“Will you further permit me to remind you of a promise you gave when you were here last, to show me over your old house—one of the oldest houses in Maryland, as you said?” Barbara looked embarrassed, hesitated, and then replied— “Lord Montressor, that promise did not project itself down all time. It was only for the day upon which it was given. And now, I hope you will excuse me.” Lord Montressor bowed. “If you wish to go on shore, sir, the long-boat, is, of course, at your service; but I cannot invite you to the house.” “Then I should feel obliged to you, my dear Miss Brande, to give me a seat when you yourself go on shore.” “I will do that with pleasure, sir.” Sir Parke Morelle now waked up from his after-dinner nap, came on deck, and joined Montressor. Barbara bowed and left them alone together while she went forward to give orders for the long-boat to be prepared. “That is your daughter’s home, Sir Parke,” said Lord Montressor, pointing to the dreary Headland, now growing darker under the thick falling shadows of evening. “Good Heaven! what a desolate place!” exclaimed the baronet, in consternation. “Yes; but I can well imagine that the desolation of the heart within should have rendered her insensible to the desolation of the scene without,” replied Montressor, solemnly. Not perhaps feeling the latent rebuke hidden in these words, the baronet continued to gaze upon the picturesque Headland, until the long-boat was reported ready. “I am going on shore—will you accompany me now?” “Of course! of course! I will accompany you now,” replied the baronet. Barbara came up dressed in the gray serge gown, sacque and hood that was her usual out-door costume. “Sir Parke has also decided to go on shore, Miss Brande,” said Lord Montressor. “Very good, sir,” said Barbara, betraying some little distrust and anxiety—“the boat awaits your convenience, gentlemen.” “We are ready to attend you, Miss Brande.” They went to the starboard gangway, where Lord Montressor led the way down the ladder, and having reached the boat, he put up his hand to assist Barbara in the descent; a courtesy which the girl accepted solely on the principle of politeness, for in truth, so far from requiring such assistance, she was rather embarrassed by its offer, as well as impeded by its forced acceptance. By the same ready hand, Sir Parke was next helped down the ladder. And when they were all seated, the oarsmen plied their oars, and the long-boat glided swiftly over the starlit waters toward the Headland that loomed darkly above them. In a few moments, the boat touched the sand, and was pushed up under the heavy shadows of the overhanging, wooded bank. CHAPTER XXXI. THE DREARY HEADLAND. “Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, oh sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead, Will never come back to me.