“Frank,” said the poor girl, “before we meet again, I shall probably be a mother; and this hope alone alleviates the agony of separation.  If I have not you, I shall, at least, be blest with your image.  Heaven grant that it may be a boy, to follow the steps of his father, and not a girl, to be as wretched as her mother.  You, my dear Frank, are going on distant and dangerous service—­dangers increased tenfold by the natural ardour of your mind:  we may never meet again, or if we do, the period will be far distant.  I ever have been, and ever will be constant to you, till death; but I neither expect, nor will allow of the same declaration on your part.  Other scenes, new faces, youthful passions will combine to drive me for a time from your thoughts, and when you shall have attained maturer years, and a rank in the navy equal to your merits and your connections, you will marry in your own sphere of society; all these things I have made up my mind to, as events that must take place.  Your person I know I cannot have—­but do not, do not discard me from your mind.  I shall never be jealous as long as I know you are happy, and still love your unfortunate Eugenia.  Your child shall be no burthen to you until it shall have attained an age at which it may be put out in the world:  then, I know you will not desert it for the sake of its mother.  Dear Frank, my heart is broken; but you are not to blame; and if you were, I would die imploring blessings on your head.”  Here she wept bitterly.

I tried every means in my power to comfort and encourage this fascinating and extraordinary girl; I forgot neither vows nor promises, which, at the time, I fully intended to perform.  I promised her a speedy and I trusted a happy meeting.

“God’s will be done,” said she, “come what will.  And now, my dearest Frank, farewell—­never again endanger your life and character for me as you did last night.  I have been blest in your society, and even with the prospect of misery before me, cannot regret the past.”

I tenderly embraced her, jumped into a wherry, at Point, and desired the waterman to take me on board the I——­, at Spithead.  The first lieutenant was on deck when I came up the side.

“I presume it was you whom we fired at last night?” said he, smiling.

“It was, sir,” said I; “absolute necessity compelled me to go on shore, or I should not have taken such an extraordinary mode of conveyance.”

“Oh, with all my heart,” said the officer; “had you told me you intended to have swum on shore, I should not have prevented you; I took you for one of the pressed men, and directed the marines to fire at you.”

“The pressed men are extremely obliged to you,” thought I.

“Did you not find it devilish cold?” continued the lieutenant, in a strain of good humour, which I encouraged by my manner of answering.

“Indeed I did, sir,” said I.

“And the jollies fired tolerably well, did they?”