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Updated: May 6, 2025
"My darling," said Mr Hazlit, stooping to kiss his child his only child who raised her pretty little three-cornered mouth to receive it, "this being your twenty-first birthday, I have at last brought myself to look once again on your sainted mother's jewel-case, in order that I may present it to you. I have not opened it since the day she died. It is now yours, my child."
Mr Hazlit's usually pale countenance flushed, and he started up. "Hallo! My man, how came you here?" The man looked at the door and hesitated in his attempt to reply to so useless a question. "How comes it that you enter my house and drawing-room without being announced?" asked Mr Hazlit, drawing himself up.
"I mean, sir," said Maxwell, turning to Edgar with a look of unwonted honesty on his rugged face, "that that box is the ghost of one that belongs to Miss Hazlit, if it ain't the box itself." "To Miss Hazlit," exclaimed Edgar, in surprise; "explain yourself."
Both ladies sat as if transfixed pale, mute, and motionless. Next moment Mr Hazlit sprang into the hut, glaring with excitement, while a stream of blood trickled from a slight wound in his forehead.
He was also the pride of his mother. One afternoon a bright glowing afternoon in the autumn of the year, Mr Hazlit sat in a favourite bower in the garden of his cottage, with Aileen on one side of him, and Edgar on the other. At the foot of the garden a miscellaneous group of boys, girls, and babies, of all ages, romped and rolled upon the turf.
An offer of a situation in the same vessel! "Well, sir," said our hero, with sudden decision, "I will go." Of course the owner expressed himself well pleased, and then there followed a deal of nautico-scientific talk, after which Edgar ventured to say "I observe the name of Mr Charles Hazlit on your list. He is an acquaintance of mine. Do you happen to know what takes him so far from home?"
Had Mr Hazlit said so to some of his cynical male friends they might have tacitly admitted the fact, and softened the admission with a smile. As it was, his auditor replied: "No, papa, you have not." "Yes, my love, I have. But I do not intend to prove the point or dispute it. There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the ebb, leads on to fortune."
Thus were several thousands of pounds saved to Mr Hazlit, and not only to him, but to the world, for a lost ship unlike a dropt purse is a total loss to the human race. There can be no question of the fact that authentic history sends its roots into the subsoil of fabulous antiquity.
One evening the group, finding its favourite part of the deck occupied, was driven to a position near the tent of the smoky crystal, and, sitting down not far from the engineer's quarters, began to indulge in song. Grave and gay alternated. Duets followed; trios ensued, and miscellaneous new forms of harmony sometimes intervened. "Do sing a solo, Miss Hazlit," said the Scottish maiden.
"Of course," continued Mr Hazlit, with undisturbed calmness, "I mean that you did not care for her sufficiently; that you did not regard her with that unconquerable affection which is usually styled `love', and without which no union can be a happy one.
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