Susan dipped a pen in ink and handed it to her mistress who affixed her name to both documents, _Le Estel_. Then the pen was passed to Barbara, who signed hers, and next to Susan Copsewood, who attached her firm autograph as first witness, and finally to young Willful Brande, who wrote his name as second witness. The articles were then delivered, Lady Montressor receiving one copy and Barbara Brande the other. The payment for the first year was then tendered in advance, but Barbara preferred that the funds should be devoted to the repairs of the house, and that matter being amicably arranged, the business was completed. The lawyer arose to take his leave, and was permitted to do so; but when Barbara and her brother would have departed, Lady Montressor made a sign desiring them to remain for a few moments. Barbara returned and took the chair that had been placed for her accommodation by Susan. Willful seated himself modestly at some distance. “You were a sufferer by the wreck of the unfortunate Mercury?” said Lady Montressor, in a voice of deep commiseration. “Madam, she was my father’s vessel; when she went down I lost—my father, my brother, and my betrothed,—all, all except these two boys, for whom I live.” “Brave girl, that you live for them!” “Ah, Madam, you know then, that sometimes, in this world of ours, it requires more courage to live than to die.” Lady Montressor essayed to speak, but only bowed; and after a short pause, slightly changed the subject, by saying: “But, Miss Brande, is not the career you have chosen a strange, trying life for a woman—especially a young and handsome woman?” “Not when her name is Barbara Brande—not when she has been brought up on the sea and loves it—not when she is strong and courageous—not when fate, by striking her one stunning blow, has made her insensible to personal danger—not when a storm of grief has rendered her, by the strength of despair, fit to cope with all other storms—not when she has two brothers to establish in life, who, like all of their race, herself included, perhaps, are fit for nothing but the sea,” said Barbara, earnestly. “Pray, forgive my interference; it is the interest with which you have inspired me, Miss Brande, that urges me to speak; but would it not be better to place your brothers, since they must learn navigation and seamanship, with some merchant captain in whom you have confidence, and then seek, for yourself, some more feminine occupation or interest on shore?” “Madam, _no_, I cannot leave my boys, nor let them leave me—particularly for the sea. Besides, my life is not the life of other women: calamities like mine can never be forgotten.” “Do not say so; you are young yet; at your age, _all_ misfortunes may be outlived and forgotten—_except guilt or disgrace_,” added the lady, in a thrilling, passionate, solemn voice.