And accordingly on a fine day in June, Madame bade adieu to her little granddaughter, and gallantly attended by Monsieur Henri, went on board the pretty Sylph, and sailed for the Mercury, lying off the headland. A three hours’ run before the wind carried them alongside the clipper, where they learned that owing to a delay in the shipment of a portion of the lading, she would not weigh anchor until the next tide. There was nothing for Monsieur Henri to do then, but to take Madame to the house of Barbara Brande, to wait a few hours for the sailing of the clipper. The old house on the Headland was more ruinous and more clumsily mended than ever. The black-haired, bright-eyed, bare-footed boys had grown into fine lads. And Barbara had ripened into a buxom brunette, with a finely developed form, hair like the purple-black sheen of the falcon’s wing, and eyes like his glance when flying toward his prey. A splendid creature was this wild sea-coast maiden; and Madame, who appreciated beauty in the physique, gazed upon her in unqualified admiration as she stood upon the bluff to welcome them. “Walk up, Monsieur; walk up, Madame. I am so happy to see you,” she said, smiling and clapping her hands with all her former childish glee. “Walk up.” “Yes, it is all very well for you to keep on repeating ‘walk up,’ and ‘walk up,’ when one had as well attempt to ‘walk up’ the side of a perpendicular wall,” said the old man, ruefully; and with his right hand he planted his cane as a sort of grappling hook, and with his left arm dragged the weight of Madame up the toilsome, steep ascent. “Give _me_ your hand, madame,” said Barbara, laughingly stooping and extending hers to the lady, who seized it and nearly pulled her good-humored assistant down before gaining the top of the ascent. But Barbara possessed a firm foot and a strong hand, and safely hoisted her charge. “Grand Ciel!” exclaimed Madame, panting after the performance of this feat. They went on to the house, ascended the rickety stairs of the portico, and entered the large, cheerful hall. Four spacious rooms, two on each side, opened into this hall. This story was the only habitable part of the house. Barbara turned the latch of the first door to the left, and admitted her guests into a large but scantily-furnished parlor, without carpet or curtains, with only a dozen black oak chairs, a black oak table, and an engraved portrait of Paul Jones over the mantle-piece. This was the most comfortable and best furnished room in the house. Barbara seated her guests, brought them refreshments, and excused herself, and went into the adjoining hall to resume her occupation—the packing of a last trunk for her eldest brother, John, now a fine boy of sixteen, who was going out in the Mercury to make his first voyage. While Barbara packed the trunk, the old man watched her through the open door, launching at her laughing head an occasional jest. “Well, my pretty Barbara, so John is going to sea?”