Next morning Will Osten, with a small portmanteau containing his little
all in his hand, and accompanied by Captain Dall and Mr Cupples, pushed
his way through the crowded streets to the quay, where a boat awaited
him.

"Once more, Captain Dall," he said, turning round and grasping his
friend's hand, "farewell! I am sorry--more so than I can tell--to leave
you. May God prosper you wherever you go. Remember my messages to our
friends at the gulch. Tell Larry and Bunco, and the trapper especially,
that I feel almost like a criminal for giving them the slip thus. But
how can I help it?"

"Of course, of course," said Captain Dall, returning the hearty squeeze
of Will's hand, "how could you? Love, like necessity, has no law--or,
rather, itself is a law which all must obey. Good-bye, lad, and good
luck attend ee."

Silently shaking hands with Mr Cupples, whose lugubrious expression
seemed appropriate to the occasion, Will leaped into the boat and was
soon rowing over the bay to the spot where the Roving Bess lay with her
anchor tripped and her sails loose. On approaching, he saw that Mr
Westwood and his wife were pacing the quarterdeck, but Flora was not
visible, the reason being that that busy little woman was down in her
father's berth putting it to rights--arranging and re-arranging
everything, and puzzling her brains with numerous little contrivances
which were all meant to add to the comfort and snugness of the place--
wonderfully ingenious contrivances, which could not have emanated from
the brain of any woman but one who possessed a warm heart, an earnest
soul, a sweet face, and a turned-up nose! She was a good deal
dishevelled about the head, in consequence of her exertions, and rather
flushed, and her eyes were a little moist. Perhaps she was sad at the
thought of leaving San Francisco--but no--she was leaving no friends
behind her there. _That_ could not have been the cause!

The little round port-hole of the berth was open, and she stopped ever
and anon in the midst of her operations to look out and listen to the
variety of shouts and songs that came from the boats, vessels, and
barges in the bay. Suddenly she stopped, turned her head the least bit
to one side, and listened intently.

"My dear," said Mr Westwood to his wife, standing on the deck and
leaning over the bulwarks, exactly above the open port near to which
Flora stood, "_can_ that be Mr Osten in yonder boat?"

Flora's bosom heaved, a