“D—­me, if Charles Holland ain’t outside, and I’ve come to prepare you for the blessed shock,” said Jack.  “Don’t faint either of you, because I’m only going to let you know it by degrees, you know.”

A shriek burst from Flora’s lips, and she sprung to the door of the apartment.

“What!” cried the admiral, “my nephew—­my nephew Charles!  Jack, you rascal, if you’re joking, it’s the last joke you shall make in this world; and if it’s true, I—­I—­I’m an old fool, that’s all.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Jack; “didn’t you know that afore?”

“Charles—­Charles!” cried Flora.  He heard the voice.  Her name escaped his lips, and rang with a pleasant echo through the house.

In another moment he was in the room, and had clasped her to his breast.

“My own—­my beautiful—­my true!”

“Charles, dear Charles!”

“Oh, Flora, what have I not endured since last we met; but this repays me—­more than repays me for all.”

“What is the past now,” cried Flora—­“what are all its miseries placed against this happy, happy moment?”

“D—­me, nobody thinks of me,” said the admiral.

“My dear uncle,” said Charles, looking over Flora’s shoulder, as he still held her in his arms, “is that you?”

“Yes, yes, swab, it is me, and you know it; but give us your five, you mutinous vagabond; and I tell you what, I’ll do you the greatest favour I’ve had an opportunity of doing you some time—­I’ll leave you alone, you dog.  Come along, Jack.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Jack; and away they went out of the apartment.

And now those two loving hearts were alone—­they who had been so long separated by malignant destiny, once again were heart to heart, looking into each other’s faces with all the beaming tenderness of an affection of the truest, holiest character.

The admiral had done a favour to them both to leave them alone, although we much doubt whether his presence, or the presence of the whole world, would have had the effect of controlling one generous sentiment of noble feeling.

They would have forgotten everything but that they were together, and that once again each looked into the other’s eyes with all the tenderness of a love purer and higher than ordinarily belongs to mortal affections.

Language was weak to give utterance to the full gust of happy feelings that now were theirs.  It was ecstasy enough to feel, to know that the evil fortune which had so long separated them, depriving each existence of its sunniest aspect, was over.  It was enough for Charles Holland to feel that she loved him still.  It was enough for Flora Bannerworth to know, as she looked into his beaming countenance, that that love was not misplaced, but was met by feelings such as she herself would have dictated to be the inhabitants of the heart of him whom she would have chosen from the mass of mankind as her own.

“Flora—­dear Flora,” said Charles, “and you have never doubted me?”