Still wistfully looking at the object of his pursuit, Conyers never turned his eyes downwards as the sound of steps apprised him some one was near, and, concluding it to be Miss Barrington, he said, “I'm half afraid that I have torn some of this jessamine-tree from the wall; but see here's the prize!” A slight air of wind had wafted it towards him, and he suatched the fish from its slender chain and held it up in triumph. “A poacher caught in the fact, Barrington!” said a deep voice from below; and Conyers, looking down, saw two men, both advanced in life, very gravely watching his proceedings. Not a little ashamed of a situation to which he never expected an audience, he hastily descended the ladder; but before he reached the ground Miss Barrington was in her brother's arms, and welcoming him home with all the warmth of true affection. This over, she next shook hands cordially with his companion, whom she called Mr. Withering. “And now, Peter,” said she, “to present one I have been longing to make known to you. You, who never forget a well-known face, will recognize him.” “My eyes are not what they used to be,” said Barrington, holding out his hand to Conyers, “but they are good enough to see the young gentleman I left here when I went away.” “Yes, Peter,” said she, hastily; “but does the sight of him bring back to you no memory of poor George?” “George was dark as a Spaniard, and this gentleman--But pray, sir, forgive this rudeness of ours, and let us make ourselves better acquainted within doors. You mean to stay some time here, I hope.” “I only wish I could; but I have already overstayed my leave, and waited here only to shake your hand before I left.” [Illustration: 190] “Peter, Peter,” said Miss Dinah, impatiently, “must I then tell whom you are speaking to?” Barrington seemed pazzled. He looked from the stranger to his sister, and back again. She drew near and whispered in his ear: “The son of poor George's dearest friend on earth,--the son of Ormsby Conyers.” “Of whom?” said Barrington, in a startled and half-angry voice. “Of Ormsby Conyers.” Barrington trembled from head to foot; his face, for an instant crimson, became suddenly of an ashy paleness, and his voice shook as he said,-- “I was not--I am not--prepared for this honor. I mean, I could not have expected that Mr. Conyers would have desired--Say this--do this for me, Withering, for I am not equal to it,” said the old man, as, with his hands pressed over his face, he hurried within the house, followed by his sister. “I cannot make a guess at the explanation my friend has left me to make,” cried Withering, courteously; “but it is plain to see that your name has revived some sorrow connected with the great calamity of his life. You have heard of his son, Colonel Barrington?”