"And there is an end of Sir Joseph's story," said Turlington, rising noisily from his chair. "It's a pity we haven't got a literary man on board--he would make a novel of it." He looked up at the skylight as he got on his feet. "Here is the breeze, this time," he exclaimed, "and no mistake!" It was true. At last the breeze had come. The sails flapped, the main boom swung over with a thump, and the stagnant water, stirred at last, bubbled merrily past the vessel's sides. "Come on deck, Natalie, and get some fresh air," said Miss Lavinia, leading the way to the cabin door. Natalie held up the skirt of her nankeen dress, and exhibited the purple trimming torn away over an extent of some yards. "Give me half an hour first, aunt, in my cabin," she said, "to mend this." Miss Lavinia elevated her venerable eyebrows in amazement. "You have done nothing but tear your dresses, my dear, since you have been in Mr. Turlington's yacht. Most extraordinary! I have torn none of mine during the whole cruise." Natalie's dark color deepened a shade. She laughed, a little uneasily. "I am so awkward on board ship," she replied, and turned away and shut herself up in her cabin. Richard Turlington produced his case of cigars. "Now is the time," he said to Sir Joseph, "for the best cigar of the day--the cigar after breakfast. Come on deck." "You will join us, Launce?" said Sir Joseph. "Give me half an hour first over my books," Launce replied. "I mustn't let my medical knowledge get musty at sea, and I might not feel inclined to study later in the day." "Quite right, my dear boy, quite right." Sir Joseph patted his nephew approvingly on the shoulder. Launce turned away on _his_ side, and shut himself up in his cabin. The other three ascended together to the deck. SECOND SCENE. The Store-Room. Persons possessed of sluggish livers and tender hearts find two serious drawbacks to the enjoyment of a cruise at sea. It is exceedingly difficult to get enough walking exercise; and it is next to impossible (where secrecy is an object) to make love without being found out. Reverting for the moment to the latter difficulty only, life within the narrow and populous limits of a vessel may be defined as essentially life in public. From morning to night you are in your neighbor's way, or your neighbor is in your way. As a necessary result of these conditions, the rarest of existing men may be defined as the man who is capable of stealing a kiss at sea without discovery. An inbred capacity for stratagem of the finest sort; inexhaustible inventive resources; patience which can flourish under superhuman trials; presence of mind which can keep its balance victoriously under every possible stress of emergency--these are some of the qualifications which must accompany Love on a cruise, when Love embarks in the character of a contraband commodity not duly entered on the papers of the ship.