What would I not have given then for one word with that honest and faithful friend of our family, Captain Daniel!  I knew that he suspected Grafton:  he had told me as much that night at the Coffee House.  Perhaps the greatest of my fears was that my uncle would deny him access to Mr. Carvel when he returned from the North.

In the evening, when the sun settled red upon the horizon, I would think of Patty and my friends in Gloucester Street.  For I knew they missed me sadly of a Sunday at the supper-table.  But it has ever been my nature to turn forward instead of back, and to accept the twists and flings of fortune with hope rather than with discouragement.  And so, as we left league after, league of the blue ocean behind us, I would set my face to the forecastle.  For Dorothy was in England.

On a dazzling morning in March, with the brigantine running like a beagle in full cry before a heaping sea that swayed her body,—­so I beheld for the first time the misty green of the high shores of Ireland.  Ah! of what heroes’ deeds was I capable as I watched the lines come out in bold relief from a wonderland of cloud!  With what eternal life I seemed to tingle!  ’Twas as though I, Richard Carvel, had discovered all this colour; and when a tiny white speck of a cottage came out on the edge of the cliff, I thought irresistibly of the joy to live there the year round with Dorothy, with the wind whistling about our gables, and the sea thundering on the rocks far below.  Youth is in truth a mystery.

How long I was gazing at the shifting coast I know not, for a strange wildness was within me that made me forget all else, until suddenly I became conscious of a presence at my side, and turned to behold the captain.

“’Tis a braw sight, Richard,” said he, “but no sae bonnie as auld Scotland.  An’ the wind hands, we shall see her shores the morn.”

His voice broke, and I looked again to see two great tears rolling upon his cheeks.

“Ah, Scotland!” he pressed on, heedless of them, “God aboon kens what she is to me!  But she hasna’ been ower guid to me, laddie.”  And he walked to the taffrail, and stood looking astern that two men who had come aft to splice a haulyard might not perceive his disorder.  I followed him, emboldened to speak at last what was in me.

“Captain Paul,” said I, “MacMuir has told me of your trouble.  My grandfather is rich, and not lacking in gratitude,”—­here I paused for suitable words, as I could not solve his expression,—­“you, sir, whose bravery and charity will have restored me to him, shall not want for friends and money.”

He heard me through.

“Mr. Carvel,” he replied with an impressiveness that took me aback, “reward is a thing that should not be spoken of between gentlemen.”