Mrs. Buzza murmured the words with no desire to be answered. It was the old Trojan formula, and there was peace in the sound of it. "Do you know," she cried, turning to Sam, "we were very happy before these people came. We shall never be the same again--never. Sam, I feel as if our innocence had ended, Oh! I am a wicked woman. Look below, Sam dear, I have never thought of it before, but how sweet it would have been to have enclosed the old town in a ring-fence, and lived our days in quiet! It is too late now; more will come, and they will build and alter, and no one will be able to stop it. Even if these people should go, it will never be the same again. Oh! I am a sinful woman." Sam looked at his mother. Something familiar, but hitherto half-comprehended, spoke to him in her words. He drew her arm once more within his own, and they descended the hill together. Stealing like ghosts into the front hall of No. 2, Alma Villas, they were startled to perceive the dining-room door ajar, and a light shining out into the passage. Creeping forward on tip-toe, they peeped in. Beside the table and with his back towards them, sat the Admiral in his dressing-gown. His right hand grasped the throat of the double-bass, on the top of which nodded Mrs. Buzza's night-cap. His left fumbled with a large miniature that lay on the table before him--a portrait of Mrs. Buzza, taken in the days when she was still Emily Rogers and the Belle of Portsmouth; and from this to the instrument and back again the Admiral's gaze wandered, as if painfully comparing the likeness. [Illustration: With his back towards them sat the Admiral.] "Hornaby!" This was the Admiral's Christian name. "Emily!" He turned and stared at her stupidly. The look was pitiful. She flung herself before him. "Forgive me, Hornaby! I never thought--I mean, it was all a--" "Practical joke," suggested Sam. "No, no. I meant to go, but I have come back. Hornaby, can you forgive me?" He raised her up, and drew her towards him very tenderly. "I--I thought it had _killed_ me," he muttered hoarsely. "Emily, I have treated you badly." Sam discreetly withdrew. CHAPTER XXI. THAT A VERY LITTLE TEA MAY SUFFICE TO ELEVATE A MAN. Next morning Mr. Fogo was aroused from sleep by the rattle of breakfast-cups, and the voice of Caleb singing below-- "O, Amble es a fine town, wi' ships in the bay, An' I wish wi' my heart I was on'y there to-day; I wish wi' my heart I was far away from here, A-sittin' in my parlour, an' a-talkin' to my dear." This was Caleb's signal for his master to rise; and he would pipe out his old sea-staves as long as Mr. Fogo cared to listen. Often, of an evening, the two would sit by the hour, Caleb trolling lustily with red cheeks, while his master beat time with his pipe stem, and joined feebly in the chorus--