utting the door carefully after him.

Flora and her mother looked over the apartments in which they were shown
with some surprise. It was, in everything, such as they could wish;
indeed, though it could not be termed handsomely or extravagantly
furnished, or that the things were new, yet, there was all that
convenience and comfort could require, and some little of the luxuries.

"Well," said Flora, "this is very thoughtful of the admiral. The place
will really be charming, and the garden, too, delightful."

"Mustn't be made use of just now," said Jack, "if you please, ma'am;
them's the orders at present."

"Very well," said Flora, smiling. "I suppose, Mr. Pringle, we must obey
them."

"Jack Pringle, if you please," said Jack. "My commands only temporary. I
ain't got a commission."

CHAPTER LVII.

THE LONELY WATCH, AND THE ADVENTURE IN THE DESERTED HOUSE.

[Illustration]

It is now quite night, and so peculiar and solemn a stillness reigns in
and about Bannerworth Hall and its surrounding grounds, that one might
have supposed it a place of the dead, deserted completely after sunset
by all who would still hold kindred with the living. There was not a
breath of air stirring, and this circumstance added greatly to the
impression of profound repose which the whole scene exhibited.

The wind during the day had been rather of a squally character, but
towards nightfall, as is often usual after a day of such a character, it
had completely lulled, and the serenity of the scene was unbroken even
by the faintest sigh from a wandering zephyr.

The moon rose late at that period, and as is always the case at that
interval between sunset and the rising of that luminary which makes the
night so beautiful, the darkness was of the most profound character.

It was one of those nights to produce melancholy reflections--a night on
which a man would be apt to review his past life, and to look into the
hidden recesses of his soul to see if conscience could make a coward of
him in the loneliness and stillness that breathed around.

It was one of those nights in which wanderers in the solitude of nature
feel that the eye of Heaven is upon them, and on which there seems to be
a more visible connection between the world and its great Creator than
upon ordinary occasions.

The solemn and melancholy appear places once instinct with life, when
deserted by those familiar forms and faces that have long inhabited
them. There is