undermined in the servants'-hall. As for yourself, you know that you
represent the late Captain's executor. You were the guardian of poor
dear Penthony, and his oldest friend in the world."

"Knew him since he was so high!" said he, in a voice of mock emotion, as
he held out his extended palm about two feet above the floor.

"That will give you a world of trouble, papa, for you 'll have to
prepare yourself with so much family history, explaining what Morrises
they were, how they were Penthonys, and so on. Sir William will torture
you about genealogies."

"I have a remedy for that, my dear," said he, slyly. "I am most
painfully deaf! No one will maintain a conversation of a quarter of an
hour with me without risking a sore throat; not to say that no one can
put delicate questions in the voice of a boatswain."

"Dear papa, you are always what the French call 'at the level of the
situation,' and your deafness will be charming, for our dear Baronet and
future husband has a most inquisitive turn, and would positively torture
you with interrogatories."

"He 'll be more than mortal if he don't give in, Loo. I gave a Lunacy
Commissioner once a hoarseness that required a course of the waters at
Vichy to cure; not to say that, by answering at cross purposes, one
can disconcert the most zealous inquirer. But now, my dear, that I am in
possession of my hearing, do tell me something about yourself and your
plans."

"I have none, papa,--none," said she, with a faint sigh. "Sir William
Heathcote has, doubtless, many, and into some of them I may perhaps
enter. He intends, for instance, that some time in March I shall be Lady
Heathcote; that we shall go and live--I'm not exactly sure where, though
I know we 're to be perfectly happy, and, not wishing to puzzle him, I
don't ask how."

"I have no doubt you will be happy, Loo," said he, confidently.
"Security, safety, my dear, are great elements of happiness."

"I suppose they are," said she, with another sigh; "and when one has
been a privateer so long, it is pleasant to be enrolled in the regular
navy, even though one should be laid up in ordinary."

"Nay, nay, Loo, no fear of that!"

"On the contrary, papa, every hope of it! The best thing I could ask for
would be oblivion."

"My dear Loo," said he, impressively, "the world has not got one half so
good a memory as you fancy. It is our own foolish timidity--what certain
folk call conscience--that suggests the idea how peop