Creeping forward on tip-toe, they
peeped in.
Beside the table and with his back towards them, sat the Admiral in
his dressing-gown. His right hand grasped the throat of the
double-bass, on the top of which nodded Mrs. Buzza's night-cap.
His left fumbled with a large miniature that lay on the table before
him--a portrait of Mrs. Buzza, taken in the days when she was still
Emily Rogers and the Belle of Portsmouth; and from this to the
instrument and back again the Admiral's gaze wandered, as if
painfully comparing the likeness.
[Illustration: With his back towards them sat the Admiral.]
"Hornaby!" This was the Admiral's Christian name.
"Emily!"
He turned and stared at her stupidly. The look was pitiful.
She flung herself before him.
"Forgive me, Hornaby! I never thought--I mean, it was all a--"
"Practical joke," suggested Sam.
"No, no. I meant to go, but I have come back. Hornaby, can you
forgive me?"
He raised her up, and drew her towards him very tenderly.
"I--I thought it had _killed_ me," he muttered hoarsely. "Emily, I
have treated you badly."
Sam discreetly withdrew.
CHAPTER XXI.
THAT A VERY LITTLE TEA MAY SUFFICE TO ELEVATE A MAN.
Next morning Mr. Fogo was aroused from sleep by the rattle of
breakfast-cups, and the voice of Caleb singing below--
"O, Amble es a fine town, wi' ships in the bay,
An' I wish wi' my heart I was on'y there to-day;
I wish wi' my heart I was far away from here,
A-sittin' in my parlour, an' a-talkin' to my dear.
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