owing to their personal friendship.  From their youth they had been companions, and although of very different characters and habits, chance had cemented their intimacy in more advanced life.  While in subordinate stations, they had been associated together in service; and the general and admiral, in command of an army and fleet, had once before returned to England with less renown, as a colonel and a captain of a frigate.  The great family influence of the soldier, with the known circumstance of their harmony, had procured them this later command, and home, with its comforts and rewards, was close before them.  Pouring out a glass of Madeira, the general, who always calculated what he said, exclaimed,

“Peter—­we have been friends from boys.”

“To be sure we have,” said the admiral, looking up in a little surprise at this unexpected commencement—­“and it will not be my fault if we do not die such, Frederick.”

Dying was a subject the general did not much delight in although of conspicuous courage in the field; and he proceeded to his more important purpose—­“I could never find, although I have looked over our family tree so often, that we are in any manner related, Howell.”

“I believe it is too late to mend that matter now,” said the admiral, musing.

“Why no—­hem—­I think not, Howell; take a glass of this Burgundy.”

The admiral shook his head with a stubborn resolution to taste nothing French, but he helped himself to a bountiful stock of Madeira, as he replied—­

“I should like to know how you can bring it about this time of day, Denbigh.”

“How much money will you be able to give that girl of yours, Peter?” said his friend, evading the point.

“Forty thousand down, my good fellow, and as much more when I die,” cried the open-hearted sailor, with a nod of exultation.

“George, my youngest son, will not be rich—­but Francis will be a duke, and have a noble estate; yet,” said the general; meditating, “he is so unhappy in his disposition and uncouth in his manners, I cannot think of offering him to your daughter as a husband.”

“Isabel shall marry a good-natured man, like myself, or not at all,” said the admiral, positively, but not in the least suspecting the drift of his friend, who was influenced by anything but a regard for the lady’s happiness.

Francis, his first born, was, in truth, as he had described; but his governing wish was to provide for his favorite George.  Dukes could never want wives, but unportioned captains in the guards might.

“George is one of the best tempers in the world,” said his father, with strong feeling, “and the delight of us all.  I could wish he had been the heir to the family honors.”

“That it is certainly too late to help,” cried the admiral, wondering if the ingenuity of his friend could devise a remedy for this evil too.

“Too late, indeed,” said the other, with a heavy sigh, “but Howell, what say you to matching Isabel with my favorite George?”