again, he was reinstated in his privileges; and another change was introduced in the after-dinner formula.  On entering the room, the old sailor stopped short and made his excuses in this brief yet comprehensive form of words, with his back against the door:  “Please your honor, I’m ashamed of myself.”  So the apology began and ended.  “This mustn’t happen again, Mazey,” the admiral used to answer.  “It shan’t happen again, your honor.”  “Very good.  Come here, and drink your glass of wine.  God bless the Queen, Mazey.”  The veteran tossed off his port, and the dialogue ended as usual.

So the days passed, with no incidents more important than these to relieve their monotony, until the end of the fourth week was at hand.

On the last day, an event happened; on the last day, the long deferred promise of the future unexpectedly began to dawn.  While Magdalen was spreading the cloth in the dining-room, as usual, Mrs. Drake looked in, and instructed her on this occasion, for the first time, to lay the table for two persons.  The admiral had received a letter from his nephew.  Early that evening Mr. George Bartram was expected to return to St. Crux.

CHAPTER III.

AFTER placing the second cover, Magdalen awaited the ringing of the dinner-bell, with an interest and impatience which she found it no easy task to conceal.  The return of Mr. Bartram would, in all probability, produce a change in the life of the house; and from change of any kind, no matter how trifling, something might be hoped.  The nephew might be accessible to influences which had failed to reach the uncle.  In any case, the two would talk of their affairs over their dinner; and through that talk—­proceeding day after day in her presence—­the way to discovery, now absolutely invisible, might, sooner or later, show itself.

At last the bell rang, the door opened, and the two gentlemen entered the room together.

Magdalen was struck, as her sister had been struck, by George Bartram’s resemblance to her father—­judging by the portrait at Combe-Raven, which presented the likeness of Andrew Vanstone in his younger days.  The light hair and florid complexion, the bright blue eyes and hardy upright figure, familiar to her in the picture, were all recalled to her memory, as the nephew followed the uncle across the room and took his place at table.  She was not prepared for this sudden revival of the lost associations of home.  Her attention wandered as she tried to conceal its effect on her; and she made a blunder in waiting at table, for the first time since she had entered the house.