"I wouldn't," said Mr. Esthwaite. "The Church service is the only one to be used at sea. Every other sounds—I don't know how—incompatible. There is something in the gentle swell of the rolling waves, and in the grandeur of the horizon, that calls for the finest form of words mortals could put together; and when you have got such a form, why not use it?"
"You did not like the form of the singing then?" said Mr. Amos smiling.
"No," said Mr. Esthwaite drily,—"it struck me that if there had been a cathedral roof over it, one of those voices would have lifted the rafters and gone on; and that would not have been reverential, you know. Now, my young cousin!—"
"Mr. Amos," said Eleanor aside to him and colouring deeply, "if there are any letters for me at the house where you are going, or at the post-office, will you send them to me?"
"I will certainly make it my care, and bring them to you myself."
"I'll send for anything you want," said Mr. Esthwaite. "What's that? letters? We'll get all there is in Sydney, and there is a good deal, waiting for this young lady. I've had one floor of my warehouse half full for some months back already. No use of it for myself."
At last they got off; and it was not quickly, for Eleanor had to give a good bye to everybody on board. Mr. Esthwaite looked on smiling, until he was permitted to hand her down the vessel's side, and lodged her in the wherry.
"Now you are out of the ship," said he looking keenly at her. "Aren't you glad?"
"I have some good friends in her," said Eleanor.
"Friends! I should think so. Those were salt tears that were shed for your coming away. Positively, I don't think a man of them could see clear to take his last look at you."