“None. This is paying us off for three weeks fine weather, and may last for several days—at all events, till night. The steamer will be rattling down in an hour, with the wind and tide in her favour. Were you once on board, _Leaftenant_, you might snap your fingers at this capful of wind.” “We must make up our minds to lose our places,” said Lyndsay, in a tone of deep vexation. “You have taken your places then?” “Yes; and made a deposit of half the passage money.” “Humph! Now, _Leaftenant_ Lyndsay, that’s a thing I never do. I always take my chance. I would rather lose my place in a boat, or a coach, than lose my money. But young fellows like you never learn wisdom. Experience is all thrown away upon you. But as we can’t remedy the evil now, we had better step in and get a morsel of breakfast. This raw air makes one hungry. The wind may lull by that time.” Then gazing at the sky with one of his keen orbs, while he shaded with his hand the other, he continued—“It rains too hard for it to blow long at this rate; and the season of the year is all in your favour. Go in—go in, and get something to eat, and we will settle over your wife’s good coffee what is best to be done.” Lyndsay thought with the Captain, that the storm would abate, and he returned to the anxious Flora, to report the aspect of things without. “It is a bad omen,” said Flora, pouring out the coffee. “If we may judge of the future by the present—it looks dark enough.” “Don’t provoke me into anger, Flora, by talking in such a childish manner, and placing reliance upon an exploded superstition. Women are so fond of prognosticating evil, that I believe they are disappointed if it does not happen as they say.” “Well, reason may find fault with us if she will,” said Flora; “but we are all more or less influenced by these mysterious presentiments; and suffer trifling circumstances to give a colouring for good or evil to the passing hour. My dear, cross philosopher, hand me the toast.” Flora’s defence of her favourite theory was interrupted by the arrival of two very dear friends, who had come from a distance, through the storm, to bid her good-bye. Mr. Hawke, the elder of the twain, was an author of considerable celebrity in his native county, and a most kind and excellent man. He brought with him his second son, a fine lad of twelve years of age, to place under Lyndsay’s charge. James Hawke had taken a fancy to settle in Canada, and a friend of the family, who was located in the Backwoods of that far region, had written to his father, that he would take the lad, and initiate him in the mysteries of the axe, if he could find a person to bring him over. Lyndsay had promised to do this, and the boy, who had that morning parted with his mother and little brothers and sisters, for the first time in his life, in spite of the elastic spirits of youth, looked sad and dejected.