ord was spoken; the gale was free to noise itself upon our
ears--the patter of rain, the howl of the wind, the fretful breaking;
of the sea.

"Dannie, lad," says my uncle, at last, "is that you?"

"Ay, sir."

"Then," says he, tenderly, "I 'low you'd best be t' bed. I'm feared
you'll be cotchin' cold, there in the draught, in your night-gown.
Ye're so wonderful quick, lad, t' cotch cold."

"I've come, sir," says I, "t' your aid."

The stranger tittered.

"T' your aid, sir!" I shouted, defiantly.

"I'm not needin' ye, Dannie. Ye're best in bed. 'Tis so wonderful
late. I 'low ye'll be havin' the croup again, lad, an you don't watch
out. An' ye mustn't have the croup; ye really mustn't! Remember the
last time, Dannie, an' beware. Ah, now! ye'll never have the croup an
ye can help it. Think," he pleaded, "o' the hot-water cloths, an' the
fear ye put me to. An' Dannie," he added, accusingly, "ye know the
ipecac is all runned out!"

"I'll stand by, sir," says I.

"'Tis kind o' you!" my uncle exclaimed, with infinite graciousness and
affection. "'Tis wonderful kind! An' I'm glad ye're kind t' me
now--with my ol' shipmate here. But you isn't needed, lad; so do you
go t' bed like the good b'y that you is. Go t' bed, Dannie, God bless
ye!--go t' bed, an' go t' sleep."

"Ay," I complained; "but I'm not wantin' t' leave ye with this man."

"True, an' I'm proud of it," says he; "but I've no means o' curin' the
croup. An' Dannie," says he, "I'm more feared o' the croup than o' the
devil. Do you go t' bed."

"I'll go," I answered, "an you wills it."

'Twas very dark in the dining-room; there was no sight of the
geometrical gentlemen on that geometrically tempestuous sea to stay a
lad in his defiance.

"Good lad!" said my uncle. "God bless ye!"

On the landing above I encountered my tutor, half-dressed, a candle in
hand. 'Twas a queer figure he cut, thinks I--an odd, inconsequent
figure in a mysterious broil of the men of our kind. What was this
cockney--this wretched alien--when the passions of our coast were
stirring? He would be better in bed. An eye he had--age-wise ways and
a glance to overawe my youth--but what was he, after all, in such a
case as this? I was his master, however unlearned I might be; his
elder and master, to be sure, in a broil of our folk. Though to this
day I respect the man for his manifold virtues, forgetting in
magnanimity his failings, I cannot forgive his appearance on that
night: the c