excuse me, Willy, for not bringing you to the drawing room. The fact is,
neither of us is in a proper trim to go there--both travel-soiled, as
they say--you with duck-shooting and I with a long ride--besides, I
am quite too much fatigued to change my dress--John, some Madeira. I'm
better than I was--but still dreadfully exhausted and afterwards, John,
tell your mistress that her father wishes to see her here. First, the
Madeira, though, till I recruit myself a little. A glass or two will do
neither of us any harm, Willy, but a great deal of good. God bless me!
what an escape I've had! what a dreadful fate you rescued me from, my
young friend and preserver--for as such I will ever look upon, you."

"Sir," replied Reilly, "I will not deny that the appearance of myself
and my companions, in all probability, saved your life."

"There was no probability in it, Willy--none at all; it would have
been a dead certainty in every sense. My God! here, John--put it down
here--fill for that gentleman and me--thank you, John--Willy," he said
as he took the glass in his trembling hand--"Willy--John, withdraw and
send down, my daughter--Willy"--the old man looked at him, but was too
full to utter a word. At this moment his daughter entered the room,
and her father, laying down the glass, opened his arms, and said in a
choking voice, "Helen, my daughter--my child--come to me;" and as she
threw herself into them he embraced her tenderly and wept aloud.

"Dear papa!" she exclaimed, after the first burst of his grief was over,
"what has affected you so deeply? Why are you so agitated?"

"Look at that noble young man," he exclaimed, directing her attention to
Reilly, who was still standing. "Look at him, my life, and observe him
well; there he stands who has this night saved your loving father from