come in at midnight. The news was brought
in by the new skipper himself, whom I and
Fanny went down to the parlour to meet as if
he were an ambassador, which he was, from
The Lively Jenny.

Now, if we were to have a treasure in our
yacht, we were to have a far more important
one in our skipper. He had been picked up
also — by the sheerest good luck. Our nautical
friend had written in the most extravagant
terms of his merits. He had known Clarke
from a boy: a finer sailor never stepped a deck;
as steady as a rock, sober as a judge, as moral
as an apostle. "I have an interest in the man,"
he wrote, "as I know all about him and what
he has gone through. I look on this as a
much greater piece of luck than lighting on The
Lively Jenny."

And this paragon was now in the parlour!
We almost felt, Fanny and I, that we were
scarcely virtuous company enough for him.
There he was now, and we started. Clarke was
a man of about thirty, good-looking and sailor-
like — that is, would have been good-looking but
for a very disagreeable long inflamed scar that
ran slanting from his forehead over his eye to
his ear. It was raw and unpleasant altogether.
He had a cold steady measured way of talking,
and, as he spoke, looked out cautiously at us
with the eye that was under the scar. But there
could be no mistake about his testimonials, and
he was, on the best authority, a treasure. Fanny
did not relish his look at all. She much
preferred Dan, a young "salt" from her own wild
coast, who was "off the estate," and who was
to be our other sailor. It was about him that
Clarke first spoke.

"I brought over a very steady man," he said,
"that I have known myself for years, and can
be depended on. A man with some religion in
him, which," he added, smiling — a not very
pleasant smile — "is not usual among us sailors. I
could go on excellently with him."

"Oh, we have got Dan," said Fanny. "We
could not do without Dan!"

"Of course it is with you, ma'am; but it is
right to tell you this Dan came off to us last
night when we had moored, and I could see
plainly he had been drinking."

Fanny coloured up. "You must have mistaken.
We all know Dan from a child. He never was
drunk in his life. We can't have any one else."

Clarke bowed. Then we gave him all sorts
of directions, and let him go.

"I don't like that man at all, for all his good
character," said Fanny, wisely. "And then to
go and slander poor Dan!"

"I don't relish him extravagantly," I said,
doubtfully; "but character, my dear, is everything
aboard ship."

"Aboard ship," said she, laughing. "That
sounds charming!"

We were to sail in two days, and certainly
we almost at once found the merits of our
skipper; for by his quiet forethought and
measured energy he did wonders — got in stores,
the yacht fitted, and what not.

"You see, my dear," I said, "those are the
sterling qualities that pass show. Dan is a
little too impulsive, and not half so practical."
A word now about Dan.

Dan was a sort of foster-brother of Fanny's,
that used to row her on the Atlantic, "no less,"
fit up daring little skiffs, with sails and all
complete, to make a bold voyage across to a distant
island. He was a handsome, strong, bold, dashing
young fellow, only one-and-twenty, and
could swim like a fish. He always called her
"Miss Fanny," though corrected again and
again. The only mystery was that of the "drink,"
which puzzled us, for we had never even heard a
suspicion of such a thing. Fanny shook her
head.

"I could explain it," she said.

"Ah!" said I, "you don't know, dear. These
sea towns — young fellows fall into temptations."

We were to go on a coasting cruise. First
to Falmouth, then Cowes, and finally on to
Cherbourg; leave the yacht under shelter of
the famous breakwater ("she will be very
snug there," we both said, speaking of her cozily,
as if she were a baby), and we ourselves would
run up to Paris. We could not have too much
of the sea. Two sailors only and a boy, and
myself, as good as another, and Fanny very
nearly — she only wanted strength — as good as
a fourth. Early at six o'clock on a fine morning
we went down by that pleasant little strip of
sea-coast railway that winds like a ribbon from
Dublin to Kingstown, found a fresh breeze, a
blue sea, and The Lively Jenny fluttering her
sails impatiently, as if they were the laces and
lappets of her cap. We took up our moorings
in a moment, and flew out steadily to sea.

We were in great delight with our new
"house." She sailed charmingly, lay over on
her side in the true yacht attitude, and made
the water hiss as she shot through it. We were
as compact, as snug, and even elegant as could
be conceived. Below were two charming little
rooms, perfect boudoirs, one a little saloon for
dining. It was full of "lockers" and pigeon-holes
for keeping all sorts of things; and it was with
particular delight that we discovered, as you
went down-stairs, a sort of sliding panel on each
side, which unclosed and discovered a large
shelf, known to the men as "the sail-room," only
think! but which, on an emergency, could be
turned into an elegant and commodious sleeping
apartment. Dinner on the swing-table was the
most charming of meals, and full of slippery
excitement.

On the morning of the second day, when
there was not much of a breeze, I noticed our
skipper seated on the "after" portion of the
bowsprit, reading. It was Fanny called my
attention to this. Dan was walking up and
down contemptuously. From curiosity, I went
up to see what book it was, and found it to be
The Confessions of B. B. Rudge, Esq., with
some of his Letters.

"Why, who on earth is Rudge?" I asked.

Clarke stood up respectfully.

"Rudge, sir," said he, "was a common fireman