“This place will do very well, aunty, for a day or two,” cried Rose cheerfully, as she returned from a short excursion, and threw aside her hat, one made to shade her face from the sun of a warm climate, leaving the sea-breeze that was just beginning to blow, to fan her blooming and sunny cheeks.  “It is better than the brig.  The worst piece of land is better than the brig.”

“Do not say that, Rose—­not if it’s a desert island, dear; and this is desperately like a desert island; I am almost sorry I ventured on it.”

“It will not be deserted by us, aunty, until we shall see occasion to do so.  Why not endeavour to get on board of yonder ship, and return to New York in her; or at least induce her captain to put us ashore somewhere near this, and go home by land.  Your health never seemed better than it is at this moment; and as for mine, I do assure you, aunty, dear, I am as perfectly well as I ever was in my life.”

“All from this voyage.  I knew it would set you up, and am delighted to hear you say as much.  Biddy and I were talking of you this very morning, my child, and we both agreed that you were getting to be yourself again.  Oh, ships, and brigs, and schooners, full-jigger or half-jigger, for pulmonary complaints, say I!  My poor Mr. Budd always maintained that the ocean was the cure for all diseases, and I determined that to sea you should go, the moment I became alarmed for your health.”

The good widow loved Rose most tenderly, and she was obliged to use her handkerchief to dry the tears from her eyes as she concluded.  Those tears sprung equally from a past feeling of apprehension, and a present feeling of gratitude.  Rose saw this, and she took a seat at her aunt’s side, touched herself, as she never failed to be on similar occasions with this proof of her relative’s affection.  At that moment even Harry Mulford would have lost a good deal in her kind feelings toward him, had he so much as smiled at one of the widow’s nautical absurdities.  At such times, Rose seemed to be her aunt’s guardian and protectress, instead of reversing the relations, and she entirely forgot herself the many reasons which existed for wishing that she had been placed in childhood, under the care of one better qualified than the well-meaning relict of her uncle, for the performance of her duties.

“Thank you, aunty—­thank’ee, dear aunty,” said Rose, kissing the widow affectionately.  “I know that you mean the best for me, though you are a little mistaken in supposing me ill.  I do assure you, dear,” patting her aunt’s cheek, as if she herself had been merely a playful child, “I never was better; and if I have been pulmonary, I am entirely cured, and am now ready to return home.”

“God be praised for this, Rosy.  Under His divine providence, it is all owing to the sea.  If you really feel so much restored, however, I do not wish to keep you a moment longer on a ship’s board than is necessary.  We owe something to Captain Spike’s care, and cannot quit him too unceremoniously; but as soon as he is at liberty to go into a harbour, I will engage him to do so, and we can return home by land—­unless, indeed, the brig intends to make the home voyage herself.”