Mrs. Drewett, though a respectable, was a common-place woman.  She belonged to the vast class that do most of their thinking by proxy; and it was a sort of heresy in her eyes to fancy anything could surpass the Highlands.  Poor Mrs. Drewett!  She was exceedingly cockney, without having the slightest suspicion of it. Her best ought to be everybody else’s best.  She combated Lucy’s notion warmly, therefore, protesting that the Highlands could not have a superior.  This is a sort of argument it is not easy to overcome; and her companion was content to admire the scene before her, in silence, after urging one or two reasons, in support of her opinion, in her own quiet, unpretending manner.

I overheard this little argument, and was a close observer of the manner of the parlies.  Mrs. Drewett was extremely indulgent, even while warmest, seeming to me to resist Lucy’s opinion as an affectionate mother would contend with the mistaken notions of a very favourite child.  On the other hand, Lucy appeared confiding, and spoke as the young of her sex are most apt to do, when they utter their thoughts to ears they feel must be indulgent.

A sunset cannot last for ever; and even this, sweet as it had been, soon became tame and tasteless to me.  As the ladies now disappeared, I determined to anchor, the wind failing, and the tide coming ahead.  Marble and myself had a sort of state-room fitted up for us in the hold; and thither I was glad to retire, standing really in need of rest, after the terrible exertions of that day.  What passed in the cabins that evening, I had no opportunity of knowing, though I heard laughing, and happy female voices, through the bulkheads, hours after my own head was on its pillow.  When Marble came down to turn in, he told me the cabin party had revived, and that there had been much pleasant discourse among the young people; and this in a way to cause even him to derive great satisfaction as a listener.

Neb gave us a call at daylight.  The wind was fresh at west-north-west, but the tide was just beginning to run on the flood.  I was so impatient to be rid of my guests, that all hands were called immediately, and we got the sloop under-way.  The pilot professed himself willing to beat up through the narrow passages above, and, the Wallingford’s greatest performance being on the wind, I was determined to achieve my deliverance that very tide.  The sloop drew more water than was usual for the up-river craft, it is true, but she was light, and, just at the moment, could go wherever the loaded Albany vessels went.  Those were not the days of vast public works; and as for sea-going craft, none had ever crossed the Overslaugh, so far as had come to my knowledge.  Times have changed greatly, since; but the reader will remember I am writing of that remote period in American history, the year of our Lord 1803.