“For being both in one, rather,” answered the baronet. “Indeed! And why for being both in one? Has not a woman a brain as well as a heart? Has she not courage as well as gentleness? Fortitude as well as patience? Has it not been proved over and over again, a thousand and a thousand times, that in moments of danger woman have exhibited as much presence of mind, courage, promptitude, and skill as the best men among you?” But we have elsewhere given Barbara Brande’s defense of herself in her chosen vocation, and will not repeat it here. The baronet was silenced if not convinced by her argument, and presently turned the attack from the captain to the craft. “How could such a little craft live in a stormy sea for instance.” Barbara’s eyes glowed, and her ripe lips wreathed in the smile that beamed from her face. “How, sir, does the little sapling survive the storm that twists off the great oak of a hundred years growth? Why, sir, a craft like this will ride lightly on the crest of waves that would break over and engulf a ship of the line! Why, sir, the great waves that would thunder over the decks of a heavy man-of-war would lift this peaceful little merchantman and bear her on in safety—as if indeed there were a sentient magnanimity in old ocean, which, while warring upon the strong would spare the weak.” They now turned in their promenade and walked aft. “So you think you and the Petrel could weather a storm? Have you any experience of the fact?” “Have I any experience of the fact?——Willful! what are you about there! Will you run over that lighter? Helm-a-lee! Helm-a lee!—steady, so!—Have I any experience of that fact? I should think so! The little Petrel behaves beautifully in a storm! She rides the waves like a buoy, or lies-to snugly as a little duck! the brave little Petrel! the bonny little Petrel!” “Then you have been in a storm—you have carried your vessel safely through it?” inquired Sir Parke, as they reached the stern, in which Lord Montressor sat with a pocket telescope in his hand, taking sight at the villas on the shore. “Lord Montressor,” said Barbara, “your friend asks me if I have ever worked this vessel through a storm. Tell him how we weathered the gales in the Gulf Stream!—for I am immensely tired of him,” she added, as she dropped the arm of Sir Parke and left him on the hands of her other passenger. Barbara walked forward to the “caboose.” Let my inland readers now imagine a little box two yards square, on the forecastle—painted on the outside, and furnished inside with a store and dresser, and a full complement of pots, pans, kettles, and crockery-ware. The presiding genius of this place was a stout, jet-black negro woman, whose smiling eyes and ivory teeth imparted a contented and good-humored expression to her homely face. “What have you got for dinner, Climene?” “Dere’s a ham on a b’ilin, and I jes gwine put down a line o’ mutton to roas’.”