“That day was, I honestly believe, the brightest and happiest of my life.  Not a word was said by either of us in reference to any jar or unpleasantness in the past—­not a reproach for long and unfraternal negligence through all these years of separation.  Each listened eagerly to the story of the other’s life, questioned closely for every minute detail, sympathized with every slight misfortune, and expressed a hearty pleasure in every incident of happiness or success.  I learned how John had passed a year after my departure in uncertainty as to his plans for the future, and in the vain effort to break the resolution of Ellen Jones.  Then he purchased a vessel, as I had done, and crossing the ocean ran for two years between New York and the West Indian ports.  His career was not as fortunate as mine had been, and when, after eight years of a seaman’s adventurous life, he was rewarded for his faithful devotion by the hand of the woman whom he loved, he was no richer than my father had left him.  Ellen had made two voyages with him—­one just after their marriage, and one two years later, after their baby died.  John lost money on this last trip, but was steadily repairing his fortunes when, about a year before our meeting, he lost his ship and cargo off the coast of Newfoundland, barely escaping with his crew by the assistance of a fishing-vessel which had answered their signal of distress.  This misfortune had reduced him to very straitened circumstances, and he had left his wife with five little ones at home, hoping for a successful venture in this voyage to the Cape, every guinea of his capital having been invested in a half interest in the Ellen and her cargo.  There was nothing to require our attention, as our ships were lying as still and motionless, but for the drift, as if riding at anchor in a road-stead; so we talked together until the steward announced dinner, and after that adjourned to the after-deck with a box of cigars and a bottle of wine, where we resumed our conversation.  The weather continued unchanged, and I shall never forget the quiet happiness of those hours as we sat under the awning looking at the Cape pigeons and schools of flying-fish, and chatting about the pleasant memories of our boyish days.  It was near sunset when John Alford asked me to signal his boat, and soon afterward he left the Ariadne.  We both expected the wind to rise during the night, but intended keeping our ships together until next day, and so made all our arrangements for signaling, so that we might not part company in the darkness.

“When I went below I met Kelson at the cabin door.  ’The barometer’s taken a start downward, sir,’ said he:  ’we shall have nasty weather before morning.’

“‘It is very likely,’ I answered, ’but I think the old ship can stand some weather.  Set the watches with two good men in each, and have everything snug for a blow.’

“‘Ay, ay, sir!’ answered the careful fellow:  ’all that’s done already.  I’ve seen these South Atlantic calms before now.  The sails are all clewed up and the useless spars sent down:  the boats are secured, the movables all double lashed, and the storm-staysails made ready to bend on.’