o spend part of the autumn at Beckley Court, the
ancestral domain, where there will be company the nobles of the land!
Consider that. You say it was bold in me to face them after that horrible
man committed us on board the vessel? A Harrington is anything but a
coward. I did go and because I am devoted to your interests. That very
morning, I saw announced in the paper, just beneath poor Andrew's hand,
as he held it up at the breakfast-table, reading it, I saw among the
deaths, Sir Abraham Harrington, of Torquay, Baronet, of quinsy! Twice
that good man has come to my rescue! Oh! I welcomed him as a piece of
Providence! I turned and said to Harriet, "I see they have put poor Papa
in the paper." Harriet was staggered. I took the paper from Andrew, and
pointed it to her. She has no readiness. She has had no foreign training.
She could not comprehend, and Andrew stood on tiptoe, and peeped. He has
a bad cough, and coughed himself black in the face. I attribute it to
excessive bad manners and his cold feelings. He left the room. I
reproached Harriet. But, oh! the singularity of the excellent fortune of
such an event at such a time! It showed that our Harrington-luck had not
forsaken us. I hurried to the Jocelyns instantly. Of course, it cleared
away any suspicions aroused in them by that horrible man on board the
vessel. And the tears I wept for Sir Abraham, Evan, in verity they were
tears of deep and sincere gratitude! What is your mouth knitting the
corners at? Are you laughing?'

Evan hastily composed his visage to the melancholy that was no
counterfeit in him just then.

'Yes,' continued the Countess, easily reassured, 'I shall ever feel a
debt to Sir Abraham Harrington, of Torquay. I dare say we are related to
him. At least he has done us more service than many a rich and titled
relative. No one supposes he would acknowledge poor Papa. I can forgive
him that, Evan!' The Countess pointed out her finger with mournful and
impressive majesty, 'As we look down on that monkey, people of rank and
consideration in society look on what poor dear Papa was.'

This was partly true, for Jacko sat on a chair, in his favourite
attitude, copied accurately from the workmen of the establishment at
their labour with needle and thread. Growing cognizant of the infamy of
his posture, the Countess begged Evan to drive him out of her sight, and
took a sniff at her smelling-bottle.

She went on: 'Now, dear Van, you would hear of your sweet R