“As the old woman has spun her yarn, Miles,” the mate resumed, “we will go on with matters and things.  I have been talking with the mother of the youngster that fell overboard, and giving her some advice for the benefit of her son in time to come; and what do you think she gives as the reason for the silly thing he did?”

“It is quite out of my power to say—­that he was a silly fellow naturally, perhaps.”

“Love.  It seems the poor boy is in love with this sweet friend of yours, Rupert’s sister; and it was nothing more nor less than love which made him undertake to play rope-dancer on our main-boom!”

“Did Mrs. Drewett tell you this, with her own mouth, Marble?”

“That did she, Captain Wallingford; for, while you were discussing Neb and Chloe with old Dido, we, that is, the doctor, the mother and myself, were discussing Andrew and Lucy between ourselves.  The good old lady gave me to understand it was a settled thing, and that she looked on Miss Hardinge, already, as a third daughter.”

This was a strange subject for Mrs. Drewett to discuss with a man like Marble, or even with Post; but some allowances were to be made for Marble’s manner of viewing his own connection with the dialogue, and more for the excited condition of the mother’s feelings.  She was scarcely yet in possession of all her faculties, and might very well commit an indiscretion of this nature, more especially in her conversation with a man in Post’s position, overlooking or disregarding the presence of the mate.  The effect of all that had passed was to leave a strong impression on my mind that I was too late.  Lucy must be engaged, and waited only to become of age, in order to make the settlements she intended in favour of her brother, ere she was married.  Her manner to myself was merely the result of habit and sincere friendship; a little increased in interest and gentleness, perhaps, on account of the grievous wrong she felt we had received from Rupert.  What right had I to complain, admitting all this to be true?  I had scarcely been aware of my own passion for the dear girl for years, and had certainly never attempted to make her acquainted with it.  She had made me no pledges, plighted no faith, received no assurances of attachment, was under no obligation to wait my pleasure.  So sincere was my affection for Lucy, that I rejoiced, even in my misery, when I remembered that not the slightest imputation could be laid on her deportment, truth, or frankness.  On the whole, it was perhaps the more natural that she should love Andrew Drewett, one she met for the first time after she became of an age to submit to such impressions, than to love me, whom she had been educated to treat with the familiarity and confidence of a brother.  Yes; I was even just enough to admit this.