“Of course; it will come from you. I take a fancy to make you a present of a sum of money; you do with it what you please—it’s yours, and I have no right and no inclination to ask you what use you put it to.” Tears gushed from the eyes of Flora as she tried to utter some word, but could not. The admiral swore rather fearfully, and pretended to wonder much what on earth she could be crying for. At length, after the first gush of feeling was over, she said,— “I cannot accept of so much generosity, sir—I dare not.” “Dare not!” “No; I should think meanly of myself were I to take advantage of the boundless munificence of your nature.” “Take advantage! I should like to see anybody take advantage of me, that’s all.” “I ought not to take the money of you. I will speak to my brother, and well I know how much he will appreciate the noble, generous offer, my dear sir.” “Well, settle it your own way, only remember I have a right to do what I like with my own money.” “Undoubtedly.” “Very good. Then as that is undoubted, whatever I lend to him, mind I give to you, so it’s as broad as it’s long, as the Dutchman said, when he looked at the new ship that was built for him, and you may as well take it yourself you see, and make no more fuss about it.” “I will consider,” said Flora, with much emotion—“between this time and the same hour to-morrow I will consider, sir, and if you can find any words more expressive of heartfelt gratitude than others, pray imagine that I have used them with reference to my own feelings towards you for such an unexampled offer of friendship.” “Oh, bother—stuff.” The admiral now at once changed the subject, and began to talk of Charles—a most grateful theme to Flora, as may well be supposed. He related to her many little particulars connected with him which all tended to place his character in a most amiable light, and as her ears drank in the words of commendation of him she loved, what sweeter music could there be to her than the voice of that old weather-beaten rough-spoken man. “The idea,” he added, to a warm eulogium he had uttered concerning Charles—“the idea that he could write those letters my dear, is quite absurd.” “It is, indeed. Oh, that we could know what had become of him!” “We shall know. I don’t think but what he’s alive. Something seems to assure me that we shall some of these days look upon his face again.” “I am rejoiced to hear you say so.” “We will stir heaven and earth to find him. If he were killed, do you see, there would have been some traces of him now at hand; besides, he would have been left lying where the rascals attacked him.” Flora shuddered. “But don’t you fret yourself. You may depend that the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft has looked after him.” “I will hope so.”