After breakfast the next morning, the admiral’s directions to the new parlor-maid included among them one particular order which, in Magdalen’s situation, it was especially her interest to receive.  In the old gentleman’s absence from home that day, on local business which took him to Ossory, she was directed to make herself acquainted with the whole inhabited quarter of the house, and to learn the positions of the various rooms, so as to know where the bells called her when the bells rang.  Mrs. Drake was charged with the duty of superintending the voyage of domestic discovery, unless she happened to be otherwise engaged—­in which case any one of the inferior servants would be equally competent to act as Magdalen’s guide.

At noon the admiral left for Ossory, and Magdalen presented herself in Mrs. Drake’s room, to be shown over the house.  Mrs. Drake happened to be otherwise engaged, and referred her to the head house-maid.  The head house-maid happened on that particular morning to be in the same condition as Mrs. Drake, and referred her to the under-house-maids.  The under-house-maids declared they were all behindhand and had not a minute to spare—­they suggested, not too civilly, that old Mazey had nothing on earth to do, and that he knew the house as well, or better, than he knew his A B C. Magdalen took the hint, with a secret indignation and contempt which it cost her a hard struggle to conceal.  She had suspected, on the previous night, and she was certain now, that the women-servants all incomprehensibly resented her presence among them with the same sullen unanimity of distrust.  Mrs. Drake, as she had seen for herself, was really engaged that morning over her accounts.  But of all the servants under her who had made their excuses not one had even affected to be more occupied than usual.  Their looks said plainly, “We don’t like you; and we won’t show you over the house.”

She found her way to old Mazey, not by the scanty directions given her, but by the sound of the veteran’s cracked and quavering voice, singing in some distant seclusion a verse of the immortal sea-song—­“Tom Bowling.”  Just as she stopped among the rambling stone passages on the basement story of the house, uncertain which way to turn next, she heard the tuneless old voice in the distance, singing these lines: 

     “His form was of the manliest beau-u-u-uty,
     His heart was ki-i-ind and soft;
     Faithful below Tom did his duty,
     But now he’s gone alo-o-o-o-oft
     —­But now he’s go-o-o-one aloft!”

Magdalen followed in the direction of the quavering voice, and found herself in a little room looking out on the back yard.  There sat old Mazey, with his spectacles low on his nose, and his knotty old hands blundering over the rigging of his model ship.  There were Brutus and Cassius digesting before the fire again, and snoring as if they thoroughly enjoyed it.  There was Lord Nelson on one wall, in flaming watercolors; and there, on the other, was a portrait of Admiral Bartram’s last flagship, in full sail on a sea of slate, with a salmon-colored sky to complete the illusion.