“I never knew you to object to the company of a pretty face; but as you are my commander now, I must be careful what I say.” “Oh, be gor, if you go to studying manners and touching hats to Patrick O’Loughlin, be the powers, I’ll shut you up from the women altogether. But tell me, William, how long will it take you to teach me a few French sentences, such as—hem—as, ‘I love you,’ and all that kind of thing; for, confound it, I don’t know a word of their parley-vous, and that’s a sweet creature below.” “Oh,” said William Thornton, with a smile, “the admiral’s widow—ah, so she is; best tempered woman possible.” “Devil take your impudence; you don’t want to make love to the whole three, do you; and leave me the mother, eh?” “Make love,” said the hero, very demurely; “who ever heard of a midshipman making love? but I suppose it’s Mademoiselle Agatha’s eyes that have scorched your _tinder_ heart; faith, O’Loughlin, it has had so many sparks applied to it, that one would imagine it was past kindling again. I’ll tell you what I will do for you, I’ll set to work at once to teach Mademoiselle Agatha English; I will engage to make her decline the verb ‘I love’ before a week’s out.” “Oh, by St. Peter! the devil doubt ye, my lad; but I’ll try that myself. Stick to the little thing, with her fine dark eyes like two diamonds. She’ll make a tidy craft by the time the cat’s done cleaning your chin, and I’ll lend you a razor then.” William Thornton laughed, and dived down the companion, and soon found himself seated at table beside his serious-faced little _protégée_, and the two lively, pretty daughters of Madame Volney. “So we sail to-morrow?” said Agatha Volney, fixing her laughing blue eyes on the midshipman; “you seem quite elated at quitting the Victory for this little ship.” “You must remember,” said our hero, “that the Victory has not the attractions on board that the Babet has. This little voyage will be quite a charming episode in a poor midshipman’s career. One to be remembered with delight.” Agatha’s pretty face coloured a little; she certainly looked pleased. She was the same age as young Thornton, and he, for his years, looked exceedingly manly. Poor little Mabel was still pale and thoughtful; the image of her fond and beautiful mother was ever before her, and now on the point of leaving the land that contained her cherished parent pining in captivity; alas! perhaps dead, the poor child felt her situation keenly. To William Thornton she turned for consolation; and when near him, and listening to his kind and soothing words, she appeared to droop less. “So we sail with a whole fleet of ships, Master Thornton,” said Madame Volney.