It was James Channing. Sunny Hamish, as he used to be called. He was but thirty; a tall, well-proportioned, but as yet very slender man; rising over six feet, altogether attractive, handsome to look upon. Nelly, forgetting her lecture, flew into his arms with a shout and a laugh, as she had into those of her mother.
"And what may this young lady have been about that she has not come to see me before, this evening?" he asked.
"Nurse kept her out rather late, Hamish, for one thing, and I knew you were busy," came the answer; not from the child, but from Mrs. Channing.
"Yes, I am very busy. I have not any minutes to give even to my darling Nelly tonight," he fondly said, kissing the bright hair and the rosy lips. "Nelly must go to bed and dream of papa instead."
"You'll have time when the ship comes home, papa," said the child.
"Lots of time then."
"The ship is to be a book."
"Ay."
"And it will bring great luck?"
"Yes. Please God."