“That’s right; cook the fresh provisions every day, for they’ll not keep, and we have no live stock to kill. And the vegetables?” “Why, dere’s taters, an’ cabbidge, an’ spinidge.” “That will do—and the desert?” “I gwine make apple pie and custard puddin’—caze you see I tuk notice afore how Lord Monstrouser allers likes somfin deliky.” “Yes, that will do; that will do quite well.” And leaving the namesake of the sea-nymph to her culinary conjurations in the caboose, Barbara went down into the cabin to lay the cloth for dinner. I have neither time nor space to follow the details of this voyage. For the first two weeks the voyagers were blessed with the finest weather. But in the midst of the third week the sky changed. “And such a change, oh night, and storm, and darkness!” March came in “like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour.” The wind arose in the north-west, and blowed almost incessantly for four weeks, that is, it would blow continuously for three days, then lull for a day, or only “pause to gather its fearful breath,” and rise with recovered strength, and blow harder than ever. As the vessel entered the Gulf Stream, the weather grew worse—the gale became a hurricane—the rough sea ran mountains high. But the brave little Petrel behaved beautifully, as Barbara had said; she tacked like a skillful politician, rode the high waves like a jockey boy, or lay-to like a duck, as occasion required. Lord Montressor and his man worked as hard as the seamen, whenever their aid was needed. Sir Parke Morelle was too miserably sea-sick to care one sous about the fate of the vessel, unless it was to wish his own sufferings and the Petrel engulfed in the same sea. His valet spent day and night in attendance upon him. But Barbara Brande was a sight to behold. Her perfect appreciation of the danger, combined with her perfect fearlessness, was a subject of wonder to all. Her unwavering courage, her undisturbed cheerfulness, her unruffled temper, the constant firmness and serenity of her countenance, the prompt, clear and ringing tones of her voice—heard through the howling of the wind and the thundering of the waves, inspired faith, and hope, and courage in every bosom. Only once was Barbara moved; this was when her little brother Edwy—whom she had sent below, but who, in sympathetic excitement, had stolen again upon deck—was, by the pitching of the vessel, thrown violently forward, and only saved from going overboard, by Lord Montressor, who sprang and caught him in his arms. Barbara, pale as monumental marble, took the boy from his lordship’s arms, carried him below, and locked him up in the state-room for safety. Then she reappeared on deck as cool, as firm, and as prompt for action as before.