"Rich!" I exclaimed. "How is that, pray tell me?"
"You see, my grandfather who lives in Canada was a Tory," Mary answered. "His name is Middleton—one of the Irish Middletons—and when he left New London my mother would not go with him, for my father was an American soldier. Now my grandfather wishes me to come to him."
"Oh, are you going?" I asked, with my heart beating loudly.
"Well, I won't go now," Mary replied. "You see, my father is very ill here at my uncle's." A shade of sadness came into her voice. "He wants me to go," she continued, "but I won't leave him for any grandfather, no matter how rich he is."
"If you went, perhaps I would never see you again," I said faintly.
"Why," she answered, opening her eyes wide, "you could come and see me."
"When?"
"When you got command of your own ship." She smiled as she spoke.
"I'll have one some day," I spoke up bravely. "And that is what I'll do."
But an interruption came to this little dialogue.