Jasper would have made his request all the same and then taken his own way; but it was Freya who decided that nothing should be said, on the ground that, “Papa would only worry himself to distraction.”  He was capable of making himself ill, and then she wouldn’t have the heart to leave him.  Here you have the sanity of feminine outlook and the frankness of feminine reasoning.  And for the rest, Miss Freya could read “poor dear papa” in the way a woman reads a man—­like an open book.  His daughter once gone, old Nelson would not worry himself.  He would raise a great outcry, and make no end of lamentable fuss, but that’s not the same thing.  The real agonies of indecision, the anguish of conflicting feelings would be spared to him.  And as he was too unassuming to rage, he would, after a period of lamentation, devote himself to his “little estate,” and to keeping on good terms with the authorities.

Time would do the rest.  And Freya thought she could afford to wait, while ruling over her own home in the beautiful brig and over the man who loved her.  This was the life for her who had learned to walk on a ship’s deck.  She was a ship-child, a sea-girl if ever there was one.  And of course she loved Jasper and trusted him; but there was a shade of anxiety in her pride.  It is very fine and romantic to possess for your very own a finely tempered and trusty sword-blade, but whether it is the best weapon to counter with the common cudgel-play of Fate—­that’s another question.

She knew that she had the more substance of the two—­you needn’t try any cheap jokes, I am not talking of their weights.  She was just a little anxious while he was away, and she had me who, being a tried confidant, took the liberty to whisper frequently “The sooner the better.”  But there was a peculiar vein of obstinacy in Miss Freya, and her reason for delay was characteristic.  “Not before my twenty-first birthday; so that there shall be no mistake in people’s minds as to me being old enough to know what I am doing.”

Jasper’s feelings were in such subjection that he had never even remonstrated against the decree.  She was just splendid, whatever she did or said, and there was an end of it for him.  I believe that he was subtle enough to be even flattered at bottom—­at times.  And then to console him he had the brig which seemed pervaded by the spirit of Freya, since whatever he did on board was always done under the supreme sanction of his love.

“Yes.  I’ll soon begin to count the days,” he repeated.  “Eleven months more.  I’ll have to crowd three trips into that.”

“Mind you don’t come to grief trying to do too much,” I admonished him.  But he dismissed my caution with a laugh and an elated gesture.  Pooh!  Nothing, nothing could happen to the brig, he cried, as if the flame of his heart could light up the dark nights of uncharted seas, and the image of Freya serve for an unerring beacon amongst hidden shoals; as if the winds had to wait on his future, the stars fight for it in their courses; as if the magic of his passion had the power to float a ship on a drop of dew or sail her through the eye of a needle—­simply because it was her magnificent lot to be the servant of a love so full of grace as to make all the ways of the earth safe, resplendent, and easy.