He searched, as the two mates had searched, and, of course, found more than they. He beheld in a cabin memorials of his sweetheart--her dresses, her hats, a veil, and a pair of gloves lay in her cot. One glove was still bulked with the impress of her hand, as though she had but just now drawn it off in a hurry, and cast it down. He peered narrowly. The cabin was a charming little boudoir. He witnessed no suggestions of violence; nothing appeared to have been disturbed. He sought for marks of blood, then thought to himself, 'If she is murdered, they did not kill her with a knife--they drowned her.' He stayed for half an hour in this cabin, then entered the adjoining berth, which had been Mr. Vanderholt's. He found nothing to help him here. The old gentleman had been eccentric. He had believed he loved the life of the forecastle,--God help him!--and he had illustrated his idle imagination of fondness by causing his berth to be rendered as uncomfortable as possible. Parry was disturbed in his investigations of this berth by a bustle in the cabin. He looked out, and saw a couple of sailors coming down with his luggage. 'Tumble those traps in here,' said he. 'Are we moving?' 'It is a fact, sir,' said one of the men, who was a Swede. 'A little gentle vindt has begun to blow, and der _Alfred_ is going home.' 'Home? I do not quite understand,' exclaimed Captain Parry. He said no more, however, to the men, and went on deck to look about him. An air of heaven, blowing out of the boundless blue, with not a cloud in the sky to show you where it came from, was wrinkling the wide waters into a thrilling azure, and under the sun the glory was blinding. They had trimmed sail on the schooner--a trifling matter; a hand was at the helm; Mr. Blundell stood beside him, looking into the little binnacle. On the bow was the _Alfred_, with her foretop-sail full, every cloth stirless, so soft was the cradling of that sea. Her yards were braced forwards, and she seemed to lean; she floated upright in silent majesty, nevertheless, her trucks plumb with the zenith, and, as she gained way, her short scope of wake sparkled like a shoal of herrings under her counter. Mr. Blundell was a stout, hearty young sailor, about two-and-twenty years of age. He had that sort of face which is often met at sea under both flags--perfectly hairless, fleshy, permanently tinctured by the roasting fires and the drying-in gales and frosts of ocean-travel. He was looking at the compass of the schooner when Captain Parry approached. Perhaps he sought for a hint or two in gear that did not lead like a ship's, and canvas that was not shaped for square-yards. At a motion from Captain Parry, he drew away from the helmsman. 'I am at a loss,' said the captain, looking at the ship under the shelter of his hand. 'Is the _Alfred_ going home?' 'Certainly, sir,' answered Mr. Blundell. 'We've dipped our farewell. We're now on our own hook.'