On arriving at Portsmouth the crew were at once paid off, and Will was appointed to the _Tartar_, a thirty-four gun frigate. On hearing the name of the ship, Dimchurch and Tom Stevens at once volunteered. They were given a fortnight’s leave; so Will, with Tom Stevens, determined to take a run up to Scarcombe, and the same day took coach to London. Dimchurch said he should spend his time in Portsmouth, as there was no one up in the north he cared to see, especially as it would take eight days out of his fortnight’s leave to go to his native place and back. On the fourth day after leaving London the two travellers reached Scarborough. Tom Stevens started at once, with his kit on a stick, to walk to the village, while Will made enquiries for the house of Mrs. Archer, which was Miss Warden’s married name. Without much trouble he made his way to it; and when the servant answered his knock he said: “I wish to see Mrs. Archer.” “What name, sir?” the girl said respectfully, struck with the appearance of the tall young fellow in a naval uniform. “I would rather not say the name,” Will said. “Please just say that a gentleman wishes to speak to her.” “Will you come this way?” the girl said, leading him to a sitting-room. A minute later Mrs. Archer appeared. She bowed and asked: “What can I do for you, sir?” “Then you do not know me, madam?” said Will. She looked at him carefully. “I certainly do not,” she said, and after a pause: “Why, it can’t be!—yes, it is—Willie Gilmore!” “It is, madam, but no doubt changed out of all recognition.” “I have from time to time got your letters,” said Mrs. Archer, “and learned from them with pleasure and surprise that you had become an officer, but never pictured you as grown and changed in this way. I hope you have got my letters in return?” “I only got one, Mrs. Archer, and it reached me just before we sailed from the Mediterranean two years ago. I was not surprised, however, for of course the post is extremely uncertain. It is only very seldom that letters reach a ship on a foreign station.” “Dear, dear, you have lost some fingers!” Mrs. Archer cried, suddenly noticing Will’s left hand. “How sad, to be sure!” “That is quite an old story, Mrs. Archer. I lost them at the attempt to capture St. Pierre, and am so accustomed to the loss now that I hardly notice it. It is surprising how one can do without a thing. I have to be thankful, indeed, that it was the left hand instead of the right, as, had it been the other way, I should probably have had to leave the navy, which would have meant ruin to me.” “It is all very well to make light of it,” she said, “but you must feel it a great drawback.”