"I see that my daughter is quite at home with you, madam," observed the judge. "Oh, I adopted her. I told her that I should be her mother until the arrival of her father," replied Lady Hurstmonceux, smiling. At this moment the footman put his head in at the door to say that the judge's breakfast was served. Lady Hurstmonceux led the way to the breakfast parlor, and then saying: "You will make your father comfortable here, Claudia, I hope," she bowed and left them alone together. Claudia sat down to the table and began to pour out the coffee. James, the footman, was in attendance. "Dismiss the servant, my dear," said the judge, as he took his seat as near to his daughter as the conveniences of the table would allow. "You may retire, James. I will ring if you are wanted." The man bowed and went out. The father and daughter looked up; their eyes met and filled with tears. "Oh, my child, how much we have to say to each other!" sighed the judge. "Yes, but, dear papa, drink your coffee first. You really look as though you needed it very much," replied Claudia affectionately. The judge complied with her advice; though, if the truth must be told, he ate and drank indiscreetly fast in order to get through soon and be at liberty to talk to his daughter. When he arose from the table Claudia rang the bell for the service to be removed, and then led the way again to my lady's little drawing room. It was deserted. Lady Hurstmonceux had evidently left it that the father and daughter might converse with each other unembarrassed by the presence of a third person. "My dear," said the judge, as he seated himself on the sofa beside his daughter, wound his arm around her shoulders, and looked wistfully into her face, "do you know that I am surprised to see you looking so well? You must possess a great deal of fortitude, Claudia, to have passed through so much trouble as you have and show so few signs of suffering as you do." "Ah, papa! if you had arrived a few days ago and seen me then, you would have had good cause to say I looked well. But, for the last week, the intense anxiety I have felt on your account has worn me considerably." "My poor girl! Yes, I know how that must have been. The news of the shipwreck arrived long before we reached England, and everyone must have given us up for lost." "I did not. Oh, no! I could not! I still hoped; but, oh, with what an agony of hope!" "Such hope, my child, is worse than despair." "Oh, no! I thought so then. I do not think so now; now that I have you beside me." "Now that it is ended. But, oh, my dear child, how hard it was for you to have anxiety for my fate added to all your other troubles!" "Papa, anxiety for your fate was my only trouble," said Claudia gravely. "How! what! your only trouble, Claudia? I do not understand you in the least." "All my other troubles had passed away. And now that anxiety is at an end, that trouble is also passed away and I have none."