“I wonder, dear Rose, my poverty has never presented any difficulties in the way of our union,” said Harry, sensibly touched with the free way his betrothed disposed of her own money in his behalf; “but neither you nor Mrs. Budd has ever seemed to think of the difference there is between us in this respect.” “What is the trifle I possess, Harry, set in the balance against your worth? My aunt, as you say, has thought I might even be the gainer by the exchange.” “I am sure I feel a thousand times indebted to Mrs. Budd—” “_Aunt_ Budd. You must learn to say, ‘_my_ Aunt Budd,’ Mr. Henry Mulford, if you mean to live in peace with her unworthy niece.” “_Aunt_ Budd, then,” returned Harry, laughing, for the laugh came easily that evening; “Aunt Budd, if you wish it, Rose. I can have no objection to call any relative of yours, uncle or aunt.” “I think we are intimate enough, now, to ask you a question or two, Harry, touching my aunt,” continued Rose, looking stealthily over her shoulder, as if apprehensive of being overheard. “You know how fond she is of speaking of the sea, and of indulging in nautical phrases?” “Any one must have observed that, Rose,” answered the young man, gazing up at the wall, in order not to be compelled to look the beautiful creature before him in the eyes—“Mrs. Budd has very strong tastes that way.” “Now tell me, Harry—that is, answer me frankly—I mean—she is not _always_ right, is she?” “Why, no; not absolutely so—that is, not absolutely _always_ so—few persons are _always_ right, you know.” Rose remained silent and embarrassed for a moment; after which she pursued the discourse. “But aunty does not know as much of the sea and of ships as she thinks she does?” “Perhaps not. We all overrate our own acquirements. I dare say that even I am not as good a seaman as I fancy myself to be.” “Even Spike admits that you are what he calls ‘a prime seaman.’ But it is not easy for a woman to get a correct knowledge of the use of all the strange, and sometimes uncouth, terms that you sailors use.” “Certainly not; and for that reason I would rather you should never attempt it, Rose. We rough sons of the ocean would prefer to hear our wives make divers pretty blunders, rather than to be swaggering about like so many ‘old salts.’” “Mr. Mulford! Does Aunt Budd swagger like an old salt?” “Dearest Rose, I was not thinking of your aunt, but of _you_. Of you, as you are, feminine, spirited, lovely alike in form and character, and of you a graduate of the ocean, and full of its language and ideas.” It was probable Rose was not displeased at this allusion to herself, for a smile struggled around her pretty mouth, and she did not look at all angry. After another short pause, she resumed the discourse. “My aunt did not very clearly comprehend those explanations of yours about the time of day, and the longitude,” she said, “nor am I quite certain that I did myself.”