Two weeks from the day on which Commodore Trysail gave the appointment, Sam and his beautiful schooner were ready for the ocean.
Partings with near friends are not pleasant scenes, so I shall pass them over. It was a lovely afternoon, one of summer's brightest days; a lively breeze played over the water, and scarcely bending to its power, a small trim vessel, rigged in pilot-boat fashion, was gliding gracefully along, not far from the shore. Every sail was set, and filled just enough to display their graceful cut, the little black hull beneath making them look more white and showy by the contrast. A row-boat, well manned, was by the shore, around which were gathered groups of lookers-on, or friends saying some last words to the youths who held the oars, and whose half serious smiles told plainly that their hearts were not so light as they would seem.
Just beyond the shore, upon the sloping green, a little party stands, eyeing with apparent interest the motions of the schooner and the preparations for departure, which are plainly visible in the gathering crowd that was surrounding the little boat at the water's edge.
'Oh, Susan, what a fine sight that vessel makes; but who would think of venturing to sea in such a craft?'
'Why not, Julia?'
'Oh, she is so small, I should think the waves would ingulf her—but here comes her Captain, I suppose. Your father keeps close to him; and the old Commodore, how proud he seems.'
'Yes, he does, I assure you,' said Mrs. Morris; 'he is proud of his vessel and her Captain too.'
The three gentlemen now approached the ladies, raising their hats, and again replacing them, with the exception of the younger one, who, having removed his light chapeau, kept it in his hand.
There was a seriousness in his air as he immediately stepped up to Mrs. Morris, and received her offered hand.
'May God bless you, my dear fellow! Come, a mother's kiss.'