Then am I not to go?

I think not.  Don’t pull such a long face:  but be a man, and make up your mind to it, as the geese do to going barefoot.

But why may I not go?

Because I am not Madam How, but your Daddy.

What can that have to do with it?

If you asked Madam How, do you know what she would answer in a moment, as civilly and kindly as could be?  She would say—­Oh yes, go by all means, and please yourself, my pretty little man.  My world is the Paradise which the Irishman talked of, in which “a man might do what was right in the sight of his own eyes, and what was wrong too, as he liked it.”

Then Madam How would let me go in the yacht?

Of course she would, or jump overboard when you were in it; or put your finger in the fire, and your head afterwards; or eat Irish spurge, and die like the salmon; or anything else you liked.  Nobody is so indulgent as Madam How:  and she would be the dearest old lady in the world, but for one ugly trick that she has.  She never tells any one what is coming, but leaves them to find it out for themselves.  She lets them put their fingers in the fire, and never tells them that they will get burnt.

But that is very cruel and treacherous of her.

My boy, our business is not to call hard names, but to take things as we find them, as the Highlandman said when he ate the braxy mutton.  Now shall I, because I am your Daddy, tell you what Madam How would not have told you?  When you get on board the yacht, you will think it all very pleasant for an hour, as long as you are in the bay.  But presently you will get a little bored, and run about the deck, and disturb people, and want to sit here, there, and everywhere, which I should not like.  And when you get beyond that headland, you will find the great rollers coming in from the Atlantic, and the cutter tossing and heaving as you never felt before, under a burning sun.  And then my merry little young gentleman will begin to feel a little sick; and then very sick, and more miserable than he ever felt in his life; and wish a thousand times over that he was safe at home, even doing sums in long division; and he will give a great deal of trouble to various kind ladies—­which no one has a right to do, if he can help it.

Of course I do not wish to be sick:  only it looks such beautiful weather.

And so it is:  but don’t fancy that last night’s rain and wind can have passed without sending in such a swell as will frighten you, when you see the cutter climbing up one side of a wave, and running down the other; Madam How tells me that, though she will not tell you yet.

Then why do they go out?

Because they are accustomed to it.  They have come hither all round from Cowes, past the Land’s End, and past Cape Clear, and they are not afraid or sick either.  But shall I tell you how you would end this evening?—­at least so I suspect.  Lying miserable in a stuffy cabin, on a sofa, and not quite sure whether you were dead or alive, till you were bundled into a boat about twelve o’clock at night, when you ought to be safe asleep, and come home cold, and wet, and stupid, and ill, and lie in bed all to-morrow.