was all life and spirit."

"I thought people were always melancholy when they were in love,"
replied Jack.

"When those that they love are out of their presence."

"Well, then, I am out of her presence, and I feel very melancholy, so I
suppose, by your argument, I am in love. Can a man be in love without
knowing it?"

"I really cannot say, Jack, I never was in love myself, but I've seen
many others _spooney_. My time will come, I suppose, by-and-bye. They
say that for every man made there is a woman also made to fit him, if he
could only find her. Now, it's my opinion that you have found yours--
I'll lay my life she's crying at this moment."

"Do you really think so, Ned? let's go back--poor little Agnes--let's go
back; I feel I do love her, and I'll tell her so."

"Pooh, nonsense! it's too late now; you should have told her that
before, when you walked with her in the garden."

"But I did not know it, Ned. However, as you say, it would be foolish
to turn back, so I'll write to her from Palermo."

Here an argument ensued upon love, which we shall not trouble the reader
with, as it was not very profound, both sides knowing very little on the
subject. It did, however, end with our hero being convinced that he was
desperately in love, and he talked about giving up the service as soon
as he arrived at Malta. It is astonishing what sacrifices midshipmen
will make for the objects of their adoration.

It was not until late in the evening that our adventurers arrived at
Palermo. As soon as they were lodged at the hotel, Gascoigne sat down
and wrote a letter in their joint names to Don Rebiera, returning him
many thanks for his great kindness, informing him of their safe arrival,
and trusting that they should soon meet again: and Jack took up his pen,
and indited a letter in Spanish to Agnes, in which he swore that neither
tide nor time, nor water, nor air, nor heaven, nor earth, nor the first
lieutenant, nor his father, nor absence, nor death itself, should
prevent him from coming back and marrying her, the first convenient
opportunity, begging her to refuse a thousand offers, as come back he
would, although there was no saying when. It was a perfect love-letter,
that is to say, it was the essence of nonsense, but that made it
perfect, for the greater the love the greater the folly.

These letters were consigned to the man who was sent as their guide, and
also had to return with the mules. He was liberally