“And what can I do for mademoiselle?” he asked as she approached, smiling at sight of his bronzed and furrowed face—already that of an old friend among this crowd of seamen—strangers, from a country where “mercy!” is a frequent exclamation.
“Because this, mamma said, must pay for my voyage.”—[Page 99.]
“Good monsieur, are you the man who takes the moneys? Because this, mamma said, must pay for my voyage.” She gave to him the little parcel.
The captain opened it, and found therein a beautiful cross of solid gold, curiously wrought and thickly studded with precious stones.
“Will it not do, monsieur? There was nothing else. No money. The woman demanded so much for the room and all! Poor mamma was so long sick! Oh, monsieur, monsieur, but for that—if she had not been sick, she also would have come to America—to Julien! ‘Take it,’ she said—all so slow—she whispered it all so slow—‘Take it and go to Julien. It will pay the passage.’ And she whispered still a little more. I could not hear. But I thought she went to sleep. When the morning came, and I could see her face—so pale! so cold! so still—”
“Here, my little Julie,” interrupted the captain, pressing his hand an instant over his eyes, “take thy cross. Keep it. Thou shalt have it to remember her by. And I—I am very well pleased to have a little passenger.”
“Oh, mon oncle! how good you are!” and the child covered his great brown hand with kisses.
The captain stooped to rub her soft cheek with his grizzled beard.