Sir Herbert is by no means an old man, as some reckon age. He has a grave refined face, keen penetrating eyes, dark hair beginning to grow a little thin on the temples. He wears uniform, and a star that gleams forth upon his breast tells that he has done good service for his country. His composed dignified bearing might well bear comparison with many far younger men in that brilliant assembly. His smile is sweet, and lights up his rather serious face like sunlight; but the Admiral is generally grave; his thoughts are earnest, his life is earnest, and he is not by any means easily moved to mirth. Walter Reeves, as in duty bound, makes his way towards the lady who at the present holds sway in her father's house. But it is no easy matter to reach her, for the crowd is considerable. Men are lounging about, dressed apparently in every kind of uniform under the sun. The dark-blue of the navy of course predominates, but the marines and several line-regiments are amply represented. Swords, epaulets, and stars glitter and sparkle from every part of the spacious well-lighted rooms. Elegantly dressed ladies add to the goodly show; and their many-hued robes mingling among the varied uniforms, add brilliant colouring to the scene. Here and there, a few black coats are visible, but civilians are rare on this evening. Walter Reeves, who is fond of pleasant effects, notes all this in his half-careless half-indolent way, as he slowly makes his passage through the throng and advances to the inner room. Mrs Best is seated on a low sofa, looking like a queen in her court, for many and admiring are her courtiers. Red coats and blue coats jostle each other, in the anxiety of the wearers to get speech with the lady of the house. Very pretty and graceful she looks as she sits there, dividing her favours with impartial hand. She has a fair blooming face, bright eyes, and a girlish lively manner. Her dress is of snowy crape, that falls round her like a fleecy cumulous cloud; the pale lavender trimmings that peep forth here and there in fringe and ribbon, are the last faint remains of mourning dedicated to her late husband. To catch the sparkle in her laughing blue eyes, to note her almost flaxen hair and eyebrows, to mark the rounded grace of her youthful figure, one would hardly imagine her to be a mother and a widow. Yet such is the case: she has two visible responsibilities at home in the shape of two little sons, who are at that moment, it is to be hoped, soundly slumbering in their faraway nursery down at Hayes Hill. Laura Best looks like some sunny-hearted merry girl just out of her teens, so innocent and guileless is her countenance, so silvery are her peals of musical laughter. Her sofa is placed in a kind of alcove slightly away from the full glare of the light; on each side fall the soft folds of white lace curtains, for the sofa is placed between two bow-windows. Behind it is a high stand of beautiful plants; many