impossible."

"I have my own idea about that," insisted Willis, whilst he kept
beating a tatoo on the isinglass window panes.

Whilst thus chafing like a caged lion, Wolston's youngest daughter
went towards him, and gently putting her hand in his, said,
"Sweetheart" (for so she had been accustomed to address him), "do you
remember when, during the voyage, you used to look at me very closely,
and that one evening I went boldly up to you and asked you why you
did so?"

"Yes, Miss Sophia, I recollect."

"Do you remember the answer you gave me?"

"Yes, I told you that I had left in England, on her mother's bosom, a
little girl who would now be about your own age, and that I could not
observe the wind play amongst the curls of your fair hair without
thinking of her, and that it sometimes made my breast swell like the
mizen-top-sail before the breeze."

"Yes, and when I promised to keep out of your sight, not to reawaken
your grief, you told me it was a kind of grief that did you more good
than harm, and that the more it made you grieve, the happier you would
be."

"All true:" replied the sailor, whose excitement was melting away
before the soft tones of the child like hoar frost in the sunshine.