“Well, I’ll write him a note,” said Vyner, following out his own thoughts; “I’ll tell him, in a few words, how I chanced to come here, and I’ll ask if he will receive me, or, better still,-if he’ll come and dine with us to-morrow.” “I know the answer you’ll get as well as if I had written it.” “Well, what will it be?” “See you hanged first!” “What is all this going on below? Are you quarrelling, children?” cried Vyner, as a great uproar burst forth from the cabin. “Oh no, papa; but Robinson is so droll; he put baby-doll into a boat and had her shipwrecked, and saved by the little negro; and now they are going to be married. Just come and see it all.” “Tell me, Harry,” said Vyner, “what would papa say if I were to write him a note and say that I have detained you here to dinner, and wouldn’t let you go?” “He’d say I could have jumped overboard,” said the boy, reddening at what he thought was an imputation on his personal prowess. “I don’t exactly mean by force, my dear boy; I intended to say, by persuasion.” Either the view now submitted to him was not very clear, or that it was combined with other element, but he made no reply. “I will put it this wise: I’ll say I have made Harry’s acquaintance this morning-by a lucky accident, and I hope you will not be displeased if he should stay and dine with us. I have a little girl of his own age who is delighted to have his company, and I feel certain you will not deprive her of so agreeable a playfellow.” “Papa will not know,” said the boy, moodily. “Not know what, my little man?” “Papa will not care,” said he; and a slight tremor shook his voice. “Not care for what?” “I mean,” said he, resolutely, “that I often go away at daybreak and never come back till late at night, and papa does not mind it--he never asks for me.” As he spoke, Ada drew nigh her father, and clasped his hand in her own, while her tearful eyes turned alternately from her father to the child, the sense of her own happy lot, loved and cherished as she was, blending with a deep pity for one so desolate and friendless. “That’s the way boys are made independent and bold-hearted,” said Vyner, hastily. “Men like their sons to be trained up in the free habits they enjoyed themselves. So, then, my note is not necessary--you can remain without it?” “Would you like it?” said he, turning to Ada. “Oh, how much!” cried she, eagerly. “Then I’ll stay!” As he spoke, he leaned back in his chair, and, who knows with what thoughts, sighed faintly, while two heavy tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. Vyner saw it, but turned away and went on deck. “I can gather from what that boy has just said,” said he to Gren-fell, “that his father is almost indifferent about him; he never knows of his coming or going, nor ever looks for him at meal-times.”