Presently he appeared again, as if he thought no more of the three-decker, with a favorite worn copy of Thomson’s poems in hand, and began to walk the deck to and fro as he read. On this fair winter morning the ship drove busily along; the wind was out of the west; they were running along the Breton coast, and there was more and more pleasure and relief at finding the hard voyage so near its end. The men were all on deck or clustered thick in the rigging; they made a good strong-looking ship’s company. The captain on his quarter-deck was pacing off his exercise with great spirit, and repeating some lines of poetry aloud:— "With such mad seas the daring Gama fought, For many a day and many a dreadful night; Incessant lab’ring round the stormy Cape By hold ambition led"— "The wide enlivening air is full of fate." Then he paused a moment, still waving the book at arm’s length, as if he were following the metre silently in his own mind. "On Sarum’s plain I met a wandering fair, The look of Sorrow, lovely still she bore"— "He’s gettin’ ready to meet the ladies!" said Cooper, who was within listening distance, polishing a piece of brass on one of the guns. "I can’t say as we ’ve had much po’try at sea this v’y’ge, sir," he continued to Lieutenant Wallingford, who crossed the deck toward him, as the captain disappeared above on his forward stretch. Cooper and Wallingford were old friends ashore, with many memories in common. The lieutenant was pale and severe; the ready smile that made him seem more boyish than his years was strangely absent; he had suddenly taken on the looks of a much-displeased man. "Ain’t you feelin’ well, sir?" asked Cooper, with solicitude. "Things is all doin’ well, though there’s those aboard that won’t have us think so, if they can help it. When I was on watch, I see you writin’ very late these nights past. You will excuse my boldness, but we all want the little sleep we get; ’t is a strain on a man unused to life at sea." "I shall write no more this voyage," said Wallingford, touched by the kindness of old Cooper’s feeling, but impatient at the boyish relation with an older man, and dreading a word about home affairs. He was an officer now, and must resent such things. Then the color rushed to his face; he was afraid that tears would shame him. With a sudden impulse he drew from his pocket a package of letters, tied together ready for sending home, and flung them overboard with an angry toss. It was as if his heart went after them. It was a poor return for Cooper’s innocent kindness; the good man had known him since he had been in the world. Old Susan, his elder sister, was chief among the household at home. This was a most distressing moment, and the lieutenant turned aside, and leaned his elbow on the gun, bending a little as if to see under the sail whether the three-decker were still in sight.