“Charles—­Charles—­Charles!” she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands despairingly.

“Flora, if anything could add a sting to my already irritated feelings,” said Henry, “this conduct of yours would.”

“Henry—­brother, what mean you?  Are you mad?”

“Are you, Flora?”

“God, I wish now that I was.”

“You have read those letters, and yet you call upon the name of him who wrote them with frantic tenderness.”

“Yes, yes,” she cried; “frantic tenderness is the word.  It is with frantic tenderness I call upon his name, and ever will.—­Charles!  Charles!—­dear Charles!”

“This surpasses all belief,” said Marchdale.

“It is the frenzy of grief,” added George; “but I did not expect it of her.  Flora—­Flora, think again.”

“Think—­think—­the rush of thought distracts.  Whence came these letters?—­where did you find these most disgraceful forgeries?”

“Forgeries!” exclaimed Henry; and he staggered back, as if some one bad struck him a blow.

“Yes, forgeries!” screamed Flora.  “What has become of Charles Holland?  Has he been murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile fabrications made up in his name?  Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to me for ever?”

“Good God!” said Henry; “I did not think of that”

“Madness!—­madness!” cried Marchdale.

“Hold!” shouted the admiral.  “Let me speak to her.”

He pushed every one aside, and advanced to Flora.  He seized both her hands in his own, and in a tone of voice that was struggling with feeling, he cried,—­

“Look at me, my dear; I’m an old man old enough to be your grandfather, so you needn’t mind looking me steadily in the face.  Look at me, I want to ask you a question.”

Flora raised her beautiful eyes, and looked the old weather-beaten admiral full in the face.

Oh! what a striking contrast did those two persons present to each other.  That young and beautiful girl, with her small, delicate, childlike hands clasped, and completely hidden in the huge ones of the old sailor, the white, smooth skin contrasting wonderfully with his wrinkled, hardened features.

“My dear,” he cried, “you have read those—­those d——­d letters, my dear?”

“I have, sir.”

“And what do you think of them?”

“They were not written by Charles Holland, your nephew.”

A choking sensation seemed to come over the old man, and he tried to speak, but in vain.  He shook the hands of the young girl violently, until he saw that he was hurting her, and then, before she could be aware of what he was about, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, as he cried,—­

“God bless you—­God bless you!  You are the sweetest, dearest little creature that ever was, or that ever will be, and I’m a d——­d old fool, that’s what I am.  These letters were not written by my nephew, Charles.  He is incapable of writing them, and, d—­n me, I shall take shame to myself as long as I live for ever thinking so.”