"Oh yes!" was the frank response, as she innocently held up her mouth, and the memory of the kiss given by those sweet rosebud-like lips, haunted Derval pleasantly for many a month to come, when many a league of ocean lay between him and the Summer Isles. Next day saw the _Amethyst_ in the pilot's hands, working out of the tortuous channel between the reefs, her yards being braced up sharp, and her tacks being carried far aft to port and starboard alternately. As she passed in view of Government House the ports were triced up and she fired nineteen rounds from her brass nine-pounders in honour of Lord Oakhampton, the flag on whose residence was dipped to her three times in farewell. By that time she was clear of all the rocks; her yards were squared, and with a fair wind she bore away north-eastward into the evening sea, the watery highway to "Old England." Some two months after this found Derval, after quitting the _Amethyst_ at the West India Dock--ever in his mind associated with the awful day of London fog in which he first saw it--hastening homeward on a few weeks' leave, and having with him, sailor-like, presents for all there: a tiger-skin from the Cape for his father's study; furs of the platypus, soft and grey, from Australia, to make muffs and cuffs for Mrs. Hampton, and a shawl for her too; a shark's skull for Mr. Asperges Laud; a model junk for little Rookleigh; several cosy things for old Patty Fripp; and, moreover, he had shells, horns, idols, queer ornaments, and all the curious _omnium gatherum_ which sailors usually pick up--the gathered spoil of years of wandering and affection. He disliked to carry the locket where Clara's hands had hung it. A day might come--nay, surely would come--when he might have to discard the gift, lest treasuring a woman's locket, with her name upon it and her hair within it, might alarm some one dearer to him than life, and lead to serious complications, although he had not met her yet--or thought so; thus the locket was consigned to one of his secret repositories. "Home--home!" he exclaimed to himself, and clapped his hands with glee as the swift express train went tearing on through North Devon, and the vale of Taunton, with its foliaged slopes, Coddon Hill and St. Peter's ancient spire, came in sight; on and on yet, and ere long he should be at Finglecombe!