“With all this, sir, you may not feel sufficient confidence in my competency for the post I have assumed, to trust your valuable life with us for the voyage. Nevertheless, sir, Messrs. Gobright & Co., Merchants on Light street—men who are not suspected of lunacy, have entrusted me with a very valuable cargo.” Lord Montressor bowed absently; his thoughts had reverted to one far away. “Am I to understand that you decline a berth with us, sir?” inquired Barbara. This brought his lordship to the point. “Certainly not, Miss Brande. Upon all accounts, I would not forego this opportunity—no, not for a seat in his majesty’s cabinet.” “Come, then, into the cabin and let us arrange the terms—come you, also, Willful! you must learn to transact business,” said Barbara, beckoning Lord Montressor and her brother to follow. They went below, and the terms—where one party was willing and the other anxious—were soon concluded to their mutual satisfaction. It was near sunset when Lord Montressor left the vessel for the shore, to return to his hotel. He employed the succeeding days of the week in writing letters to England, and in preparations for his voyage. Was it strange that, in his conversations with Barbara, he should never once have mentioned or even remotely alluded to the object of his voyage? We think not; for the subject of his lost Estelle was too sacred to be approached, except under urgent necessity, or in the hope of obtaining direct information. And what necessity did there seem to be for taking Barbara into his confidence? what information could he suppose her able to give? or what connection could he possibly imagine to exist between his delicate and reserved Estelle and this brave daughter of the sea? In fact, he never once thought of such a possibility. And yet, had he once broached the subject, how soon Barbara could have told him that Mrs. Estelle had sailed, not for the West India Isles as he supposed, but for a much nearer point, namely, Brande’s Headland, a hundred miles or so down the bay. So full is life of mere paper walls! It was a fine frosty morning, the first of October, when the Petrel was to sail. A fresh wind that had sprung up during the night was blowing from the north-west. At daybreak Lord Montressor entered a hack to drive down to the wharf. His valet and groom followed, with the baggage on a dray. A ride of an hour brought them to the scene of embarkation. The wharves presented a busy, animating appearance. The harbor was crowded with shipping, whose tall masts, yards, and ropes were distinctly traced upon the background of a clear blue sky. But the Petrel stood off at anchor, some cables’ length down the river. And to reach her, it was necessary to hire one of the many boats that glided in and out among the vessels. Lord Montressor signalled his groom from the top of his dray, and dispatched him to engage one.