Toward noon the travellers land at a shambling dock that juts into the river, from which point they are to make their way, in such country vehicle as the little village will supply, across to Ashfield. And when they are fairly seated within, the parson, judging that acquaintance has ripened sufficiently to be put to serious uses, says, with more than usual gravity,-- "I trust, Adaly, that you are grateful to God for having protected you from all the dangers of the deep." "Do you think there was much danger, New Papa?" "There's always danger, said the parson, gravely. "The Victory might have been blown in pieces last night, and we all been killed, Adaly." "Oh, terrible!" says Addle. "And did such a thing ever really happen?" "Yes, my child." "Tell me all about it, New Papa, please"; and she put her little hand in his. "Not now, Adaly,--not now. I want to know if you have been taught about God, in your old home." "Oh, the good God! To be sure I have, over and over and over"; and she made a little piquant gesture, as if the teaching had been sometimes wearisome. This gayety of speech on such a theme was painful to the Doctor. "And you have been taught to pray, Adaly?" "Oh, yes! Listen now. Shall I tell you one of my prayers, New Papa? <i>Voyons</i>, how is it"-- "Never mind,--never mind, Adaly; not here, not here. We are taught to enter into our closets when we pray." "Closets?" "Yes, my child,--to be by ourselves, and to be solemn." "I don't like solemn people much," said Adele, in a quiet tone. "But do you love God, my child?" "Love Him? To be sure I do"; and after a little pause--"All good children love Him; and I m good, you know, New Papa, don't you?"--and she turned her eyes up toward him with a half-coaxing, half-mischievous look that came near to drive away all his solemnity. "Ah, Adaly! Adaly! we are all wicked!" said he. Adele stared at him in amazement. "You, too! Yet papa told me you were so good! Ah, you are telling me now a little--what you call--lie! a'n't you, New Papa?" And she looked at him with such a frank, arch smile,--so like the memory he cherished of the college-boy, Maverick,--that he could argue the matter no further, but only patted her little hand, as it lay upon the cushion of the carriage, as much as to say,--"Poor thing! poor thing! Upon this, he fell away into a train of grave reflection on the method which it would be best to pursue in bringing this little benighted wanderer into the fold of the faithful. And he was still musing thus, when suddenly the spire of Ashfield broke upon the view. "There it is, Adaly! There is to be your new home!" "Where? where?" says Adele, eagerly.