“Lord love ye! I’m the kindest critter that ever breathed. The whole time I was with the Choctaws, I never scalped an enemy. I couldn’t bear it; and whenever I cut a fellow’s head off, I turned him right round, so that I shouldn’t see his face. Soft-hearted, warn’t it? But that’s my natur’. There, I hear them heaving short; so good-by, for the last time.” “Harry, Harry----one word----” “He’s gone, poor fellow; don’t break down his courage. Good-by. Don’t call him back.” “Be it so,” said Luttrell, as he sunk down into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. For a while all was still; then suddenly a wild cheer, a cry, in which the wail of sorrow was blended with the swell of the deep voices crying out; and Luttrell arose, and flung open his window. The lugger was under weigh. The dark shadow of her full canvas moved slowly along, growing fainter and fainter, at least to eyes that were now dimmed with tears; and when he turned away to wipe them, she was gone. CHAPTER XXI. A WELCOME HOME To welcome Sir Gervais Vyner home, the ladies had invited Sir Within Wardle to dinner--one of those privileged little family meetings, to be of which one must be an honoured guest--and so, indeed, did the old Baronet with his fine tact understand it; for he was very skilful in comprehending all those situations which make the so-to-say diplomacy of daily life. He knew that he was admitted to that very pleasant brevet rank, the friend of the family, before whom everything can be said and talked over; and he showed by innumerable little traits how he valued his promotion, and, with a subtlety all his own, talked of himself and his own affairs with an easy confidence that seemed to say, “Here we are, all in secret committee; we may speak as freely as we like.” The dinner was a very pleasant one. Vyner gave an amusing account of his Irish experiences, spoke of everything and every one but Luttrell, for his was a name that was never mentioned amongst them. Indeed, in the wrong the Courtenays had done him, was the seal that closed their lips; for, while we can talk, and talk fluently, of those who have injured us, of such as we have ourselves injured, we are dumb. Sir Within saw, with the old craft of his trade, that there was a reserve; he smelt it like a secret treaty, but it did not touch him, and he was indifferent about it. He joined with the ladies warmly in their depreciation of Ireland as a residence, and laughingly concurred in their insistance that they were never to be asked to go there. As to the project of adopting the little peasant-girl, they made it the subject of much pleasant banter; for, of course, Vyner was totally unable to reply to one-tenth of the questions which the matter suggested. “We will suppose she is very pretty: and, what is still harder to believe, we will suppose that she’ll grow up prettier, what is to come of it; what do you intend her to be?” said Georgina.