“Thank you.” The boy glanced up at the round clock screwed to the cabin wall. “I guess you won't have to call me anything unless you hurry. I shall be down here, laying the table for supper, before you're done. The captain said I was to lay it for you and him, and if he didn't get back in time you was to go to eating, any way. Guess you won't think Captain Jenness is going to starve anybody.” “Have you been many voyages with Captain Jenness before this?” asked Lydia, as she set open her trunk, and began to lay her dresses out on the locker. Homesickness, like all grief, attacks in paroxysms. One gust of passionate regret had swept over the girl; before another came, she could occupy herself almost cheerfully with the details of unpacking. “Only one before,” said the boy. “The last one, when his daughters went out. I guess it was their coaxing got mother to let me go. _My_ father was killed in the war.” “Was he?” asked Lydia, sympathetically. “Yes. I didn't know much about it at the time; so little. Both your parents living?” “No,” said Lydia. “They're both dead. They died a long while ago. I've always lived with my aunt and grandfather.” “I thought there must be something the matter,--your coming with your grandfather,” said the boy. “I don't see why you don't let me carry in some of those dresses for you. I'm used to helping about.” “Well, you may,” answered Lydia, “if you want.” A native tranquil kindness showed itself in her voice and manner, but something of the habitual authority of a school-mistress mingled with it. “You must be careful not to rumple them if I let you.” “I guess not. I've got older sisters at home. They hated to have me leave. But I looked at it this way: If I was ever going to sea--and I _was_--I couldn't get such another captain as Captain Jenness, nor such another crew; all the men from down our way; and I don't mind the second mate's jokes much. He doesn't mean anything by them; likes to plague, that's all. He's a first-rate sailor.” Lydia was kneeling before one of the trunks, and the boy was stooping over it, with a hand on either knee. She had drawn out her only black silk dress, and was finding it rather crumpled. “I shouldn't have thought it would have got so much jammed, coming fifty miles,” she soliloquized. “But they seemed to take a pleasure in seeing how much they could bang the trunks.” She rose to her feet and shook out the dress, and drew the skirt several times over her left arm. The boy's eyes glistened. “Goodness!” he said. “Just new, ain't it? Going to wear it any on board?” “Sundays, perhaps,” answered Lydia thoughtfully, still smoothing and shaping the dress, which she regarded at arm's-length, from time to time, with her head aslant. “I suppose it's the latest style?” pursued the boy. “Yes, it is,” said Lydia. “We sent to Boston for the pattern. I hate to pack it into one of those drawers,” she mused. “You needn't,” replied Thomas. “There's a whole row of hooks.”