was very well liked in the steerage, and commanded a pretty little craft
named the "Rosalie." She knew that before, did she? Well, his father was
a cold, stern man, but he was kind and generous, and had been very good
to his poor mother, God bless him!

Commodore Cleveland talked in a low tone, all through the dinner, to the
lady who did not eat at the head of the table, but who occasionally
rested her white hand, with a trustful reliance, on the great
tanned-leather paw of Jacob Blunt, that honest mariner not wishing to
talk to any body, man or woman. That ancient mariner was mentally
cursing donkeys; speculating how he should get back to the "Martha
Blunt" brig, in Kingston harbor; and praying for Martha Blunt, wife,
riding at single anchor near Plymouth beach. Piron took wine with every
body, said a word or two all around the table, and talked to Tom Stewart
about certain business matters connected with the plantation when he had
gone.

Then came the last course, and the dessert of delicious fruits, which
quite stopped Mr. Mouse's mouth, and even his palpitating heart ceased
beating; while Mademoiselle Rosalie nibbled some lady-finger biscuit,
and bent her graceful head to listen to the music of the earnest lips
beside her.

We told you, miss, how it would be; and, in spite of the warning, there
you are--the color coming and going over your girlish cheeks, and never
saying a word! "What a couple that would make!" thought Madame Nathalie.
And what a resemblance in expression there is between them--he with his
dark hair and eyes, and she fair and blue. Be careful, my sweet Rosalie!
And so thought her sister and her sister's husband; Stingo, too, old
Banou, and every one save Tiny Mouse, who had no rivals but Rat, Beaver,
and Martin, and he could take the wind out of their sails any day.

The party of ladies rose from the table, and leaving the men--all
except the captain of the "Rosalie" and Mr. Mouse, who would have
remained had he not seen a shake of the broad pennant's finger--went
into the saloon. Then there was a brilliant prelude on the piano, a
touch of a guitar by stronger fingers, an air from an opera, a song or
two, much conversation--while Reefer Mouse slept on the sofa--and
coffee. Then it was late; every one was fatigued, _bon soirs_ were said,
and the party--coffee and all--separated.

CHAPTER XLII.

TRUTH AND TERROR.

"In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,
His hammock swu