Surely it is with some such spirit that angels and saints in heaven are imbued.
Had you been on board the steamship Panama as she was swiftly ploughing her way through the wide blue sea that separates Old England from South America, from Pará and the mouths of the mighty Amazon, you could not have been otherwise than struck with the evident contentment and happiness of a group of saloon passengers there. Whether walking the quarter-deck, or seated on chairs under the awning, or early in the morning surrounding their own special little breakfast-table, pleasure beamed in every eye, joy in every face.
Who were they? Listen and I shall tell you.
There was Roland, Dick, Roland's sweet-faced mother, Peggy; and last, but certainly not least in size at all events, there was dark-skinned jolly-looking Burly Bill himself.
But Burly Bill did not obtrude his company too much on the younger folks. He was fond of walking on the bridge and talking to the officer on duty. Fond, too, of blowing a cloud from his lips as they dallied with his great meerschaum. Fond of telling a good story, but fonder still of listening to one, and often chuckling over it till he appeared quite apoplectic.
There was someone else on board who must be mentioned. And this was Dixie, the pony!
Did he remain on the banks of the Madeira? Not he. For by some means or other he found his way--so marvellous is the homing instinct in animals--back to the old plantation long before Roland and his little army, and was the first to run out to meet Peggy and get a kiss on his soft warm snout.
Need I add that Brawn was one of the passengers? And a happy dog he was, and always ready for a lark when the sailors chose to throw a belaying-pin for him.
Dick had had a grief to face when he returned.
His uncle was dead. So he determined--as did Roland with his plantation--to sell off and return to England, for a time at all events.