“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!”

The expression on Florence’s face alarmed the captain, who was himself very hot and flurried, and showed scarcely less agitation than she did.

“Shall I go on, Beauty?” said the captain.

“Yes, yes, pray!” cried Florence.

The captain made a gulp as if to get down something that was stuck in his throat, and nervously proceeded: 

“That there unfortunate ship met with such foul weather, out at sea, as don’t blow once in twenty year, my darling.  There was hurricanes ashore as tore up forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales at sea, even in them latitudes, as not the stoutest wessel ever launched could live in.  Day arter day, that there unfort’nate ship behaved noble, I’m told, and did her duty brave, my Pretty, but at one blow a’most her bulwarks was stove in, her masts and rudder carried away, her best men swept overboard, and she left in the mercy of the storm as had no mercy, but blowed harder and harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat her in, and every time they come a thundering at her, broke her like a shell.  Every black spot in every mountain of water that rolled away was a bit of the ship’s life, or a living man, and so she went to pieces, Beauty, and no grass will never grow upon the graves of them as manned that ship.”

“They were not all lost!” cried Florence.  “Some were saved!  Was one?”

“Aboard o’ that there unfortunate wessel,” said the captain, rising from his chair, and clenching his hand with prodigious energy and exultation, “was a lad, a gallant lad—­as I’ve heard tell—­that had loved when he was a boy to read and talk about brave actions in shipwrecks—­I’ve heerd him!—­I’ve heerd him!—­and he remembered of ’em in his hour of need; for when the stoutest hearts and oldest hands was hove down, he was firm and cheery.  It wa’n’t the want of objects to like and love ashore that gave him courage; it was his nat’ral mind.  I’ve seen it in his face when he was no more than a child—­ah, many a time!—­and when I thought it nothing but his good looks, bless him!”

“And was he saved?” cried Florence.  “Was he saved?”

“That brave lad,” said the captain,—­“look at me, pretty!  Don’t look round—­”

Florence had hardly power to repeat, “Why not?”