She saw him at the same instant.  She hesitated a single half-moment; then, as escape was impossible, resumed her course.  David went bashfully to meet her.

“Good-morning, Mr. Dodd,” said she, in the most easy, unembarrassed way imaginable.

He stammered a “good-morning,” and flushed with pleasure and confusion.

He walked by her side in silence.  She stole a look at him, and saw that, after the first blush at meeting her, he was pale and haggard.  On this she dashed into singularly easy and cheerful conversation with him; told him that this morning walk was her custom—­“My substitute for rouge, you know.  I am always the first up in this languid house; but I must not boast before you, who, I dare say, turn out—­is not that the word?—­at daybreak.  But, now I think of it, no! you would have crossed my hawse before, Mr. Dodd,” using naval phrases to flatter him.

“It was my ill-luck; I always cruised a mile off.  I had no idea this bit of gravel was your quarter-deck.”

“It is, though, because it is always dry.  You would not like a quarter-deck with that character, would you?”

“Oh yes, I should.  I’d have my bowsprit always wet, and my quarter-deck always dry.  But it is no use wishing for what we cannot have.”

“That is very true,” said Lucy, quietly.

David reflected on his own words, and sighed deeply.

This did not suit Lucy.  She plied him with airy nothings, that no man can arrest and impress on paper; but the tone and smile made them pleasing, and then she asked his opinion of the other guests in such a way as implied she took some interest in his opinion of them, but mighty little in the people themselves.  In short, she chatted with him like an old friend, and nothing more; but David was not subtle enough in general, nor just now calm enough, to see on what footing all this cordiality was offered him.  His color came back, his eye brightened, happiness beamed on his face, and the lady saw it from under her lashes.

“How fortunate I fell in with you here!  You are yourself again—­on your quarter-deck.  I scarce knew you the last few days.  I was afraid I had offended you.  You seemed to avoid me.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Dodd; what is there about you to avoid?”

“Plenty, Miss Fountain; I am so inferior to your other friends.”

“I was not aware of it, Mr. Dodd.”

“And I have heard your sex has gusts of caprice, and I thought the cold wind was blowing upon me; and that did seem very sad, just when I am going out, and perhaps shall never see your sweet face or hear your lovely voice again.”

“Don’t say that, Mr. Dodd, or you will make me sad in earnest.  Your prudence and courage, and a kind Providence, will carry you safe through this voyage, as they have through so many, and on your return the acquaintance you do me the honor to value so highly will await you—­if it depends on me.”