upon him.  Sarah knew that the man she loved was not considered her equal, but because she loved him she believed him capable of becoming all that she or others could desire.  There is in the world no faith so absolute as that of a woman in the possibilities of the man she loves.  Had Sarah read of Sir Galahad—­but this was in 1779, and the fame of the search for the Holy Grail had not reached the popular ear—­she would have said to herself, “My Jim is just so pure and holy.”  Had “her Jim” been a Royalist during the English Revolution, Prince Rupert’s laurels would not have been unshared.  Had Jim been a Puritan—­though the little Quaker maiden did not love Puritans over well, and did not fancy her Jim as fighting on that side—­England’s Protector would not have borne the name of Cromwell.  Or if Jim were not one of the peace-loving Friends, and would enlist in the present struggle for liberty, the fame of Commodore James Starbuck should soon eclipse that of Paul Jones.

Not for the world would Sarah have given voice to the heretical desire, but in her inmost heart was even now a wish that her dear Jim held religious opinions that would not interfere with his showing to the country how talented, noble and valiant he was; while the fair-haired, sunburnt, indolent young Hercules idly gazing out to sea was fired with no higher ambition for himself than to be able soon to erect on the Head another small house like that of his father, to which he might bring “the sweet little girl who loved him, so much.”  For Sarah had committed the common mistake of loving women, and had let Jim see how dear he was to her.  So now, instead of dwelling on his love for her and scheming how he might be worthy of her heart, he was fully satisfied with himself, and inclined to grumble at Fortune for not at once bestowing the trifle he asked at her hands.

“Jim, how long’s thee goin’ ter stan’ there?  If the water is pretty, thee can see it any day, so ’t ain’t worth while to look at it all day ter a time.”

As, the sweet tones floated down the cliff Jim turned lazily to smile up at the speaker, and, raising his heavy basket of quahaugs, came leisurely up the steep sand-path, which seemed to shrink from his weight at every step:  “Wal’, Sairy, I wa’n’t a-thinkin’ much o’ the water:  I was a-thinkin’ o’ thee, an’ o’ what fayther said a little spell ago.”

“What was that, Jim?” Sarah’s tone was a little anxious, for she knew that there was a jealousy among some of the islanders of the facts that her father had brought with him a few heavy articles of “real mahogany furnitur,” and that her stepmother had always been able to hire others to do her spinning and weaving, and even to “help her at odd spells with the heft o’ the housework.”

“Oh, nothin’,” replied Jim, passing his free arm carelessly round the girl’s waist—­“othin’, undly th’ old story ’beout heow we’d best not merry, ‘cause by’m-by thee’ll git ter feelin’ better nor me.”