went, I believe," dryly remarked
Sir Edward.

"Oh, I am sure neither the old man nor his son looked much like a duke, or
so much as an officer either," exclaimed Mrs. Jarvis, who thought the
latter rank the dignity in degree next below nobility.

"There sat, in the parliament of this realm, when I was a member, a
General Denbigh," said Mr. Benfield, with his usual deliberation; "he was
always on the same side with Lord Gosford and myself. He and his friend,
Sir Peter Howell, who was the admiral that took the French squadron, in
the glorious administration of Billy Pitt, and afterwards took an island
with this same General Denbigh: aye, the old admiral was a hearty blade; a
good deal such a looking man as my Hector would make."

Hector was Mr. Benfield's bull dog.

"Mercy," whispered John to Clara, "that's your grandfather that is to be
uncle Benfield is speaking of."

Clara smiled, as she ventured to say, "Sir Peter was Mrs. Ives's father,
sir."

"Indeed!" said the old gentleman, with a look of surprise, "I never knew
that before; I cannot say they resemble each other much."

"Pray, uncle, does Frank look much like the family?" asked John, with an
air of unconquerable gravity.

"But, sir," interrupted Emily, "were General Denbigh and Admiral Ho well
related?"

"Not that I ever knew, Emmy dear. Sir Frederick Denbigh did not look much
like the admiral; he rather resembled (gathering himself up into an air of
formality, and bowing stiffly to Colonel Egerton) this gentleman, here."

"I have not the honor of the connexion," observed the colonel, withdrawing
behind the chair of Jane.

Mrs. Wilson changed the conversation to one more general; but the little
that had fallen from Mr. Benfield gave reason for believing a connexion,
in some way of which they were ignorant, existed between the descendants
of the two veterans, and which explained the interest they felt in each
other.

During dinner, Colonel Egerton placed himself next to Emily, and Miss
Jarvis took, the chair on the other side. He spoke of the gay world, of
watering-places, novels, plays, and still finding his companion reserved,
and either unwilling or unable to talk freely, he tried his favorite
sentiment. He had read poetry, and a remark of his lighted up a spark of
intelligence in the beautiful face of his companion that for a moment
deceived him; but as he went on to point out his favorite beauties, it
gave place to a settled composure, which at