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The captain had cooked the evening meal and spread the cloth with great care, and when Florence appeared he dressed for dinner, by taking off his glazed hat and putting on his coat. That done, he wheeled the table against her on the sofa, said Grace, and did the honors of the table.

“My Lady Lass,” said he, “Cheer up, and try to eat a bit. Stand by, dearie! Liver wing it is. Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And potato!”

All of these delicacies the captain ranged symetrically on the plate, pouring hot gravy on the whole and adding: “Try and pick a bit, my Pretty. If Wal’r was here–“

“Ah! If I had him for my brother now!” cried Florence.

“Don’t take on, my Pretty,” said the captain: “awast, to obleege me. He was your nat’r’l born friend like, wa’n’t he, Pet? Well, well! If our poor Wal’r was here, my Lady Lass–or if he could be–for he’s drowned, a’n’t he?–As I was saying, if he could be here, he’d beg and pray of you, my precious, to pick a leetle bit, with a look-out for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold your own, my Lady Lass, as if it was for Wal’r’s sake, and lay your pretty head to the wind!”

Florence essayed to eat a morsel for the captain’s pleasure, but she was so tired and so sad that she could do scant justice to the meal, and was glad indeed when the time came to retire.

She slept that night in the same little room, and the next day sat in the small parlor, busy with her needle, and more calm and tranquil than she had been on the day preceding. The captain, looking at her, often hitched his arm chair close to her, as if he were going to say something very confidential, and hitched it away again, as not being able to make up his mind how to begin. In the course of the day he cruised completely around the parlor in that frail bark, and more than once went ashore against the wainscot, or the closet door, in a very distressed condition.

It was not until deep twilight that he fairly dropped anchor at last by the side of Florence, and began to talk connectedly. He spoke in such a trembling voice, and looked at Florence with a face so pale and agitated that she clung to his hand in affright, and her color came and went as she listened.

“There’s perils and dangers on the deep, my Beauty,” said the captain; “and over many a brave ship, and many and many a bold heart the secret waters has closed up, and never told no tales. But there’s escapes upon the deep, too, and sometimes one man out of a score–ah! maybe out of a hundred, Pretty, has been saved by the mercy of God, and come home, after being given over for dead, and told of all hands lost, I–I know a story, Heart’s Delight,” stammered the captain, “o’ this natur’, as was told to me once; and being on this here tack, and you and me sitting by the fire, maybe you’d like to hear me tell it. Would you, deary?”

Florence, trembling with an agitation which she could not control or understand, involuntarily followed his glance, which went behind her into the shop where a lamp was burning. The instant that she turned her head, the captain sprung out of his chair, and interposed his hand.

“There’s nothing there, my Beauty,” said the captain. “Don’t look there!”

Then he murmured something about its being dull that way, and about the fire being cheerful. He drew the door ajar, which had been standing open until now, and resumed his seat. Florence looked intently in his face.

“The story was about a ship, my Lady Lass,” began the captain, “as sailed out of the port of London, with a fair wind and in fair weather, bound for–Don’t be took aback my Lady Lass, she was only out’ard. Pretty, only out’ard bound!”