But Mr. Jones had shut up his glasses, and vanished aft. Presently he reached a deck-cabin, and entered without knocking. “England is in sight, old fellow,” he said, addressing somebody who lay back smoking in a cane-chair. The person addressed made a movement as though to rise, then put up his hand to a shade that covered his eyes. “I forgot,” he answered, with a smile; “it will have to be very much in sight before I can see it. By the way, Jeremy,” he went on, nervously, “I want to ask you something. These doctors tell such lies.” And he removed the shade. “Now, look at my eyes, and tell me honestly, am I disfigured? Are they shrunk, I mean, or have they got a squint, or anything of that sort?” and Ernest turned up his dark orbs, which, except that they had acquired that painful, expectant look peculiar to the blind, were just as they always had been. Jeremy looked at them, first in one light, then in another. “Well!” said Ernest, impatiently. “I can feel that you are staring me out of countenance.” “Hamba gachlé,” replied the imperturbable one. “I am di—di—diagnosing the case. There, that will do. To all appearance, your optics are as sound as mine. You get a girl to look at them, and see what she says.” “Ah, well; that is something to be thankful for.” Just then somebody knocked at the cabin-door. It was a steward. “You sent for me, Sir Ernest?” “O yes, I remember. Will you be so good as to find my servant? I want him.” “Yes, Sir Ernest.” Ernest moved impatiently. “Confound that fellow, with his everlasting ‘Sir Ernest’!” “What, haven’t you got used to your handle yet?” “No, I haven’t, and I wish it were at Jericho, and that is a fact. It is all your fault, Jeremy. If you had not told that confoundedly garrulous little doctor, who went and had the information printed in the _Natal Mercury,_ it would never have come out at all. I could have dropped the title in England; but now all these people know that I am Sir Ernest, and Sir Ernest I shall remain for the rest of my days.” “Well, most people would not think that such a dreadful misfortune.” “Yes, they would, if they had happened to shoot the real heir. By the way, what did the lawyer say in his letter? As we are so near home, I suppose I had better post myself up. You will find it in the despatch-box. Read it, there’s a good fellow.” Jeremy opened the box, battered with many years of travel, and searched about for the letter. It contained a curious collection of articles, prominent among which was a handkerchief, which once belonged to Eva Ceswick; a long tress of chestnut hair tied up with a blue ribbon; ditto of golden, which had come—well, not from Eva’s locks; a whole botanical collection of dead flowers, tender souvenirs of goodness knows who, for, after awhile, these accumulated dried specimens are difficult to identify; and many letters and other curiosities.