in accord by the way with the briny character of the
ceremony--the lady read as follows:--

"10.10 A.M. _Solemnised the nuptials of Herbert Barclay, Esquire,
Gentleman, and Grace Bellassys, Spinster. Present: Mrs. Barstow; Miss
Moggadore; James Higginson, Esquire, solicitor; Donald M'Cosh, Chief
Officer. This marriage thus celebrated was conducted according to the
rites and ceremonies of the Church of England._"

"And now, Mr. Barclay," said Captain Parsons, as Miss Moggadore
concluded, "you'd like a certificate under my hand, wouldn't you?"

"We're not strangers to Mr. and Mrs. Barclay's views," said Mr.
Higginson, "and I am certainly of opinion, captain, that Mr. Barclay
ought to have such a certificate as you suggest, that, on his arrival
at home, he may send copies of it to those whom it concerns."

At the utterance of the words _Mr. and Mrs. Barclay_ I laughed, whilst
Grace started, gave me an appealing look, turned a deep red, and
averted her face. The captain produced a sheet of paper, and after
looking into a dictionary once--"Nothing like accuracy," said he, "in
jobs of this sort"--he exclaimed, "Will this do?" and read as follows:--

"_Ship 'Carthusian.'_

"_At Sea_ (_such and such a date._)

"_I, Jonathan Parsons, of the above named ship 'Carthusian,' of London,
towards New Zealand, do hereby certify that I have this day united in
the holy bands of wedlock the following persons, to wit: Herbert
Barclay, Esquire, and Grace Bellassys, Spinster, in the presence of the
undersigned._"

"Nothing could be better," said I.

"Now, gentlemen and ladies," said the captain, "if you will please to
sign your names."

This was done, and the document handed to me. I pocketed it with a
clear sense of its value, as regards I mean the effect I might hope it
would produce on Lady Amelia Roscoe. Captain Parsons and the others
then shook hands with us, the two ladies kissing Grace, who, poor
child, looked exceedingly frightened and pale.

"What is the French word for breakfast?" said Captain Parsons.

"_Deejenwer_, sir," answered M'Cosh.

Parsons bent his ear with a frown. "You're giving me the Scotch for
it, I believe," said he.

"It's _dejeuner_, I think," said I, scarce able to speak for laughing.

"Ay, that'll be it," cried the captain. "Well, as Mr. and Mrs. Barclay
don't relish the notion of a public _degener_, we must drink their
healths in a bottle of champagne."

He put his head out of