With an ill-concealed triumph on his countenance, Joshua Daunton bowed submissively to all but myself. To me he advanced with an insulting smile and an extended hand. I shrank back loathingly. "Farewell, brother Ralph. I told you that I should be in London before you. Will you favour me with any commands? Well--your pride is not unbecoming--I will not resent it for your father's sake; and, for his and for your sake, I will forgive the juggle that has hitherto placed the natural son--that is, I believe, the delicate paraphrase--in the station of the rightful heir. Farewell." I made no reply: he left the cabin, and, in an hour after, the ship. I shall not advantage myself of that expression, so fully naturalised in novels, that "my feelings might be conceived, but cannot be expressed:" for they _can_ be expressed easily enough--in two words,--stupefied indignation. After Joshua had departed, the other persons remaining in the after-cabin followed shortly after, with the exception of myself; for Reud told me to stay where I then was, until he should see me again. In the course of an hour, Lord Whiffledale went on shore with his _cortege_; and Captain Reud returned into the after-cabin, which I had been, during his absence, disconsolately pacing. He was a little flushed with the wine he had taken, but perfectly sane. He came up to me kindly, and, placing his hands upon my shoulders, looked me fully and sorrowfully in the face. There was no wild speculation in his eyes; they looked mild and motherly. The large tears gathered in each gradually, and, at length, overflowing the sockets, slowly trickled down his thin and sallow cheeks. He then pressed his right hand heavily on the top part of his forehead, exclaiming, in a voice so low, so mournful, and so touching, that my bosom swelled at its tones, "It is here;--it is here!"