work of vanity,—­a carved image that a man may give his whole life to making, and yet die content if he achieves but some approach to the creation of his soul.  I have made this estate out of nothing; it hath grown larger and larger, richer and more rich, in answer to my skill; why should I not love it, and put my whole heart in the accomplishment of my design, with the same devotion that you admire in the maker of graven images?”

Despite his natural infirmities, Simon delivered this astonishing rhapsody with a certain sort of vehemence that made it eloquent; and indeed, strange as his passion was, I could not deny that it was as reasonable in its way as any nobler act of self-sacrifice.

“I begin to understand you, Mr. Steward,” says I.

“Then, good friend, as thee wouldst help the man in peril of being torn from his child, render me this estate to govern; save it from the hands of usurers and lawyers, men of no conscience, to whom this Spanish Don would deliver it for the speedy satisfaction of his greed.”

“Nay, my claim’s as great as his,” says I, “and my affairs more pressing” (with a glance at my papers), “I am undone, my credit lost, my occupation gone.”

“Thee shalt be paid to the last farthing.  Examine my books, enquire into the value of my securities, and thee wilt find full assurance.”

“Well, one of these days mayhap,” says I, as if to put him off.

“Nay, come at once, I implore thee; for until I am justified to my mistress, I stand like one betwixt life and death.”

“For one thing,” says I, still shuffling, “I can do nothing, nor you either, to the payment of our just claim, before the inheritance is safely settled upon Mistress Godwin.”

“That shall be done forthwith.  I understand the intricacies of the law, and know my way” (tapping his head and then his pocket), “to get a seal, with ten times the despatch of any attorney.  I promise by Saturday thee shalt have assurance to thy utmost requirement.  Say, good friend, thee wilt be at my lodge house on that day.”

“I’ll promise nothing,” says I.  “Our poor Captain Evans is still a prisoner in his room.”

“Aye,” says Dawson, coming in from the next room, in his nightgown, seeming very feeble and weak despite his blustering voice, “and I’m like to be no better till I can get a ship of my own and be to sea again.  Have you brought my money, Mr. Quaker?”

“Thee shalt have it truly; wait but a little while, good friend, a little while.”

“Wait a little while and founder altogether, eh?  I know you land sharks, and would I’d been born with a smack of your cunning; then had I never gone of this venture, and lost my ship and twoscore men, that money’ll ne’er replace.  Look at me, a sheer hulk and no more, and all through lending ear to one prayer and another.  I doubt you’re minded to turn your back on poor old Bob Evans, as t’others have, Mr. Hopkins,—­and why not?  The poor old man’s worth nothing, and cannot help himself.”  With this he fell a-snivelling like any girl.