“Not so bad, not half so bad, Ned,” returned the other, laughing; “I keep as sharp a discipline as if we wore a flag. To be sure, forty men can't make as much parade as three or four hundred; but as for making or taking in sail, I am your better any day.” “Ay, because a pocket-handkerchief is sooner opened and shut than a table-cloth. But I hold it to be un-seamanlike to leave any vessel without human eyes, and those open, to watch whether she goes east or west, north or south.” “And who is guilty of such a dead man's watch?” “Why, they say aboard here, that when it blows hard, you seat the man you call long Tom by the side of the tiller, tell him to keep her head to sea, and then pipe all hands to their night-caps, where you all remain, comfortably stowed in your hammocks, until you are awakened by the snoring of your helmsman.” “'Tis a damned scandalous insinuation,” cried Barnstable, with an indignation that he in vain attempted to conceal. “Who gives currency to such a libel, Mr. Griffith?” “I had it of the marine,” said his friend, losing the archness that had instigated him to worry his companion, in the vacant air of one who was careless of everything; “but I don't believe half of it myself--I have no doubt you all had your eyes open last night, whatever you might have been about this morning.” “Ah! this morning! there was an oversight, indeed! But I was studying a new signal-book, Griffith, that has a thousand times more interest for me than all the bunting you can show, from the head to the heel of your masts.” “What! have you found out the Englishman's private talk?” “No, no,” said the other, stretching forth his hand, and grasping the arm of his friend. “I met last night one on those cliffs, who has proved herself what I always believed her to be, and loved her for, a girl of quick thought and bold spirit.” “Of whom do you speak?” “Of Katherine----” Griffith started from his chair involuntarily at the sound of this name, and the blood passed quickly through the shades of his countenance, leaving it now pale as death, and then burning as if oppressed by a torrent from his heart. Struggling to overcome an emotion, which he appeared ashamed to betray even to the friend he most loved, the young man soon recovered himself so far as to resume his seat, when he asked, gloomily: “Was she alone?” “She was; but she left with me this paper and this invaluable book, which is worth a library of all other works.” The eye of Griffith rested vacantly on the treasure that the other valued so highly, but his hand seized eagerly the open letter which was laid on the table for his perusal. The reader will at once understand that it was in the handwriting of a female, and that it was the communication Barnstable had received from his betrothed on the cliffs. Its contents were as follows: