"Yes, and got down--on your knees to me, with your eyes impassionedly fixed on mine--oh, it was so funny, but it frightened me; you were so intense--and you delivered yourself of--well, I took it down in shorthand, and I'll transcribe it first, and then read." He sat down in his chair, and she worked busily for a few moments, and then said: "Now, I'll read first what I took down from that horrid sea-story, and you take the book and follow me to see if I've made mistakes." He picked up the book from the floor, found the page, and scanned it while she read from her copy as follows: "'--which had blown, at times, with a force that nearly amounted to a little gale, was lulling and becoming uncertain, as though awed by the more violent power that was gathering along the borders of the sea, in the direction of the neighboring continent. Each moment the eastern puffs of air lost their strength and became more and more feeble, until, in an incredibly short period, the heavy sails were heard flapping against the masts--a frightful and ominous calm succeeding.' "Now," she said, "did I make any mistakes in this?" "No," he answered, "word for word it is correct." "Very well. You know I stopped you at this point, and when I had written it out in longhand, I said 'I'm ready. Go on,' and turned to a new page; but you, instead of reading more, dropped the book, got down on your knees, and--just listen--you uttered this in tones of the utmost distress: "'Sir, my life is in your hands; but as to my body, in relation to that which you would persuade me to, my soul shall sooner be separated from it, through the violence of your arms, than I shall condescend to your request.'" "And I said that in my sleep?" inquired the amazed Beverton. "You did," laughed his wife, "in the most plaintive, piping feminine accents imaginable. You were a perfect picture of virtue in distress. What were you dreaming of?" "I don't remember. Isn't this the page"--he glanced at the book--"that you were reading when you fell asleep the other evening?" "Yes, I think so; but I was looking at the knife when I dropped off." "So was I," he responded. "Now, this is one of Cooper's tales, written, I think, about the middle of this century; and, though it is full of nautical language, there is nothing in it, up to this page, that resembles this prayerful speech of mine, or your reprehensible language the other evening, which you uttered, by the way, in hoarse, masculine tones." "Did I?" she asked. "What did I say?" "Something about 'eight bells,' and 'all hands drunk.' I've forgotten it all; but did you ever listen to any sailor yarns? Have you ever read any sea-stories besides this?" "I never saw a sailor in my life, that I know of. I never read a sea-story, either, and never shall. I don't like them."