rong. For when the body
of the lamented hero arrived at Spithead, in spirits of wine, early in
December, it was found that the Admiralty had failed to send down any
orders about it. Reports, however, were current of some intention that
the hero should lie in state, and the battered ship went on with him.
And when at last proper care was shown, and the relics of one of the
noblest men that ever lived upon the tide of time were being transferred
to a yacht at the Nore, Robin Lyth, in a sad and angry mood, neglected
to give a wide berth to a gun that was helping to keep up the mourning
salute, and a piece of wad carried off his starboard whisker.

This at once replaced him in the popular esteem, and enabled him to
land upon the Yorkshire coast with a certainty of glorious welcome. Mr.
Mordacks himself came down to meet him at the Northern Landing, with Dr.
Upround and Robin Cockscroft, and nearly all the men, and entirely
all the women and children, of Little Denmark. Strangers also from
outlandish parts, Squire Popplewell and his wife Deborah, Mrs. Carroway
(with her Tom, and Jerry, and Cissy, and lesser Carroways, for her old
aunt Jane was gone to Paradise at last, and had left her enough to keep
a pony-carriage), and a great many others, and especially a group of
four distinguished persons, who stood at the top of the slide, because
of the trouble of getting back if they went down.

These had a fair and double-horsed carriage in the lane, at the spot
where fish face their last tribunal; and scarcely any brains but those
of Flamborough could have absorbed such a spectacle as this, together
with the deeper expectations from the sea. Of these four persons, two
were young enough, and two not so young as they had been, but still very
lively, and well pleased with one another. These were Mrs. Carnaby and
Mr. Bart; the pet of the one had united his lot with the darling of the
other; for good or for bad, there was no getting out of it, and the only
thing was to make the best of it. And being good people, they were doing
this successfully. Poor Mrs. Carnaby had said to Mr. Bart, as soon as
Mr. Mordacks let her know about the wedding, "Oh, but, Mr. Bart, you
are a gentleman; now, are you not? I am sure you are, though you do such
things! I am sure of it by your countenance."

"Madam," Mr. Bart replied, with a bow that was decisive, "if I am not,
it is my own fault, as it is the fault of every man."

At this present moment they