nty of
beam, and, well handled, should live in any sea; who volunteers with
Alexander Liston and me?"

The speaker was Lord Ipsden.

The fishwives of Newhaven, more accustomed to measure men than poor
little Lady Barbara Sinclair, saw in this man what in point of fact he
was--a cool, daring devil, than whom none more likely to lead men into
mortal danger, or pull them through it, for that matter.

They recognized their natural enemy, and collected together against him,
like hens at the sight of a hawk.

"And would you really entice our men till their death?"

"My life's worth as much as theirs, I suppose.

"Nae! your life! it's na worth a button; when you dee, your next kin
will dance, and wha'll greet? but our men hae wife and bairns to look
till." _(Gun at sea.)_

"Ah! I didn't look at it in that light," said Lord Ipsden. He then
demanded paper and ink; Christie Johnstone, who had come out of her
house, supplied it from her treasures, and this cool hand actually began
to convey a hundred and fifty thousand pounds away, upon a sheet of
paper blowing in the wind; when he had named his residuary legatee, and
disposed of certain large bequests, he came to the point--

"Christie Johnstone, what can these people live on? two hundred a year?
living is cheap here--confound the wind!"

"Twahundred? Fifty! Vile count."

"Don't call me vile count. I am Ipsden, and my name's Richard. Now,
then, be smart with your names."

Three men stepped forward, gave their names, had their widows provided
for, and went for their sou'westers, etc.

"Stay," said Lord Ipsden, writing. "To Christina Johnstone, out of
respect for her character, one thousand pounds."

"Richard! dinna gang," cried Christie, "oh, dinna gang, dinna gang,
dinna gang; it's no your business."

"Will you lend me your papa's Flushing jacket and sou'wester, my dear?
If I was sure to be drowned, I'd go!"

Christie ran in for them.

In the mean time, discomposed by the wind, and by feelings whose
existence neither he, nor I, nor any one suspected, Saunders, after a
sore struggle between the frail man and the perfect domestic, blurted
out:

"My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon, but it blows tempestuous."

"That is why the brig wants us," was the reply.

"My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon," whimpered Saunders. "But, oh!
my lord, don't go; it's all very well for fishermen to be drowned; it is
their business, but not yours, my lord."

"Saunders, he