“No, I don’t,” Lettice returned petulantly, “and poor old Mrs. Flynn is moaning and going on because her Patrick is aboard the vessel, and she thinks he’s drowned. Run to the corner, Danny, and see if there is a sign of your master.” She sat down on the step and looked anxiously in the direction of the street corner toward which Danny was making his way, taking time in doing so, and stopping frequently to switch a chip from the running water in the gutter, or to send a pebble hopping over the cobblestones. “It certainly is warm for so early in June,” Lettice remarked, as she vigorously fanned herself. “You’d do well to come out here, Aunt Martha,” she continued, addressing some one in the hall behind her. “There is a breath outside, but little indoors. Don’t you think uncle must be here soon? He surely cannot be at the wharf all this time.” “Perhaps he is,” her aunt answered. “It is a week since the vessel was due, and in good weather that is too long. It is nothing of a run from here to Boston and back, and your uncle has reason to be somewhat anxious, especially in these days.” “These days,” Lettice repeated; “that is what father is always saying, as if these were not good enough days.” Mrs. Hopkins did not answer, but instead, asked, “Where is your father?” “Down at the Fountain Inn, I suppose; it is where he always goes of an evening. They have a deal to talk about, it seems, down there.” “They have, indeed, but isn’t that your uncle coming now?” Mrs. Hopkins had come out upon the step and was peering out into the dimly lighted street. “To be sure it is,” Lettice replied. “I will go to meet him, for Mr. Gilmore will stop him if I don’t get him over on this side of the street.” She started off with rapid step, her light scarf floating from her shoulders as she walked. “She’s in!” shouted Danny, who came running on ahead of his master. At this news Lettice slackened her pace and walked soberly forward to meet her uncle. “Good news, I hear, Uncle Tom,” she said as she came up to him. “Ye-es,” he returned, “so far as I am concerned, but--” “What?” Lettice interrupted. “Hurry and tell me, Uncle Tom. What’s wrong? Did anything happen to the vessel?” “Not to the vessel, except that she was stopped by a British cruiser, and three of our men were carried off as British subjects.” “Oh! And who were they? Not Patrick Flynn, I hope. His mother declares that something has happened to him, for she has had a certain dream three nights in succession,--a dream which she insists forebodes ill.” “Poor Patrick, indeed; one of the best hands aboard, and born on American soil, though his brogue is rich enough for any son of the Emerald Isle.” “Alas, poor Patrick! Who will tell his mother?”