I had been too long at school to be ashamed of wearing laurels I had never won; and, having often received a flogging which I did not deserve, I thought myself equally well entitled to any advantages which the chances of war might throw in my way; so having set my tender conscience at rest, I sat myself down between my new mistress and her father, and made a most delightful breakfast.  Miss Somerville, although declared out of danger by the doctor, was still languid, but able to continue her journey; and as they had not many miles further to go, Mr Somerville proposed a delay of an hour or two.

Breakfast ended, he quitted the room to arrange for their departure, and I found myself tete-a-tete with the young lady.  During this short absence, I found out that she was an only daughter, and that her mother was dead; she again introduced the subject of my family name, and I found also that before Mrs Somerville’s death, my father had been on terms of great intimacy with Emily’s parents.  I had not replied to Mr Somerville’s question.  A similar one was now asked by his daughter; and so closely was I interrogated by her coral lips and searching blue eyes, that I could not tell a lie.  It would have been a horrid aggravation of guilt, so I honestly owned that I was the son of her father’s friend, Mr Mildmay.

“Good heaven!” said she, “why had you not told my father so?”

“Because I must have said a great deal more; besides,” added I, making her my confidante.  “I am the midshipman whom Mr Somerville supposes to be in the Mediterranean, and I ran away from my father’s house last night.”

Although I was as concise as possible in my story, I had not finished before Mr Somerville came in.

“Oh, papa,” said his daughter, “this young gentleman is Frank Mildmay, after all.”

I gave her a reproachful glance for having betrayed my secret; her father was astonished—­she looked confused, and so did I.

Nothing now remained for me but an open and candid confession, taking especial care, however, to conceal the part I had acted in throwing the stone.  Mr Somerville reproved me very sharply, which I thought was taking a great liberty; but he softened it down by adding, “If you knew how dear the interests of your family are to me, you would not be surprised at my assuming the tone of a parent.”  I looked at Emily, and pocketed the affront.

“And, Frank,” pursued he, “when I tell you, that, although the distance between your father’s property and mine has in some measure interrupted our long intimacy, I have been watching your career in the service with interest, you will, perhaps, take my advice, and return home.  Do not let me have to regret that one to whom I am under such obligations should be too proud to acknowledge a fault.  I admire a high spirit in a good cause:  but towards a parent it can never be justified.  It may be unpleasant to you; but I will prepare the