She joined the ladies who had previously come on deck—a tall, grave-looking, refined woman of forty, and two handsome girls of about twenty, both very plainly dressed, but whose costume showed the many little touches of refinement peculiar to a lady.
“Well, Marian, I hope Edward is happy now.”
The lady smiled and laid her hand upon Aunt Georgina’s arm.
“Of course he is, dear, and so are we all. Safe in port after all those long weeks.”
“I don’t see much safety,” said Aunt Georgie, as she carefully arranged her spectacles, and looked about her. “Bless my heart! what a ramshackle place. Surely this isn’t Port Haven.”
“Yes; this is Port Haven, good folks,” said Captain Bedford, joining them and smiling at the wondering looks of all.
“Then the man who wrote that book, Edward, ought to be hanged.”
“What’s the matter, aunt?” said Norman, who hurried up with his cousin.
“Matter, my dear? Why, that man writing his rubbish and deluding your poor father into bringing us to this horrible, forsaken-looking place!”
“Forsaken?” cried Captain Bedford, “not at all. We’ve just come to it. Why, what more do you want? Bright sunshine, a glittering river, waving trees, a glorious atmosphere, and dear old Dame Nature smiling a welcome.—What do you say, Jack?”