Rose now looked grateful; and deeply grateful did she feel, and had reason to feel. Harry had concealed no portion of his history from her. Like herself, he was a ship-master’s son, but one better educated and better connected than was customary for the class. His father had paid a good deal of attention to the youth’s early years, but had made a seaman of him, out of choice. The father had lost his all, however, with his life, in a ship-wreck, and Harry was thrown upon his own resources, at the early age of twenty. He had made one or two voyages as a second mate, when chance threw him in Spike’s way, who, pleased with some evidences of coolness and skill, that he had shown in a foreign port, on the occasion of another loss, took him as his first officer; in which situation he had remained ever since, partly from choice and partly from necessity. On the other hand, Rose had a fortune; by no means a large one, but several thousands in possession, from her own father, and as many more in reversion from her uncle. It was this money, taken in connection with the credulous imbecility of the aunt, that had awakened the cupidity, and excited the hopes of Spike. After a life of lawless adventures, one that had been chequered by every shade of luck, he found himself growing old, with his brig growing old with him, and little left beside his vessel and the sort of half cargo that was in her hold. Want of means, indeed, was the reason that the flour barrels were not more numerous. Rose heard Mulford’s explanation favorably, as indeed she heard most of that which came from him, but did not renew the discourse, Spike’s conference with the boatswain just then terminating. The captain now came aft, and began to speak of the performances of his vessel in a way to show that he took great pride in them. “We are traveling at the rate of ten knots, Madam Budd,” he said exultingly, “and that will take us clear of the land, before night shuts in ag’in. Montauk is a good place for an offing; I ask for no better.” “Shall we then have _two_ offings, this voyage, Capt. Spike?” asked Rose, a little sarcastically. “If we are in the offing now, and are to be in the offing when we reach Montauk, there must be two such places.” “Rosy, dear, you amaze me!” put in the aunt. “There is no offing until the pilot is discharged, and when he’s discharged there is nothing but offing. It’s all offing. On the Sound, is the first great change that befalls a vessel as she goes to sea; then, comes the offing; next the pilot is discharged—then—then—what comes next, Capt. Spike?” “Then the vessel takes her departure—an old navigator like yourself, Madam Budd, ought not to forget the departure.” “Quite true, sir. The departure is a very important portion of a seaman’s life. Often, and often have I heard my poor, dear Mr. Budd talk about his departures. His departures, and his offings and his—” “Land-falls,” added Spike, perceiving that the ship-master’s relict was a little at fault.