it certainly will be of great advantage
to you when you have served your time. Has your time gone on since the
Calliope was paid off?"

"Yes, sir; I am still on the books of the Salvadore?"

"How much time have you served?"

"Nearly four years and a half, sir."

"Well, the rest will soon be over; and if you do your duty, my patronage
shall not be wanting."

Here there was a bow on my part, and a pause, and I was backing out with
another bow, when the captain said, "How is your mother, Mr Keene?"

"She has been advised to retire from business, and to settle in the
country," replied I, mournfully; "her health is such, that--" Here I
stopped, as I preferred deceiving him by implication, or rather allowing
him to deceive himself.

"I am sorry to hear that," replied he; "but she never was strong as a
young woman." Here the captain stopped, as if he had said too much.

"No, sir," replied I; "when in the service of Mrs Delmar she could not
be put to anything that required fatigue."

"Very true," replied the captain. "You may go on board, Mr Keene, and
desire my clerk to make out a letter, requesting your discharge from the
Salvadore into the Manilla. Do you require anything?"

"No, sir, I thank you. I need not trespass on your generosity just now.
Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Mr Keene."

"I beg your pardon Captain Delmar," said I, as I held the door ajar;
"but should you like Robert Cross, your former coxswain, should join you
in the same capacity? I know where he is."

"Yes, Mr Keene, I should like to have him: he was a steady, good man.
You will oblige me by writing to him, and requesting him to join
immediately. Where is he?"

"At Portsmouth, Captain Delmar."

"Very well; tell him to come round as fast as he can. By the bye, you
will have two of your old messmates--Mr Smith, the master, and Mr
Dott. I hope the latter is a little more steady than he was. I was in
hopes to have had your old acquaintance, Mr Culpepper, with us; but he
died about six weeks back--a fit, or something of that kind."

"Thank heaven for that," thought I. Again I made my most respectful
bow, and quitted the room.

I returned to my own hotel, and sitting down, I began to reflect upon
the interview. I recalled all that had passed, and I made up my mind
that I was right in preparing him for the report of my mother's death:
his reception of me was all that I could have expected from him--it was
cordial; but my blo