“How soon do we sail, captain?” asked Zoe.  “Must we wait for an answer from Nantucket?”

“No; I shall send word by this morning’s mail, to Captain Coffin, that we will take his cottage and two others, if he can engage them for us.  But there is no time to wait for a reply.”

“Can’t we telegraph?” asked Violet.

“No; because there is no telegraph from the mainland to the island.

“Now, ladies all, please make your preparations as rapidly as possible.  We ought to be off by the first of next week.  I can telegraph for the yacht, and she will be ready for us, lying at anchor in our own harbor.

“But, little wife,” turning to Violet, with a tenderly affectionate air, “you are not to exert yourself in the least with shopping, sewing, or packing.  I positively forbid it,” he added, with playful authority.

“That is right, captain,” Elsie said, with a pleased smile.  “She is not strong enough yet for any such exertion, nor has she any need to make it.”

“Ah, mamma,” said Violet, “are you not forgetting the lessons you used to give us, your children, on the sin of indolence and self-indulgence?”

“No, daughter; nor those on the duty of doing all in our power for the preservation of health as one of God’s good gifts, and to be used in His service.”

They were all gathered upon the veranda now in the cool shade of the trees and vines, for the weather was extremely warm.

“I wish we were ready to sail to-day,” said Zoe.  “How delicious the sea-breeze would be!”

A nice-looking, pleasant-faced colored woman stepped from the doorway with a little bundle in her arms, which she carried to Violet.

The captain, standing beside his wife, bent over her and the babe with a face full of love and delight.

“Isn’t she a darling?” whispered Violet, gazing down upon the tiny creature with all a young mother’s unspeakable love and pride in her first-born, then up into her husband’s face.

“That she is!” he responded; “I never saw a fairer, sweeter babe.  I should fear to risk her little life and health in a journey to Nantucket by land; but going by sea will, I think, be more likely to do her good than harm.”

“It’s all her, her, when you talk about that baby,” laughed Rosie; “why don’t you call her by her name?”

“So we will, Aunt Rosie, if you will kindly inform us what it is,” returned the captain, good-humoredly.

“I, sir!” exclaimed Rosie; “we have all been told again and again that you were to decide upon the name on your arrival; and you’ve been here—­how many hours?—­and it seems the poor little dear is nameless yet.”

“Apparently not greatly afflicted by it either,” said the captain, adopting Rosie’s sportive tone.  “My love, what do you intend to call your daughter?”

“Whatever her father appoints as her name,” returned Vi, laughingly.

“No, no,” he said; “you are to name her yourself; you have undoubtedly the best right.”