"Oh, yes! I know all about the gashly old clay, Master Rickard, sir," he would say; "and it's made him a sort of gentleman like; but I can't seem to see it, you know. He was getting to be as fine a sailor as ever stepped, and look at him now; why, he wouldn't be satisfied to sail anything commoner than a yacht." Dick remained the same frank merry fellow as ever; and even when there was a thick crop growing on his cheeks and chin, which he called brown mustard and cress, he was as full of boyish fun as ever. It was Arthur in whom the greatest changes had taken place. Contact with the world had rubbed off the stiff varnish with which he had coated himself. He had learned, too, that a lad can command more respect from his fellows by treating them with frankness than by a hectoring haw-haw display of consequence, and a metaphorical "going about with a placard on the breast saying what a superior young being I am ism." In fact Arthur Temple's folly had all gone, and he had developed into a true English gentleman, who could be refined to a degree, but in time of need lend a hand in any of the many struggles of life. Will, too, refined greatly, and one of the Sunday sights down at Peter Churchtown was to see Aunt Ruth Marion waiting at her door, while the bells were going, for Will to come and take her to church, while Uncle Abram in his best blue coat, with crown-and-anchor buttons, smoked his pipe to the last minute and then trotted after them along the cliff path to the pew close under the reading-desk. "Yes, Abram," she used to say, "our Will has grown to be as fine a gentleman as ever stepped; but you always spoiled him, you did; and I don't know what he would have done if it had not been for me." THE END.