Bessy’s eyes beamed gratefully toward me, as I thus assisted her wishes.  “You hear, father,” said she, fondling him, “Tom agrees with me.”

“Ah!” replied Bramble, with a sigh, “if—­but we cannot have all we wish in this world.”

Bessy and I both felt what he would have referred to, and we were silent.  She cast down her eyes, and appeared busy with her fork, although she was eating nothing.  I no longer felt the repugnance that I had a short time before, and I was in deep reverie, watching the changes of her beautiful countenance, when she looked up.  Our eyes met:  she must have read my thoughts in mine, for from that moment each hour increased our intimacy and confidence.  We were no longer afraid of each other.

A day or two after this conversation an opportunity was given to me of going up the river, which I did not neglect; and having delivered up charge of the ship, I hastened down to Greenwich.  I found everything in statu quo at my mother’s house, and Virginia much pleased at there being no lodgers.  Anderson I met walking with Ben the Whaler and my father.  He told me that Spicer had refused to have his leg amputated, when the surgeon had pointed out the necessity of the operation; and that it was now said that it was too late to have the operation performed, and that there was little or no chance of his recovery.  They asked me many questions relative to the narrow escape of Bramble, and the behavior of Bessy.

As soon as I could get away, I set off to the hospital to see Spicer; for, as the reader must be aware, I had many reasons for having communication with him—­not that I expected that at first he would acknowledge anything.  I knew that his heart was hardened, and that he had no idea of his danger; but I had his secret—­he was indeed in my power, and I hoped by terrifying him to obtain the information which I wished.

I found him in bed, in the corner of the hospital ward, to the left.  He was looking very pale, and apparently was in great pain.

“Spicer,” said I, “I have come to see you; I am sorry to hear of your accident.  How is your leg? is it better?”

“No, not much,” replied he, writhing, “I am in great pain; another man would scream out with agony, but I’m like the wolf—­I’ll die without complaint.”

“But you don’t think that you’re going to die, Spicer?”

“No, Jack, I don’t think that; I never have thought that, when I have been worse than now.  I’ll never believe that I’m dead until I find myself so.  It must come some time or another, but I’m hale and hearty in constitution as yet, and my time is not yet come.”

“It was the iron railings which you fell over, was it not?  I fell over them myself the same night when I landed, on the Monday, going up to old Nanny’s.”

“Who told you it was those cursed spikes?  Well, well, so it was; but not on the Monday, Jack, it was on the Wednesday.”