“Glad of it—­glad of it; but what nephew? who is he?  A nephew of Mr. Hamilton’s will not raise the glory of the Delmont family; and you had only one brother, if I remember rightly?”

“Have you quite forgotten the beautiful girl, who, when I last had the pleasure of meeting you in such a scene as this, was the object of universal attraction?  You surely remember my father’s favourite Eleanor, Sir George?”

“Eleanor—­Eleanor—­let me think;” and the old sailor for a moment put himself in a musing attitude, and then starting, exclaimed, “to be sure I do; the loveliest girl I ever cast eyes upon;—­and what has become of her?  By the bye, there was some story about her, was there not?  She chose a husband for herself, and ran off, and broke her poor father’s heart.  Where is she now?”

“Let her faults be forgotten, my dear Sir George,” replied Mrs. Hamilton, with some emotion.  “They were fully, painfully repented.  Let them die with her.”

“Die!  Is she, too, dead?  What, that graceful sylph, that exquisite creature I see before me now, in all the pride of conscious loveliness!” and the veteran drew his rough hand across his eyes in unfeigned emotion, then hastily recovering himself, he said, “and this boy—­this sailor is her son.  I can hardly believe it possible.  Why he surely cannot be old enough to go to sea.”

“You forget the number of years that have passed, Sir George.  Edward is now eighteen, as old, if not older, than his mother was when you last saw her.”

“And when did poor Eleanor die?”

“Six years ago.  She had been left a widow in India, and only reached her native land to breathe her last in my arms.  You will be pleased, I think, with her daughter, though, on second thought, perhaps, she may not be quite lively enough for you; however, I must beg your notice for her, as her attachment to her brother is so excessive, that all relating to the sea is to her in the highest degree interesting.”

“And do your sister’s children live with you—­had their father no relations?”

“None; and even if he had, I should have petitioned to bring them up and adopt them as my own.  Poor children, when their mother died, their situation was indeed melancholy.  Helpless orphans of ten and scarcely twelve, cast on a strange land, without one single friend to whom they could look for succour or protection.  My heart bled for them, and never once have I regretted my decision.”

The old man looked at her glowing cheek in admiration, and pressing her hand, he said warmly, prefacing his words, as he always did, with the affirmative “ay, ay.”

“Your father’s daughter must be somewhat different to others of her rank.  I must come and see you, positively I must.  Wind and tide will be strongly against me, if you do not see me in a few days anchoring off your coast.  No storms disturb your harbour, I fancy.  But what has become of your husband—­your daughter? let me see all I can belonging to you.  Come, Mrs. Hamilton, crowd sail, and tow me at once to my wished for port.”