o each other's eyes.

"Calypso," I said, "when are you going to show me where you keep your
doubloons?"--and I added, in a whisper, "Jack--when am I going to see
you in boy's clothes again?"

And, with that, she was in my arms, and I felt her heart beating against
my side.

"O! my treasure," I said--ever so softly--"Calypso, my treasure."

POSTSCRIPT

Now, such readers as have been "gentle" enough to follow me so far in my
story, may possibly desire to be told what lay behind those other locked
doors in the underground gallery where I so nearly laid my bones.

I should like nothing better than to gratify their legitimate curiosity.
But, perhaps, they will not have forgotten my friend John Saunders,
Secretary to the Treasury of His Britannic Majesty's Government at
Nassau.

John is a good friend, but he is a man of very rigid principles and a
great stickler in regard to any matters pertaining to the interests and
duties of his office. Were I to divulge--as, I confess, my pen is
itching to do--the dazzling--I will even say blinding--contents of these
other grim compartments (particularly if I were to give any hint of
their value in bullion), no feelings of friendship would for one second
weigh with him as against his duty to the august Government he so
faithfully serves. He may suspect what he likes, but, so long as he
actually knows nothing, we may rely on his inactivity. In fact, I know
that he has no wish to be told--so far he will go with us, but no
further--and, as we wish neither to sully his fine probity, nor, on the
other hand, to disgorge our "illgotten gains"--for which, after all,
each one of us risked his life (and for which one life, most precious of
all, was placed in such terrible jeopardy)--gains too which His
Britannic Majesty is quite rich enough to do without--the readers must
pardon me my caution, and draw upon his imagination for what I must not
tell him.

This, however, I will say: he cannot well imagine too vividly or too
magnificently, and that, in fact, he may accept those hyperboles
fancifully indulged in by the "King" as very slightly overshooting the
mark. We do not, indeed, go disguised in cloth of gold, nor are we
blinding to look upon with rings and ropes of pearls. It does not happen
to be our western fashion to be so garmented. But--well--I won't say
that we couldn't do so if we were so minded.

Nor will I say, either, that the "King" does not occasionally, in
private,