An observer close as Mrs. Wilson, would have said that the feelings of the father and son were not such as ought to exist between parent and child.

But the admiral, who regarded model and rigging a good deal, satisfied himself with muttering, as he turned his eye on the junior—­

“He may do for a duke—­but I would not have him for a cockswain.”

George was a year younger than Francis; in form, stature, and personal grace, the counterpart of his father; his eye was less keen but more attractive than that of his brother; his air open, polished, and manly.

“Ah!” thought the sailor, as he ended a satisfactory survey of the youth, “what a thousand pities Denbigh did not send him to sea!”

The thing was soon settled, and George was to be the happy man.  Sir Peter concluded to dine with his friend, in order to settle preliminaries over the bottle by themselves; the young men and their mother being engaged to their uncle the duke.

“Well, Denbigh,” cried the admiral, as the last servant withdrew, “when do you mean to have the young couple spliced?”

“Why,” replied the wary soldier, who knew he could not calculate on obedience to his mandate with as great a certainty as his friend—­“the better way is to bring the young people together, in order that they may become acquainted, you know.”

“Acquainted—­together—­” cried his companion, in a little surprise, “what better way is there to bring them together, than to have them up before a priest, or to make them acquainted by letting them swing in the same hammock?”

“It might answer the end, indeed,” said the general, with a smile, “but somehow or other, it is always the best method to bring young folks together, to let them have their own way in the affair for a time.”

“Own way!” rejoined Sir Peter, bluntly, “did you ever find it answer to let a woman have her own way, Sir Frederick?”

“Not common women certainly, my good friend,” said the general, “but such a girl as my intended daughter is an exception.”

“I don’t know that,” cried the sailor; “Bell is a good girl, but she has her quirks and whims like all the sex.”

“You have had no trouble with her as yet, I believe, Howell,” said Sir Frederick cavalierly, throwing an inquiring glance on his friend at the same time.

“No, not yet—­nor do I think she will ever dare to mutiny; but there has been one wishing to take her in tow already since we got in.”

“How!” said the other in alarm, “who—­what is he? some officer in the navy, I suppose.”

“No, he was a kind of chaplain, one Parson Ives, a good sort of a youth enough, and a prodigious favorite with my sister, Lady Hawker.”

“Well, what did you answer, Peter?” said his companion in increasing uneasiness; “did you put him off?”

“Off! to be sure I did—­do you think I wanted a barber’s clerk for a son-in-law?  No, no, Denbigh; a soldier is bad enough, without having a preacher.”