satisfaction. He may, indeed he should, attain to
contentment, but as long as there are higher and better things within
his reach, he must of necessity remain in some degree unsatisfied.

Some such idea must have been passing through Robin Wright's brain one
fine morning, as he slowly paced the deck of a small schooner with his
friend Sam Shipton, for he suddenly broke a prolonged silence with the
following remark:--

"I don't know how it is, Sam, but although I am surrounded with
everything that should make a fellow happy, I'm--I'm _not_ happy. In
fact, I'm as miserable as it is possible to be!"

"Come now, Robin, don't exaggerate," said Sam in a remonstrative tone.
"Hyperbole is very objectionable, especially in young men. You know
that if you were tied to a huge gridiron over a slow fire, you would be
more miserable than you are at present."

Robin smiled and admitted the truth of this, but nevertheless reiterated
his assertion that he was decidedly unhappy.

This conversation, we may remark, took place on board of Sam Shipton's
yacht, off the west coast of Scotland, several years after the events
narrated in the previous chapter.

"Well, now, it is strange," said Sam, with an earnestly sympathetic air
and tone of voice, but with the faintest possible twinkle in the extreme
corner of one of his eyes. "Let me see--everything, as you justly
remark, ought to make you happy here. The weather, to begin with--
people always begin with the weather, you know--is splendid, though
there is a thundery look about the horizon to the west'ard. Then our
yacht, the Gleam, is a perfect duck, both as to her sea-going and
sailing qualities, and Captain James Slagg is a perfect seaman, while
Stumps is a superlative steward and cook. Our time is our own, and the
world before us where to choose. Then, as to our companionship, what
female society could be more agreeable than that of my wife Madge, and
her bosom friend Letta, who, since she has grown up, has become one of
the most beautiful, fascinating, charming,--but why go on, when, in the
language of the poet, `adequate words is wantin'!' And Letta's mother
is second only to herself. Then as to the men, could there be found
anywhere finer fellows than uncle Rik and Ebenezer Smith, and Frank
Hedley--to say nothing of myself and our splendid little boy Sammy? I
can't understand it, Robin. You're not ill, are you?"

"Ill? no. Never was better in my life."

"Well, then