodgate of attack on him for his delay.

"Insupportable old bore!" muttered Maitland, as he waved his hand from
the window, and smiled his blandest salutations to the retreating party.
"What a tiresome old fool to fancy that I am going over to Graham-pond,
or port, or whatever it is, to talk over an incident that I desire to
have forgotten! Besides, when once I have left this neighborhood, he may
discuss M'Caskey every day after his dinner; he may write his life, for
anything I care."

With this parting reflection he went down to the garden, strolling
listlessly along the dew-spangled alleys, and carelessly tossing aside
with his cane the apple-blossoms, which lay thick as snow-flakes on the
walks. While thus lounging, he came suddenly upon Sir Arthur, as, hoe in
hand, he imagined himself doing something useful.

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Maitland," cried he, "Mark has just told me of the
stupid mistake I made. Will you be generous enough to forgive me?"

"It is from me, sir, that the apologies must come," began Maitland.

"Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Maitland. You will overwhelm me with
shame if you say so. Let us each forget the incident; and, believe me,
I shall feel myself your debtor by the act of oblivion." He shook
Maitland's hand warmly, and in an easier tone added, "What good news I
have heard! You are not tired of us,--not going!"

"I cannot--I told Mark this morning--I don't believe there is a road out
of this."

"Well, wait here till I tell you it is fit for travelling," said Sir
Arthur, pleasantly, and addressed himself once more to his labors as a
gardener.

Meanwhile Maitland threw himself down on a garden-bench, and cried
aloud, "This is the real thing, after all,--this is actual repose. Not a
word of political intrigue, no snares, no tricks, no deceptions, and
no