come to her even from the grave.

Admiral Bruce heard this fearful cry--the living calling on the
dead--and burst through the folding-doors in a moment, white as a
ghost.

He found his daughter writhing on the sofa, ghastly, and grinding in
her hand the cursed paper that had poisoned her young life.

"My child! my child!"

"Oh, papa! see! see!" And she tried to open the letter for him, but her
hands trembled so she could not.

He kneeled down by her side, the stout old warrior, and read the
letter, while she clung to him, moaning now, and quivering all over
from head to foot.

"Why, there's no signature! The writer is a coward and, perhaps, a
liar. Stop! he offers a test. I'll put him to it this minute."

He laid the moaning girl on the sofa, ordered his servants to admit
nobody into the house, and drove at once to Mayfair.

He called at Miss Somerset's house, saw Polly, and questioned her.

He drove home again, and came into the drawing-room looking as he had
been seen to look when fighting his ship; but his daughter had never
seen him so. "My girl," said he, solemnly, "there's nothing for you to
do but to be brave, and hide your grief as well as you can, for the man