“Nay, mother mine, you jump to conclusions too hastily. What I propose is not to go off again on a long voyage, but to take a run of a few days in a first-class steamer across what the Americans call the big fish-pond; then go across country comfortably by rail; after that hire a horse and have a gallop somewhere or other; find out Shank and bring him home. The whole thing might be done in a few weeks; and no chance, almost, of being wrecked.”
“I don’t know, Charlie,” returned Mrs Brooke, in a sad tone, as she laid her hand on her son’s arm and stroked it. “As you put it, the thing sounds all very easy, and no doubt it would be a grand, a noble thing to rescue Shank—but—but, why talk of it to-night, my dear boy? It is late. Go to bed, Charlie, and we will talk it over in the morning.”
“How pleasantly familiar that ‘Go to bed, Charlie,’ sounds,” said the son, laughing, as he rose up.
“You did not always think it pleasant,” returned the good lady, with a sad smile.
“That’s true, but I think it uncommonly pleasant now. Good-night, mother.”
“Good-night, my son, and God bless you.”