Then Harry told him all—told him of the determination he had for many a day to go to sea, and of the conversation he had overheard on the previous evening.
Andrew used all the arguments he could think of or muster to dissuade him from his purpose, and enlarged upon the many dangers to be encountered on the stormy main, as he called it, but all to no purpose.
“Mind ye,” said Andrew, “I’ve been to sea myself, and know something about it.”
Honest, innocent Andrew, all the experience he had of the stormy main was what he had gained in a six hours’ voyage betwixt Granton and Aberdeen.
But when Andrew found that nothing which he could adduce made the slightest impression on his young friend, he pulled out his snuff-horn, took two enormously large pinches, and sat down in silence to look at Harry.
The boy pulled out a letter from his breast-pocket.
“This is for my dear mother,” he said. “Give it to her to-day. Tell her how sorry I was to go away. Tell her—tell her—.”
Here the boy fairly broke down, and sobbed as if his heart would break.
My hero crying? Yes, I do not feel shame for him either. The soldier or sailor, ere journeying far away to foreign lands, is none the less brave if he does pause on the brow of the hill, and, looking back to his little cottage in the glen, drop a tear.
Do you remember the words of the beautiful song—