Gil bent his head, and held out his hand, which the other pressed. "When do you sail again?" said the parson. "I sail again? Maybe never," said Gil. "Why should I sail?" "To give thyself occupation--work--toil-weary evening and restful night. Up, man, and work. Bear thy load bravely till Heaven send the soft touch of time to make it lighter. Thou art young; thy ship waits. Go across the sea and do thy work. This is no place for thee." "Why do you interfere with me, Master Peasegood?" cried Gil, testily. "I am none of thy followers." "Nay, my lad, thou art not; but I give thee good advice that my lips seemed urged to speak. Go and toil, and sit not down sobbing like a fretful child." "Man, you would madden me if I listened," cried Gil. "Nay, but thou shalt listen," said Master Peasegood, "and I will quell thy madness. Thou hast received one terrible loss like a man; I would not have thee do it like a woman. Then, too, Master Cobbe, when are these fires to be relit, and the wreathing curls of smoke to rise from each furnace chimney?" "Never," said the founder sadly, "my energy has gone, and I am spent." "Tut, tut, man; fie!" "What have I to live for?" cried the founder, as angry now as Gil. "Not for thyself," cried Master Peasegood. "Not both of ye to indulge a moping selfish regret, but for others--for the memory of one dead. Tut! man, those do not pay most respect to their dead who sit and sigh, and groan, and work themselves into fevers. Gil Carr, thy men call for thee to lead them in some seafaring adventure. Jeremiah Cobbe, thou hast got together here some fifty souls--workmen, their wives, and the children they have begotten. Thou didst bring them to do thy work, and now the furnaces are cold, the busy wheel has ceased to turn, and thy workmen lean against the doorposts, and idle, and get out of trim. Come, come! up, and be doing." "For whom?" cried the founder angrily, "for whom should I toil?" "Not for thyself, but for thy people. Nay, nay! don't take it ill, and think me unfeeling. To both of you I say it is your duty, and, in the name of yon sweet girl whom we all so dearly loved, I say keep her memory green in your heart of hearts, but cease unmanly repinings against fate." "Ah! Master Peasegood," said the founder more gently, "thou hast never been a father." "Had I been sweet Mace's father could I have loved her better, Jeremiah Cobbe? Have not mine eyes oft filled with tears at the memory of her sweet face; has not my voice choked, and have not my words failed when I have tried to speak, Gil Carr? Tut, man, give me credit for loving her as well. Thou hast felt sore against me because I tried to keep you two apart; but why was it, Gil, why was it? Had I not seen that which made me think thou would'st prove a faithless lover to her, poor child. Give me your hand, man, my love for her was different to thine, but it was quite as deep."