“Nay, Bessy, you must not jest with him.”

“Am I likely, think you, father?” replied Bessy.  “Can’t I feel for him?”

“Come, come, dearest, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I’m not crying, but I’m very sorry for Tom, and that’s the truth.  Now go away with your pipe and leave me alone.”

It was impossible for me to have returned without being perceived, and I therefore remained during the whole of this conversation.  I was annoyed to discover that they knew my secret; and still more vexed at the remainder of this colloquy, by which I discovered that Bramble had so completely set his heart upon a union between me and Bessy, which I considered as impossible.  I felt, as all do at the time, as if I never could love again.  I walked away, and did not return home till dinner-time.  Bramble and Bessy were very kind, although they did not talk much; and when I went away the next day I was moved with the affectionate farewell of the latter.

It was a beautiful night, and we were running before the east wind, the Portland Light upon our starboard beam; the other men in the boat had lain down in their gregos and pilot jackets, and were fast asleep, while Bramble was at the helm steering; and I, who was too restless in my mind to feel any inclination to repose, was sitting on the sternsheets beside him.

“Do you see the line of the Race” said Bramble; “it seems strong to-night.”

Bramble referred to what is called by the mariners the Race of Portland, where the uneven ground over which the water runs creates a very heavy sea even in a calm.  Small smuggling vessels and boats, forced into it in bad weather, have often foundered.  The tide, however, runs so rapidly over it that you are generally swept through it in a few minutes, and then find yourself again in comparatively smooth water.

“Yes,” replied I; “it is very strong to-night, from the long continuance of the easterly wind.”

“Exactly so, Tom,” continued Bramble.  “I’ve often thought that getting into that Race is just like failing in love.”

“Why so?” replied I, rather pettishly, for I was not pleased at his referring to the subject.

“I’ll tell you why, Tom,” said Bramble; “because, you see, when we get into the Race it’s all boiling and bubbling and tossing about—­rudder and sails are of no use; and you are carried along by a fierce tide, which there’s no resisting, with no small damage to the upper works, until you are fairly out again, and find breath to thank God for it.  Now, aren’t that like love?”

“I suppose it is as you say so; you know best.”

“Well, I think I do know best; because, you see, I have long been clear of it.  I never was in love but once, Tom; did I ever tell you about it?”

“Never,” replied I.