ht to love and
honor it, and I am in hopes that a few weeks or months of nothing to do
will make you glad to come back to the mill. If not--"

"What then will you do for me, John?"

"I will buy your share of the mill."

"Thank you, John. I know you are good to me, but you cannot tell how
certain I am about Lucy; yes, and the mill, too."

"Well, my dear lad, I believe you tonight; but what I want you to
believe is that tomorrow some new light may shine and you may see your
thoughts on these two subjects in a different way. Just keep your mind
open to whatever you may see or hear that can instruct your intentions.
That is all I ask. If you are willing to be instructed, the Instructor
will come, not perhaps, but certainly."

Four days after this conversation life in Hatton had broken apart, and
Harry was speeding down the Bay of Biscay and singing the fine old sea
song called after it, to the rhythm and music of its billowy surge. The
motion of the boat, the wind in the sails, the "chanties" of the sailors
as they went about their work, and the evident content and happiness
around him made Harry laugh and sing and toss away his cap and let the
fresh salt wind blow on his hot brain in which he fancied the clack and
clamor of the looms still lingered. He thought that a life at sea,
resting or sailing as the mood took him, would be a perfect life if only
Lucy were with him.

Sitting at dinner he very pointedly made the absence of women the great
want in this otherwise perfect existence. The captain earnestly and
strongly denied it. "There is nowhere in the world," he said, "where a
woman is less wanted than on a ship. They interfere with happiness and
comfort in every way. If we had a woman on board tonight, she would be
deathly seasick or insanely frightened. A ship with a woman's name is
just as much as any captain can manage. You would be astonished at the
difference a name can make in a ship. When this yacht belonged to
Colonel Brotherton, she was called the _Dolphin_, and God and angels
know she tried to behave like one, diving and plunging and careering as
if she had fins instead of sails. I was captain of her then and I know
it. Well, your father bought her, and your mother threw a bottle of fine
old port over her bow, and called her the _Martha Hatton_, and she has
been a different ship ever since--ladylike and respectable, no more
butting of the waves, as if she was a ram; she lifts herself on and over
them an