Once again a whale-ship prepared to sail from the port of Grayton, and once again Mrs. Bright and Isobel stood on the pier to see her depart.  Isobel was about thirteen now, and as pretty a girl, according to Buzzby, as you could meet with in any part of Britain.  Her eyes were blue and her hair nut-brown, and her charms of face and figure were enhanced immeasurably by an air of modesty and earnestness that went straight home to your heart, and caused you to adore her at once.  Buzzby doated on her as if she were his only child, and felt a secret pride in being in some indefinable way her protector.  Buzzby philosophized about her, too, after a strange fashion.  “You see,” he would say to Fred, “it’s not that her figurehead is cut altogether after a parfect pattern—­by no means, for I’ve seen pictur’s and statues that wos better—­but she carries her head a little down, d’ye see, Master Fred? and there’s where it is; that’s the way I gauges the worth o’ young women, jist accordin’ as they carry their chins up or down.  If their brows come well for’ard, and they seems to be lookin’ at the ground they walk on, I knows their brains is firm stuff, and in good workin’ order; but when I sees them carryin’ their noses high out o’ the water, as if they wos afeard o’ catchin’ sight o’ their own feet, and their chins elewated, so that a little boy standin’ in front o’ them couldn’t see their faces nohow, I make pretty sure that t’other end is filled with a sort o’ mush that’s fit only to think o’ dress and dancing.”

On the present occasion Isobel’s eyes were red and swollen, and by no means improved by weeping.  Mrs. Bright, too, although three years had done little to alter her character, seemed to be less demonstrative and much more sincere than usual in her grief at parting from Fred.

In a few minutes all was ready.  Young Singleton and Buzzby having hastily but earnestly bade Mrs. Bright and her daughter farewell, leaped on board.  Fred lingered for a moment.

“Once more, dear aunt,” said he, “farewell.  With God’s blessing we shall come back soon.—­Write to me, darling Isobel, won’t you? to Upernavik, on the coast of Greenland.  If none of our ships are bound in that direction, write by way of Denmark.  Old Mr. Singleton will tell you how to address your letter; and see that it be a long one.”

“Now then, youngster, jump aboard,” shouted the captain; “look sharp!”

“Ay, ay,” returned Fred, and in another moment he was on the quarter-deck, by the side of his friend Tom.

The ship, loosed from her moorings, spread her canvas, and plunged forward on her adventurous voyage.

But this time she does not grow smaller as she advances before the freshening breeze, for you and I, reader, have embarked in her, and the land now fades in the distance, until it sinks from view on the distant horizon, while nothing meets our gaze but the vault of the bright blue sky above, and the plane of the dark blue sea below.