the sky holds a cloud or the locker a drop. Nothing here can shake their
ships, except a violent east wind, against which they wet the other eye;
lazy boats visit them with comfort and delight, while white waves are
leaping, in the offing; they cherish their well-earned rest, and eat the
lotus--or rather the onion--and drink ambrosial grog; they lean upon the
bulwarks, and contemplate their shadows--the noblest possible employment
for mankind--and lo! if they care to lift their eyes, in the south
shines the quay of Bridlington, inland the long ridge of Priory stands
high, and westward in a nook, if they level well a clear glass (after
holding on the slope so many steamy ones), they may espy Anerley Farm,
and sometimes Mary Anerley herself.

For she, when the ripple of the tide is fresh, and the glance of the
summer morn glistening on the sands, also if a little rocky basin
happens to be fit for shrimping, and only some sleepy ships at anchor
in the distance look at her, fearless she--because all sailors are
generally down at breakfast--tucks up her skirt and gayly runs upon the
accustomed play-ground, with her pony left to wait for her. The pony is
old, while she is young (although she was born before him), and now he
belies his name, "Lord Keppel," by starting at every soft glimmer of the
sea. Therefore now he is left to roam at his leisure above high-water
mark, poking his nose into black dry weed, probing the winnow casts
of yellow drift for oats, and snorting disappointment through a gritty
dance of sand-hoppers.

Mary has brought him down the old "Dane's Dike" for society rather than
service, and to strengthen his nerves with the dew of the salt, for
the sake of her Jack who loved him. He may do as he likes, as he always
does. If his conscience allows him to walk home, no one will think the
less of him. Having very little conscience at his time of life (after