“Martin?” exclaimed the puzzled old gentleman, seizing the young sailor by the shoulders and gazing intently into his face.  “Martin!  Martin!  Surely not—­yes! eh?  Martin Rattler?”

“Ay that am I, dear Mr. Jollyboy, safe and sound, and—­”

Martin’s speech was cut short in consequence of his being violently throttled by Mr. Jollyboy, who flung his arms round his neck and staggered recklessly about the office with him!  This was the great point which Barney had expected; it was the climax to which he had been looking forward all the morning:  and it did not come short of his anticipations; for Mr. Jollyboy danced round Martin and embraced him for at least ten minutes, asking him at the same time a shower of questions which he gave him no time to answer.  In the excess of his delight Barney smote his thigh with his broad hand so forcibly that it burst upon the startled clerk like a pistol-shot, and caused him to spring off his stool!

“Don’t be afeared, young un,” said Barney, winking and poking the small clerk jocosely in the ribs with his thumb.  “Isn’t it beautiful to see them.  Arrah, now! isn’t it purty?”

“Keep your thumbs to yourself, you sea monster,” said the small clerk, angrily, and laying his hand on the ruler.  But Barney minded him not, and continued to smite his thigh and rub his hands, while he performed a sort of gigantic war-dance round Mr. Jollyboy and Martin.

In a few minutes the old gentleman subsided sufficiently to understand questions.

“But, my aunt,” said Martin, anxiously; “you have said nothing about Aunt Dorothy.  How is she? where is she? is she well?”

To these questions Mr. Jollyboy returned no answer, but sitting suddenly down on a chair, he covered his face with his hands.

“She is not ill?” inquired Martin in a husky voice, while his heart beat violently.  “Speak, Mr. Jollyboy, is she—­is she—­”

“No, she’s not ill,” returned the old gentleman; “but she’s—­”

“She is dead!” said Martin, in a tone so deep and sorrowful that the old gentleman started up.

“No, no, not dead, my dear boy; I did not mean that.  Forgive my stupidity, Martin.  Aunt Dorothy is gone,—­left the village a year ago; and I have never seen or heard of her since.”

Terrible though this news was, Martin felt a slight degree of relief to know that she was not dead;—­at least there was reason to hope that she might be still alive.

“But when did she go? and why? and where?”

“She went about twelve months ago,” replied Mr. Jollyboy.  “You see, Martin, after she lost you she seemed to lose all hope and all spirit; and at last she gave up making socks for me, and did little but moan in her seat in the window and look out towards the sea.  So I got a pleasant young girl to take care of her; and she did not want for any of the comforts of life.  One day the little girl came to me here, having run all the way from