MY DEAR PARENTS,--This ship is full of Turtles. We stopped here and they came out in boats. There is turtles in the saloon under the tables for you to put your feet on, and turtles in the passages and on the deck, and everywhere you go. The captain says we mustn’t fall overboard now because his boats are full of turtles too, with water. The sailors bring the others on deck every day to have a wash and when you stand them up they look just as if they had pinafores on. They make such a funny sighing and groaning in the night, at first I thought it was everybody being ill, but you get used to it, it is just like people being ill.--Your loving daughter, EMILY. And John’s: MY DEAREST PARENTS,--The captain’s son Henry is a wonderful chap, he goes up the rigging with his hands alone, he is ever so strong. He can turn round under a bellying pin without touching the deck, I can’t but I hang from the ratlines by my heels which the sailors say is very brave, but they don’t like Emily doing it, funny. I hope you are both in excellent health, one of the sailors has a monkey but its tail is Sore.--Your affectionate Son, JOHN. That was the last news they could expect for many months. The _Clorinda_ was not touching anywhere else. It gave Mrs. Thornton a cold feeling in the stomach to measure just _how_ long. But she argued, logically enough, that the time must come to an end, all time does: there is nothing so inexorable as a ship, plodding away, plodding away, all over the place, till at last it quite certainly reaches that small speck on the map which all the time it had intended to reach. Philosophically speaking, a ship in its port of departure is just as much in its port of arrival: two point-events differing in time and place, but not in degree of reality. _Ergo_, that first letter from England was as good as written, only not quite ... legible yet. And the same applied to seeing them. (But here one must stop, for the same argument applied to old age and death, it wouldn’t do.) Yet, a bare fortnight after the arrival of this first budget, still another letter arrived, from Havana. The _Clorinda_ had put in there unexpectedly, it appeared: the letter was from Captain Marpole. ‘What a dear man he is,’ said Alice. ‘He must have known how anxious we would be for every scrap of news.’ Captain Marpole’s letter was not so terse and vivid as the children’s had been: still, for the news it contained, I give it in full: HAVANA DE CUBA. HONOURED SIR AND MADAM,--I hasten to write to you to relieve you of any uncertainty!