[Illustration: Flora disowns the letters of Charles Holland as being forgeries.] “Good God!” said Henry; “I did not think of that.” “Madness!—madness!” cried Marchdale. “Hold!” shouted the admiral. “Let me speak to her.” He pushed every one aside, and advanced to Flora. He seized both her hands in his own, and in a tone of voice that was struggling with feeling, he cried,— “Look at me, my dear; I’m an old man—old enough to be your grandfather, so you needn’t mind looking me steadily in the face. Look at me, I want to ask you a question.” Flora raised her beautiful eyes, and looked the old weather-beaten admiral full in the face. Oh! what a striking contrast did those two persons present to each other. That young and beautiful girl, with her small, delicate, childlike hands clasped, and completely hidden in the huge ones of the old sailor, the white, smooth skin contrasting wonderfully with his wrinkled, hardened features. “My dear,” he cried, “you have read those—those d——d letters, my dear?” “I have, sir.” “And what do you think of them?” “They were not written by Charles Holland, your nephew.” A choking sensation seemed to come over the old man, and he tried to speak, but in vain. He shook the hands of the young girl violently, until he saw that he was hurting her, and then, before she could be aware of what he was about, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, as he cried,— “God bless you—God bless you! You are the sweetest, dearest little creature that ever was, or that ever will be, and I’m a d——d old fool, that’s what I am. These letters were not written by my nephew, Charles. He is incapable of writing them, and, d—n me, I shall take shame to myself as long as I live for ever thinking so.” “Dear sir,” said Flora, who somehow or another did not seem at all offended at the kiss which the old man had given her; “dear sir, how could you believe, for one moment, that they came from him? There has been some desperate villany on foot. Where is he?—oh, find him, if he be yet alive. If they who have thus striven to steal from him that honour, which is the jewel of his heart, have murdered him, seek them out, sir, in the sacred name of justice, I implore you.” “I will—I will. I don’t renounce him; he is my nephew still—Charles Holland—my own dear sister’s son; and you are the best girl, God bless you, that ever breathed. He loved you—he loves you still; and if he’s above ground, poor fellow, he shall yet tell you himself he never saw those infamous letters.” “You—you will seek for him?” sobbed Flora, and the tears gushed from her eyes. “Upon you, sir, who, as I do, feel assured of his innocence, I alone rely. If all the world say he is guilty, we will not think so.” “I’m d——d if we do.” Henry had sat down by the table, and, with his hands clasped together, seemed in an agony of thought. He was now roused by a thump on the back by the admiral, who cried,—