Merriman's announcement of his and Hilliard's impending departure
had been met with a chorus of regrets, but though these sounded
hearty enough, Hilliard noticed that no definite invitation to stay
longer was given.

The friends dined with the Coburns for the last time that evening.
Mr. Coburn was a little late for the meal, saying he had waited on
the wharf to see the loading completed, and that all the cargo was
now aboard, and that the Girondin would drop down to sea on the
flood tide in the early morning.

"We shall have her company so far," Hilliard remarked. "We must
start early, too, so as to make Bordeaux before dark."

When the time came to say good-bye, Mr. Coburn and his daughter went
down to the launch with their departing visitors. Hilliard was
careful to monopolize the manager's attention, so as to give Merriman
his innings with the girl. His friend did not tell him what passed
between them, but the parting was evidently affecting, as Merriman
retired to his locker practically in silence.

Five o'clock next morning saw the friends astir, and their first
sight on reaching the deck was the Girondin coming down-stream.
They exchanged hand waves with Captain Beamish on the bridge, then,
swinging their own craft, followed in the wake of the other. A
couple of hours later they were at sea.

Once again they were lucky in their weather. A sun of molten glory
poured down from the clearest of blue skies, burnishing a track of
intolerable brilliance across the water. Hardly a ripple appeared