"How did your mother die, Ben?"

"It's a sad, sad story, Jack, and I cannot bear to think of it; it was
told me long afterward, by one who little thought to whom he was
speaking."

"Do tell me, Ben."

"You're too young, boy, for such a tale; it's too shocking."

"Was it worse than being froze to death, as I nearly was the other day?"

"Yes, my lad, worse than that; although, for one so young as you are,
that was quite bad enough."

"Well, Ben, I won't ask you to tell me if it pains you to tell it. But
you did not do wrong?"

"How could a baby of two years old do wrong, and five thousand miles off
at the time, you little fool? Well, I don't know if I won't tell you,
Jack, after all, because you will then find out that there's a comfort
in reading the Bible; but you must promise me never to speak about it.
I'm a foolish old fellow to tell it to you, Jack, I do believe; but I'm
fond of you, boy, and I don't like to say 'no' to you. Now come to an
anchor close to me. The bells are ringing for dinner--I shall lose my
meal, but you will not lose your story, and there will be no fear of
interruption.

"My father was brought up to the sea, Jack, and was a smart young man
till he was about thirty, when a fall from the mainyard disabled him