“What is the matter?” I asked, hastily.

“O Martin!” she exclaimed, “we are both so happy, after all!  I wish my poor, darling aunt could only have foreseen this! but, don’t you think, as we are both so happy, we might just go and see my poor uncle?  Kate Daltrey is away in Jersey, I know that for certain, and he is alone.  It would give him so much pleasure.  Surely you can forgive him now.”

“By all means let us go,” I answered.  I had not heard even his name mentioned before, by any one of my old friends in Guernsey.  But, as Julia said, I was so happy, that I was ready to forgive and forget all ancient grievances.  Olivia and Captain Carey were already out of sight; and we turned into a street leading to Vauvert Road.

“They live in lodgings now,” remarked Julia, as we went slowly up the steep street, “and nobody visits them; not one of my uncle’s old friends.  They have plenty to live upon, but it is all her money.  I do not mean to let them got upon visiting terms with me—­at least, not Kate Daltrey.  You know the house, Martin?”

I knew nearly every house in St. Peter-Port, but this I remembered particularly as being the one where Mrs. Foster had lodged when she was in Guernsey.  Upon inquiring for Dr. Dobree, we were ushered at once, without warning, into his presence.

Even I should scarcely have recognized him.  His figure was sunken and bent, and his clothes, which were shabby, sat in wrinkles upon him.  His crisp white hair had grown thin and limp, and hung untidily about his face.  He had not shaved for a week.  His waistcoat was sprinkled over with snuff, in which he had indulged but sparingly in former years.  There was not a trace of his old jauntiness and display.  This was a rusty, dejected old man, with the crow’s-feet very plainly marked upon his features.

“Father!” I said.

“Uncle!” cried Julia, running to him, and giving him a kiss, which she had not meant to do, I am sure, when we entered the house.

He shed a few tears at the sight of us, in a maudlin manner; and he continued languid and sluggish all through the interview.  It struck me more forcibly than any other change could have done, that he never once appeared to pluck up any spirit, or attempted to recall a spark of his ancient sprightliness.  He spoke more to Julia than to me.

“My love,” he said, “I believed I knew a good deal about women, but I’ve lived to find out my mistake.  You and your beloved aunt were angels.  This one never lets me have a penny of my own:  and she locks up my best suit when she goes from home.  That is to prevent me going among my own friends.  She is in Jersey now; but she would not hear a word of me going with her, not one word.  The Bible says:  ’Jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.’  Kate is jealous of me.  I get nothing but black looks and cold shoulders.  There never lived a cat and dog that did not lead a more comfortable life than Kate leads me.”