and some of them even cherished the idea that
the captain was his keeper.

As no man dared to awake the mighty Parvis,
it was resolved that a heavy member of the
society should fall against him as it were by
accident, and immediately withdraw to a safe
distance. The experiment was so happily
accomplished, that Mr. Parvis started to his feet on
the best terms with himself, as a light sleeper
whose wits never left him, and who could
always be broad awake on occasion. Quite an airy
jocundity sat upon this respectable man in
consequence. And he rallied the briskest member of
the fraternity on being " a sleepy-head," with an
amount of humour previously supposed to be
quite incompatible with his responsible
circumstances in life.

Gradually, the society departed into the cold
night, and the captain and his young companion
were left alone. The captain had so refreshed
himself by shaking hands with everybody to an
amazing extent, that he was in no hurry to go
to bed.

"To-morrow morning," said the captain, "we
must find out the lawyer and the clergyman here;
they are the people to consult on our business.
And I'll be up and out early, and asking questions
of everybody I see; thereby propagating
at least one of the Institutions of my native
country."

As the captain was slapping his leg, the landlord
appeared with two small candlesticks.

"Your room," said he, "is at the top of the
house. An excellent bed, but you'll hear the
wind."

"I've heerd it afore," replied the captain.
"Come and make a passage with me, and you
shall hear it."

"It's considered to blow, here," said the
landlord.

"Weather gets its young strength here,"
replied the captain; "goes into training for the
Atlantic Ocean. Yours are little winds just
beginning to feel their way and crawl. Make a
voyage with me, and I'll show you a grown-up
one out on business. But you haven't told my
friend where he lies."

"It's the room at the head of the stairs,
before you take the second staircase through the
wall," returned the landlord. "You can't mistake
it. It's a double-bedded room, because
there's no other."

"The room where the seafaring man is?"
said the captain.

"The room where the seafaring man is."

"I hope he mayn't finish telling his story in
his sleep, remarked the captain. " Shall I turn
into the room where the seafaring man is,
Alfred?"

"No, Captain Jorgan, why should you?
There would be little fear of his waking me, even
if he told his whole story out."

"He's in the bed nearest the door," said the
landlord. "I've been in to look at him, once, and
he's sound enough. Good night, gentlemen."

The captain immediately shook hands with
the landlord in quite an enthusiastic manner,
and having performed that national ceremony, as
if he had had no opportunity of performing it
for a long time, accompanied his young friend
up-stairs.

"Something tells me," said the captain as
they went, "that Miss Kitty Tregarthen's
marriage ain't put off for long, and that we shall
light on what we want."

"I hope so. When, do you think?"

"Wa'al, I couldn't just say when, but soon.
Here's your room," said the captain, softly
opening the door and looking in; "and here's
the berth of the seafaring man. I wonder what
like he is. He breathes deep; don't he?"

"Sleeping like a child, to judge from the
sound," said the young fisherman.

"Dreaming of home, maybe," returned the
captain. "Can't see him. Sleeps a deal more
wholesomely than Arson Parvis, but a'most as
sound; don't he? Good night, fellow-traveller."

"Good night, Captain Jorgan, and many,
many thanks!"

"I'll wait till I 'arn 'em, boy, afore I take
'em," returned the captain, clapping him
cheerfully on the back. "Pleasant dreams of—you
know who!"

When the young fisherman had closed the
door, the captain waited a moment or two,
listening for any stir on the part of the unknown
seafaring man. But, none being audible, the
captain pursued the way to his own chamber.

CHAPTER IV. THE SEAFARING MAN.

WHO was the Seafaring Man? And what
might he have to say for himself? He answers
those questions in his own words:

I begin by mentioning what happened on my
journey, northwards, from Falmouth in Cornwall,
to Steepways in Devonshire. I have no
occasion to say (being here) that it brought me
last night to Lanrean. I had business in hand
which was part very serious, and part (as I
hoped) very joyful—and this business, you will
please to remember, was the cause of my
journey.

After landing at Falmouth, I travelled on foot:
because of the expense of riding, and because I
had anxieties heavy on my mind, and walking
was the best way I knew of to lighten them.
The first two days of my journey the weather
was fine and soft, the wind being mostly light
airs from south, and south and by west. On
the third day, I took a wrong turning, and
had to fetch a long circuit to get right again.
Towards evening, while I was still on the road,
the wind shifted; and a sea-fog came rolling
in on the land. I went on through, what I ask
leave to call, the white darkness; keeping the
sound of the sea on my left hand for a guide,
and feeling those anxieties of mine before
mentioned, pulling heavier and heavier at my mind,
as the fog thickened and the wet trickled down
my face.

It was still early in the evening, when I
heard a dog bark, away in the distance, on the
right-hand side of me. Following the sound as
well as I could, and shouting to the dog, from