“Yes,—­Mr. Gabriel Verelay been served the same trick by the same squall, only worse and more of it,—­knocked off the yacht—­What’s that you call her?”

“La belle Louise.”

“And left for drowned,—­if they see him go at all.  But he couldn’t ‘a’ sinked in that sea, if he’d tried.  He kep’ afloat; we blundered into him; and here he is.”

Dan and I looked round In considerable surprise, for he was dry as an August leaf.

“Oh,” said the stranger, coloring, and with the least little turn of his words, as if he didn’t always speak English, “the good captain reached shore, and, finding sticks, he kindled a fire, and we did dry our clothes until it made fine weather once more.”

“Yes,” said father; “but ’t wouldn’t been quite such fine weather, I reckon, if this ’d gone to the fishes!” And he pushed something across the table.

It was a pouch with steel snaps, and well stuffed.  The stranger colored again, and held his hand for it, and the snap burst, and great gold pieces, English coin and very old French ones, rolled about the table, and father shut his eyes tight; and just then Faith came back and slipped into her chair.  I saw her eyes sparkle as we all reached, laughing and joking, to gather them; and Mr. Gabriel—­we got into the way of calling him so,—­he liked it best—­hurried to get them out of sight as if he’d committed some act of ostentation.  And then, to make amends, he threw off what constraint he had worn in this new atmosphere of ours, and was so gay, so full of questions and quips and conceits, all spoken in his strange way, his voice was so sweet, and he laughed so much and so like a boy, and his words had so much point and brightness, that I could think of nothing but the showers of colored stars in fireworks.  Dan felt it like a play, sat quiet, but enjoying, and I saw he liked it;—­the fellow had a way of attaching every one.  Father was uproarious, and kept calling out, “Mother, do you hear?—­d’ you hear that, mother?” And Faith, she was near, taking it all in as a flower does sunshine, only smiling a little, and looking utterly happy.  Then I hurried to clear up, and Faith sat in the great arm-chair, and father got out the pipes, and you could hardly see across the room for the wide tobacco-wreaths; and then it was father’s turn, and he told story after story of the hardships and the dangers and the charms of our way of living.  And I could see Mr. Gabriel’s cheek blanch, and he would bend forward, forgetting to smoke, and his breath coming short, and then right himself like a boat after lurching,—­he had such natural ways, and except that he’d maybe been a spoiled child, he would have had a good heart, as hearts go.  And nothing would do at last but he must stay and live the same scenes for a little; and father told him ’t wouldn’t pay;—­they weren’t so much to go through with as to tell of,—­there was too much prose in the daily life, and too much dirt, and ’t wa’n’t