e boat
lay high and dry upon the beach, and his net was still suspended between
the poles where it had been left to dry, and she concluded that Jarvis
had not survived this last terrible blow. It was a joyful surprise,
therefore, to hear, that he was not only alive, but pursuing his old
calling.

She found the fisherman leaning against the open kitchen-door, a basket
of fish at his feet, and his clear grey eyes fixed vacantly upon the
silver waves, which flashing and murmuring in the sunlight, came racing
to the beach below. The old sailors' wrinkled face, once so ruddy and
bronzed, was as white as his hair; his cheeks had fallen in, and deep
hollows had gathered about his temples; it was painful to observe the
great alteration in his appearance since they last met. The old man
started from his abstraction, as Flora's foot sounded on the floor, and
he tried to smile. It was a vain attempt, his shrunken features
instantly contracted into their former melancholy expression.

"My good old friend" said Flora, "I am glad to see you; I was afraid you
had been ill. What fish have you got for me?"

"Eels, Madam; I caught them in the river. They ar'n't for sale, but just
a little present. I he'erd you wor goin' to cross the salt seas to
Canady, an' I had a mind to see you agin."

"I will accept them with pleasure, Davy, and I am very much obliged to
you for your kindness. I am very fond of eels,--we get them so seldom,
they are quite a treat. I have not seen you out in the boat lately,
Jarvis?"

"Maybe you'll never see me out in her agin," said the fisherman. "I'm
thinking my fishing days are 'most over; boat, tackle and measter are
all worn out together. I've parted with the boat; how'somever. An' as to
the sea, I allers look'd upon its broad face with pleasure, but t'has
been a cruel enemy to me and mine; my path, I'm thinking, will be over
it no more."

Flora saw the tear glistening in the old man's eye, and she tried to
divert his attention by asking him what he had done with his dog--"with
dear, old 'Nep?'"

"I shot him." The seaman's thin lips quivered, and his whole frame
trembled. "Ay, I shot my good dog--my brave, faithful dog,--the best,
the truest friend man ever had; an' I've niver know'd a happy hour
since."

The bright drops were now raining down the old man's cheeks.

Flora reached him a chair, and begged him to sit down. The fisherman
mechanically obeyed, with his chin sunk between his hands, and his