“Now you jest leab it all to _me_, chillun, and ’range yourselbes underneaf my orders for de night, and I jest tell yer all what, I’ll jest ’vide sich a supper as will make dat young man thank his blessed stars as he missed his dinner at home—which he must a-missed, yer know, ’cause all dem dere big bugs allers eats deir dinner ’bout de time we all thinkin’ ’bout gwine to bed,” said Monica confidently. “And you really think you can cook a supper that he will enjoy?” anxiously inquired Susan. “Hush, honey, what’s yer talkin’ ’bout? He mus’ be a dreat deal harder to please dan his ole uncle was if I can’t. Wasn’t I cook to ole Marse Capt’n Wyndeworth, at Green Point? And didn’t ole Marse Capt’n Bruce come to dinner and supper dere two or t’ree times a week? And where would you find two greater epitaphs dan dey was? G’way from here, chillun, and let me get de supper,” exclaimed the old woman. And truly, with the resources of the rich Wilderness Manor, with the aid of the well filled smoke houses, poultryyards, dairies, gardens and orchards, old Monica found materials worthy even of her culinary science. Then leaving the cook to get supper Susan Palmer and Ann Whitlock went upstairs and prepared the largest and best bedchamber (usually reserved for the use of the agent) for the accommodation of their guest. Meanwhile the party gathered under the trees in front of the house, conversing gayly together, enjoying the cool evening air. John Palmer, who was as innocent and unconventional as a child in the matter of asking questions, drew out the frank young officer to speak freely of his own circumstances. When Susan Palmer had finished her task in the house and rejoined the circle under the trees, John was saying: “And so the old gentleman wants you to resign your commission in the navy and to spend your life with him, does he?” “Yes. You see it is not from selfishness on his part, but from affection. The terrible disaster through which he lost his only son at sea has so wrought upon his mind that he dreads to trust any one he loves to the career of a sailor,” the young man explained. “Ay, ay,” said John, “‘sich is life.’ And you say that he promises, if you will resign your commission in the navy and stay with him for the short remainder of his life, he will leave you The Breezes and all his other property at his death?” “Yes.” “Have you a loving for the sea?” “Yes.” “Well, then, if I was you I wouldn’t give it up. Not for filthy lucre, I wouldn’t! It is an honorable career, the navy, and some _must_ follow it and risk their lives, and, if need be, lose their lives; for ‘sich _is_ life.’ Put it to the old gentleman that way. Tell him _he_ wouldn’t a-done it when _he_ was a young man, and why then should he want you to? Tell him you will spend all your leaves with him, and that you don’t want his money; you want an honorable naval career. There, young gentleman, tell him that.”