In wondering astonishment the younger members of the family had regarded this little scene some minutes before the truth had flashed on the mind of Mrs. Hamilton.  Both St. Eval and Percy had guessed who in reality the stranger was, and waited in some anxiety for the effect that recognition would have on Mrs. Hamilton, whom Edward had already considerably agitated.  With characteristic delicacy of feeling, all then left the room, Sir George Wilmot and Mr. Hamilton alone remaining with the long-separated brother and sister.

“My uncle Charles himself!  Fool, idiot that I was never to discover this before!” had been Edward’s exclamation, in a tone of unrestrained joy.

A short time sufficed to restore all to comparative composure, but a longer interval was required for Charles Manvers, whom we must now term Lord Delmont, to ask and to answer the innumerable questions which were naturally called forth by his unexpected return; much had he to hear and much to tell, even leaving, as he said he would, the history of his adventures in Algiers to amuse two or three winter evenings, when all his family were around him.

“All my family,” he repeated, in a tone of deep feeling.  “Do I say this?  I, the isolated, desolate being I imagined myself; I, who believed so many years had passed, that I should remain unrecognised, unloved, forgotten.  Reproach me not, my sister, the misery I occasioned myself, the emotions of this moment are punishment enough.  And are all those whom I saw here yours, Hamilton?” he continued, more cheerfully.  “Oh, let me claim their love; I know them all already, for Edward has long ere this made me acquainted with them, both individually and as the united members of one affectionate family; I long to judge for myself if his account be indeed correct, though I doubt it not.  Poor fellow, I deserve his reproaches for continuing my deception to him so long.”

“And why was that name assumed at all, dear Charles?” inquired Mr. Hamilton.  “Why not resume your own when the chains of slavery were broken?”

“And how dare you say Mordaunt was yours as long as you can remember?” demanded Sir George, holding up his hand in a threatening attitude, as if the full-grown man before him were still the slight stripling he last remembered him.  “Deception was never permitted on my decks, Master Charles.”

Mrs. Hamilton smiled.

“Nor have I practised it, Sir George,” he replied.  “Mordaunt was my name, as my sister can vouch.  Charles Mordaunt Manvers I was christened, Mordaunt being the name of my godfather, between whom and my father, however, a dispute arose, when I was about seven years old, completely setting aside old friendship and causing them to be at enmity till Sir Henry Mordaunt’s death.  The tale was repeated to me when I was about ten years old, much exaggerated of course, and I declared I would bear his name no longer.  I remember well my gentle sister Emmeline’s entreaties and persuasions that I would not interfere, that I knew nothing about the quarrel, and had no right to be so angry.  However, I carried my point, as I generally did, with my too indulgent parent, and therefore from that time I was only known as Charles Manvers, for my father could not bear the name spoken before him.  Do you not remember it, Emmeline?”