d hull, in which that martyr of
the sea had met his frightful end.

What a contrast between the _Mayflower_, so new, and strong, and spick,
and span, and that rotting hulk which, for lack of custom now, was daily
growing blacker and more worm-eaten! The old woman seemed to vision in
the future a day when the _Mayflower_ might drift ashore, cracked and
water-logged, just as old _Fleet-Foot_ had come home with her husband's
corpse in her hold. No, she could not be happy. All that roistering and
carousing was a sin. It was making fun of the sea, that hypocrite with
the smiling face out there, that purring cat that was meek enough for
the moment, but that would show her claws when once the _Mayflower_ was
in her power. Her boy! What a strong handsome boy--and she loved him as
much as though he had just come back from a long voyage! But old
Pascualo had been just as strong and handsome. And he made fun of the
sea too! Now, she knew it, she was sure of it! The sea had a grudge
against her family, and would swallow the new boat as it had wrecked the
old.

"Bosh, mama, bosh! _Recristo_, the old lady will never get her hands on
me! But anyhow, why go crying on a glad day like this? You're just
getting religion, like most of the old ladies--your conscience is at you
for having forgotten papa for so long, perhaps. But you can make that
right by lighting a good fat candle to the old sailor, in case his soul
is still in Purgatory. Come now, mama, brace up. No more prophesying!
The sea is a good fine lover of mine. I won't listen to any gossip about
her! She gets riled at times, but after all she gives poor folks like us
a living. Here, Tonet! Give us a drink, a good big swig! Cheer the place
up a bit. Let's give the _Mayflower_ a good old-fashioned send-off."

He took the beaker that was handed him and drank a deep draught. But his
mother went on weeping, her eyes still gazing at the tavern-boat down
the shore. The Rector showed some signs of irritation. "Still bawling,
eh! And this is the time to talk of funerals! See, ma, you ought to have
made me a bishop, then there'd be no cause for whining from the women
folks. Honest, and work hard, say I, and trust to luck! That's the
sailor's creed! The sea? The sea gives us everything. It raises us when
we are little. And it feeds us when we're grown up. We're always asking
something of the sea! Well, we have to take a storm now and then, along
with the big runs. Besides, somebody's got