house. I wonder what he is like, now. By the way, it's rather a singular
circumstance that there is, I believe, no portrait of Henry Dunbar in
existence. His picture was painted when he was a young man, and
exhibited in the Royal Academy; but his father didn't think the likeness
a good one, and sent it back to the artist, who promised to alter and
improve it. Strange to say, this artist, whose name I forget, delayed
from day to day performing his promise, and at the expiration of a
twelvemonth left England for Italy, taking the young man's portrait with
him, amongst a lot of other unframed canvases. This artist never
returned from Italy, and Percival Dunbar could never find out his
whereabouts, or whether he was dead or alive. I have often heard the old
man regret that he possessed no likeness of his son. Our chief was
handsome, you say, in his youth?"

"Yes, sir," Sampson Wilmot answered, "he was very handsome--tall and
fair, with bright blue eyes."

"You have seen Miss Dunbar: is she like her father?"

"No, sir. Her features are altogether different, and her expression is
more amiable than his."

"Indeed! Well, Sampson, we won't detain you any longer. You understand
what you have to do?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly."

"Very well, then. Good night! By the bye, you will put up at one of the
best hotels at Southampton--say the Dolphin--and wait there till the
_Electra_ steamer comes in. It is by the _Electra_ that Mr. Dunbar is to