old friend. He has a reason for it, no doubt."

"Your spy-glass, uncle?" said Marie, taking it from him. "I want
to be the first to see him."

"But he is my son, mademoiselle!"

"He has been your son for thirty years," answered the young girl,
laughing, "and he has only been my betrothed for two!"

The "Jeune-Hardie" was now entirely visible. Already the crew
were preparing to cast anchor. The upper sails had been reefed.
The sailors who were among the rigging might be recognized. But
neither Marie nor Jean Cornbutte had yet been able to wave their
hands at the captain of the ship.

"Faith! there's the first mate, Andre Vasling," cried Clerbaut.

"And there's Fidele Misonne, the carpenter," said another.

"And our friend Penellan," said a third, saluting the sailor
named.

The "Jeune-Hardie" was only three cables' lengths from the shore,
when a black flag ascended to the gaff of the brigantine. There
was mourning on board!

A shudder of terror seized the party and the heart of the young
girl.

The ship sadly swayed into port, and an icy silence reigned on
its deck. Soon it had passed the end of the pier. Marie, Jean
Cornbutte, and all their friends hurried towards the quay at
which she was to anchor, and in a moment found themselves on
board.

"My son!" said Jean Cornbutte, who could only articulate these
words.

The sailors, with uncovered heads, pointed to the mourning flag.

Marie uttered a cry of anguish, and fell into old Cornbutte's
arms.

Andre Vasling had brought back the "Jeune-Hardie," but Louis
Cornbutte, Marie's betrothed, was not on board.

CHAPTER II.

Jean Cornbutte's Project.

As soon as the young girl, confided to the care of the
sympathizing friends, had left the ship, Andre Vasling, the mate,
apprised Jean Cornbutte of the dreadful event which had deprived
him of his son, narrated in the ship's journal as follows:--

[Illustration: Andre Vasling, the mate, apprised Jean Cornbutte
of the dreadful event]

"At the height of the Maelstrom, on the 26th of April, the ship,
putting for the cape, by reason of bad weather and south-west
winds, perceived signals of distress made by a schooner to the
leeward. This schooner, deprived of its mizzen-mast, was running
towards the whirlpool, under bare poles. Captain Louis Cornbutte,
seeing that this vessel was hastening into imminent danger,
resolved to go on board her. Despite the remonstrances of his
crew, he had the long-boat