Irving laughed at certain memories of his companion’s walnut profile, with lips pursed in the throes of endurance. “You aren’t a star sailor, are you?” he returned. “I learned the meanin’ o’ one phrase o’ Scripture; learned it for life. ‘Unstable as water.’ It fits some folks just splendid and you couldn’t say anything worse about ’em. My! will I ever forget tryin’ to wait on Mrs. Bruce and fix my hair in that stateroom! Never got my arms up that there didn’t come a lurch and knock my elbow against the woodwork fit to break the skin.” “You ought to be better upholstered, Betsy,” said Irving. “And varnish!” she continued, with reminiscent loathing. “Shall I ever be able to use varnish again!” “Joy!” exclaimed Irving. “Then I’m not in any danger of being shellacked! I never felt certain in childhood’s happy hour that keeping me surgically clean would wholly satisfy you.” “No, sir,” said Betsy warmly, “the ocean won’t get me to look at it this summer. All diamonds, and blue sparkles, and white feathers, just as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth; then when it gets you in its clutches, bangs you around from pillar to post and nearly blows the hair off your head. I know its tricks now. It’ll never deceive _me_ again.” Irving smiled out at the maligned billows. “Looks pretty good to me,” he returned. “Wonder what I shall do about a boat. Has Mrs. Bruce said any more about the Yellowstone?” “Yes, spoke of it this mornin’ to Cap’n Salter.” “Oh, has she been out with Hiram already?” “No, he was lally-gaggin’ around here for a while.” “How is old Hiram?” The question was affectionate. Betsy pushed an upturned rug under a table-leg. “Oh, about as usual, I guess. Gets more like himself every year, same as we all do.” “Well, he couldn’t do better. He’s a good sort.” Irving smiled at some memory. “I must have made that man’s life a burden. What a lot of patience he had! But when the end was reached, I can feel that hand of his come down on me, big as a ham, and toss me away as if I’d been a cunner he was throwing back. Mrs. Salter, too. Talk about salt of the earth! I suppose that must have been a stock Fairport pun during her life. Many a time she begged me off. The gentle Annie! I should think so. Let’s see. How long has she been gone?” “Five years.” “And the captain has never taken notice since, has he?” “Don’t ask _me_,” was the curt response; and a table was whisked completely around with a celerity which must have given it vertigo. “Betsy! Betsy!” It was a cautious call which came quietly from the invisible. Betsy straightened herself and moved toward it, and the silent moment was followed by the swift entrance of Mrs. Bruce. “My _dear_ boy!” she exclaimed, aggrieved. “I thought I heard a man’s voice. How long have you been here? Betsy, why didn’t you tell me!”