"You shall never go in that fashion, Morrison, if I can help it; but as for my being married to Miss Basset"—Morley felt his cheek flush and his heart flutter at the thought—"that is an event which is somewhat distant yet, and must be so, till fortune—the old story—smiles on me."
"That I am sorry to hear," replied the Scotsman; "what says poor Robbie Burns, in one of the sweetest of his songs?—
"'Oh, why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bonds untwining?
And why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune's shining?'
Well, Mr. Ashton, hap what may, though our path in life and our homes will aye be far apart, I'll never forget the days we have spent together; and miserable enough some of them have been latterly," continued Morrison, who was a warm-hearted and impulsive fellow, and whose keen gray eyes grew moist as he spoke; "and so, as I said, hap what may, you shall always have the best wishes of poor Bill Morrison, though a sailor has seldom more to give, unless it be a quid from his tobacco-box, or a share of his grog on pay-day."
"Fortune may go and hang herself," said Morley; "she has never favoured me till now."
"Perhaps she thought such a good-looking fellow might be left to shift for himself," replied Morrison, laughing. "I once heard the song I have just quoted sung by a girl, whose story was a very strange one. She was separated from her lover by adverse circumstances, and though they never met again in life, they repose now in the same grave."
"Another of your melancholy yarns, Bill?"
"Well, it isn't lively. Shall I tell it to you?"
"Yes, please. Miss Basset is still below."
"I had entered on board the Clyde, a Greenock ship bound for Tasmania. I was but a third mate then, and that post, you know, is only a trifle better than being before the mast. She had several emigrants, and among them was a man named Udny, with his wife and a daughter whom I heard them call Hester.