n creature had a fascination for
him which he could not account for.

However, he saw no more of her that evening, and at breakfast the next
morning she received him with quaint haughtiness.

"When shall we be ready to sail? Mr. Frere, I'll take some marmalade.
Thank you."

"I don't know, missy," said Bates. "It's very rough on the Bar; me and
Mr. Frere was a soundin' of it this marnin', and it ain't safe yet."

"Well," said Sylvia, "I do hope and trust we sha'n't be shipwrecked, and
have to swim miles and miles for our lives."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Frere; "don't be afraid. I'll take care of you."

"Can you swim, Mr. Bates?" asked Sylvia.

"Yes, miss, I can."

"Well, then, you shall take me; I like you. Mr. Frere can take mamma.
We'll go and live on a desert island, Mr. Bates, won't we, and grow
cocoa-nuts and bread-fruit, and--what nasty hard biscuits!--I'll be
Robinson Crusoe, and you shall be Man Friday. I'd like to live on a
desert island, if I was sure there were no savages, and plenty to eat
and drink."

"That would be right enough, my dear, but you don't find them sort of
islands every day."

"Then," said Sylvia, with a decided nod, "we won't be ship-wrecked, will
we?"

"I hope not, my dear."

"Put a biscuit in your pocket, Sylvia, in case of accidents," suggested
Frere, with a grin.

"Oh! you know my opinion of you, sir. Don't speak; I don't want any
argument".

"Don't you?--that's right."

"Mr. Frere," said Sylvia, gravely pausing at her mother's cabin door,
"if I were Richard the Third, do you know what I should do with you?"

"No," says Frere, eating complacently; "what would you do?"

"Why, I'd make you stand at the door of St. Paul's Cathedral in a white
sheet, with a lighted candle in your hand, until you gave up your wicked
aggravating ways--you Man!"

The picture of Mr. Frere in a white sheet, with a lighted candle in his
hand, at the door of St. Paul's Cathedral, was too much for Mr. Bates's
gravity, and he roared with laughter. "She's a queer child, ain't she,
sir? A born natural, and a good-natured little soul."

"When shall we be able to get away, Mr. Bates?" asked Frere, whose
dignity was wounded by the mirth of the pilot.

Bates felt the change of tone, and hastened to accommodate himself to
his officer's humour. "I hopes by evening, sir," said he; "if the tide
slackens then I'll risk it; but it's no use trying it now."

"The men were wanting to go ashore to wash their clot