"Law, Captain, why? if I may wenter." "Cause nobody 'd hev me, miss; and to say truth, I never thought on 't much till sense we 've been a-takin' this voyage"; and he glanced at her slyly, and touched the ends of her ribbon. "And what could 'a' put it into your head now, Captain Chidlaw?" "Can you ask me that in airnest?" says John, still holding the ribbons as for dear life. "Then I must tell you to just look into the glass, and you 'll see what." "O Captain, you ought to be ashamed to plague a poor lone woman like me that way; it 's wery bad of you, wery, and I 've a great mind to box your ears!" and she put out her little hand to him in a sweetly menacing manner. John seized the hand and kissed it, and then, frightened at himself, ran to the other end of the boat and looked hard at the clouds. "O, come back! come back!" screamed the widow; "the boat 'll upset, with me at one end and you at the other!" "Sure enough!" says John, and he went sheepishly back, and again seated himself by her side. She gave him a little tap on the ear, and asked him if he would promise never to run away and frighten her so again. John said he would promise her anything in the world that was in his power to grant; and he looked at her with such adoration that the woman overcame the coquette, or the coquette the woman,--which shall I say?--and she went as far from the "dangerous edge of things" as possible, and told him demurely that the only promise she exacted was, that he should listen to the long and techin' story of her life. It all came back upon her, and she felt as if she must tell it to somebody. "May be, though, you don't want to hear it?" says she. "May be I don't want to hear it! How can you?" says John, edging up. And she began:-- "I told you, Captain, that I had been dethroned, and I have,--wilely dethroned, and brought low, by my own woluntary act." "Dear heart!" says John, "so much the worse, if it was woluntary, so few pities you." "Ah, that 's it," says the widow; "nobody pities me,--nobody in the wide world has got a warm heart toward me." She broke quite down, and the tears came to her eyes. "What may your name be?" says John, seizing both her hands and gazing tenderly in her face. "Why do you ask? I 'm but a transient wisitor to your boat; you can't have no interest in me; and, besides, my name is hateful to me." "But I must call you somethin'!" "Well, then, inwent a name. My maiden name reminds me of the royal hours when my father's position gave me rank, and before the wicissitudes of fortune brought me low; I cannot therefore consent to be called by that; and my married name is the name of a wagabond, and I despise it. O sir, inwent a name, for mercy's sake!"