“Then we will see what she is like, and perhaps turn her over to the care of Mrs. Broadsides,” concluded the veteran.
At this moment the door opened, and Jerry hove into sight, towing in his prize, which he announced as—
“The Annella Wilder, London, your honor.”
The admiral did not hear the name distinctly, but fixed his eyes upon the young girl, who was steadily advancing towards him. And as she drew nearer, his eyes dilated in astonishment, until, when she stood before him, he gazed upon her in a panic of consternation, for it seemed to him that his long-lost daughter was in his presence.
For a minute that seemed an age, the old man and little maiden regarded each other in silence, while all the other members of the party looked on in surprise, and then the admiral broke forth:
“Anna; my Lord, is it possible? I heard that you were dead long ago, child—you and your infant daughter together. Where do you come from? You look, indeed, as if it were from the grave! Why do you come here now? Is it to reproach me?”
“Grandfather,” said the young girl, sadly but fearlessly; “the Anna whom you invoke is not here to offend you with her presence. She could not come if she would, she would not, perhaps, if she could; fifteen years ago she went with her broken heart to heaven. And I, her daughter, standing here before you, came here not willingly or wittingly. The storm without drove me, the lights within drew me here, not knowing where I came. And now I am ready to depart, not caring where I go.”
During this short interview, the two old ladies had risen from their seats, and drawn near with looks of deep interest. The elder spoke:
“Oh, Iry, she is poor Anna’s child! You will never let her go! She is my great-great-grandchild; only think of that, Iry! She shall not go, or, if she does, I’ll go forth, with my century of years, and beg with her!”
“Peace, peace, grandmother, be easy,” replied the admiral.