“Farewell, Miles,” he said, as he shook my hand with a cordiality that appeared to increase the longer he knew me, “farewell, my dear boy, and may God prosper you in all your lawful and just undertakings.  Never forget you are a Wallingford, and the owner of Clawbonny.  Should we meet again, you will find a true friend in me; should we never meet, you will have reason to remember me.”

This leave-taking occurred at the inn.  A few hours later I was in the cabin of the Dawn, arranging some papers, when I heard a well-known voice, on deck, calling out to the stevedores and riggers, in a tone of authority—­“Come, bear a hand, and lay aft; off that forecastle; to this derrick,—­who ever saw a derrick standing before, after the hatches were battened down, in a first-class ship!—­a regular A. No. 1?  Bear a hand—­bear a hand; you’ve got an old sea-dog among you, men.”

There was no mistaking the person.  On reaching the deck, I found Marble, his coat off, but still wearing all the rest of his “go-ashores,” flourishing about among the labourers, putting into them new life and activity.  He heard my footsteps behind him, but never turned to salute me, until the matter in hand was terminated.  Then I received that honour, and it was easy to see the cloud that passed over his red visage, as he observed the deep mourning in which I was clad.

“Good morning to you, Captain Wallingford,” he said, making a mate’s bow,—­“good morning, sir.  God’s will be done! we are all sinners, and so are some of the stevedores, who’ve left this derrick standing as if the ship needed it for a jury-mast.  Yes, sir, God’s will must be submitted to; and sorry enough was I to read the obittery in the newspapers—­Grace, &c., daughter, &c., and only sister, &c.—­You’ll be glad to hear, however, sir, that Willow Cove is moored head and starn in the family, as one might say, and that the bloody mortgage is cut adrift.”

“I am glad to hear this, Mr. Marble,” I answered, submitting to a twinge, as I remembered that a mortgage had just been placed on my own paternal acres; “and I trust the place will long remain in your blood.  How did you leave your mother and niece?”

“I’ve not left ’em at all, sir.  I brought the old lady and Kitty to town with me, on what I call the mutual sight-seeing principle.  They are both up at my boarding-house.”

“I am not certain, Moses, that I understand this mutual principle, of which you speak.”

“God bless you, Miles,” returned the mate, who could presume to be familiar, again, now we had walked so far aft as not to have any listeners; “call me Moses as often as you possibly can, for it’s little I hear of that pleasant sound now.  Mother will dub me Oloff, and little Kitty calls me nothing but uncle.  After all, I have a bulrush feelin’ about me, and Moses will always seem the most nat’ral.  As for the mutual principle, it is just this; I’m to show mother the Dawn, one or two of the markets—­for,