As no answer was given, he lifted the latch and walked into the house, where he was confronted by the woman, who ordered him to "begone and not worrit her." He gazed on the old crone in speechless amazement, until she again urged him to depart, upon which he mumbled something about "_her_ not being his mother." The woman, finding he was much affected, tendered him a seat, and he soon learned that his father was sleeping calmly by the side of his faithful spouse, in the village churchyard. He got up and walked to that place like one in a dream. When he stood by their neglected graves the choke rose in his throat, and bitterly he repented the sad consequences of his rash step. The old sexton seeing some one at the graves, thought possibly he might be a relation of those buried there; so he hobbled to his side, and with parrot-like volubility told him, "there lies two good old folks, who died broken-hearted because their boy left them to go to sea, and was never again heard of;" and the sailor felt his utter loneliness, that he was an outcast, a very dog, with no one in the world to love or care for him. These thoughts came crowding into his brain, and he writhed under the magic of their influence. However, after a time they left him, when he arose, and preluding the transformation with an oath, became once more a rough, callous fellow, "a daring, reckless sailor." A knot of ordinary seamen and boys were collected around one old tar, who was evidently "a man of mark among them." This ancient mariner did not impart choice moral instructions to his audience; far from it, he was what they called "yarning," and his reminiscences savoured of back slums and low dens, but were not on that account less interesting to those about him. When he laughed they followed suit, and woe betide the man who dared contradict "Old Jemmy," or for one moment doubt the veracity of his "tough ones;" while instant squashment would be the doom of any boy who did not laugh louder or believe more implicitly than the men. Offerings of grog and tobacco were made by his obsequious admirers, and he was in that condition graphically described by sailors as "werry tight." "Does any o' you remember Limpin Lew?" demanded this old man, adding parenthetically, "I suppose none of _you_ ever knowed _her_, though." "I knowed her rayther!" squeaked a small boy, who was standing on a shot rack, so as to get a full view of the old Tycoon's face. "Did you?" mumbled the ancient mariner. "I should like to know how the likes of _you_ became ack-vainted with sich an elegant field-male?" saying which this oracle placed a plug of tobacco between his toothless jaws, and looked round until he spied out the small boy, who, being thus challenged, retorted-- "Vy shouldn't I know her, vhen she drinked herself to death at my fauther's?" "_Your_ father's! who's _your_ father?" growled the patriarch. "Bill Jordun, wot keeps the Blue Postes at Portsea--he's as good a man as you, anyhow."