Alan wrote in high terms of his captain, declaring that he esteemed the having sailed with him as one of the greatest advantages he had ever received, and adding that, for his own part, Dr. May needed no promise from him to be assured that he would watch over Harry like his own brother. It was believed that the Alcestis was destined for the South American station.
“A three years’ business,” said Dr. May, with a sigh. “But the thing is done, and this is as good as we can hope.”
“Far better!” said Margaret. “What pleasure it must have given him! Dear Harry could not sail under more favourable circumstances.”
“No, I would trust to Ernescliffe as I would to Richard. It is kindly done, and I will thank him at once. Where does he date from?”
“From Portsmouth. He does not say whether he has seen Harry.”
“I suppose he waited for my answer. Suppose I enclose a note for him to give to Harry. There will be rapture enough, and it is a pity he should not have the benefit of it.”
The doctor sat down to write, while Margaret worked and mused, perhaps on outfits and new shirts—perhaps on Harry’s lion-locks, beneath a blue cap and gold band, or, perchance, on the coral shoals of the Pacific.
It was one of the quiet afternoons, when all the rest were out, and which the doctor and his daughter especially valued, when they were able to spend one together without interruption. Soon, however, a ring at the door brought an impatient exclamation from the doctor; but his smile beamed out at the words, “Miss Rivers.” They were great friends; in fact, on terms of some mutual sauciness, though Meta was, as yet, far less at home with his daughters, and came in, looking somewhat shy.
“Ah, your congeners are gone out!” was the doctor’s reception. “You must put up with our sober selves.”
“Is Flora gone far?” asked Meta.