“Really, Willis,” said Mrs. Wolston, “you seem to take a pride in making things worse than they are, conjuring up phantoms that have no existence.”

“It is true, madam.  I may be going upon a wrong tack.  Judging from all appearances, the sloop, instead of being on her way to the Cape, is tranquilly reposing at the bottom of the sea.  But it is only death for death; hanged by a court-martial or drowned with the sloop, it comes, in the end, to the same thing.”

“I dare say, Willis, had there really been an accident, and you had been on board, you would not have felt yourself entitled to escape?”

“Certainly not, madam; unless the crew could be saved, it would look anything but well for the pilot to escape alone.”

Willis, however, to do him justice, seemed trying to smother his grief; and, in the meanwhile, the two girls had been spreading a pure white cloth on a neighboring rock, cutting fruit plates out of the thick mangoe leaves, cooling the Rockhouse malaga in the brook, and giving to the repast an air of elegance and refinement which had the effect of augmenting the appetite of the company.  The viands were not better than they had been on many similar occasions, but they were now more artistically displayed, and consequently more inviting.

Who has not remarked, in passing through a street of dingy-looking houses, one of them distinguished from the others by its fresh and cheerful aspect, the windows garnished with a luxuriant screen of flowers, with curtains on either side of snowy whiteness and elaborate workmanship?  Very likely the passer-by has asked himself, Why is this house not as neglected, tattered, and dirty as its wretched neighbors?  The answer is simple; there dwells in this house a young girl, blithe, frolicsome, and joyous, singing with the lark, and, like a butterfly, floating from her book to her work-box—­from her mother’s cheek to her father’s, leaving an impress of her youthfulness and purity on whatever she touches.

For a like reason the al fresco dinner of this day had a charm that no such feast had been observed to possess before.

“We are not presentable,” said Fritz, referring to his seal-gut uniform.

“Ah,” replied Mrs. Wolston, “it is your costume of war, brave knights; and, for my part, I admire you more in it than in the livery of Hyde Park or Bond Street.”

“In that case,” said Ernest, “we shall do as they do in China.”

“And what is that?”

“Well, the most profound remark of respect a host can pay to his guests, is to go and dress after dinner.”

“Just when they are about to leave?”

“Exactly so, madam.”

“That is very decidedly a Chinese observance.  Are they not somewhat behind in cookery?”

“By no means, madam; on the contrary, they have attained a very high degree of perfection in that branch of the arts.  It is customary, at every ceremonious dinner, to serve up fifty-two distinct dishes.  And when that course is cleared off, what do you think is produced next?”