sure of their courage, endurance, and virtue, whatever misfortunes
or temptations might assail them in this life.

One felt this especially with the youngest but one, Marty, who, with
even more than her due share of those gifts of the head and heart
they had all inherited from their two parents, had not inherited
their splendid frames and invincible health.

Roderick, _alias_ Mark Tapley, _alias_ Chips, who is now the sailor,
was, oddly enough, the strongest and the hardiest of the whole
family, and yet he was born two years after Marty. She always
declared she brought him up and made a man of him, and taught him
how to throw stones, and how to row and ride and swim; and that it
was entirely to her he owed it that he was worthy to be a
sailor--her ideal profession for a man.

He was devoted to her, and a splendid little chap, and in the
holidays he and she and I were inseparable, and of course
Chucker-out, who went with us wherever it was--Havre, Dieppe,
Dinard, the Highlands, Whitby, etc.

Once we were privileged to settle ourselves for two months in Castle
Rohan, through the kindness of Lord Whitby; and that was the best
holiday of all--for the young people especially. And more especially
for Barty himself, who had such delightful boyish recollections of
that delightful place, and found many old friends among the sailors
and fisher people--who remembered him as a boy.

Chips and Marty and I and the faithful Chucker-out were never
happier than on those staiths where there is always such an ancient
and fishlike smell; we never tired of watching the miraculous
draughts of silver herring being disentangled from the nets and
counted into baskets, which were carried on the heads of the
stalwart, scaly fishwomen, and packed with salt and ice in
innumerable barrels for Billingsgate and other great markets; or
else the sales by auction of huge cod and dark-gray dog-fish as they
lay helpless all of a row on the wet flags amid a crowd of sturdy
mariners looking on, with their hands in their pockets and their
pipes in their mouths.

Then over that restless little bridge to the picturesque old town,
and through its long, narrow street, and up the many stone steps to
the ruined abbey and the old church on the East Cliff; and the old
churchyard, where there are so many stones in memory of those who
were lost at sea.

It was good to be there, in such good company, on a sunny August
morning, and look around and about and d