On came the good ship, "The City of Paris," pitching and tossing, for the waves were wild to-day, and Sir Simon felt thankful he was not in her. She but just saved the tide. Back down the pier he hurried, in time to see the passengers land; Dick and Raymond Trace crowding eagerly against the ropes. Dick leaped them, and had to go through the custom-house for his pains, kissing his mother between whiles. She was like her brother, Sir Simon, in features; simple once, but a little pretentious now. The tears ran down Sir Simon's cheeks when he saw that her hair was grey. Very grey indeed just at present, and her face too, with the adverse wind on deck, and the sickness. Mr. Loftus—a slender, aristocratic-looking man of courteous manners, but with a great deal of Bertie's hauteur in his pale and handsome face—had not suffered, and was ready to greet all friends in his calm, gentlemanly fashion. There are many ropes about that part of the port, as perhaps some of you know. Mr. Loftus, a very near-sighted man, with an eye-glass dangling, contrived to get his feet entangled in them; he would undoubtedly have fallen, but that some one darted to the rescue and held him up. Mr. Loftus saw a stripling nearly as tall as himself, with a frank, good-looking countenance, and open, bright, grey eyes. "Thank you, young sir," he said; "I must look to my steps here, I find. Who is that nice-looking lad?" he subsequently asked of Sir Simon. "Oh, never mind him," cried Sir Simon, evasively; "let us get on to the Norde"—as he always called the hotel. "Eliza looks half dead." "But where's Albert?" inquired Mr. Loftus, who had been gazing about in vain for his eldest son. Sir Simon could not tell where he was, and wondered at his absence. He little thought that Mr. Albert Loftus was detained with Gall, the two quarrelling desperately, out by Napoleon's column. Things had come to a most unpleasant pass between them. Mrs. Loftus went to lie down as soon as they reached the hotel. Mr. Loftus, declining refreshment until dinner-time, was ready to walk about with Sir Simon and be shown the lions. That goodhearted and estimable knight took him to a favourite bench of his on the green lawn—or plage, if you like to call it so—of the établissement, which seemed nearly deserted under the blaze of the afternoon sun. The sea was before them, the harbour on the left, the heights on the right. Here they sat at their ease, and the conversation fell upon Mr. Trace, Raymond's father. "It is nearly a twelvemonth now since Robert Trace wrote to me," observed Sir Simon; "I can't make it out. We have never been so long before without news. Have you heard from him?" "No," answered Mr. Loftus. "But my not hearing goes for nothing. I don't suppose we have exchanged letters three times since we separated in Liverpool four—nearly five—years ago." "Is there any particular cause for that?" asked Sir Simon.