was quite clear some heavy object was falling down the face of the
cliff. Now it was that the mariner felt the want of good nerves, and
experienced the sense of humiliation which accompanied the consciousness
of having destroyed them by his excesses. He trembled in every limb,
and, for the moment, was actually unable to rise. A light step at his
side, however, drew a glance in that direction, and his eye fell on the
form of a lovely girl of nineteen, his own daughter, Mildred.

"I heard you calling to some one, father," said the latter, looking
wistfully, but distrustfully at her parent, as if wondering at his
yielding to his infirmity so early in the day; "can I be of service to
you?"

"Poor Wychecombe!" exclaimed Dutton. "He went over the cliff in search
of a nosegay to offer to yourself, and--and--I fear--greatly fear--"

"What, father?" demanded Mildred, in a voice of horror, the rich color
disappearing from a face which it left of the hue of death.
"No--no--no--he _cannot_ have fallen."

Dutton bent his head down, drew a long breath, and then seemed to gain
more command of his nerves. He was about to rise, when the sound of a
horse's feet was heard, and then Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, mounted on a
quiet pony, rode slowly up to the signal-staff. It was a common thing
for the baronet to appear on the cliffs early in the morning, but it was
not usual for him to come unattended. The instant her eyes fell on the
fine form of the venerable old man, Mildred, who seemed to know him
well, and to use the familiarity of one confident of being a favourite,
exclaimed--

"Oh! Sir Wycherly, how fortunate--where is Richard?"

"Good morrow, my pretty Milly," answered the baronet, cheerfully;
"fortunate or not, here I am, and not a bit flattered that your first
question should be after the groom, instead of his master. I have sent
Dick on a message to the vicar's. Now my poor brother, the judge, is
dead and gone, I find Mr. Rotherham more and more necessary to me."

"Oh! dear Sir Wycherly--Mr. Wychecombe--Lieutenant Wychecombe, I
mean--the young officer from Virginia--he who was so desperately
wounded--in whose recovery we all took so deep an interest--"

"Well--what of him, child?--you surely do not mean to put him on a level
with Mr. Rotherham, in the way of religious consolation--and, as for
anything else, there is no consanguinity between the Wychecombes of
Virginia and my family. He may be a _filius nullius_ of the Wychec