“I know they did, poor, dear Rosy, and that was in order not to alarm you. Some persons of delicate constitutions—” “But my constitution is not in the least delicate, aunt; on the contrary, it is as good as possible; a blessing for which, I trust, I am truly grateful. I did not know but you might be suffering, though you do look so well, for they all agreed in telling me you had need of a sea-voyage.” “I, a subject for hydropathy! Why, child, water is no more necessary to me, than it is to a cat.” “But going to sea, aunty, is not hydropathy—” “Don’t say that, Rosy; do not say that, my dear. It is hydropathy on a large scale, as Capt. Spike says, and when he gets us into blue water, he has promised that you shall have all the benefits of the treatment.” Rose was silent and thoughtful; after which she spoke quickly, like one to whom an important thought had suddenly occurred. “And Capt. Spike, then, was consulted in my case?” she asked. “He was, my dear, and you have every reason to be grateful to him. He was the first to discover a change in your appearance, and to suggest a sea voyage. Marine Hydropathy, he said, he was sure would get you up again; for Capt. Spike thinks your constitution good at the bottom, though the high color you have proves too high a state of habitual excitement.” “Was Dr. Monson consulted at all, aunt?” “Not at all. You know the doctors are all against hydropathy, and mesmerism, and the magnetic telegraph, and every thing that is new; so we thought it best not to consult him.” “And my aunt Sprague?” “Yes, _she_ was consulted after every thing was settled, and when I knew her notions could not undo what had been already done. But she is a seaman’s widow, as well as myself, and has a great notion of the virtue of sea air.” “Then it would seem that Dr. Spike was the principal adviser in my case!” “I own that he was, Rosy dear. Capt. Spike was brought up by your uncle, who has often told me what a thorough seaman he was. ‘There’s Spike, now,’ he said to me one day, ‘he can almost make his brig talk’—this very brig, too, your uncle meant, Rosy, and of course one of the best vessels in the world, to take hydropathy in.” “Yes, aunty,” returned Rose, playing with the pen, while her air proved how little her mind was in her words. “Well, what shall I say next to my aunt Sprague?” “Rose’s health is already becoming _confirmed_,” resumed the widow, who thought it best to encourage her niece by as strong terms as she could employ, “and I shall extol hydropathy to the skies, as long as I live. As soon as we reach our port of destination, my dear sister Sprague, I shall write you a line to let you know it, by the magnetic telegraph—” “But there is no magnetic telegraph on the sea, aunty,” interrupted Rose, looking up from the paper, with her clear, serene, blue eyes, expressing even _her_ surprise, at this touch of the relict’s ignorance.