_our_ last, sir," answered Mildred, shaking a tear from
each of her long dark lashes, by an involuntarily trembling motion, as
she spoke. "It was a present from dear, old, Sir Wycherly, who never
left my mother wholly unsupplied with such plain delicacies, as he
fancied poverty placed beyond our reach. The wine we can easily forget;
not so easily the donor."

Bluewater felt as if he could draw a cheque for one-half the fortune he
had devised to his companion; and, yet, by a caprice of feeling that is
not uncommon to persons of the liveliest susceptibility, he answered in
a way to smother his own emotion.

"There will not soon be another _old_ Sir Wycherly to make his
neighbours comfortable; but there is a _young_ one, who is not likely to
forget his uncle's good example. I hope you all here, rejoice at the
sudden rise in fortune, that has so unexpectedly been placed within the
reach of our favourite lieutenant?"

A look of anguish passed over Mildred's face, and her companion noted
it; though surprise and pity--not to say resentment--prevented his
betraying his discovery.

"We _endeavour_ to be glad, sir," answered Mildred, smiling in so
suffering a manner, as to awaken all her companion's sympathies; "but it
is not easy for us to rejoice at any thing which is gained by the loss
of our former valued friend."

"I am aware that a young follow, like the present Sir Wycherly, can be
no substitute for an old fellow like the last Sir Wycherly, my dear; but
as one is a sailor, and the other was only a landsman, my professional
prejudices may not consider the disparity as great as it may possibly
appear to be to your less partial judgment."

Bluewater thought the glance he received was imploring, and he instantly
regretted that he had taken such means to divert his companion's
sadness. Some consciousness of this regret probably passed through
Mildred's mind, for she rallied her spirits, and made a partially
successful effort to be a more agreeable companion.

"My father thinks, sir," she said, "that our late pleasant weather is
about to desert us, and that it is likely to blow heavily before
six-and-thirty hours are over."

"I am afraid Mr. Dutton will prove to be too accurate an almanac. The
weather has a breeding look, and I expect a dirty night. Good or bad, we
seamen must face it, and that, too, in the narrow seas, where gales of
wind are no gales of Araby."

"Ah, sir, it is a terrible life to lead! By living on