“I’ll swear to this one,” said Lovibond with an appearance of tremendous earnestness. Davy looked at him, gravely. “D’ye say so?” said he. “Such eyes, Capt’n--big and full, and blue, and then pale, pale blue, in the whites of them too, like--like----.” “I know,” said Davy; “like a blackbird’s eggs with the young birds just breaking out of them.” “Just,” said Lovibond, “And then her hair, Capt’n--brown, that brown with a golden bloom, as if it must have been yellow when she was a child.” “I know the sort, sir,” said Davy, proudly; “like the ling on the mountains in May, with the gorse creeping under it.” “Exactly. And then her voice, Cap tain, her voice--.” “So you were speaking to her?” said Davy. “No, but didn’t she sing?” said Lovi-bond. “Such tones, soft and tremulous, rising and falling, the same as--as--.” “Same as the lark’s, mate,” said Davy, eagerly; “same as the lark’s--first a burst and a mount and then a trimble and a tumble, as if she’d got a drink of water out of the clouds of heaven, and was singing and swallowing together--I know the sort; go on.” Lovibond had kept pace with Davy’s warmth, but now he paused and said quietly, “I’m afraid she’s in trouble.” “Poor thing!” said Davy. “How’s that, mate?” “People can never disguise their feelings in singing a hymn,” said Lovibond. “You say true, mate,” said Davy; “nor in giving one out neither. Now, there was old Kinvig. He had a sow once that wasn’t too reg’lar in her pigging. Sometimes she gave many, and sometimes she gave few, and sometimes she gave none. She was a hit-and-a-missy sort of a sow, you might say. But you always know’d how the ould sow done, by the way Kinvig gave out the hymn. If it was six he was as loud as a clarnet, and if it was one his voice was like the tram-bones. But go on about the girl.” “That’s all,” said Lovibond. “When the service was over I walked down the aisle behind her, and touched her dress with my hand, and somehow--” “I know,” cried Davy. “Gave you a kind of ‘lectricity shock, didn’t it? Lord alive, mate, girls is quare things.” “Then she walked off the other way,” said Lovibond. “So you don’t know where she comes from?” said Davy. “I couldn’t bring myself to follow her, Capt’n.” “And right too, mate. It’s sneaking. Following a girl in the streets is sneaking, and the man that done it ought to be wallopped till all’s blue. But you’ll see her again, I’ll go bail, and maybe hear who she is. Rael true women is skess these days, sir; but I’m thinking you’ve got your flotes down for a good one. Give her line, mate--give her line--and if I wasn’t such a downhearted chap myself I’d be helping you to land her.” Lovibond observed that Capt’n Davy was more than usually restless after this conversation, and in the course of the afternoon, while he lay in a hazy dose on the sofa, he overheard this passage between the captain and his boy:--