ips," said Jennet, shaking her head. "Sim
said 'twere a Spaniard, and Dick said 'twere an Englishman; and Abel
bade 'em both hold their peace for a pair o' gaumless [stupid] noodles."

"But what saith my father?" cried excited Blanche, who had forgotten all
about the fit of her cap.

"Eh, bless you!--he's no noodle: Why, he said he'd see 't afore he told
anybody what 't were."

"Barbara, be quick, dear heart, an' thou lovest me. Let the cap be;
only set my ruff.--Jennet! can we see it hence?"

"You'll see 't off th' end o' th' terrace, right plain afore ye," said
Jennet, and summarily departed.

There was no loitering after that. In a very few minutes the two girls
were dressed, Blanche's ruff being satisfactory in a shorter time than
Barbara could ever remember it before. Clare stayed for her prayers,
but Blanche dashed off without them, and made her way to the end of the
terrace, where her sister presently joined her.

"She is a Spaniard!" cried Blanche, in high excitement. "Do but look on
her build, Clare. She is not English-built, as sure as this is Venice
ribbon."

Clare disclaimed, with a clear conscience, all acquaintance with
shipbuilding, and declined even to hazard a guess as to the nationality
of the ill-fated vessel. But Blanche was one of those who must be (or
seem to be; either will do) conversant with every subject under
discussion. So she chattered on, making as many blunders as assertions,
until at last, just at the close of a particularly absurd mistake, she
heard a loud laugh behind her.

"Well done, Blanche!" said her father's voice. "I will get thee a ship,
my lass. Thou art as fit to be a sea-captain, and come through a storm
in the Bay of Biscay, as--thy popinjay." [Parrot.]

"O Father, be there men aboard yonder ship?" said Clare, earnestly.

"Ay, my lass," he replied, more gravely. "An hundred and seventy
souls--there were, last night, Clare."

"And what?"--Clare's face finished the question.

"There be nine come ashore," he added in the same tone.

"And the rest, Father?" asked Clare piteously.

"Drowned, my lass, every soul, in last night's storm."

"O Father, Father!" cried Clare's tender heart.

"Good lack!" said Blanche. "Is she English, Father?"

"The Dolorida, of Cales, [Cadiz] my maid."

"Spanish!" exclaimed Blanche, her excitement returning. "And what be
these nine men, Father?"

"There be two of them poor galley-slaves; two sailors; and four
soldie