“Papa,” she cried, springing towards her father, “I’m sure to get them, I know I shall: and they can go in my nice, new, great, big aviary.” In a turmoil of noisy, selfish conversation, she took her excited little person off the scene, bustling through the crowd, and taking her own world with her, in the manner of children who will sometimes burst into a room speaking, never thinking to see if people are talking, or reading aloud within. And so she went away down the quay, leaving a sense of disturbance behind her. Evidently bound to grow up, poor thing, into one of those people who cause every one to live in a draught around them. Oliver stood for some time listening. He had no further orders than to remain on the quay in such a manner as that he might readily be seen. He decided he would stay here at all events till sunset, should the French agent by some chance have been delayed. So he stood watching the little hunchback’s quick movements as he caged his doves, packed his tressle-table, and walked away towards the town. And now Oliver was left to watch the clouds and sea-gulls, and to wonder what life would feel like, if it were happy and free. The slow hours passed, and he grew hungrier and thirstier. He sought through his pockets and found a crust. And then because he had passed such an uncomfortable night, and he was tired, he lay down, with his head on a coil of rope, and looked drowsily at the wide and glimmering sea. Here and there, hidden away in his memory, there lingered some stray phrases and couplets learnt long ago. These he treasured, though he hardly knew he did so, for the sense of comfort they bestowed-- “Thou whose nature cannot sleep On my temples sentry keep. While I rest my soul advance, Make my sleep a holy trance. These are my drowsy days, in vain, I do but wake to sleep again. O, come that hour when I shall never Sleep again, but wake for ever.” The light faded. Grey clouds banked themselves where the sun was westering, prodigal of his gold. Oliver slept. He was woken by a hand laid upon his shoulder, and stumbling to his feet, he saw the man Thurot, standing beside him. CHAPTER XXIII _Read rascal in the motions of his back, And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee._ TENNYSON. When Ratface left the “Mariner’s Rest” that evening, he walked skirting the hedgerow, his thoughts busy with a new plan. For some time he had been suspicious of Daniel Maidment, but now, reading the evil of his own character into that of another, he suspected him of an intention to betray the smugglers to the excisemen.