cent scene, began to converse on subjects that he was right in
supposing might interest me. Instead of flying off to some topic so
foreign to my feelings as constantly to recall the reason, he judiciously
connected the theme with my loss.

"I suppose you will go to sea again, as soon as your ship can be got
ready, cousin Miles," he commenced, after we were left with the fruit and
wine. "These are stirring times in commerce, and the idle man misses
golden opportunities."

"Gold has no longer any charm for me, cousin John," I answered gloomily.
"I am richer now than is necessary for my wants, and, as I shall probably
never marry, I see no great use in toiling for more. Still, I shall go out
in my own ship, and that as soon as possible. _Here_ I would not pass the
summer for the place, and I love the sea. Yes, yes; I must make a voyage
to some part of Europe without delay. It is the wisest thing I can do."

"That is hearty, and like a man! There is none of your mopes about the
Wallingfords, and I believe you to be of the true stock. But why never
marry, Miles? Your father was a sailor, and _he_ married, and a very good
time I've always understood he had of it."

"My father was happy as a husband, and, did I imitate his example, I
should certainly marry, too. Nevertheless, I feel I am to be a bachelor."

"In that case, what will become of Clawbonny?" demanded Jack Wallingford,
bluntly.

I could not avoid smiling at the question, as I deemed him my heir, though
the law would give it to nearer relatives, who were not of the name; but
it is probable that John, knowing himself to be so much my senior, had
never thought of himself as one likely to outlive me.

"I shall make a new will, the instant I get to town, and leave Clawbonny
to you," I answered steadily, and truly, for such a thought had come into
my mind the instant I saw him. "You are the person best entitled to
inherit it, and should you survive me, yours it shall be."

"Miles, I like that," exclaimed my cousin, with a strange sincerity,
stretching out a hand to receive mine, which he pressed most warmly. "You
are very right; I _ought_ to be the heir of this place, should you die
without children, even though you left a widow,"

This was said so naturally, and was so much in conformity with my own
notions on the subject, that it did not so much offend, as surprise me. I
knew John Wallingford loved money, and, all men having a very respectful
attachment to the