“Let us hear what he says, then,” said my father; and this was the letter which she read to him —

14, Jermyn Street, St. James’s, “April 15th, 1803.

“My dear sister Mary,

“In answer to your letter, I can assure you that you must not conceive me to be wanting in those finer feelings which are the chief adornment of humanity.  It is true that for some years, absorbed as I have been in affairs of the highest importance, I have seldom taken a pen in hand, for which I can assure you that I have been reproached by many des plus charmantes of your charming sex.  At the present moment I lie abed (having stayed late in order to pay a compliment to the Marchioness of Dover at her ball last night), and this is writ to my dictation by Ambrose, my clever rascal of a valet.  I am interested to hear of my nephew Rodney (Mon dieu, quel nom!), and as I shall be on my way to visit the Prince at Brighton next week, I shall break my journey at Friar’s Oak for the sake of seeing both you and him.  Make my compliments to your husband.

“I am ever, my dear sister Mary,
“Your brother,
“Charles Tregellis.”

“What do you think of that?” cried my mother in triumph when she had finished.

“I think it is the letter of a fop,” said my father, bluntly.

“You are too hard on him, Anson.  You will think better of him when you know him.  But he says that he will be here next week, and this is Thursday, and the best curtains unhung, and no lavender in the sheets!”

Away she bustled, half distracted, while my father sat moody, with his chin upon his hands, and I remained lost in wonder at the thought of this grand new relative from London, and of all that his coming might mean to us.

CHAPTER V—­BUCK TREGELLIS

Now that I was in my seventeenth year, and had already some need for a razor, I had begun to weary of the narrow life of the village, and to long to see something of the great world beyond.  The craving was all the stronger because I durst not speak openly about it, for the least hint of it brought the tears into my mother’s eyes.  But now there was the less reason that I should stay at home, since my father was at her side, and so my mind was all filled by this prospect of my uncle’s visit, and of the chance that he might set my feet moving at last upon the road of life.

As you may think, it was towards my father’s profession that my thoughts and my hopes turned, for from my childhood I have never seen the heave of the sea or tasted the salt upon my lips without feeling the blood of five generations of seamen thrill within my veins.  And think of the challenge which was ever waving in those days before the eyes of a coast-living lad!  I had but to walk up to Wolstonbury in the war time to see the sails of the French chasse-marees and privateers.  Again and again I have heard