“All from this voyage. I knew it would set you up, and am delighted to hear you say as much. Biddy and I were talking of you this very morning, my child, and we both agreed that you _were_ getting to be yourself again. Oh, ships, and brigs, and schooners, full-jigger or half-jigger, for pulmonary complaints, say I! My poor Mr. Budd always maintained that the ocean was the cure for all diseases, and I determined that to sea you should go, the moment I became alarmed for your health.” The good widow loved Rose most tenderly, and she was obliged to use her handkerchief to dry the tears from her eyes as she concluded. Those tears sprung equally from a past feeling of apprehension, and a present feeling of gratitude. Rose saw this, and she took a seat at her aunt’s side, touched herself, as she never failed to be on similar occasions, with this proof of her relative’s affection. At that moment even Harry Mulford would have lost a good deal in her kind feelings toward him, had he so much as smiled at one of the widow’s nautical absurdities. At such times, Rose seemed to be her aunt’s guardian and protectress, instead of reversing the relations, and she entirely forgot herself the many reasons which existed for wishing that she had been placed in childhood, under the care of one better qualified than the well-meaning relict of her uncle, for the performance of her duties. “Thank you, aunty—thank’ee, dear aunty,” said Rose, kissing the widow affectionately. “I know that you mean the best for me, though you _are_ a little mistaken in supposing me ill. I do assure you, dear,” patting her aunt’s cheek, as if she herself had been merely a playful child, “I never was better; and if I _have_ been pulmonary, I am entirely cured, and am now ready to return home.” “God be praised for this, Rosy. Under _His_ divine providence, it is all owing to the sea. If you really feel so much restored, however, I do not wish to keep you a moment longer on a ship’s board than is necessary. We owe something to Capt. Spike’s care, and cannot quit him too unceremoniously; but as soon as he is at liberty to go into a harbor, I will engage him to do so, and we can return home by land—unless, indeed, the brig intends to make the home voyage herself.” “I do not like this brig, aunty, and now we are out of her, I wish we could keep out of her. Nor do I like your Capt. Spike, who seems to me any thing but an agreeable gentleman.” “That’s because you aren’t accustomed to the sea. My poor Mr. Budd had _his_ ways, like all the rest of them; it takes time to get acquainted with them. All sailors are so.” Rose bent her face involuntarily, but so low as to conceal the increasing brightness of her native bloom, as she answered, “Harry Mulford is not so, aunty, dear—and he is every inch a sailor.” “Well, there _is_ a difference, I must acknowledge, though I dare say Harry will grow every day more and more like all the rest of them. In the end, he will resemble Capt. Spike.”