It was some months after.  The Juno lay ready to sail in the roads of Monte Video, where she had taken in hides as part of her home cargo.  The remainder, of coffee, she was to load at Rio, and in the meantime she had filled up with coals for that port.  She was lying in tropical costume, with awnings over the fore and after deck as a protection against the fierce rays of the sun; and the crew were going about in correspondingly airy clothing, with open shirts and tucked-up canvas trousers, brown and shiny with perspiration, and gasping after every breath.  It was the hottest season of the year.  The pitch was melting in the chinks between the planking of the decks, and the tar running down her sides.

They had lain thus for a couple of days, hoping to receive before starting the post, which they had been disappointed in not finding on their arrival.  And what a disappointment this can be, only those who have been in one of these ships that go on long voyages can understand.  In foreign ports there may be many a wild pleasure to be enjoyed, but the longing to hear from home is the strongest feeling among sailors after all.

The mate had gone ashore to make one last inquiry before they sailed; and as the jolly-boat came alongside again, it was seen that he had the precious packet in his hand.  He sprang up the accommodation-ladder and disappeared aft without a word to where the captain was sitting by a small table with a carafe and glass before him, mopping his bald head in the heat.

“You’ve got them at last, then,” he said, as the mate laid the packet on the table before him, and retired a few paces while he opened it.

Almost the first letter that caught his eye was one to himself from his son, and his face brightened.  He ran rapidly over the others, making a comment here and there according as he was acquainted with the circumstances of the men to whom they were addressed, and gathering them up in a bundle, handed them over then to the mate, with a cheery “Here you are, Mr. Johnson—­letters for every one, from wives and sweethearts, and I don’t know whom besides.”

The news that the post had come had spread like wildfire over the ship, and by the time the mate began to call out the addresses by the main hatch, the whole crew were assembled, with the exception of a straggler or two who had happened to be aloft, and who were now to be seen hurrying down the ratlines.

The only one who neither expected news, nor cared apparently whether he received a letter or not, was Salve Kristiansen.  While the parcel was being distributed, he remained standing by the wheel, intent apparently upon watching the movements of the two men who were hoisting up and making fast the jolly-boat.  His lips were compressed; and when he gave the men a hand now and then, it was not a very willing one, and was generally accompanied by some bitter or sarcastic remark.  His nature since they last sailed from