Harrington leaned his elbows on the table, and for a moment buried his face in his hands. He had a clear glimpse into the method of the good Fernando. “Very well, Eldad,” he said, calmly, leaning back in his chair. “Let it go, I won’t speak of it. But I assure you there’s not a word of truth in this statement, so far as I’m concerned, and I hope there is not in regard to Miss Ames!” The Captain did not answer, but lounged away, and during the long silence that followed, walked up and down with a ruminating air. At length he stopped and fronted the young man, who was absorbed in musing. “John,” said he, “to-day’s the day, you know.” Harrington, knowing what he meant, bent his head, looking with half-absent sadness into vacancy. “Twelve years ago to-day, John, the good ship Contocook went down,” continued the Captain, in a hushed voice, with a half-soliloquizing air. “All the women an’ children saved. That was a comfort, John.” Harrington again bowed his head silently. Every year, on the twenty-fifth of May, he was accustomed to hear the Captain speak of this. “And all the men saved, John,” continued the Captain. “That was another comfort. All but one, John.” The Captain paused, solemnly, and took off his hat. “As good a seaman as ever trod the deck,” he resumed. “As fine a man as ever breathed the breath of life. Captain John Harrington, aged forty-two. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord!” There was a long silence. “And he died in the Lord, John,” continued the Captain. “I don’t know as he ever got religion. But he died in the Lord.” The Captain paused once more, muttering the last words below his breath.