such thoughts there is something pretty, even touching. Their teeth, I
should judge, they had cut on the ends of her running gear. I have
many times observed the baby Hermann (Nicholas) engaged in gnawing the
whipping of the fore-royal brace. Nicholas' favourite place of residence
was under the main fife-rail. Directly he was let loose he would
crawl off there, and the first seaman who came along would bring him,
carefully held aloft in tarry hands, back to the cabin door. I fancy
there must have been a standing order to that effect. In the course of
these transportations the baby, who was the only peppery person in the
ship, tried to smite these stalwart young German sailors on the face.

Mrs. Hermann, an engaging, stout housewife, wore on board baggy blue
dresses with white dots. When, as happened once or twice I caught her at
an elegant little wash-tub rubbing hard on white collars, baby's socks,
and Hermann's summer neckties, she would blush in girlish confusion, and
raising her wet hands greet me from afar with many friendly nods. Her
sleeves would be rolled up to the elbows, and the gold hoop of her
wedding ring glittered among the soapsuds. Her voice was pleasant, she
had a serene brow, smooth bands of very fair hair, and a good-humoured
expression of the eyes. She was motherly and moderately talkative. When
this simple matron smiled, youthful dimples broke out on her fresh broad
cheeks. Hermann's niece on the other hand, an orphan and very silent, I
never saw attempt a smile. This, however, was not gloom on her part but
the restraint of youthful gravity.

They had carried her about with them for the last three years, to help
with the children and be company for Mrs. Hermann, as Hermann mentioned
once to me. It had been very necessary while they were all little, he
had added in a vexed manner. It was her arm and her sleek head that
I had glimpsed one morning, through the stern-windows of the cabin,