As Vernon saw them leave with all their wealth of canvas, a sigh escaped him.
Already he was secretly planning again for life on the ocean wave.
But when he looked at the sweet face of Pauline Jones, he felt that there was a harbor in which he would like to rest—a haven of peace if she did but share it with him.
Intrepid in war, fearless in the angriest storm, he yet was a very coward in her presence; for, although he loved her with an ardor amounting almost to worship, he was too bashful to tell of his love.
Perhaps the story would never have been told had not Bertha helped him.
And when, with blushing face and almost stammering tongue, Pauline admitted that Vernon was her ideal of bravery and courage, and that she admired him, he was so elated that Washington did not seem large enough for him to call his home.
But before the secret was known and Vernon's suspense ended, several weeks had passed, and the year had ripened into spring, and the buds and blossoms had developed into summer fruit and flowers.
No tidings had been received of the Lively Bee, and Bertha was beginning to feel uneasy; her face was getting wan, her eyes were losing their luster.
Great excitement was of daily experience; sometimes the news making the people hilarious with joy, and at others plunging them into the depths of despair.
Washington was in mourning for the loss of Lawrence, who, though wounded, had shouted to his men: