“Perfectly well, and when she wakes she will be prepared to see you; for, mind you, she had already recognized you, and before we could induce her to drink that glass of port wine into which your aunt had put the dose of morphia I had to promise her that you should be sought for and brought back, though little did we dream who you would turn out to be when found. So she will really expect to see you when she wakes. Therefore, all we have to do, Lonny, is to sit here and watch for that awakening, which cannot be far off. Meantime you can while away the hour by telling me some of the strange adventures that you must have had out in the wilds of Africa, or by asking me of anything you wish to know concerning what has transpired here in your absence.” “But will our talking disturb Emolyn?” “No, not at all. We need not talk loud.” “Will she sleep long?” “I think not. If she should, we may safely awaken her and give her a cup of strong coffee,” said the commodore. Then they settled themselves down for a long talk. But in all their conversation Commodore Bruce adroitly avoided all mention of Emolyn’s long and fatal reticence and her terrible trial; for not in that first day of happy reunion could the father darken the son’s spirit with the shadow of that long past tragedy. No. He spoke of Emolyn’s goodness and popularity; of her benefactions to the poor; of her extensive foreign travels; of her lovely home in Edengarden; and of her affection for her pretty namesake and lately adopted daughter, Emolyn Palmer, whose cause she had been pleading, he said, at the very moment Lonny had surprised them in the study. “Then my Emolyn will be made as happy by your consent to their marriage as the young lovers themselves,” said Lonny. “Quite,” replied the commodore. But at the end of that interview the long absent, lately returned husband was left in complete ignorance that a child had been born to him, and that his wife had kept the secret of their private marriage during all the long years of his absence and up to within a few hours of his return. It was late in the afternoon when Emolyn gave signs of awakening. The commodore whispered to his son to withdraw for a moment out of her range of vision. When Lonny had done so the commodore stooped over Emolyn. She had awakened calmly, as all sound persons do after an opiate. “Have you kept your promise to me?” she quietly questioned, fixing her eyes upon those bent on her. “Yes, of course. I always keep my promises. Every officer and gentleman is bound to do so.” “You have brought Lonny back? Oh, where is he? Why doesn’t he come? Let me see him at once!” she vehemently exclaimed. “It was cruel! cruel!—it was _mad_ in you to send him away at all! Why on earth——” “Because I didn’t know him, child! My eyes are old, and I took him for a——” The good commodore had got in so many words “edgeways” while she continued to speak; but now she vehemently interrupted him with—