Were we writing a romance instead of a true history, this might be a favourable opportunity for plunging our hero into a severe fit of illness, and casting him almost entirely upon the society of Lucy Effingham for resource and consolation. Such, however, we are forced to admit, was not the case. Charles Tyrrell changed his clothes indeed; but, farther than that, he had no occasion to think of his having been in the water any more. He caught not the slightest cold; the cut on his knee got well as rapidly as possible, and two days after he drove down with Lucy, Lady Tyrrell, and Mrs. Effingham, as far as the carriage could proceed on its way towards the fisherman's cottage. They then walked the rest of the way, and found both the boats drawn up upon the shore. Three men were hanging about on the sands, two mending some nets and cordage, and another, a stout, weather-beaten, thick-set seaman, of the middle age, standing with a telescope at his eye, gossiping in his own mind with a ship that appeared hull-down in the offing. As he was the nearest to them, and as, situated in that little remote nook, Charles Tyrrell judged that the inhabitants of the two cottages must be looked upon as almost one family, the young gentleman applied himself at once to the personage with the telescope. To the first words, however, the man replied nothing but "Ay, ay, sir," keeping the glass still to his eye; but when Charles Tyrrell proceeded to say, "We want to hear, my good sir, how the little fellow gets on whom we saw nearly carried out to sea in the boat the other day. Was he any the worse for his wetting?" the man instantly dropped the glass by his side, as if he had been grounding arms, and exclaiming, "I'm sure you're the gentleman that saved poor Johnny!--me if I am not glad to see you!" confirming it with an oath which it is unnecessary to repeat. "Why, sir," he continued, "the boy's as well as can be, and a good boy he is too; and though my wife has scolded me ever since for not mooring the boat, I thank you, and am obliged to you, with all my heart; and there's John Hailes's hand." And he held out to Charles Tyrrell a broad, brown, horny hand, as large as the crown of his hat. Charles took the honour as it was meant, feeling that the man intended to imply, and perhaps with justice, that the hand of John Hailes was that of an honest and an upright man, not given to everybody without consideration. He therefore took it, as we have said, and shook it frankly, saying, "I am very glad to hear that the little fellow has received no hurt; and how is the other young one who was ill?"