“You understood them far better than Mrs. Budd, Rose. Women are so little accustomed to _think_ on such subjects at all, that it is not surprising they sometimes get confused. I do wish, however, that your aunt could be persuaded to be more cautious in the presence of strangers, on the subject of terms she does not understand.” “I feared it might be so, Harry,” answered Rose, in a low voice, as if unwilling even he should know the full extent of her thoughts on this subject; “but my aunt’s heart is most excellent, though she may make mistakes occasionally. I owe her a great deal, if not absolutely my education, certainly my health and comfort through childhood, and more prudent, womanly advice than you may suppose, perhaps, since I have left school. How she became the dupe of Spike, indeed, is to me unaccountable; for in all that relates to health, she is, in general, both acute and skillful.” “Spike is a man of more art than he appears to be to superficial observers. On my first acquaintance with him, I mistook him for a frank, fearless, but well-meaning sailor, who loved hazardous voyages and desperate speculation—a sort of innocent gambler; but I have learned to know better. His means are pretty much reduced to his brig, and she is getting old, and can do but little more service. His projects are plain enough, now. By getting you into his power, he hoped to compel a marriage, in which case both your fortune and your aunt’s would contribute to repair his.” “He might have killed me, but I never would have married him,” rejoined Rose, firmly. “Is not that Jack coming down the steps of the light-house?” “It is. I find that fellow’s attachment to Spike very extraordinary, Rose. Can you, in any manner, account for it?” Rose at first seemed disposed to reply. Her lips parted, as if about to speak, and closed again, as glancing her eyes toward the open door, she seemed to expect the appearance of the steward’s little, rotund form on its threshold, which held her tongue-tied. A brief interval elapsed, however, ere Jack actually arrived, and Rose, perceiving that Harry was curiously expecting her answer, said hurriedly—“it may be hatred, not attachment.” The next instant Jack Tier entered the room. He had been gone rather more than an hour, not returning until just as the sun was about to set in a flame of fire. “Well, Jack, what news from the Poughkeepsie?” demanded the mate. “You have been gone long enough to make sure of your errand. Is it certain that we are not to see the man-of-war’s-men to-night?” “Whatever you see, my advice to you is to keep close, and to be on your guard,” answered Jack, evasively. “I have little fear of any of Uncle Sam’s craft. A plain story, and an honest heart, will make all clear to a well-disposed listener. We have not been accomplices in Spike’s treasons, and cannot be made to answer for them.”