"You are welcome to all we've done; and we only wish it had been more," replied Mrs. Carter.
"I don't think I shall go to sea any more," added Harvey, gloomily. "I have friends in York State, and I have money enough to get back there. That's all I want now. If you will tell me how I can get to New York, I'll be moving on now. I haven't got long to stay in this world, and I mean to spend the rest of my days where I was born and brought up."
"A steamer comes over to the village about three times a week, and she will be over to-day or to-morrow. I will row you over if you say so; but I shall be glad to take care of you as long as you will stay here."
"I'm much obliged to you; but I think I had better go over this forenoon."
Half an hour later the steward shook hands with Mrs. Carter and bade her adieu. John pulled him across the river, as it was called,—though it was more properly a narrow bay, into which a small stream flowed from the high lands farther inland. The village was called Rockhaven, and was a place of considerable importance. It had two thousand tons of fishing vessels; but the granite quarries in the vicinity were the principal sources of wealth to the place Latterly Rockhaven, which was beautifully situated on high land overlooking the waters of the lower bay, had begun to be a place of resort for summer visitors.
The western extremity of the village extended nearly to the high cliffs on the sea-shore, and the situation was very romantic and picturesque. The fishing was the best in the bay, and the rocks were very attractive to people from the city. The harbor had deep water at any time of tide. For a summer residence, the only disadvantage was the want of suitable hotels or boarding-houses. Of the former there were two, of the most homely and primitive character, and not many of the inhabitants who had houses suitable for city people were willing to take boarders.
John Carter pulled his passenger across the harbor, and walked with him to the Cliff House, near the headlong steeps which bounded the village on the west. He introduced him to Peter Bennington, the landlord, and told his story for him.
"I am sorry for you," said Mr. Bennington.
"O, I've got money enough to pay my bill," interposed Harvey Barth, who had a sufficiency of honest pride, and asked nothing for charity's sake.
The landlord showed him to a room, after he had shaken hands with and bidden adieu to John Carter, it was not the best room in the house, but it was neat and comfortable. Harvey inquired about the steamer to Rockland, and was told that she would probably come the next day, and return in the afternoon. The steward made himself comfortable, and ate a hearty dinner when it was ready. In the afternoon he borrowed a pen and ink, and began to write out a full account of the wreck of the Waldo. He wrote a large, round hand, which was enough to convince any one who saw it that he was or had been a schoolmaster. He worked his pen slowly and carefully, but he entered so minutely into the details of the disaster that he had not half finished the narrative when the supper bell rang.