“‘It is _not_ accident!’ he answers, firmly. ‘Boys younger than I am--much less trustworthy, and of whom he has not half the opinion that he has of me--have been sent, but _I_, _never_. I bore it as well as I could for a long time, but now I can bear it no longer; it is not, I assure you, my fancy; but I can see that my brother officers, knowing how partial your father is to me--what influence I have with him in many things--conclude that my not being sent is my own choice; in short, that I am--_afraid_.’ (His voice sinks with a disgusted and shamed intonation at the last word.) ‘Now--I have told you the sober facts--look me in the face’ (putting his hand with boyish familiarity under my chin, and turning round my curls, my features, and the front view of my big comb towards him), ‘and tell me whether you agree with me, as I said you would, or not--whether it is not cruel kindness on his part to make me keep a whole skin on such terms?’ “I look him in the face for a moment, trying to say that I do not agree with him, but it is more than I can manage. ‘You were right,’ I say, turning my head away, ‘I _do_ agree with you; I wish to heaven that I could honestly say that I did not.’ “‘Since you do then,’ he cries excitedly--‘Phœbe! I knew you would, I knew you better than you knew yourself--I have a favour to ask of you, a _great_ favour, and one that will keep me all my life in debt to you.’ “‘What is it?’ ask I, with a sinking heart. “‘Your father is very fond of you----’ “‘I know it,’ I answer curtly. “‘Anything that you asked, and that was within the bounds of possibility, he would do,’ he continues, with eager gravity. ‘Well, this is what I ask of you: to write him a line, and let me take it, when I go, asking him to send me home in the next prize.’ “Silence for a moment, only the haymakers laughing over their rakes. ‘And if,’ say I, with a trembling voice, ‘you lose your life in this service, you will have to thank me for it; I shall have your death on my head all through my life.’ “‘The danger is infinitesimal, as I told you before,’ he says, impatiently; ‘and even if it were greater than it is--well, life is a good thing, very good, but there are better things, and even if I come to grief, which is most unlikely, there are plenty of men as good as--better than--I, to step into my place.’ “‘It will be small consolation to the people who are fond of you that some one better than you is alive, though you are dead,’ I say, tearfully. “‘But I do not mean to be dead,’ he says, with a cheery laugh. ‘Why are you so determined on killing me? I mean to live to be an admiral. Why should not I?’ “‘Why indeed?’ say I, with a feeble echo of his cheerful mirth, and feeling rather ashamed of my tears.