“My health, aunty!  Why, I never knew an ill day in my life!”

“Don’t tell me that, my darling; I know too well what all these deceptive appearances of health amount to.  I would not alarm you for the world, Rosy dear, but a careful parent—­and I’m your parent in affection, if not by nature—­but a careful parent’s eye is not to be deceived.  I know you look well, but you are ill, my child; though, Heaven be praised, the sea air and hydropathy are already doing you a monstrous deal of good.”

As Mrs. Budd concluded, she wiped her eyes, and appeared really glad that her niece had a less consumptive look than when she embarked.  Rose sat, gazing at her aunt, in mute astonishment.  She knew how much and truly she was beloved, and that induced her to be more tolerant of her connection’s foibles than even duty demanded.  Feeling was blended with her respect, but it was almost too much for her, to learn that this long, and in some respects painful voyage, was undertaken on her account, and without the smallest necessity for it.  The vexation, however, would have been largely increased, but for certain free communications that had occasionally occurred between her and the handsome mate, since the moment of her coming on board the brig.  Rose knew that Harry Mulford loved her, too, for he had told her as much with a seaman’s frankness; and though she had never let him know that his partiality was returned, her woman’s heart was fast inclining toward him, with all her sex’s tenderness.  This made the mistake of her aunt tolerable, though Rose was exceedingly vexed it should ever have occurred.

“Why, my dearest aunt,” she cried, “they told me it was on your account that this voyage was undertaken!”

“I know they did, poor, dear Rosy, and that was in order not to alarm you.  Some persons of delicate constitutions—­”

“But my constitution is not in the least delicate, aunt; on the contrary, it is as good as possible; a blessing for which, I trust, I am truly grateful, I did not know but you might be suffering, though you do look so well, for they all agreed in telling me you had need of a sea-voyage.”

“I, a subject for hydropathy!  Why, child, water is no more necessary to me than it is to a cat.”

“But going to sea, aunty, is not hydropathy—­”

“Don’t say that, Rosy; do not say that, my dear.  It is hydropathy on a large scale, as Captain Spike says; and when he gets us into blue water, he has promised that you shall have all the benefits of the treatment.”

Rose was silent and thoughtful; after which she spoke quickly, like one to whom an important thought had suddenly occurred.

“And Captain Spike, then, was consulted in my case?” she asked.

“He was, my dear, and you have every reason to be grateful to him.  He was the first to discover a change in your appearance, and to suggest a sea voyage.  Marine Hydropathy, he said, he was sure would get you up again; for Captain Spike thinks your constitution good at the bottom, though the high colour you have proves too high a state of habitual excitement.”